Days Before Kickoff, the World Cup Runs Into America’s Border Politics

The World Cup was supposed to arrive in North America as a monthlong celebration of the global game. Instead, days before kickoff, the tournament is being pulled into a growing storm over immigration enforcement, visa denials, ticket prices and the question of whether the United States can host the world while treating parts of it with suspicion.

Across the United States, Mexico and Canada, the 2026 FIFA World Cup is the largest edition in the tournament’s history, with 48 teams, 104 matches and millions of fans expected to travel across borders. For American cities, it was supposed to be a civic showcase and an economic windfall. For FIFA, it was a chance to stage the most lucrative World Cup ever. For fans, it was supposed to be the rare event that turned national borders into bridges.

But the opening week has produced a far more complicated picture.

The clearest symbol of the controversy is Omar Abdulkadir Artan, the Somali referee who had been selected to officiate at the tournament and was set to become the first Somali match official in World Cup history. Artan was denied entry to the United States after arriving at Miami International Airport, despite reportedly holding a valid visa. U.S. Customs and Border Protection cited vetting concerns. FIFA said it does not control immigration decisions made by host countries.

That explanation has done little to ease the outrage.

Artan was not a casual traveler. He was a FIFA-appointed official, one of the people required to run the tournament itself. He had earned his place on merit and was widely regarded as one of Africa’s top referees. To his supporters, his exclusion was not just a bureaucratic dispute. It was a blow to the promise that the World Cup belongs to every country, every continent and every person who earns a place on the field.

The question now hanging over the tournament is simple: if a selected World Cup referee can be turned away at the border, what should ordinary fans expect?

That anxiety has spread quickly among supporters from countries affected by U.S. travel restrictions and high visa rejection rates. Fans from parts of Africa, the Middle East and the Caribbean have described spending thousands of dollars on tickets, flights and hotels before running into denials, delays or uncertainty. Some say their visas were rejected after they had already made nonrefundable travel plans. Others say previously approved travel authorizations were revoked without clear explanation.

For those fans, the World Cup is becoming less a festival than a gamble.

Ticket prices have already made the tournament feel distant for many working-class supporters. FIFA’s use of dynamic pricing has drawn intense criticism, especially as some final tickets and resale listings reached extreme five-figure levels. The 2022 final in Qatar was expensive, but many supporters now see 2026 as something different: a tournament shaped by American-style pricing, scarcity and resale culture.

That has created an uncomfortable contradiction. The World Cup sells itself as the people’s game, a competition powered by emotion, national pride and ordinary fans who travel across the world to sing for their teams. Yet this edition is increasingly being described by critics as a tournament for the wealthy, the well-connected and those lucky enough to survive the visa process.

The immigration issue may prove even more politically explosive than the prices.

As the tournament approaches, American officials have faced questions about what role Immigration and Customs Enforcement will play around stadiums, fan zones and host cities. Homeland security officials have said their focus is national security and public safety, not broad immigration sweeps at matches. But they have also refused to rule out enforcement action if agents encounter people they believe pose a concern or are unlawfully present.

That distinction may be clear in government language. It is less reassuring to many fans, workers and immigrant communities.

A World Cup match is not only attended by tourists with passports and expensive tickets. It depends on stadium workers, drivers, vendors, hotel staff, restaurant employees, volunteers and local communities, many of them immigrants or members of mixed-status families. If those communities feel targeted, the atmosphere around the tournament changes. A global celebration can quickly begin to feel like a security operation.

Democratic lawmakers have pressed immigration officials over masked agents, use of force and the possibility that foreign visitors or U.S. residents could be detained during the tournament. Civil rights groups have warned that heavy-handed enforcement could damage public trust and discourage fans from attending events. A recent poll showing broad opposition to ICE presence at stadiums suggests that the concern is not limited to activists or partisan critics. Many Americans simply do not want the World Cup to look or feel like a border checkpoint.

The Trump administration sees the matter differently. Its officials argue that the United States has an obligation to protect a massive global event, especially at a time of heightened security concerns. A World Cup brings enormous crowds, international attention and potential threats. No administration would ignore those risks. Supporters of stricter enforcement say a ticket to a soccer match cannot override American immigration law.

That argument has political power. But it also clashes with the basic spirit of the tournament.

The World Cup is built on movement. Players, coaches, referees, journalists and supporters cross borders because the event is bigger than any one country. The host nation does not merely provide stadiums. It provides welcome. It offers itself as a temporary home for the world.

That is why the contrast with Mexico has become so striking. Videos of arriving fans and teams being greeted with music, color and public celebration have circulated widely. The message is unmistakable: this is how the World Cup is supposed to feel. The host opens its arms. The visitors feel honored. The tournament becomes not just a schedule of matches, but a cultural exchange.

In the United States, by contrast, early stories have focused on searches, detentions, denied entries and warnings. Some of that may reflect unavoidable security procedures. But optics matter. When a tournament begins with images of fans celebrating in one host country and stories of officials being turned away in another, the comparison writes itself.

For FIFA, the controversy is especially damaging.

The organization has long insisted that the World Cup is universal. But universality requires more than marketing slogans. If FIFA awards hosting rights to a country whose entry rules prevent selected officials, team staff, journalists or large numbers of fans from attending, then FIFA has a responsibility to explain how it intends to protect the integrity of the event.

So far, FIFA has leaned on a familiar defense: immigration decisions belong to governments. Legally, that is true. Politically and morally, it may not be enough. FIFA selected the hosts, negotiated the terms and built the tournament around three countries. It also has enormous leverage when it wants to use it. Fans now want to know why that leverage has not produced clearer guarantees.

The economic stakes are also significant. Host cities were promised packed hotels, crowded restaurants, full stadiums and global attention. Some local officials and businesses are still expecting a surge. But if high prices keep fans away, if visa uncertainty blocks travel, or if immigration enforcement creates fear, the expected boom could be weaker than advertised.

That would be a serious problem for American host cities that have spent heavily on security, transportation, public events and stadium preparations. The World Cup can generate enormous revenue, but it also imposes enormous costs. If visitors stay home or choose Mexico and Canada instead, the economic disappointment could become part of the tournament’s legacy.

The political cost may fall most heavily on the White House.

President Trump has embraced the prestige of hosting the World Cup while maintaining a hardline immigration agenda. For months, critics warned that those two priorities would eventually collide. Now they have. The administration wants the images of packed stadiums, global attention and presidential ceremony. But it also wants travel bans, aggressive vetting and visible immigration control.

The World Cup does not easily bend to that contradiction. It demands openness by design. Its entire emotional force comes from the idea that the world can gather in one place, even if only for a few weeks, and recognize itself through a game.

That is why the controversy around Artan matters so much. His case is not only about one referee. It is about what kind of tournament this will be. If a respected match official with FIFA credentials and a valid visa can be denied entry, the event’s promise of fairness begins to feel conditional.

Fans understand that better than anyone. They know the World Cup has always been imperfect. It has always been political. It has always reflected the host nation’s flaws as much as its strengths. But they also expect something larger than bureaucracy and suspicion. They expect joy. They expect welcome. They expect the game to belong to them.

Instead, many are hearing a different message: this World Cup may be for them, but not for us.

There is still time for the tournament to recover its spirit. Once the matches begin, the sport itself may overwhelm the politics. A stunning goal, a dramatic upset, a packed stadium singing in unison — these moments can briefly make every controversy fade. The World Cup has survived corruption scandals, authoritarian hosts, labor disputes, protests and boycotts. It has a remarkable ability to turn chaos into spectacle.

But the warning signs are real.

A tournament meant to display American confidence is exposing American anxiety. A competition built around global unity is being filtered through national suspicion. A game loved by immigrants is being staged under the shadow of immigration enforcement. And a sport often called beautiful is arriving in a host country where too many people feel priced out, blocked out or pushed away.

The World Cup will begin. The stadiums will fill. The cameras will roll. FIFA will count its revenue, politicians will claim success, and millions will still watch because the pull of the game is too strong to ignore.

But the first story of this tournament has already been written. Before the opening whistle, the United States has been forced to confront a question far bigger than soccer: can a country host the world while making so much of the world feel unwelcome?