For a long time, sport has been sold as entertainment: a distraction from politics, rather than a reflection of it. But the World Cup has always made that distinction impossible to maintain. More than any other tournament, it places a microscope on the social and political realities of its host countries.

That is partly because the World Cup is built around national identity, which inevitably involves a degree of tribalism. Its origins were shaped by the aftermath of war: Jules Rimet, who served during the First World War, founded it on the belief that football could foster peace and understanding between nations. At its best, the tournament lives up that ideal, creating unity and cultural exchange. At its worst, it can expose or intensify a host nation’s underlying political and social tensions.

As the 2026 World Cup unfolds across North America, the US – which is hosting the majority of the tournament’s matches – is under particular scrutiny, at a time when immigration has become one of the defining flashpoints of Donald Trump’s second term. ICE crackdowns, travel restrictions and visa delays have already raised questions about who gets to participate in a tournament supposedly built around global movement, openness and exchange.

That contradiction is difficult to ignore. A global sporting event that invites the world in is being staged, in large part, in a country where millions of undocumented people live under the threat of detention, deportation and surveillance. Across the US, immigrant rights groups have warned fans and local communities to exercise caution, while some players, officials and supporters have already faced difficulties entering the country. The Trump administration is doing its best to make the tournament a new front in its war against Iran, subjecting Iranian players to particularly harsh travel restrictions, which have forced them to commute into their US games from Mexico and fly out immediately after. In this context, the question is not simply whether the World Cup should be hosted in the United States, but what the tournament reveals about the country hosting it.

ICE crackdowns, travel restrictions and visa delays have already raised questions about who gets to participate in a tournament supposedly built around global movement, openness and exchange

This is by no means unique to this year. When Brazil hosted the World Cup in 2014, for example, labour exploitation – including the deaths of multiple construction workers building stadiums; public protests, environmental concerns and infrastructure failures were placed on full display for the world to see. In the period leading up to the tournament, the Brazilian government prioritised development projects and beautification efforts while much of the population struggled with inadequate healthcare, education and housing. The games themselves contributed to displacement, gentrification and urban exclusion for local populations, the effects of which are still felt today. More than a decade later, the tournament remains a warning about what can happen when global spectacle is prioritised over the people expected to live with its aftermath.

The 2022 World Cup, hosted in Qatar, proved even more controversial, and provoked an intense debate around sportswashing: how could a country facing sustained criticism over gender inequality, labour exploitation and restrictions on LGBTQ+ rights host a tournament sold on unity and global togetherness? If the intention of the Qatari state was to say, ‘we couldn’t possibly have all of these problems in our country because we’re giving sports entertainment to the masses’, the World Cup ended up having the opposite effect. It drew attention to systems that allowed men untrammelled social and legal authority over women, including male guardianship, laws surrounding sex outside of marriage, and the lack of protections against domestic violence and sexual assault.

At the same time, the attention brought by the World Cup presented a strategic opportunity for Qatar to accelerate reforms and modernise its global image. Whenever the World Cup visits a country, it creates a temporary “state of exception”, compelling governments and societies to suspend certain norms in service of the event. And Qatar did exactly that. The tournament pushed the country to increase visibility for women, who were publicly mobilised as volunteers, cultural ambassadors and managerial staff. This inclusion, while it may have had positive effects, was in large part instrumental: a way of presenting a modernised image of the country without necessarily transforming the structures beneath it.

In the years leading up to 2022, Qatar became widely known for conditions – known as the ‘Kafala system’ – that many critics compared to modern slavery. Ahead of the World Cup, workers brought in from countries such as Nepal, Bangladesh and Kenya reported gruelling hours in extreme heat, wage theft, unsafe conditions and a lack of freedom. But the World Cup granted watchdog organisations such as Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch a huge platform to publicly scrutinise and pressure the Qatari government. In response to intense international scrutiny, Qatar introduced labour reforms, including a universal minimum wage and changes to the Kafala system, though rights groups have continued to argue that abuses persisted and that reforms were inadequately enforced.

While Qatar used its turn on the world stage to improve its image – however superficial the results may have been – Trump appears to be doubling down. Rather than leading to the temporary softening of America’s immigration policies, the tournament has thrown them into sharper relief. Visa delays, travel restrictions and fears of aggressive immigration enforcement have complicated the idea of a frictionless global event. Some immigrant rights groups have issued safety guidance for fans and visitors, while local advocates have pushed for protections against ICE around stadiums. 

Throughout the history of the World Cup, one thing remains consistent: it has always been, and will continue to be, a site of political interrogation, whether by exposing problems, accelerating reforms, or doing both at once. Whether the 2026 World Cup produces reform or merely spectacle remains to be seen. But as in Brazil and Qatar before it, the tournament is already making the contradictions of its host country impossible to ignore.