2026 World Cup: Games of geopolitics around the beautiful game

Illustration: TBS

For a month, borders appear to blur. Political disputes recede from the headlines, replaced by line-ups, goals and dreams. Billions of people become captivated by a single spectacle. Yet beneath the colours, chants and celebrations lies a reality that governments understand well: the World Cup is never just football.

Fifa often says that "football unites the world". In 2026, that claim will face one of its most complicated tests.

The next Fifa World Cup will be the first to be hosted by three countries: the United States, Canada and Mexico. It will also be the largest edition in history, with 48 teams, 104 matches and more than a million international visitors expected across North America. On paper, it is a celebration of expansion and global inclusion. In practice, it arrives at a moment of sharp geopolitical tension.

The US will host 78 of the 104 matches across 11 cities, while Canada and Mexico will each stage 13. However, the political mood surrounding the tournament has changed dramatically since the three countries first planned their joint bid in 2017.

Relations between the US and its two neighbours have been strained by trade disputes, immigration debates and border policies during the second Trump administration. What was once presented as a symbol of North American cooperation now sits uneasily alongside a harder political reality.

The deeper tension, however, lies beyond the host region. Among the participating nations are Iran and Iraq, two countries whose presence in the US carries historical weight far beyond the pitch.

The question is unavoidable: what happens when footballers from countries that have fought, been sanctioned by, or confronted American power arrive on American soil for the world's biggest sporting event?

Iran's participation sits at the most sensitive edge of this question. The US and Iran remain locked in a period of active hostility, marked by military confrontation, sanctions, retaliatory threats and deepening conflict across the Middle East. Yet Iranian players are expected to enter the US and compete in the tournament.

Even this arrangement has become politically charged. 

Amid heightened tensions involving Iran, Fifa permitted the Iranian national team to move its base camp from the US state of Arizona to Tijuana, Mexico, reducing the amount of time the team spends on American soil. Iran will still cross the US border for its scheduled group-stage matches, turning a routine sporting arrangement into a carefully managed diplomatic exercise.

For one month, athletes from a country in direct conflict with the host nation will become guests on its soil, watched by billions around the world. That paradox captures the essence of modern sports diplomacy.

For Iraq, the symbolism is different but equally charged. More than two decades after the 2003 US-led invasion that toppled Saddam Hussein's regime, Iraq continues to grapple with the political fragmentation, violence and institutional instability that followed.

The country has rebuilt parts of its state structure and football identity, but many Iraqis still view the war as a turning point from which full recovery has remained elusive.

Now Iraqi footballers arrive in the US not as soldiers, diplomats or displaced citizens, but as athletes representing a nation still shaped by that conflict. On the other side stands the country that led the invasion. Between them lies 90 minutes of football, disconnected, at least in theory, from history.

But history rarely stays outside the stadium.

The US remains the dominant military, cultural and financial power in the international system. Precisely because of that position, the tournament becomes politically significant. It is not about introducing America to the world; it is about controlling the narrative through which America is seen.

Mega-events have long been instruments of what political scientist Joseph Nye called "soft power": the ability to influence through attraction rather than coercion. The World Cup, watched by billions, is one of the most powerful platforms for that purpose.

Russia used the 2018 tournament to project stability and global relevance despite Western sanctions. Qatar used the 2022 edition to reposition itself as a hub of diplomacy, commerce and spectacle despite criticism over labour rights and political freedoms.

In both cases, the tournament did not erase controversy. It redirected attention.

That is the defining logic of mega-events: they amplify everything. They amplify success, and they expose contradictions.

For the US, the 2026 World Cup arrives amid domestic polarisation, rising geopolitical competition and renewed debates over immigration, identity and global leadership. Against this backdrop, the presence of Iran and Iraq adds a political dimension that cannot be ignored.

But this World Cup is not only about which players enter the host country. It is also about which fans can follow them.

Earlier this year, the Trump administration enacted travel restrictions that fully or partially bar citizens of dozens of countries from entering the US. Athletes, coaches and essential support staff for the World Cup and the 2028 Summer Olympics have received exemptions. Fans, journalists, sponsors and ordinary spectators do not necessarily enjoy the same protection.

That distinction matters.

Four qualified countries — Haiti, Iran, Ivory Coast and Senegal — fall under full or partial US travel bans. For many fans from these nations, the World Cup may be geographically open but politically inaccessible. Unless they are US residents or dual nationals holding passports from unrestricted countries, they may be unable to attend matches hosted in the US.

Other qualified countries, including Egypt, Ghana, Jordan, Morocco, Uruguay and Uzbekistan, have been affected by broader visa-processing delays or additional scrutiny. Even where legal entry remains possible, the process itself may become intimidating.

Council on Foreign Relations immigration expert Edward Alden highlighted the psychological barrier with a simple question: "Are people going to be scared to enter the US?"

That fear may become one of the most invisible forces shaping the tournament. A fan may have a ticket, a hotel booking and a lifelong dream, yet still hesitate at the thought of being questioned at an airport, asked to hand over a phone or treated as a security risk before reaching the stadium.

Council on Foreign Relations Africa expert Ebenezer Obadare noted that the 2026 World Cup is historic because it features a record number of African teams. Yet he warned that some African fans with visas are choosing to avoid the US and travel instead to Canada or Mexico.

"They're saying there's something about this atmosphere: 'I don't want to get to an airport and then have to explain myself for three hours and then somebody says, can I see your phone?'" Obadare said.

This matters because football is not only played by the eleven players on a pitch. It is carried by the noise of those who travel across continents to support their teams. A national team's emotional force often comes from its supporters in the stands: the flags, chants, drums, songs and memories of a country expressed through football.

"If you don't have those people in the stands, it's not the same thing," Obadare said.

Cost adds another barrier. The 2026 tournament is expected to have some of the most expensive tickets in World Cup history. Airline prices have also been affected by regional instability and wider global uncertainty.

Four qualified countries — Haiti, Iran, Ivory Coast and Senegal — fall under full or partial US travel bans. For many fans from these nations, the World Cup may be geographically open but politically inaccessible. Unless they are US residents or dual nationals holding passports from unrestricted countries, they may be unable to attend matches hosted in the US.

At one stage, non-immigrant visa holders from Algeria, Cape Verde, Ivory Coast, Senegal and Tunisia were expected to face a $15,000 bond requirement to attend matches in the US. The requirement was later waived for fans from those countries who had purchased tickets by mid-April, but the episode demonstrated how quickly politics can intrude on fan mobility.

The World Cup, therefore, becomes a test not only of football logistics but also of global access. Who is welcome? Who is watching? Who is delayed? Who is priced out? Who decides that the risk of travelling is no longer worth the dream?

Security adds another layer. Major sporting events always require extensive security measures, but the 2026 World Cup is unusually large and politically sensitive. The US government has allocated hundreds of millions of dollars in grants to host states to strengthen cybersecurity, emergency response systems, stadium security and counter-drone capabilities.

Intelligence warnings have reportedly highlighted the risks of extremist attacks, civil unrest, disruption of fan events and threats to transport infrastructure, particularly amid tensions over immigration policy and conflicts involving Iran.

In Mexico, cartel violence has also raised concerns after unrest in Guadalajara affected tourism and public security. Canada, by contrast, has not faced similar concerns regarding host-city safety.

Then comes the question of enforcement. US Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) has said it will play a role in World Cup security. That prospect has unsettled rights groups, migrant communities, politicians and some foreign governments.

Germany and the United Kingdom have issued travel advisories related to US enforcement practices, while Ecuador has condemned ICE raids. Democratic lawmakers have introduced bills seeking to limit immigration enforcement around the tournament, although they are unlikely to pass before the opening match.

The concern is not only legal. A World Cup venue is supposed to be a place of celebration. But for some fans and workers, the prospect of immigration enforcement turns it into a space of surveillance. In Los Angeles, hospitality workers at SoFi Stadium have pushed for guarantees that ICE will not operate on venue grounds as part of broader labour negotiations.

Alden argued that a heavy ICE presence would make little practical sense. "World Cup fans are not likely overstayers, for the most part," he said. "This is a world-stage event, and I don't think it would make sense to disrupt it with a heavy ICE presence."

Yet the fact that this debate exists shows how far the tournament has moved beyond football.

Player safety, too, is being discussed not only in political terms but also in physical ones. Iran's decision to base itself in Mexico reflects security concerns, but heat may become another risk. Several host cities, including Los Angeles and Mexico City, are located in areas where heat stress could affect players, particularly if matches are scheduled during the afternoon. The 2025 Club World Cup in the US already raised concerns after mid-afternoon kick-offs led to cases of heat exhaustion.

Could the World Cup become a stage for diplomacy? It has already been used in that way in other contexts. Mega-events create informal spaces where rival states and societies coexist in ways that formal diplomacy cannot always achieve. Governments, corporations, media organisations and publics are brought together in a compressed global moment of attention.

Could it become a stage for protest? That possibility exists as well. Fifa discourages political demonstrations on the field, yet football repeatedly demonstrates that identity and expression cannot be separated from sport.

A gesture, a silence, an armband or a celebration can become an international statement. In the context of US-Iran hostility, any symbolic act by Iranian players would resonate far beyond sport. For Iraqi players, even silence may carry memory.

Fifa's own position is complicated. Its human rights policies are formally aligned with United Nations principles, and the 2026 tournament was the first World Cup to include human rights criteria in the bidding process. Host cities published plans on labour rights, anti-discrimination, safety and inclusion. However, rights groups argue that reality has fallen short of those commitments.

Amnesty International has warned of a "human rights emergency" in the US, citing abusive immigration and border policies, threats to freedom of speech and assembly, and discrimination against vulnerable communities. Human Rights Watch has criticised Fifa and host-city committees for failing to adequately address immigration enforcement, press freedom and other human rights concerns.

This is not new. Fifa faced criticism over migrant worker deaths in Qatar, restrictions on protest during the 2022 World Cup, anti-discrimination controversies at other tournaments, and worker-safety concerns in Russia, Brazil and South Africa.

The organisation's problem is structural: it says football unites the world, but the World Cup depends on host states, security forces, corporate sponsors, broadcasters and political relationships.

According to Amnesty International, the 2026 World Cup could be the most lucrative in history, potentially generating up to $11 billion. That figure helps explain why governments and institutions invest so heavily in the spectacle. They are not simply buying tournaments; they are buying global attention.

Boycott discussions have surfaced among politicians, coaches, fan groups and football officials. However, a full national-team boycott remains unlikely. As Obadare put it, "At the end of the day, [players] want that shot."

For all the politics surrounding it, the tournament remains the highest stage of a footballer's life. For debutants such as Cape Verde, Curaçao, Jordan and Uzbekistan, it is not an abstract geopolitical event. It is a once-in-a-generation national moment.

That is what makes the tournament so powerful and contradictory. The same event can be a childhood dream, a diplomatic instrument, a commercial machine, a human rights test, a security challenge and a national branding exercise.

For the US, the World Cup is an opportunity to project competence, openness and global leadership while managing immigration enforcement, foreign policy disputes, domestic polarisation and international criticism. For Canada and Mexico, it is a test of shared hosting at a time when borders have become politically charged. For Fifa, it is a test of whether its slogan can survive contact with reality.

For Iran and Iraq, the 2026 World Cup is not just about participation in sport. It is an entry onto a global stage shaped by conflict, memory and power. For fans from restricted or heavily scrutinised countries, it may become a tournament watched from afar, not because they lack passion, but because politics stands between them and the stadium.

Football may unite the world for 90 minutes. But before and after those 90 minutes, passports, borders, wars, visas, sanctions, police powers and political narratives still matter.