La Deuxième Étoile: The Second Star
A story of a second star and a silent generation, of a team that won a World Cup but refused to carry a message, of the banlieues that danced without burning and the politicians who dabbled without believing—and of how France learned to celebrate its diversity without pretending it had solved its divisions.
Prologue: The Night They Let Themselves Forget
15 July 2018. The Luzhniki Stadium in Moscow. A downpour so heavy that the players seemed to be swimming through the rain. Kylian Mbappé, 19 years old, the son of a Cameroonian father and an Algerian mother, raced down the right wing like a sprinter who had wandered onto a football pitch by accident. Paul Pogba, the boy from the banlieues of Lagny-sur-Marne, scored a goal and then stood still, as if unable to believe what he had just done. Antoine Griezmann, the man from Mâcon who had been rejected by every professional club in France, orchestrated the attack with the quiet authority of a master craftsman.
The final score was 4-2. France had won the World Cup for the second time.
Back home, the celebration was extraordinary—but different. In Paris, 90,000 people watched the match on vast screens next to the Eiffel Tower . There were choruses of the Marseillaise, honking horns, hundreds of thousands of red, white, and blue tricolour flags fluttering on the breeze . A deafening chorus of "We are the champions" rang out from the Sacré Coeur in the north of the city to the Sorbonne on the Left Bank . Similar scenes erupted in Marseille, Lyon, Lille, Bordeaux, and beyond .
The Champs-Élysées, the traditional gathering place for celebration, filled with a crowd that was, by all accounts, warm and convivial. More than 250,000 people descended on the avenue . "We're the champions of the world!" a fan named Josh, who had travelled from Brittany to Paris, told a reporter. "Pogba, Mbappe, Grizou—they're on top of the world" .
And yet. There was something muted about this celebration. Not in volume because the noise was deafening. Not in numbers because the crowds were vast. But in the meaning that was attached to it. In 1998, the victory had been accompanied by a slogan: "Black-Blanc-Beur." It had been accompanied by speeches about integration, about the new France, about the promise of multiculturalism. In 2018, there was no slogan. The politicians were more careful. The media was more restrained. The players, for their part, refused to be symbols.
"We all feel French," Paul Pogba said. "We're happy to wear this shirt" . Blaise Matuidi added: "Its diversity is in the image of this beautiful country that is France" . But they did not say that football could solve racism. They did not claim that a victory would transform the nation. They simply celebrated—and that, perhaps, was the most profound statement of all.
This is the story of that victory. Not of a team that saved France, but of a team that reminded France of what it could be—without ever claiming that it already was. It is the story of a generation that learned the lessons of 1998 and refused to carry the same burden. It is the story of how a nation celebrated its diversity without pretending that the celebration was enough.
The Team That Refused to Be a Symbol
Of the 23 players in Russia, 15 were of African and Arab descent . Paul Pogba's parents are from Guinea; Blaise Matuidi's parents are Angolan and Congolese; N'Golo Kanté's parents are Malian; Kylian Mbappé's father is Cameroonian, his mother Algerian . The team was, by any measure, more diverse than the nation it represented.
But the players, unlike their predecessors in 1998, refused to be drafted into the culture wars. They did not give speeches about integration. They did not allow themselves to be photographed in ways that could be used as political propaganda. They simply played football, and they played it brilliantly.
The contrast with 1998 was stark. That team had been hailed as a symbol—and then, when the symbol proved insufficient to solve the nation's problems, it had been discarded. The players of 1998 had watched as the far-right grew, as the banlieues burned, as the quotas scandal tore their legacy apart. They had learned that a football team cannot save a country.
The class of 2018 had learned that lesson too. They had grown up in the shadow of 1998 and in the shadow of its aftermath. They had seen what happened when hopes were raised too high. They were determined not to repeat the mistake.
"They are French," Barack Obama said in a speech paying tribute to Nelson Mandela, noting the African heritage of many players. "Not all these folks look like Gauls to me, they are French" . The observation was true, but it was also the kind of observation that the players themselves avoided making. They did not want to be reduced to their origins. They wanted to be judged by their football.
Pogba, who had been criticized for his haircuts, his dancing, his social media presence, was transformed by the tournament into a national hero. His pre-match speeches became legendary. Before the final, he addressed his teammates: "I don't know how many games we've played, but this is the game that changes everything... Tonight, I want us to be the memory of those French people watching us. Their children, their children's children, their children's children's children. I want us to go out there as warriors, as leaders" .
It was a speech about legacy, about memory, about the weight of history. It was not a speech about politics. It was about football—and about the people who watch it. That was enough.
The Celebration: Joy Without a Message
On the streets of France, the celebration was genuine and widespread. Yet it was different from 1998 maybe a bit more restrained, a bit more self-aware, more conscious of the limits of what a football victory could achieve.
"I think in part [the celebrations] are probably behind Tuesday night's merrymaking, on a sub-conscious level," the philosopher Gilles Vervisch told France 24, referring to the terrorist attacks that had struck France since 2015 . The first attack on November 13, 2015 had targeted the Stade de France itself. On the streets and social media, Parisians made oblique references to the terror attacks. One tweet read: "I don't like football, but it's great to hear the joy of people on the street, instead of ambulance sirens" .
A photo of jubilant France fans at Le Carillon, a bar attacked on November 13, 2015, received more than 2,500 likes on Twitter . The victory was not just a sporting achievement; it was a moment of collective catharsis, a chance to feel joy instead of fear.
"The attacks brought us together in the face of adversity," sports historian Yvan Gastaut told France 24. "Football, by contrast, is light, superficial, and happy" .
The sociologist Nicolas Hourcade agreed: "All the other times when people rally together in large numbers are either sad, like terrorist attacks or the death of a public figure, or they're divisive, like the victory of a political party" .
Football offered something different: a chance to celebrate without conflict, to be united without agreeing on anything. It was, as Vervisch put it, "entertainment; a distraction" . Adapting Karl Marx's famous line about religion, he argued that "there is an 'opium of the people' aspect to football, because for people in real difficulty—the unemployed, for example—it doesn't change much" .
The economic data bore this out. A Reuters poll found that 62 percent of French people said they were now optimistic about the future, up from 53 percent in 2016 . Some 82 percent thought the victory would boost national pride, and 74 percent thought it would improve France's image abroad . But President Emmanuel Macron's approval ratings did not budge. He remained at 39 percent, a two-point decrease since the previous poll .
"The 2018 victory will not have had the same impact on Emmanuel Macron's popularity that the 1998 had on Jacques Chirac's," Odoxa president Gael Sliman said . "He may have been found sincerely likable in the victory's festive atmosphere, but it visibly doesn't change anything to expectations towards him on the economic and social front" .
The victory was a boost to morale, but not to politics. The French could celebrate their team while still holding their government accountable. That, perhaps, was a sign of maturity—or of disillusionment.
The Critics: "C'est l'Afrique qui a gagné"
Not everyone celebrated. Across the world, the victory of France was met with a different kind of commentary: reductive, racialized, and insistently othering.
Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro declared: "The French team looked like the African team. In truth, it's Africa that won. African immigrants that arrived in France... Africa has been so despised, and in this World Cup, France won thanks to African players or the sons of Africans" .
In Italy, the comments were worse. Social media filled with racist epithets: "monkeys with a ball," "champions of the Third World" . The sentiment that "it's Africa that won" was widespread .
In the United States, Trevor Noah, host of The Daily Show, quipped: "Congratulations to the African team for winning the 2018 Men's World Cup" . The joke was meant to be playful, but it echoed the same reductive logic: that the French team was not truly French, that its players belonged elsewhere.
Even in Africa, the response was mixed. Some celebrated France as "the sixth African team" . The Burkinabe newspaper Le Pays called it "the triumph of rainbow France" . Others were more critical, arguing that celebrating France's victory as Africa's own was a form of self-deception. "It is Africa that won," one commentator wrote, "convinced that without her, these Roosters, sometimes clumsily proud of their origins, would have had trouble emancipating themselves in their own henhouse" .
The players themselves were asked about these comments. Pogba, characteristically, deflected. "France is a country full of colours," he said. "There are people of many different origins. That's what makes France so beautiful. We all feel French. We're happy to wear this shirt" .
He did not deny his African heritage. He did not deny that his parents were from Guinea. He simply insisted that he was also French—and that the two identities were not in conflict.
The philosopher Gilles Vervisch noted that a big sporting event like the World Cup victory engenders an "inclusive form of patriotism": "If someone's happy about Les Bleus' victory, no one's going to question it on the basis of their ethnicity or religion" . The critics who tried to reduce the team to its African roots were missing the point. The players themselves were not confused about who they were. They were French.and they were proud of it.
The Politicians: Macron's Dance and the Limits of Appropriation
Emmanuel Macron attended the semi-final in St Petersburg and the final in Moscow. He was photographed punching the air, hugging the players, dabbing with them. The images went viral on social media.
But unlike Jacques Chirac in 1998, Macron did not try to claim the victory as his own. His popularity did not rise. The French people, it seemed, were able to distinguish between celebrating the team and approving of the president.
"Macron may have been found sincerely likable in the victory's festive atmosphere," Gael Sliman of Odoxa said, "but it visibly doesn't change anything to expectations towards him on the economic and social front" .
The contrast with 1998 was telling. Chirac's approval ratings had increased by between 10 and 18 percentage points after that victory. Macron's did not move. The French were more cynical now—or perhaps simply more realistic about what a football victory could and could not achieve.
Macron, for his part, seemed to understand the limits of appropriation. He celebrated, but he did not overreach. He knew that the victory belonged to the players, not to him. And the French people knew it too.
The economic impact was similarly limited. Paris-based credit insurer Euler Hermes predicted that the win would bring an additional one-tenth of a percentage point of economic growth to France in 2018 . It was something, but it was not transformative. The structural problems of the French economy—unemployment, low growth, high taxes—remained.
The victory was a boost, not a solution. And everyone knew it.
The Banlieues: Dancing Without Burning
In the banlieues those suburban housing estates on the outskirts of French cities where many of the players had grown up the celebration was particularly intense. In Bondy, where Kylian Mbappé was raised, thousands of people filled the streets. They waved flags, set off fireworks, and danced until dawn.
There was no rioting. There was no violence. There was only joy.
The contrast with 2005 was stark. That year, the banlieues had burned. Cars had been torched, buildings had been damaged, and the government had declared a state of emergency. The children of the "Black-Blanc-Beur" generation had expressed their frustration in the language of destruction.
In 2018, they expressed it in the language of celebration. They were not happy because the problems of the banlieues had been solved; they were still there, unemployment still high, discrimination still present. But for one night, they allowed themselves to forget.
"It's just astonishing what they've done," one fan who travelled from Brittany to Paris told a reporter . "They're on top of the world" . He was not from the banlieues, but his sentiment was shared by people across the nation.
The victory did not solve the problems. It did not change the housing projects or fill the empty factories or erase the prejudice. But it gave people a reason to celebrate—and that, in itself, was something.
The Lessons of 1998: The Burden of the Slogan
The term "Black-Blanc-Beur," which had dominated coverage of the 1998 victory, was notably absent in 2018. No one used it. No one claimed that the team represented a new France. The players themselves refused to carry that burden.
"Unlike in 1998, Les Bleus represent France, without any real message," sports historian Yvan Gastaut told France 24 .
The reason for the silence was simple: the lesson of 1998 had been learned—perhaps the wrong lesson, but learned nonetheless. The slogan had been inadequate. The celebration had been hollow. The reality of French racism had persisted. The far-right had grown stronger, not weaker, in the years after 1998. Jean-Marie Le Pen had reached the second round of the presidential election in 2002. His daughter, Marine Le Pen, had received nearly 11 million votes in 2017 .
"Football doesn't solve problems," Vervisch said . "In 1998 there was a great deal of emphasis on Les Bleus' 'black, blanc, beur' composition. But a few years later, the 2005 riots took place" .
The victory in 2018 was not accompanied by such illusions. The French were more sophisticated now, or perhaps simply more disillusioned. They celebrated the team without expecting it to save them.
"Football is light, superficial, and happy" , Gastaut said. That was its value. It was not a solution to the nation's problems; it was a respite from them. And that, perhaps, was enough.
The players themselves seemed to understand this. "It doesn't change anything," Pogba might have said, if he had been asked. He was not asked. The media had learned its lesson too. They did not try to make the team into a symbol. They simply reported the matches, the goals, the celebrations.
It was a relief—for the players, and for the nation.
The Memory: What 2018 Meant
Twenty years from now, what will the French remember about the 2018 World Cup victory?
They will remember Mbappé's speed, the blur of the number 10 jersey, the sense that they were watching something unprecedented. They will remember Pogba's composure, his transformation from a player who had been criticized into a leader who inspired. They will remember Griezmann's intelligence, his ability to find space where none seemed to exist.
They will remember the rain in Moscow, the downpour that seemed to baptize the team. They will remember the flags on the Champs-Élysées, the honking horns, the feeling of being part of something larger than themselves.
They will not remember a slogan. They will not remember a political message. They will not remember a claim that football had solved racism or that the Republic had finally become what it claimed to be.
And that, perhaps, is the most important thing about 2018. The team did not try to save France. It simply won—and in winning, it gave France permission to celebrate itself, without conditions, without caveats, without the burden of having to become something it was not.
The joy of 2018 was real, but it was also limited. It did not transform the nation. It did not heal its wounds. It did not erase its divisions. But it offered a glimpse of what France could be: a country where a boy from Bondy could become a world champion, where a man whose parents came from Guinea could dance on the pitch without being questioned, where a team of twenty-three different origins could stand together and be called French.
It was not enough. It was never going to be enough. But it was something.
And sometimes, something is all you get.
Epilogue: The Second Star
On 16 July 2018, the day after the final, the French team returned to Paris. They paraded down the Champs-Élysées in an open-top bus, holding the trophy aloft, showered in confetti. Hundreds of thousands of people lined the avenue, waving flags and singing the Marseillaise.
The atmosphere was joyous, but it was also subdued compared to 1998. There was less expectation, less hope that this victory would change everything. The French had learned that lesson.
The team visited the Élysée Palace, where President Macron greeted them. He smiled, shook hands, posed for photographs. But he did not give a speech about integration. He did not claim that the team represented a new France. He simply thanked them for making the nation proud.
And then the celebration ended. The confetti was swept away. The fans returned to their homes. The players returned to their clubs. The nation returned to its divisions.
But for one month—for one glorious, impossible month—France had been united. Not by politics, not by ideology, not by a slogan. By football. By the simple, irreducible joy of watching a team win.
And that, in the end, was enough.
Allez, les Bleus. Allez, la France.
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