The stadiums of North America are packed, and the loudest cheers go to footballers whose families once faced walls and suspicion. Kylian Mbappé carries Cameroonian and Algerian heritage and has just scored twice against Senegal. Jamal Musiala, with a Nigerian-British father and German mother, is one of the best players at the tournament. Breel Embolo left Cameroon to become a Swiss striker. Lamine Yamal is 17, of Moroccan and Equatoguinean descent, and already the most exciting player Spain has produced in a generation. Bukayo Saka, of Nigerian roots, as beloved in England as he is targeted when things go wrong. Folarin Balogun, born in New York to Nigerian parents, giving the United States goals and urgency.
And then there is Yasin Ayari. Born in Sweden to a Tunisian father and a Moroccan mother, he scored the opening goal against Tunisia in the seventh minute of his World Cup debut. He did not celebrate. He raised both hands in apology and went down in sajdah on the Monterrey grass. His father, Azzouz, when asked this year whether he wished his son had played for Tunisia instead, said: “I wanted him to play for Sweden. He must feel like he’s giving back to the country that took care of him.” The son scored against the father’s homeland and apologised. The father had already given him permission.
None of these players are exceptions. They are the texture of the tournament.
The politics outside the stadium pulls in the opposite direction. US visa denials have kept Senegalese fans away. Iranian supporters watched their team cross the Mexican border each matchday and return the same night. Cape Verde’s goalkeeper wept at full time because his mother couldn’t afford the visa bond to enter the country hosting the World Cup. The tournament is global. Getting here is not.
This is the contradiction the 2026 World Cup keeps staging. Eric Hobsbawm once wrote that nations feel most real when millions project themselves onto 11 players with names and faces. What happens, then, when those faces carry the histories of everywhere?
Japan’s answer is Zion Suzuki. Born in Newark, New Jersey, to a Ghanaian-American father and a Japanese mother, he could have represented Ghana, the United States, or Japan. He chose Japan, grew up in Saitama, stands in goal for the Blue Samurai at 23. In Japan, the word haafu marks people of mixed heritage. When Japan lost to Iraq at the 2024 Asian Cup and Suzuki made an error, the abuse on social media was not about the error. It was about his face. He said he welcomed criticism of his performances. He asked people to stop commenting on his skin colour. Coach Hajime Moriyasu said: “I feel very ashamed and appalled. Through football, we must bond together.”
Romelu Lukaku named the double standard in a 2018 essay for the Players’ Tribune with a precision that has not dated. When he played well, he was the Belgian striker. When things went wrong, he became the striker of Congolese descent. Suzuki discovered the same equation in a different language, in a different context, with the same logic. Score, and you are ours. Concede, and your ancestry becomes the explanation.
Alexander Isak put it simply: Both countries can be home. That is modern football’s answer to a question politics keeps trying to force into one. A player can belong to Sweden and Eritrea, France and Algeria, Germany and England. The shirt is singular. The story underneath is not.
The squad lists tell a story longer than the scorelines. Switzerland’s defence is anchored by Manuel Akanji, of Nigerian descent. Jeremy Doku speaks openly about being Ghanaian while playing for Belgium. France’s Rayan Cherki has spoken about exploring his Algerian roots, not as complication but as resource. In the US squad, 12 of the 26 players are Black, three are Latino. Chris Richards wears Martin Luther King Jr tattoos. The old image of what a national team looks like has already changed.
And it goes further than the famous names. Sarpreet Singh represents New Zealand; his roots are in Punjab. Qatar fields Tahsin Mohammed Jamshid, whose family is from Kerala. Australia’s Nishan Velupillay carries Sri Lankan Tamil and Anglo-Indian heritage. DR Congo’s Samuel Moutoussamy traces Indo-Guadeloupean ancestry. The phenomenon is not confined to European football or its diaspora. It is the texture of 48 nations meeting in North America.
The welcome, though, is conditional on the scoreline. The stadiums are genuinely moved, genuinely proud. That pride tends to have a shorter memory than the prejudice it briefly displaces.
But there’s that uneasy truth you can feel building. All this excitement, the welcoming, the pride, the applause, wears off when the lights dim. After the final, many of these players head back to countries still fighting over who belongs and who doesn’t. The tournament proves that multiculturalism can win hearts and standing ovations. Whether it wins a lasting place in society is a much tougher test.
The writer is a senior assistant editor, Indian Express Hindi
