Evidence from the ongoing fallout at the Spanish Football Federation suggests the aftermath of the Rubiales era still stirs tensions that go beyond a single resignation. The handover to Rafael Louzán has brought a mix of defensiveness and opportunism, with the new leader signaling a broader project that treats controversy as currency. He floated reviving the oil‑adjacent spectacle of the Saudi Super Cup as a gesture of thanks to the audience and even proposed another women’s match in the desert, a move read as spectacle trumping safety. The man who confuses casual touching with courtesy seems to imagine a future where stars like Cata Coll, Olga Carmona, and Aitana Bonmatí shine on the field while their mothers, sisters, friends, and grandmothers face the risk of harassment from crowds that treat human rights as optional. This is not merely rhetoric: a global chorus of athletes pressed FIFA to pull sponsorship from a state‑owned oil company over concerns about discrimination against women and LGBTQ+ people in that region, underscoring a push for accountability and integrity in the sport rather than empty reform talking points. In the ledger of decency, the players have often led the charge, even as stadium lights glare and the crowd’s worst impulses surface. The real danger lies in a federation leadership that may seek political leverage in muddying the waters rather than confronting the hard questions of safety, equality, and transparent governance. Months after Louzán faced official scrutiny, he offered a cautious apology that many critics found hollow, while the sports minister, Pilar Alegría, a public advocate for equality, has yet to deliver a firm statement or outline concrete steps—such as launching an Observatory against Machista Violence in the Stands or establishing practical training for stewarding crowds to prevent harassment. If this pattern continues, the article warns, the sport risks asking female athletes to tolerate unacceptable behavior or to adjust the arena environment to placate old power structures rather than protect the players themselves.
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Beyond the immediate scandal, the piece maps a broader trend: the so‑called Arabia Feliz era that touts close ties with regimes known for authoritarian governance. Louzán reportedly sealed a deal on a Madrid–Barcelona classic, only to leave observers wondering whether the agreement was more about optics than true hospitality or sound organization. The actual payoff rests not only in the scoreboard but in the reception—the margins of a contract often carry more weight than a final result. Critics ask how a league can chase profit while standing on the right side of human rights, and whether the absence of a formal observatory to confront machista violence in the stands is a sign of complacency or a missed opportunity. Experts argue that practical steps—clear codes of conduct, accessible restrooms, and explicit guidelines for celebratory behavior—could reduce harm and cultivate an environment where fans feel protected. If the current alignment with autocratic leadership in the region persists, there is a risk that football’s prestige will trump players’ safety and fans’ dignity. Some voices even suggest provocative measures, like burkas in the club colors for female supporters, as a misguided attempt to shield spectators rather than change the culture that permits harassment. The article contends that true accountability requires concrete commitments, independent reporting, and a future where leadership earns trust by delivering real improvements for players and fans alike, especially women who carry the sport forward. It calls for governance that stands with universal rights, not the shifting winds of diplomatic convenience, and a clear path toward building a game that reflects equal standing both on and off the pitch.