From ICE to dodgy hosts, US World Cup could be century's worst

A World Cup is never just about football. It’s a global audit of the host nation. Everyone zooms in on its politics, culture and the gap between how a country sees itself versus how the rest of the world actually experiences it.

As the US prepares to host the FIFA tournament this summer, millions will tune in not just to watch who lifts the trophy, but to see how the country handles a level of scrutiny it so often directs at others.

And that scrutiny has already started. In the months leading up to kick-off, thousands of fans cancelled their tickets, citing the US’s deteriorating human rights record, an aggressive right-wing political climate and an unrelenting stream of criminal scandals. Even football officials have openly called for a boycott, pointing to the actions of President Trump and his administration at home, as well as on the global stage.

The first thing the world will be watching is who actually makes it through the gate. Though exemptions for athletes, staff and families exist on paper, under the Trump administration, certainty is a luxury few can afford.

The US operates one of the most restrictive and shifting visa regimes, one that categorises entire countries as security risks. Visitors from much of the global south, particularly from Muslim-majority countries, are completely barred from entry. Others, where soccer culture has long thrived, face severe limitations.

Take Senegal. The country topped the Africa Cup of Nations, yet remains among dozens facing entry restrictions. The list stretches across South America, Africa and Asia, regions where FIFA-backed football programs often serve as lifelines for kids and communities.

What gets me most is the irony of it all: the US is hosting the world’s biggest soccer tournament while shutting out the very people who have historically found real joy and refuge in it.

And even for citizens of countries that are technically “allowed,” the welcome is fragile. Stories of sudden visa revocations, border harassment, arrests and deportations are not new. In the last few years, travellers say they’ve been turned away at US airports over political views and memes.

The second test is more on the logistical side: can the US actually host millions of people safely and fairly amid mounting evidence of internal chaos?

Patriotism and confidence, arguably something the US is good at, are unfortunately not enough to host the World Cup. An event this scale requires boring systems: functioning airports, efficient public transit, clear visa processes, fair policing and emergency response that doesn’t depend on an insurance company’s mood swings. These determine whether fans make it to games, players feel safe and whether people can enter and exit a country without fear.

In the US, many of these systems are visibly strained. Air travel teeters on fragility as the administration witnessed a second government shutdown within a span of months, forcing airport staff to work without pay.

With many host cities like Houston heavily dependent on cars, public transit becomes an obvious problem when hundreds of thousands of visitors are expected to move quickly and affordably. And right now, as people are being disappeared by Gestapo-esque forces, the US is asking the world to trust policing systems that aren’t even able to keep Americans safe.

Finally, the world will be watching to see if the age-old myth of American exceptionalism still holds. This idea rests on the notion that the US is uniquely capable, uniquely free and uniquely qualified to lead. Hosting the World Cup is a chance to perform that belief on a global stage and have it tested in real time. Can a country grappling with gun violence host mass gatherings without fear? Can a nation that lectures others on human rights reconcile that image with its own record on policing, incarceration and protest? Can it centre the world without centring itself?

When Qatar hosted the World Cup in 2022, what often went unacknowledged was how much of the criticism, even when rooted in legitimate human rights concerns, slipped into something more unsettling. Labour practices, governance and cultural norms were rightly scrutinised, but with a tone scholars and commentators described as a modern repackaging of old orientalist tropes that Arab and Muslim societies are inherently backward, authoritarian and incapable of meeting global standards.

And Qatari officials pushed back on that framing. In an interview with a German newspaper, Qatar’s foreign minister said European criticism often implied that Qatar was “not intellectually or culturally prepared to host a World Cup,” calling the tone “arrogant” and “honestly… very racist.” He pointed to the double standards at play, particularly from countries that publicly questioned Qatar’s values while privately maintaining deep economic ties, including energy cooperation.

None of this negates the importance of human-rights advocacy. Much of the pressure on Qatar led to real, even if incomplete, labour reforms. But it’s worth noting what often got lost in the conversation: Qatar delivered the tournament itself with remarkable precision. Stadiums were finished on time. Transport was efficient. Fans consistently described the experience as smooth, safe and accessible.

Many fans, including those initially sceptical, later acknowledged that the logistics surpassed expectations. In a BBC poll, the Qatar World Cup was voted the best of the century.

This contrast matters now. Because as the US prepares to host, the question isn’t whether human rights should be discussed, they should. It’s whether the US can even meet the technical and logistical bar that Qatar did.

For decades, the US has positioned itself as both referee and role model. This World Cup flips the dynamic. The cameras will be pointed inward this time, and millions of viewers, many watching from afar by choice or necessity, will be looking to see whether the performance matches the promise.

Zahra Khozema is a Pakistani Canadian journalist based in Toronto.

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Opinions expressed in this article remain those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of The New Arab, its editorial board or staff.