Can the US host the World Cup while shutting out the Middle East?

In March 2023, FIFA moved with remarkable speed. Indonesia lost the right to host the Under-20 World Cup after political opposition emerged to Israel’s participation, a team that had qualified on merit. The governing body’s message was unmistakable: footballers must not become collateral damage in geopolitical disputes. Players had done nothing wrong. Discrimination against a qualified team was incompatible with the spirit and rules of the game.

Few would disagree with that principle. The deeper question is whether FIFA is prepared to apply it consistently.

Three years later, world football is heading towards its largest-ever World Cup, hosted primarily by the United States. Yet a growing body of evidence suggests that players, officials, journalists and supporters from Muslim-majority countries have already encountered barriers that are neither hypothetical nor speculative. They are documented. They are recurring. And they raise an uncomfortable question about the credibility of FIFA’s commitment to equal treatment.

Indonesia was punished for what might happen. The United States is hosting despite evidence of what it already has. That contrast deserves far greater scrutiny.

The Indonesian case was emotionally devastating. A nation of 277 million people, where football occupies an almost sacred place in public life, saw years of preparation collapse virtually overnight.

Hundreds of millions of dollars in infrastructure spending, tourism expectations, youth development opportunities and national pride vanished with a single FIFA decision. Studies cited in Indonesia estimated losses exceeding Rp3 trillion, while more than 44,000 potential jobs linked to the tournament evaporated. For many Indonesians, the punishment felt collective. Young players who had trained for years lost their once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to compete on home soil.

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Yet FIFA argued that principle mattered more than politics. If that principle is universal, it must also apply to the 2026 World Cup. The concern is not theoretical. It sits at the intersection of football, immigration policy and international relations. Human rights organisations, migration experts, sports governance scholars and even senior United Nations officials have warned that current US policies risk creating unequal access to football’s biggest tournament.

The numbers alone are striking. The United States has maintained varying forms of travel restrictions, enhanced screening procedures and visa barriers affecting numerous Muslim-majority states. Recent policy debates have touched countries including Iran, Afghanistan, Libya, Somalia, Sudan and Yemen. While exemptions often exist for athletes, the broader ecosystem that makes a World Cup possible extends far beyond players alone. Football tournaments depend on coaches, referees, journalists, federation officials, sponsors, volunteers and supporters.

When access becomes selective, football’s claim to universality begins to fracture. Evidence has already emerged. Iranian officials have faced restrictions and visa complications. Iraqi participants have reported detention and heightened scrutiny at ports of entry. Moroccan and Algerian supporters have described visa rejections despite possessing valid tickets and accommodation arrangements.

Uzbek football personnel have reportedly faced disproportionate security screening compared with counterparts from other nations. Civil liberties groups, migration scholars and international observers have repeatedly warned that such patterns create a hierarchy of mobility that falls most heavily on Muslim-majority countries.

The concern became serious enough that United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights Volker Türk publicly urged a reassessment of policies that could undermine equal participation in global sporting events.

That intervention matters. When the UN’s top human rights official raises concerns about access, mobility and discrimination surrounding a future World Cup, the issue can no longer be dismissed as routine bureaucracy. It becomes a question of governance. FIFA has long portrayed itself as a defender of inclusion. Its statutes prohibit discrimination based on nationality, ethnicity, religion or political opinion. The organisation frequently invokes football’s unique capacity to transcend borders and build understanding between societies divided by conflict.

Those ideals were central to the decision against Indonesia. Yet applying them selectively risks transforming principle into power politics. This is where the debate becomes uncomfortable for FIFA.

Indonesia was judged not by actions but by signals. A governor’s comments questioning Israel’s participation triggered fears that FIFA’s hosting guarantees could not be honoured. The governing body concluded that the risk itself was sufficient to remove the tournament.

By contrast, concerns surrounding the United States are not based on a single politician’s remarks. They stem from established immigration systems, documented cases, existing security frameworks and longstanding policy structures. The barriers are not hypothetical future possibilities. They are observable realities.

That distinction should matter. Some will argue the cases are fundamentally different. Indonesia threatened the participation of an entire team. The United States continues to provide athlete exemptions and has committed to facilitating tournament operations.

There is truth in that argument. But it misses the broader point. A World Cup is not merely twenty-two players on a pitch. It is an ecosystem of movement involving millions of people. Football’s promise of global inclusion cannot stop at the stadium gate. If fans from some countries face extraordinary obstacles while others travel freely, the principle of equal participation has already been compromised.

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The issue also extends beyond football. Major sporting events have become powerful tests of national values. Scholars of sports diplomacy, including analysts at the Baker Institute and the Centre for International Policy, have warned that the 2026 World Cup and the 2028 Los Angeles Olympics will function as global audits of American openness. They argue that restrictive mobility policies risk exposing a widening gap between democratic rhetoric and practical reality.

History suggests that perception matters. South Africa’s sporting isolation reflected global opposition to apartheid. Russia’s exclusion reflected outrage over aggression against Ukraine. Indonesia’s punishment reflected FIFA’s insistence that qualified teams must not face discrimination.

The same standard cannot become negotiable when the host is a superpower. That is the challenge now confronting FIFA.

The organisation does not need to strip the United States of hosting rights. Such comparisons oversimplify vastly different circumstances. What it does need is transparency, consistency and credibility.

If FIFA required Indonesia to guarantee non-discrimination, it should require equally robust guarantees that supporters, officials, journalists and participants from Muslim-majority countries will not face disproportionate barriers in 2026.

Anything less creates the impression of two rulebooks. One for countries on the periphery of global power. Another for countries at its centre. Football’s greatest strength has always been its ability to create a rare space where nationality, religion and politics momentarily recede behind a shared human experience. That ideal remains worth defending.

Indonesia learned painfully that FIFA is willing to impose enormous costs in defence of that principle. The question now is whether the same conviction survives when the spotlight turns towards the world’s most powerful host.

Because if players truly have done nothing wrong and must not face discrimination, that principle cannot stop at Israel. It must extend equally to Iranians, Iraqis, Moroccans, Algerians, Uzbeks and every participant whose journey to the World Cup depends not on talent or qualification, but on the passport carried through an airport checkpoint.

The world is watching whether FIFA’s commitment to inclusion is universal. Or whether, in global football, some forms of exclusion matter more than others.

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The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Monitor.