Victory and Fear: The Night Iraq Won the WAFF Cup

By Adam Docker

It wasn’t just about winning a trophy.

For the Iraqi footballers that night in 2002, it was about survival.
It was about returning home as heroes—escaping punishment from Saddam Hussein and his son Uday, who also happened to be President of the Iraqi Football Federation.

There were rumours—some whispered, some well known.
Players being dragged out of their homes in the middle of the night, taken to a prison outside Baghdad, feet beaten, toes broken.
Punishment for a missed goal. A poor result. A failure to win.

This was September 2002.
A few months before the US dropped bombs on Baghdad.
Syria was hosting the WAFF Cup—a small regional tournament of West Asian nations: Iraq, Iran, Syria, Jordan, Lebanon, and Palestine.
But the atmosphere felt like a tinder box.
Tensions were high. Everyone posturing.
A lot of chest-puffing and political theatre—some of it deadly serious.

Martin, my producer, and I were wandering around the stadium—just two skinny white guys with cameras.
We caught the attention of a group of young Iraqi fans.
They approached us. Huddled around.
Faces lit with curiosity—but also something else.
Fear.

“Will the Americans and British bomb us?” one of them asked.
You could hear the dread in their voices.
We didn’t have an answer.
But deep down, we knew.

The drums of war were getting louder by the day.

That night, Iraq beat Jordan 3–2 in the final.
The team erupted in celebration, and we followed them into the changing room.

It was loud. Sweaty. Chaotic.
Men singing, cheering, jumping over one another in triumph.
It felt like a collective exhale—weeks, maybe years of pressure suddenly lifting.

I was filming it all. Right in the thick of it.
Then suddenly, someone shouted.
“Quiet!”

The room fell instantly silent.
A mobile phone was passed to the team captain.
On the other end of the line? Saddam Hussein.
And Uday.

They were calling to personally congratulate the team.

In that moment, you could feel the shift.
Relief, pure and heavy.
Because this wasn’t just a win. It was a reprieve.
The sense of danger passing—if only for tonight.

The kit man opened a bag.
Inside were white t-shirts with Saddam’s face printed on them.
He handed them around.

The players slipped them on, lined up in front of the camera, and began chanting.
“Saddam! Saddam! Saddam!”
They sang songs to their leader, arms raised, eyes gleaming.
The fear gone—for now.

I kept filming.

We were the only Western TV crew in that room in Damascus.
The only lens through which Saddam’s gloating would be broadcast to the world that week.

It was a surreal, disturbing moment.
A dictator with something to celebrate.
But not for long.