It begins with a legal text, dry, bureaucratic, without poetry – and ends in a nightmare of discrimination, mistrust, and missed encounters. Donald Trump, President of the United States, currently presents himself as the host of the world. The 2026 FIFA World Cup and the 2028 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles – two global mega-events, two supposed highlights of his second term. But beneath the gleaming surface lies a system of exclusion, an administrative racism that breaks the promise of an open society before the first game has been kicked off, before the first flame has been lit.
With the new travel ban, which categorically excludes citizens from twelve predominantly African, Muslim, and Caribbean nations from entering the U.S., Trump is sending a signal – not of security, but of selection. Afghanistan, Myanmar, Chad, Congo, Equatorial Guinea, Eritrea, Haiti, Iran, Libya, Somalia, Sudan, Yemen – all of them are on the blacklist. Seven other countries – including Cuba, Sierra Leone, and Venezuela – must expect intensified scrutiny. Belonging is no longer decided by the person – but by their country of origin.
And while Trump has himself photographed with FIFA officials in the White House and raves in interviews in Los Angeles about the “spirit of the games,” millions of people around the world are left with nothing but a bitter echo. If you are not an athlete, not a coach, not a member of a delegation, the gate remains closed. The exception applies to the body – not to the person. A sportsman may enter, a father may not. A weightlifter is waved through, her sister stays outside. A passport decides on participation – not one's being.
This policy speaks a language that does not apologize. It talks of “deficient screening procedures,” of “refusal to repatriate,” of “security risks” – words that dehumanize, that declare cultural identity a threat. And it is not new: already in his first term, Trump laid the foundation for this practice with so-called Muslim bans. Now, with more power and less resistance, he is completing what was once contested – and the world looks on.
FIFA President Gianni Infantino remains silent. The International Olympic Committee wraps itself in diplomatic phrases. Instead of a clear rejection of discrimination, we hear talk of “trust in the host.” Casey Wasserman, head of LA28, praises cooperation with the State Department. And so the lie flourishes: that sport is apolitical, that games can function independently of their circumstances. That human rights can be ignored on tournament days, as long as the medal count adds up. But what does such a tournament mean when it no longer welcomes the world, but only part of it? When Iranian fans don’t get visas, when Sudanese families are deported, when Somali spectators are not even allowed to apply – what is left of the Olympic ideal? Of the myth of mutual understanding? What remains is a spectacle, expensive, pompous – and hollow.
The racist selectivity of this decree is not only a blow to the countries affected. It is an assault on the very idea of sport itself. Because those who invite the world but turn it away at the border do not build a bridge – they build a facade. And behind this facade, morality crumbles.
In the past, Russia and Qatar did deny entry to journalists and activists, but at least tried symbolically to demonstrate a form of openness. The U.S. under Trump is taking the opposite path: only the stadiums are open. The country itself remains locked. You get admission – but no welcome. It is time to rethink. To send a signal. Not just from athletes, not just from officials – but from society. Hosting games in a country that systematically excludes millions is a betrayal of everything sport claims to stand for. Boycott is not an easy word – but sometimes the only true one. Because where human rights apply selectively, one must not participate. One must object – through actions, not just declarations.
The ball may roll. But dignity stands still.
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