In the history of the World Cup, few hosts have worn the mask of celebration as a means to cover the scars of crisis quite like Argentina in 1978.
The ruling military junta, freshly in power after a violent coup, seized the opportunity to host as a chance to reframe its international image. With cameras broadcasting globally, the regime orchestrated a tightly controlled showcase of national pride, polished stadiums, and patriotic spectacle.
Meanwhile, just blocks from those stadiums, thousands of citizens were being kidnapped, tortured, and killed in the “Dirty War,” a campaign of terror that left lasting trauma and generations of unanswered questions. Families of the disappeared protested silently in public squares as fans cheered in the stands, two parallel realities unfolding at once.
Argentina’s tournament was not the first time football became a tool of authoritarian legitimation. Italy 1934, the second-ever World Cup, was staged under Benito Mussolini’s fascist regime.
Mussolini saw football not just as entertainment, but as a pillar of his propaganda machine. The duce used the event to trumpet fascist superiority, with posters, films, and choreographed stadium displays reinforcing the image of a strong, modern Italy. Referees were allegedly pressured to ensure the Italian team’s success, and they delivered.
Italy won the tournament, and with it, Mussolini gained another tool to bolster his myth of infallible leadership and national rebirth.
Fast forward to 2018 and Vladimir Putin’s Russia. There was no overt constitutional collapse, but by then power had been centralized for nearly two decades. Dissent was criminalized, civil society stifled, and the annexation of Crimea in 2014 had led to international sanctions and diplomatic isolation.
Hosting the World Cup offered a clean stage to reset that image. Russia invested heavily in sleek new infrastructure and curated a festive, efficient atmosphere for visiting fans. Foreign media turned their focus to stadium reviews, charming fan zones, and surprisingly welcoming hosts.
For four weeks, Russia the aggressor became Russia the gracious host, as though geopolitics had briefly been put on pause.
The blurred legacy of recent hosts
Mexico in 1986 was not under dictatorship, but it hosted the tournament just months after a devastating earthquake. Over 10,000 were killed, tens of thousands displaced. The economy was collapsing under inflation and foreign debt.
At the opening match, President Miguel de la Madrid was booed mercilessly by a stadium crowd, an echo of popular rage over government failure and misplaced priorities. Still, the Cup went on. FIFA took its cut. Televisa broadcast the circus. And the tents housing quake victims remained.
In South Africa, the 2010 World Cup brought dazzling visuals and a global spotlight. But beneath the surface, forced evictions, police raids, and protest crackdowns reminded the world that the promise of post-apartheid equality remained unfulfilled.
When this author attended some of the opening matches across South African cities, one location stood out. The ground scene en route to Johannesburg’s stadium was a sprawling dust bowl of shanty towns. While we enjoyed our fresh beers with the locals, the reality was starker.
The iconic calabash-designed stadium remains symbolic of the cloaked attempt at beautification in preparation for the tournament. According to Google Maps, the informal dwellings lacking electricity and secure tenure persist on stadium grounds, though you will never them on television.
In Brazil 2014, the streets exploded in protest. Queremos hospitais padrão FIFA became the rallying cry: “We want FIFA-standard hospitals.” The beautiful game couldn’t hide the growing rot of political corruption and economic injustice.
And then there was Qatar. The 2022 World Cup was a marvel of logistics and architecture, but it was built on the backs of thousands of migrant laborers. Human rights groups raised the alarm. So did players.
But FIFA stood firm, Infantino bizarrely declaring, “Today I feel Qatari… today I feel gay.” It was sports diplomacy in peak absurdity.
Each of these tournaments exposed a different form of crisis: military rule, fascism, postcolonial inequality, economic collapse, or authoritarian soft power.
The common thread? The World Cup as a smokescreen. The promise of unity, patriotism, and joy becomes a shield for regimes facing legitimacy deficits at home or abroad.
As the United States prepares to co-host the 2026 World Cup amid historic political polarization, rising authoritarian flirtations, and a potential constitutional stress test of its own, it’s worth asking: Will it be different, or will the United States continue to bask in exceptionalism?
One thing is sure: Trump will appear on the final stage to glorify a personal chauvinism not far out of reach of his nationalistic base.
Or will the glow of the world’s game once again blur the outlines of deeper national turmoil?
The pitch, after all, is a mirror. What it reflects depends on where you’re standing.
