One and Done

How Algeria’s Women Were Benched by Politics

There’s ghosting, and then there’s whatever happened to Algeria’s women’s national football team.

In 2006, they played a single match in the African Women’s Cup of Nations qualifiers. One match. One chance. And then? Nothing. Not a rebuild, not a regroup—just a silent, state-sanctioned vanishing act.

No matches for eight years. No squad announcements. No apologies. Just a long, quiet shrug from the federation.

A Vanishing Act in Plain Sight

It wasn’t a dramatic fall from grace. No scandal. No FIFA ban. No disastrous PR meltdown. That would’ve at least made headlines.

What happened in Algeria was worse: apathy.

After their elimination from the 2006 Africa Women Cup of Nations qualifiers, the team was left to rot. The federation didn’t cancel the women’s programme outright, they just stopped calling. Stopped funding. Stopped caring.

Players were left in limbo. Some moved abroad to keep their careers alive. Others hung up their boots quietly, forgotten before they were ever known.

And because this was women’s football—on the continent, in a country where visibility was already scarce—there was barely a whisper.

“We Were Never Told Anything”

Former players have spoken about the blackout years. No updates. No contact. No sense of whether they were still part of anything.

The domestic league was barely functioning, with minimal resources and even less visibility. Girls were playing in mismatched kits on crumbling pitches. National representation? That was a fantasy.

And if you think this was just an infrastructure problem, think again. This was political.

Women’s football in Algeria, like in many places, has long been entangled with cultural conservatism. The women who dared to play weren’t just chasing a ball. They were pushing back against expectations. And in 2006, the federation effectively said: not right now.

An Eight-Year Ghost Town

From 2006 to 2014, Algeria didn’t enter a single competitive match. They missed two World Cup cycles. Two Olympic qualifiers. Four continental tournaments.

Not because they weren’t eligible. But because they weren’t invited.

The men’s team, meanwhile, received full backing. Camps, coverage, state support. The usual.

The women? They were erased in real time.

2014: A Return, Of Sorts

When the team did re-emerge in 2014, it felt more like damage control than a revival.

A squad was quickly assembled, featuring players based in France and a smattering of homegrown talent. They qualified for the 2014 African Women Cup of Nations. On paper, it looked promising.

But paper doesn’t show the years of underinvestment. The lack of infrastructure. The complete absence of a long-term plan.

They were back—but barely.

The Bigger Cost

You can’t measure this kind of setback purely in results.

The real loss was generational.

Players who should’ve been stars aged out. Girls who might’ve started playing never saw a pathway. Coaches, physios, scouts—entire ecosystems—never got the chance to grow.

It’s easy to kill momentum. Just stop giving a damn.

The Silence Was the Point

This wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a logistical oversight.

Algeria’s federation didn’t forget the women’s team existed. It chose to let it disappear. Quietly. Cleanly. Without the fuss of an official statement.

Because you can’t be held accountable for a programme that’s technically still alive, just unused.

It’s the perfect erasure: no body to bury.

So Where Are They Now?

Algeria’s women’s team exists again. Technically.

They compete, inconsistently. They’ve returned to qualifiers. There are flashes of promise—players abroad doing the heavy lifting, younger girls showing up in camps.

But the structure is fragile. The support is thin. And the trust? Nearly nonexistent.

No one’s pretending they’re aiming for a World Cup spot tomorrow. They’re still playing catch-up from a lost decade.

What’s the Lesson?

When we talk about growth in women’s football, we usually look forward: more investment, more visibility, more momentum.

But stories like Algeria’s remind us what silence costs. How easily progress can be stalled—not by crisis, but by quiet decisions made behind closed doors.

One match. One team. One opportunity. Gone.

And when the lights came back on, most people hadn’t even noticed they’d gone out.