The 2026 FIFA World Cup was supposed to be football’s greatest celebration of unity.
Instead, before many teams have even settled into their training bases, the tournament has become a case study in contrast, a World Cup where some participants arrive to red-carpet preparations, luxury logistics and seamless entry, while others face interrogations, detentions, enhanced screenings and uncertainty at the border.
No issue has highlighted that divide more starkly than the case of Somali referee Omar Abdulkadir Artan.
Selected by FIFA to officiate at the World Cup after years of climbing through the ranks of international refereeing, Artan arrived in the United States carrying what he believed was everything required to fulfil the greatest assignment of his career. He had FIFA accreditation. He had a valid visa. He had official tournament clearance.
Yet after reportedly spending 11 hours undergoing questioning by U.S. authorities, he was denied entry and forced to abandon his World Cup dream.
“I am just a referee trying to live my biggest dream,” Artan told The New York Times. “I had the right papers and the correct visa.”
The U.S. Customs and Border Protection later confirmed that a FIFA World Cup referee from Somalia had been denied entry following security-related vetting concerns. Officials emphasized that all travelers are subject to inspection and that admissibility decisions are made on a case-by-case basis using available immigration, law-enforcement and national-security information.
Legally, the explanation may be sufficient.
Symbolically, however, the damage is far more significant.
A World Cup referee chosen by FIFA never made it to the tournament he was appointed to serve.
And Artan’s story is not standing alone.
Iran’s Football Federation has formally protested what it says was the revocation of tickets allocated to Iranian supporters. In a strongly worded statement, the federation argued that denying access to official ticket quotas contradicts the principles of equality and fairness that international tournaments are supposed to represent. It further warned that the matter raises questions about political interference and called on FIFA to uphold neutrality.
In another widely reported incident, members of the Senegalese delegation were subjected to inspections upon arrival in the United States. Uzbekistan’s national team also faced unusually strict security procedures during preparations for international matches in New York.
Reports from Iraqi media and football sources claimed that national-team vice-captain Aymen Hussein underwent lengthy questioning by immigration officials after arriving in the United States, while Iraqi national-team photographer Talal Salah was reportedly detained for several hours before ultimately being denied entry.
Each case is different.
Each involves its own facts, circumstances and security assessments.
Yet together they create a troubling pattern — not necessarily of discrimination, but of perception.
And perception can be as powerful as reality.
While some delegations navigate immigration procedures with little public attention, others have become headline stories before a ball has been kicked.
At the same tournament where Somali officials are being turned away, Norway’s national team has arrived with hundreds of kilograms of traditional fish, thousands of oranges, specialty cheeses and an award-winning chef flown in to oversee player nutrition.
England, meanwhile, has established one of the most secure World Cup compounds in modern football history, complete with multiple security rings, anti-drone systems, restricted airspace and extensive police protection.
There is nothing improper about either arrangement.
Norway’s preparations reflect planning and resources.
England’s security measures reflect genuine concerns about player safety.
Neither represents preferential treatment by immigration authorities.
But football is not merely about facts. It is also about optics.
And the optics of World Cup 2026 increasingly suggest two different experiences.
One group arrives discussing tactics, training sessions and recovery programs.
Another arrives discussing border interviews, admissibility reviews and security screenings.
That distinction matters because FIFA has spent decades marketing the World Cup as a universal event — a competition where nationality, politics and geography disappear once the whistle blows.
The governing body’s motto has long been that football unites the world.
Recent events are testing that promise.
To be fair, the United States faces an extraordinarily difficult challenge.
Hosting the largest World Cup in history means welcoming millions of visitors, dozens of national teams, thousands of accredited officials and countless members of the media. Security concerns are not hypothetical. Border controls are not optional. Every sovereign nation retains the right to determine who enters its territory.
No reasonable observer would argue otherwise.
The problem is that football does not operate solely in the realm of law and security.
It also operates in the realm of trust.
When a Somali referee selected by FIFA cannot enter the tournament, trust is weakened.
When an Iranian federation publicly questions equal treatment, trust is weakened.
When delegations from certain regions repeatedly find themselves at the centre of immigration controversies, trust is weakened.
That erosion of trust presents FIFA with a challenge that extends beyond any single case.
The governing body has repeatedly stated that immigration decisions remain the responsibility of host governments. Technically, that position is correct. FIFA cannot override border-control agencies or immigration authorities.
But FIFA can no longer pretend these incidents exist entirely outside its responsibility.
The organization chose the hosts. It sold the tournament as a celebration of global inclusion. It promised a World Cup that belongs to every nation.
Those commitments inevitably raise questions when participants from certain countries encounter barriers that others do not.
The issue is not whether every security decision was justified.
The issue is whether football’s most important tournament can maintain its claim to universality when some participants arrive feeling welcomed and others arrive feeling scrutinized.
That distinction may not always reflect deliberate bias.
It may arise from intelligence assessments, geopolitical realities or legitimate security concerns.
Yet for those affected, the experience often feels the same.
One World Cup.
Two realities.
For some, the journey begins with celebration.
For others, it begins with suspicion.
As the tournament progresses, FIFA will hope the football itself becomes the dominant story.
But the uncomfortable question will remain.
Can the World Cup truly belong to everyone if not everyone arrives under the same conditions?
That question may ultimately become one of the defining legacies of World Cup 2026.