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by Sylphia Basak for The 44 North, Contributing Writer - Politics



Editor's Note:


The following article reflects the views & analysis of the author. As with all opinion and essay submissions, the piece has been edited for clarity and reviewed carefully for factual accuracy, but the interpretations & arguments are the author’s own. The 44 North publishes an array of perspectives & voices to encourage and ensure thoughtful engagement with complex social, political, historical, and cultural issues.


"And perhaps the microcosm of FIFA acts as a stand-in for the political climate, where we're still rooting for the underdog to win against evil, against the impossible odds."

To so many around the world, the beauty of football (soccer) is its democracy. From the grass fields of England to the barrios of Brazil and the sandy back alleys of Morocco, the simplicity in its setup—a ball, an open patch of land, and two markers for goals—allows it to be a meritocratic sport where anyone can find themselves on the world’s stage, regardless of country, race, or class. Seemingly, the only prerequisites are hard work and perhaps a touch of talent. The unparalleled accessibility for both players and spectators has arguably made soccer one of, if not the, most universal sports, gathering billions of players and adoring fans in parks and stadiums across the globe. At the peak of FIFA 2026, there’s an undeniable sense of unity and community ritual as bars draw crowds that spill onto the street. Everyone seems to be in a flurry of doom and uncertainty: For a few months, they believe that their team—and by extension themselves, the underdog—can win in a world that feels like a magnet for loss.  


But how does that cultural and democratic ideal hold up within the institution of the sport?


FIFA, the Fédération Internationale de Football Association, has served as the global governing body for football since 1904. As described by one Reddit user, FIFA is essentially “the UN of football”—a unifying council designed for nations to confer with one another beyond the nitty-gritty of bi-partisan politics. 


FIFA’s statutes explicitly state that the soccer governing body must remain “neutral in matters of politics and religion.” However, the 2026 World Cup series has proven itself inseparable from the social, political, and literal climate it’s operating under. 

 

After Iran’s elimination from the first round of 48 countries, many have called out the treatment of the team, alleging that certain matches were rigged in order to eliminate them from the playoffs. Further, they’ve pointed out biased questions from the press and the circumstances within which they were allowed to play in the United States.


Several countries, including Iran, struggled to obtain the necessary visas to attend matches, both spectators and teams alike. 


“We can’t wait to welcome soccer fans from all over the globe,” the U.S. State Department’s website reads, quoting President Donald Trump. However, the White House's rules on who can enter the country vary widely depending on the travellers’ country of origin. At least four competing countries—Haiti, Iran, the Ivory Coast, and Senegal—are subject to a full travel ban (which affects tourists but not players), and a handful of others must undergo heightened screening to enter the country (Council of Foreign Relations).


The compromise for the Iranian team was for them to stay in Tijuana, Mexico, while competing in their matches on U.S. soil. This meant a four-hour flight and TSA security protocol between each game, leaving them exhausted and lacking the presumably crucial rest and practice between matches. Despite this, Iran never lost a game. Having tied each, they were eliminated by the Algeria and Austria draw, which theorists on X point to being fixed. In the same vein, Muslim spectators in America were harassed and assaulted, including women having their hijabs torn off, according to Novara Media.


Following the matches, press conferences also seemed to veer into politics for players and coaching staff of the Global South. Such was the case when a reporter asked the Iranian captain directly about their views on LGBTQ+ rights (a tactic known as ‘pinkwashing,’ wherein queer or women’s rights and lack thereof are used to propagate Western hegemony and justify foreign intervention in the Global South). The assumption—that many speculate the (American) reporter was making by asking the Iranian captain his views on LGBTQ+ rights—was that he would provide an incendiary (negative) opinion which could then be used to delegitimize a favourable view of Iran or the Iranian people, while the American team, and by extension, America, would be positioned as the morally superior of the two nations. The Iranian captain gave a heartwarming response regarding his and his team’s acceptance of all, alongside a reminder of why they were there: To play football. While reassuring to hear the Iranian teams’ welcoming attitudes toward Queer people, many have rightfully pointed out the blatant double standard in this line of questioning;


Not only is this line of questioning a violation of FIFA’s “apolitical” policy, but an argument could be made that it should be extended to all nations, including and perhaps especially America, as one of this year’s FIFA hosts. Why should one team be questioned on the state of human rights in their country while the American team hasn’t been questioned about their views on the Trump administration’s deployment of ICE in civilian communities, alongside its rollbacks on LGBTQ+ rights and protections?


Of course, the FIFA World Cup is unfolding amid the US/Israeli war on Iran, as well as Israel’s continued genocide and ethnic cleansing campaigns in Palestine and Lebanon, largely funded by the United States. America was still allowed to host, and Israel, though not securing a playoff spot, was still allowed into FIFA stadiums, while the Russian team has been banned since 2022, citing Russian leader Vladimir Putin’s war crimes in Ukraine. Despite arrest warrants via the International Criminal Court (ICC) for both Putin and Israel’s leader, Benjamin Netanyahu, only one nation remains banned from FIFA. 


In the wake of Cape Verde and Egypt’s losses against Argentina, discourse has arisen online regarding seemingly biased treatment toward the Argentinian team, resulting in a deliberate reconfiguring of rules to give them an advantage on the field. In a video circulating online, there appear to be multiple instances of the Argentinian team flouting rules and injuring their opponents, which were ignored by the referee. There have been extensive efforts to remove this video from social media, which has been cited as further evidence of more institutional bias.


Legacy news outlets such as BBC and TSN have reported these losses as “bad luck,” however, to many, it has become increasingly hard to ignore the glaring disparities in how certain teams have been treated, and the deliberate-seeming attempts at ensuring Africa and West Asia didn’t have a chance at playing in the finals, regardless of talent. 


Even before entering the field, Haiti had also experienced discrimination; FIFA banned their initial jersey design, citing their increasingly selective “political” label. While FIFA didn't elaborate on which components of the jersey were deemed problematic, the issue almost certainly stemmed from the small image of a group of people holding the Haitian flag that appeared on the right hip of the jersey. A spokesperson for the team confirmed an image depicting the Battle of Vertières and independence heroes raising the Haitian flag, commemorating the Haitian revolt against slavery, apparently “too political” for FIFA (The Conversation). 


Via ESPN
Via ESPN

This year’s FIFA World Cup, more so than other years in recent memory, has put on the global stage the financial and social disparities between European and North American teams and teams from the Global South. Undoubtedly, the significant sponsorships that Western teams are often more privy to greatly support their athletic performance. Coupled with likely favour from FIFA, it has become clear to many that not all nations are given the same starting line, and that this may be more deliberate than we as spectators have been led to believe. The Global South is once again in a position of playing socioeconomic matches before they even step on tournament turf, while Western teams are not only uplifted by sponsorships but, alongside their fans, act as though their success rate is a matter of talent, meritocracy, and superiority. As one X user says; 


FIFA, like all global institutions, cannot be exempt from the climate in which they exist. Apoliticism in the context of active genocides amounts to tone-deaf complicity and ignorance, and it becomes particularly insidious when covert colonial ideology seeps into institutions like FIFA via their treatment of people who fall outside of Western hegemony. 


As spectators, we must reckon with yet another form of reappropriating liberal ideals of diversity and unity to essentially minimize and obfuscate the current reality of imperialism manifesting itself, even within the game. 


So who gets to be a champion?


Such is the ask of any institution under capitalism. The essence of sport and art—and why we feel drawn to watching the greats and rooting for unexpected underdogs—is degraded when they’re married to systems rooted in the oppression of others. Ultimately, there’s no way for those systems to avoid absorbing the manifestations of colonialism, racism, sexism, etc., because these are the foundations on which many institutions—even beloved cultural icons such as FIFA—have been built upon. Diversity within these structures can then easily become another form of tokenism. Despite this, the talent of athletes in the global south shines through and holds its own against bias from the top down. And perhaps the microcosm of FIFA acts as a stand-in for the political climate, where we're still rooting for the underdog to win against evil, against the impossible odds. 


Sylphia Basak is a journalist/writer and activist who uses a variety of mediums to convey the story she wants to tell. Her work prioritizes a decolonial lens, and seeks to counteract and analyze Western media and culture as a way of highlighting the primary contradictions of the current political climate.


by Mikaela Brewer ​for The 44 North, Senior Editor


The First Water Is the Body” by Natalie Diaz, from Postcolonial Love Poem. Copyright ©2020 by Natalie Diaz. Reprinted with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC, on behalf of Graywolf Press, in Emergence Magazine.


Artwork by Logan Brewer
Artwork by Logan Brewer

Note: This poem is not in the public domain! Please use the link above to read it. 


When I read “The First Water Is the Body” in 2020, after Natalie Diaz’s book, Postcolonial Love Poem (in which the poem appears), won the Pulitzer Prize, my consciousness felt diverted like a river around a boulder. I struggled to grasp another poem as this one settled, alive, into my body. Perhaps it didn’t settle at all, like the settler I am in Canada. The poem helped me remember the river that I, too, already am.   


At first, before reading, you may wonder: Is this a poem? The prose poem and lyric essay have much in common—often a blend of narrative and personal experience held by poetic, lyric language and juxtaposition. You might say this form is much like a river, bed, and bank—curving, compressing, and expanding. What makes it a poem, to me, is the flow: Uninhibited, and yet, tethered to a strong form: A body, if you will. It’s also a poem because Natalie Diaz says it is (can you tell I’m a fan?). 


Further, deeper into the water, the poem’s syntax, diction, and imagery lift each other. The word ‘conservative’—and the way it’s included as the last word of a section and stanza—implicates many meanings. There’s also the use of red, white, and blue—the colours of the American flag—appearing as silt, rock, sun burns, Native/white bodies, blood, and water. The body, of course, recurs, but here is my favourite example:


“If I was created to hold the Colorado River, to carry its rushing inside me, if the very shape of my throat, of my thighs is for wetness, how can I say who I am if the river is gone?”


Like a river, most stanzas are only one sentence. The sentences, as water holds pebbles, carry images, descriptions, and declarations; muscles to the bones of the poem (of which there are many). The most visceral, I felt, is Diaz’s reckoning with translation, noting John Berger’s belief that true translation returns to the non-verbal. In this sense, what kind of translation is happening in the poem and outside of it? Who is it for? What has been lost in this process?


“In Mojave thinking, body and land are the same. The words are separated only by the letters ‘ii and ‘a: ‘iimat for body, ‘amat for land. In conversation, we often use a shortened form for each: mat-. Unless you know the context of a conversation, you might not know if we are speaking about our body or our land. You might not know which has been injured, which is remembering, which is alive, which was dreamed, which needs care. You might not know we mean both. // “If I say, My river is disappearing, do I also mean, My people are disappearing?”


The body and river cannot be separated—they are one. Therefore, as Diaz writes, there’s no metaphor or juxtaposition of tears, river, blood, though these appear in the poem side-by-side. This shows us the limit of language on the page, which Diaz reflects stunningly. Poems, often, tangle with metaphor and myth—which are in close relationship. Diaz writes that “What threatens white people is often dismissed as myth. I have never been true in America. America is my myth.” She follows this by asking, “If the river is a ghost, am I? // Unsoothable thirst is one type of haunting.” I’m reminded here of “Decolonization is Not a Metaphor,” a paper by Eve Tuck and K. Wayne Yang. 


Thus, the hope of the poem may be to haunt us via the feelings attributed to mythological spirits and ghosts—a sense of loss, grief, lingering, and fear—in a way that convinces: “If I could convince you, would our brown bodies and our blue rivers be more loved and less ruined?” We know that the body remembers trauma spatially. So, too, does the water. If you’re curious about Indigenous ghost/horror stories, I recommend Never Whistle At Night, expanded on here


Alongside Berger, Diaz brings in Toni Morrison’s quote: “All water has perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was.” Other voices in the poems, alongside Diaz, work formally to help us see and feel plurality: If “We think of our bodies as being all that we are: I am my body [, t]his thinking helps us disrespect water, air, land, one another. But water is not external from our body, our self.”


Lastly, Diaz uses questions throughout the poem—something that’s tricky to get right. To a few, she responds:


“Will we remember from where we’ve come? The water.”


Others, she asks rhetorically, the answer implied:


“Do you think the water will forget what we have done, what we continue to do?”


And some, she leaves, necessarily, for all of us:


“And once remembered, will we return to that first water, and in doing so return to ourselves, to each other?”


This poem is full of life, as a river is—as a body is. Please continue spending time with it beyond this brief, surely inadequate introduction. And perhaps ask: What river am I?

by Mikaela Brewer ​for The 44 North, Senior Editor


Artwork by Logan Brewer
Artwork by Logan Brewer

The willow tree’s branches stroked the living room window, causing the setting sun to twinkle across Raven’s prom dress. Carefully propped on a hanger, it was hooked to the top ledge of the swinging door separating the kitchen and living room. For a moment, Grandpa Wood—as Raven always called him—blended the music of the gentle window tapping with the door’s inability to be still or closed. He was fiddling with the dress’s delicate corset back, stringing the tie through with practiced hands.  


“Did all the sauce wash out?” Raven asked jokingly, as she skipped down the stairs in her slip and stockings, hair still in curlers.


“Most of it. But you’ll never forget to toss the spaghetti on the wall before adding the sauce, will you?”


Raven laughed, shaking her head. 


“I didn’t make the loopholes big enough to easily take the ribbon out and thread it back through. You’re lucky I’m good at this.” Grandpa Wood chuckled. “Okay. Arms up!” 


“Careful of the curlers!” Raven said, giggling. She stepped towards Grandpa Wood as he tenderly lifted the dress off the hanger and slid it over her head. 


“Turn around,” he said, motioning to lace up the corset. “How tight?” 


“Well, I want to be able to breathe, but make it pretty.”


Grandpa Wood winked, knowingly. “So when does Sari get here? Her flowers for the tux are in the fridge.” 


Raven blushed. “In twenty, I think.”


Grandpa Wood tied and arranged the bow, then turned Raven to face him. His smile said all she needed to hear. 


Raven’s dress was a shade darker than her near-black hair, but shimmered amber in the light like her eyes. The sleeves were black lace, the corset ribbon amber, and the hand-stitched bodice detailed tiny raven feathers and moths. Grandpa Wood, who hadn’t stitched a dress in over twenty years since he retired, had completely outdone himself. He’d even tucked a few bits of wild bergamot into the corset, the aroma of which filled the doorway between the living room and kitchen. 


“You better get those curlers out.” 


“Would you help me? Just like mom would have?”


Grandpa Wood smiled through the sadness that emerged first, but it showed in his crow’s feet. “Only if I can tell you a story.”


Raven nodded, taking a careful seat on her grandfather’s soft blue armchair. She needed something to distract her from feeling nervous. 


“Don’t worry. The dress fabric is pretty resilient. You’ve got to be able to dance, right?” He cleared his throat before beginning the story and started unfastening the tiny curlers nestled in Raven’s thick hair. 


“Since it’s your prom night, how about a story with Theo?” 


Stories about Theo were Raven’s favourite. Theo was Grandpa Wood’s high school and university sweetheart, and Raven liked to imagine that, if possible, they’d be together today. But Theo died from HIV/AIDS at just twenty-one. Somehow, though Raven had never met him, it felt as if he was still alive—just somewhere out of reach. Grandpa Wood’s stories were that vivacious; he loved Theo that much.  


“On our prom night…well, I’m sure you can imagine. Our folks didn’t know we weren’t going to the prom. We dressed up all right, suit and all, but said we were meeting some friends there instead of picking up a date. Theo and I had other plans.” He winked for effect. 


“An hour from here, near the reservation where I grew up in Southview, there was a lagoon with a weeping willow. It’s unusual for ours to be here, let alone more that far North, so someone must have planted it in the little park. Just like your mom planted ours. We’d hung lights the night before and packed the back of Theo’s rusty truck with snacks and beer—courtesy of your uncle Art. It was warm that night when we arrived around 8:30 p.m. Nearly dark but not quite. Warm enough to swim—without clothes, I might add.”   


“Grandpa!” Raven laughed, though not surprised. Her grandfather wasn’t shy. 


“Hold still! Or these will turn into burs!”


“Okay, okay. Continue.” Raven settled herself into the chair and held still.


“Well, I won’t tell you the rest, but we had a great time. Don’t you get any ideas! That swamp by the market isn’t a close second to our little spot back then. It’s contaminated with goodness knows what.” 


“I can imagine,” Raven said as Grandpa Wood took the last curler from her hair and fluffed the curls. “Did your friends want to come with you?”


“You know, I don’t know. I was afraid to ask, to be honest. Theo and I weren’t exactly an item for public viewing. To tell you the truth, I’d be afraid to ask those same people now, even though we’re grown.”


Raven looked sad and fiddled with her dress. 


As if reading her mind, Grandpa Wood replied, “I tell you this story, though, to remind you that our pain is so often centred as the only valuable thing we have to give. That much hasn’t changed between my generation and yours. Maybe it has visibility-wise. But for folks like us, our romantic joy is sacred, resistance, and just as important. In context, were Theo and I sad to be making-shifting our prom, alone? Sure. Theo’s ashes are there, you know? I scattered them across that little clearing by the water. Haven’t been back since. But we were immensely happy that night. It was the happiest evening of my life. And that’s worth something—a story worth telling, don’t you think?”


Raven nodded, an idea foaming like little waves on the shore of a lagoon. The doorbell rang just before the kettle for Grandpa Wood’s tea whistled. 


***


“Where are we going?” Grandpa Wood asked a few days later, a kitchen towel covering his eyes in the front seat of Sari’s parents’ Honda Civic. They’d fastened the towel at the back with a clothespin. 


“You’ll know soon,” Sari said, fingers strumming the steering wheel to the tune of RAYE’s song, “Joy,” blasting from the radio. The sun was nearly down, but it made Sari’s brown skin and purple blush pop. She glanced in the rearview mirror at Raven in the back seat and winked. 


Raven smiled, clapping her hands silently with excitement.


In a few minutes, they turned onto a soft dirt drive, stopped the car, and climbed out to help Grandpa Wood. When Raven opened the passenger door, he was shivering.


“What’s wrong?” Raven asked, concerned, as Sari came to her side. 


Grandpa Wood half-smiled. “There’s a hole in this rag, my dear.”


Raven’s heart felt like a boulder resting on her stomach. He knew where they were. 


“But it wouldn’t have made a difference if it were brand new. It seems my body remembers how cold the water was when we jumped in.” 


Sari and Raven helped Grandpa Wood out of the car and unpinned the dishcloth. He took both of their hands, one on each side, and smiled. 


“Thank you. This is very thoughtful.” But he seemed sad, and in a way, hurt, as if his loneliest memory had appeared before him and he hadn’t wanted to face it again. Sari and Raven exchanged glances, unsure of what they were about to do next. From where they stood by the car, the top of the weeping willow was just visible, its full body standing in a small valley.


Carefully avoiding rocks and tree roots, they walked past a playground toward the gentle slope that smoothed into grass. When they crossed the curve’s threshold and looked down the hill, the sound ceased to be protected by the bowl of earth where the lagoon was nestled. Grandpa Wood’s mouth opened nearly as wide as his eyes. 


Beneath them, at the bottom of the hill, were Raven and Sari’s high school friend group and at least twenty seniors from the area where they lived—some Grandpa Wood’s old friends, some soon-to-be new friends. 


“We asked around at homes and senior centres, and invited as many folks from the 2SLGBTQIA+ community as we could,” Sari said, grinning. A huge glittering banner waved from a nearby maple, reading “Happy Pride Prom!” Three picnic tables were covered in food. The high school tech team had set up small speakers, which played 50s hits. And, once again, fairy lights hung from the bows of the weeping willow. 


Raven finally spoke. “I remember you saying that sadness and grief aren’t the only things worth feeling. Joy is right there beside them, often in the same place.” 


Grandpa Wood wrapped his arm around Raven and kissed the top of her head. “You’re absolutely right.” He reached over and hugged Sari, too. 


“Can I show you something else?” Raven asked.


“There’s more?” Grandpa Wood replied, genuinely surprised.


Raven nodded, offering her hand. They walked down the slope, past the small party, to the other side of the weeping willow. 


“We were going to pick wildflowers to decorate. But I don’t think we need to. Is this the spot?”


Grandpa Wood stared, his eyes scanning a bloom of forget-me-nots about the size of two people, scattered across the little clearing. He nodded, eyes welling with tears.


Raven reached up, adjusted his periwinkle tie, and hugged him tight. 


“They move us forward, too,” Grandpa Wood whispered after a few shaky breaths. “Grief and joy together. We can only survive and live when moved by both. That’s how the past keeps living, too. What can’t be alive itself survives inside us.”


“Is that why grief and joy feel so heavy? Theo is alive inside you?” 


“Yes, love. And that’s why what you’ve done for me today feels so much like rest; he’s alive inside you now, too.”


Resources for 2SLGBTQIA+ Seniors & Elders


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