The World Cup of exclusion

A tournament meant to unite has instead exposed the politics shaping access, power, and who gets left out.

Stasa Salacanin

The Cradle

As the 2026 FIFA World Cup moves through its opening rounds, the beautiful game has often been overshadowed by disputes over visas, border controls, security measures, and the treatment of players, officials, and supporters. 

Complaints from Iran, the denial of entry to Somali referee Omar Artan, scrutiny of US immigration policies, and concerns over access for fans from several countries have pushed politics to the forefront of the tournament. 

For many observers, the competition has become one of the most politically charged World Cups in recent memory, unfolding against the backdrop of US President Donald Trump's immigration agenda and an increasingly polarized international climate.

Sport has never been separate from politics. It never will be. What stands out here is the volume of scrutiny directed at a country that presents itself as a defender of freedom.

History offers many examples of political leaders exploiting sport for prestige and legitimacy. The 1934 World Cup in Fascist Italy became a propaganda showcase for Benito Mussolini. Argentina 1978, Russia 2018, and Qatar 2022 all generated intense debates over human rights, authoritarianism, and geopolitical agendas. In each case, football became, to some extent, secondary to politics. 

The US, which is hosting the majority of the 2026 World Cup matches, appears set to follow the same pattern.

A tournament shaped by borders

For decades, football authorities have insisted the game can transcend politics. The 2026 World Cup points in the opposite direction.

Intrusive security screening, restrictive visa procedures, harsh immigration policies, and ticket pricing have all fueled criticism. International fans have struggled to obtain entry, while several participating delegations have faced extraordinary restrictions. 

Alfred Archer, associate professor of philosophy at Tilburg University, tells The Cradle:

“It is very important to be aware of how the US government is using the World Cup as a showcase of US border power and political control. However, this issue cannot be easily separated from the fact that the World Cup is a global celebration of football, sport, and community.”

It is because the World Cup is such a powerful celebration of football that the US can use the competition so effectively as a showcase for its own power. The many positive associations that people have with the World Cup are a crucial part of how the US government is using the tournament to promote the image it wants to promote for itself.

Archer adds:

“The power that football has to promote wonder and admiration is also being used by the US, and the US government in particular, to normalize its repressive immigration regime, the dismantling of democracy, and the systematic attack on women's rights domestically and its interventionist wars overseas.”

For Archer, the contradiction is functional. The tournament needs to retain its celebratory character for the surrounding policies to be absorbed rather than rejected.

Also speaking to The Cradle, award-winning journalist and scholar Dr James M. Dorsey sees the issue in broader geopolitical terms:

“Trump consistently demonstrated that he has no respect for international law, diplomatic solutions, or established international practices. We have seen this in the cases of Iran, Venezuela, and Greenland, and in this context, we can also understand the controversies surrounding the World Cup.”

Dorsey argues that the US had a unique opportunity to present itself as an open and welcoming host.

“The US, as a host country, had an opportunity to welcome teams and fans from all around the globe, but it decided to take another choice and present itself in a different light.”

War, exclusion, and double standards

The 2026 tournament is marked by another first. A host nation is directly engaged in conflict with a participating country.

Following the US and Israeli attack on Iran in February 2026, the Islamic Republic’s participation became a political controversy in itself. Trump publicly questioned whether Iranian players should attend the tournament.

Iranian officials accused Washington of denying visas and imposing tight limits on the team's movements. Players were required to return to their base in Tijuana, Mexico, after matches rather than remain in the US.

The controversy extended beyond Iran.

Somali referee Omar Artan, Africa's reigning Male Referee of the Year and the first Somali official selected for a World Cup finals, was denied entry despite possessing a diplomatic passport and work authorization.

Iraqi players reported aggressive treatment at customs. Uzbekistan's delegation faced intensive security procedures.

Visa policies generated even greater criticism. Fans from several African countries initially faced a proposed $15,000 bond requirement for tourist visas, while supporters from Iran and Haiti remained effectively excluded. Although some restrictions were later eased, lengthy processing times and bureaucratic hurdles continued to overshadow FIFA's vision of a global football festival.

For Jules Boykoff, a professor at Pacific University, a former professional football player, one of the leading scholars of sport and politics, and the author of the book “Red Card: The 2026 World Cup, Sportswashing, and the FIFA Greed Machine,” these practices reveal something deeper.

“It presents a combination of performative security spectacle and straight-up racism. It's hard to know where one begins and the other ends,” he tells The Cradle.

Sportswashing or normalization?

The tournament has revived debate around sportswashing, the use of major events to soften scrutiny of state behavior.

Boykoff leaves little room for ambiguity:

“The 2026 World Cup is a shining example of sportswashing, when political leaders use sports to deflect attention from chronic social problems at home in order to look important on the world stage and set up political, economic, and diplomatic advancement.”

He also notes that the term has often been applied selectively and sometimes with ethnocentric or xenophobic assumptions.

Dorsey disagrees.

In his view, Trump's behavior actually undermines the sportswashing argument.

The administration's treatment of teams, officials, and supporters from Africa and East and West Asia hardly resembles a coordinated effort to improve the US's image. If anything, Dorsey argues, Trump appears less interested in public relations than in demonstrating power and control.

Archer offers a third reading. In forthcoming work with Kyle Fruh and Jake Wojtowicz in “The Ethics of Sportswashing,” he argues that the issue is not necessarily distraction, but normalization.

“More people might be aware of the oppressive US border regime as a result of the tournament. Rather, it is serving to normalize these human rights abuses so that people do not treat these as wrongful actions that the US government needs to be held accountable for.”

Why is the media softer on the US?

One of the most uncomfortable questions surrounding the tournament concerns media coverage.

Western outlets that relentlessly criticized Russia in 2018 and Qatar in 2022 have often appeared considerably more restrained when discussing immigration crackdowns, exclusionary policies, and political controversies in the US.

Archer believes the discrepancy deserves scrutiny.

“It is certainly true that the term sportswashing has not been used as much by western media outlets in reference to this World Cup as it was for the World Cup in Qatar.”

He suggests several possible explanations.

“One may be fear of reprisals from advertisers or the US government, particularly for US media companies.”

Another possibility, he argues, involves deeper cultural biases.

“Another reason may be a form of implicitly racist double standards, where Arab nations are criticized for using sport in these ways, but western nations avoid such criticisms.”

Whether one agrees with that assessment or not, the contrast is difficult to ignore. 

The politics of the tournament have also extended into how the game itself is structured and consumed. Extended stoppages, including cooling and hydration breaks, have increasingly been aligned with broadcast demands.

Matches are punctuated by longer interruptions that serve both player welfare and commercial scheduling. For critics, the distinction between the two is becoming less clear.

FIFA and the collapse of neutrality

No account of the tournament can avoid FIFA and its president Gianni Infantino.

Expanding the competition from 32 to 48 teams has widened participation, but critics see it as a political move designed to consolidate support among smaller federations and increase the chances for his re-election.

More controversial has been Infantino’s relationship with political leaders.

His decision to award Trump a FIFA Peace Prize during the World Cup draw triggered backlash. Human rights organization FairSquare filed an ethics complaint, while Norway’s football federation backed calls for an investigation.

Since receiving the award, he has attacked Venezuela and Iran, and hinted at a possible invasion of Cuba, annexation of Greenland, and military action in Mexico and Colombia. On top of this, Trump recently referred to Canada as “the 51st state.”

Unlike previous FIFA leaders who maintained some distance from power, Infantino has moved closer to it. Appearances at Mar-a-Lago, in the Oval Office, and at political events have blurred the line between football governance and state authority.

For Dorsey, FIFA crossed a red line long ago.

“This is a mockery of FIFA's proclaimed distance between politics and sports.”

The contradiction is increasingly difficult to ignore. FIFA routinely insists that football and politics should remain separate while simultaneously cultivating relationships with political leaders and selectively enforcing its own standards. 

Football for everyone – except the fans

For critics, Trump’s World Cup has taken on the character of a political spectacle. The tournament reflects a wider shift toward exclusion, securitization, and confrontation.

Boykoff describes the situation as a fundamental paradox.

“This World Cup is a striking paradox in that it includes more teams than ever but excludes most working-class fans from being able to purchase tickets because of the sky-high prices.”

Archer adds:

“This World Cup is completely unaffordable even for average earners in wealthy countries. The fact that many fans are unable to travel or scared of what will happen to them if they do shows just how untenable the idea that the World Cup is a global celebration open to all kinds of people. Instead, it has been transformed into an event that is only accessible to the wealthy.”

The game itself remains larger than any tournament. While elite football grows more distant from ordinary supporters, its meaning is still rooted in local communities.

The question is not whether politics has entered the game. It always has. The question is who the game now serves.

Toppling Netanyahu, strengthening the right

With elections approaching, Arab parties are once again needed for the numbers but kept at arm’s length, with Mansour Abbas navigating between the two camps.

A Cradle Correspondent

Everyone in Israel wants to get rid of Benjamin Netanyahu, each for their own reasons. What appears to be a unifying objective, however, may prove to be the opposition’s greatest vulnerability.

The anti-Netanyahu camp is neither politically nor ideologically cohesive. Its only real point of convergence is the desire to end his rule. With elections approaching in September, that convergence risks becoming a trap – one that could reshape alliances in ways that outlast the vote itself. 

Knesset member Mansour Abbas, head of the United Arab List (Ra’am), increasingly sits at the center of that dynamic.

After Al-Aqsa Flood: Shrinking political space

Since Operation Al-Aqsa Flood, Israeli society has shifted further toward the right. In this environment, cooperation between Jewish parties and Arab parties is no longer treated as a tactical option but as a political liability.

Despite this, both Netanyahu and his opponents continue to rely on Arab votes. The contradiction is now more exposed than ever, with Arab parties needed numerically, yet rejected politically.

Far-right Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich captured this mood when he argued that including Arab parties in government would be worse than the failure to prevent the Hamas-led operation on 7 October 2023. His position reflects a wider consensus that cuts across both coalition and opposition lines.

Former prime minister Naftali Bennett has repeatedly ruled out any partnership with Arab parties, calling instead for a purely Zionist government. By contrast, Yair Golan of the left-leaning Democrats has suggested reaching an understanding with Abbas as a way to remove Netanyahu. The gap between these positions illustrates the limits of opposition coordination.

The limits of Arab unity

Faced with this reality, Arab political leaders have sought to rebuild a joint electoral front. Ahmad Tibi (Ta’al), Yousef Jabareen (Hadash), and Sami Abu Shehadeh (Balad) have all pushed for a unified list that could consolidate votes and counter rising extremism.

Yet the challenge runs deeper than organization. There is no stable or effective framework for Arab political action within Israel.

Even the prospect of a joint list – potentially capable of winning around 15 seats – generates unease among Israeli parties. Writing in Ynet, Nebo Cohen argued that such a result would leave both major blocs increasingly dependent on Arab parties to assemble a governing majority.

Numbers and their consequences

A recent Maariv poll places Netanyahu’s bloc at around 50 seats, with the opposition at 60 and Arab parties holding the remainder. Neither camp can reach a governing majority on its own, leaving Arab votes unavoidable even as both sides try to keep them at arm’s length.

A unified Arab list reshapes that balance. Higher Arab turnout would come at the expense of left-leaning Jewish parties, while at the same time driving right-wing voters to consolidate in response. The result is a tightening of the political field rather than a clear shift in either direction.

Kingmaker

In this setting, Mansour Abbas has adopted a distinctly pragmatic approach. His initial condition for joining a joint list was that it remain technical – an electoral arrangement without binding political commitments. He later shifted, calling for a clearer agenda and guarantees that any government his party joins would not be brought down by its partners.

The shift reflects a careful reading of the system. Abbas’s party, rooted in the southern branch of Israel's Islamic Movement, a movement often associated with the Muslim Brotherhood tradition, is positioning itself along the lines of the ultra-Orthodox parties. Not as a fixed ideological ally, but as a flexible actor trading support for concessions.

Those concessions are usually limited to budget allocations for Arab communities. The leverage behind them, however, is not. In a fragmented Knesset, even a small bloc can decide whether a government survives.

That approach is shaped by recent experience. In 2021, Abbas helped bring down Netanyahu by backing the Bennett–Lapid coalition, becoming the first Arab party leader to support a governing alliance in Israel. The move earned him the label of “kingmaker,” while also accelerating the breakup of the Joint List.

Since then, he has kept all options open. Participation in government is not treated as a red line, but as a tool used when it delivers results.

Parallel tracks, incomplete agreements

Today, Hadash, Balad, and Ta’al are moving ahead with plans for a joint list, even without Abbas. At the same time, Abbas appears to be positioning himself closer to the opposition, potentially offering parliamentary support without formal participation in government. This allows him to retain maneuverability while negotiations remain unresolved.

For the opposition, the calculation is equally cautious. It seeks Abbas’s votes but avoids firm commitments that could alienate its base. The political cost of visible cooperation with Arab parties has risen sharply, particularly in the post-Al-Aqsa Flood climate.

Abbas’s choices are not shaped solely by domestic considerations. External factors – regional relationships and political signaling – also play a role.

He has previously acknowledged that foreign actors encouraged him to continue coalition talks with Netanyahu after the 2021 elections. 

Qatar’s indirect relationship with Netanyahu has long been debated in Israeli political circles, particularly over the transfer of Qatari funds into Gaza before Operation Al-Aqsa Flood. Abbas referred to this relationship in the same interview, attributing it to what he described as Netanyahu’s relatively accommodating approach toward Hamas. Against this backdrop, and amid debate over the so-called “Qatargate” affair, regional considerations could still shape Abbas’s decisions – both on cooperation with other Arab parties and Ra’am’s position in the next Knesset.

Netanyahu, for his part, has moved to complicate Abbas’s position. Recent efforts by his allies to challenge Ra’am’s eligibility to run in elections point to a strategy aimed at weakening or sidelining him altogether.

The experience of the Joint List in 2019 and 2020 continues to shape current debates. On both occasions, its representatives recommended that Benny Gantz form a government in an effort to remove Netanyahu. The outcome – a unity government between Gantz and Netanyahu – left many voters disillusioned.

That precedent has reinforced skepticism toward tactical alliances that promise change but deliver continuity.

Diverging strategies within Arab politics

The contrast between Abbas and other Arab leaders is increasingly pronounced. Abbas presents a clear, transactional approach, trading support for tangible gains, mainly budget allocations for Arab localities.

Other parties remain more hesitant, caught between the urge to see Netanyahu go and the risk of legitimizing another right-wing government. The result is a fragmented approach that reflects the same divisions shaping Israeli politics more broadly.

The most likely electoral scenario is that Arab parties will run in two separate lists: a tripartite alliance and Ra’am. Recent polling places Abbas at around four seats, while projections for a unified Hadash–Balad–Ta’al list hover around five to seven.

In this configuration, Netanyahu would still fall well short of a governing majority, as neither Arab list alone would provide the 11 seats he would need to reach 61. The opposition, by contrast, could potentially rely on Abbas’s four seats to secure a majority. That dynamic increases Abbas’s leverage. His smaller bloc becomes decisive not because of its size, but because of the margins involved. 

The cost of change

For many Palestinian citizens of Israel, Netanyahu’s legacy is defined by war, violence, and dispossession. The desire to see him removed cuts across political lines.

Yet the question remains unresolved: what comes after?

Removing Netanyahu does not automatically alter the structural direction of Israeli politics. The risk is that Arab parties could end up enabling a different right-wing government – one that continues similar policies with less intensity but greater political flexibility.

The dilemma, then, is not only about who governs, but about the terms on which that governance is formed. In a system where margins are narrow and alliances unstable, the price of change may extend beyond the moment of transition.