There are two famous clichés in soccer. The first is that it’s played for 90 minutes, and in the end, Germany always wins. The second is that wars do not happen during the World Cup.
History tells a very different story.
The claim recalls the global optimism of journalist Thomas L. Friedman, who argued in the late 1990s that in a world where countries had McDonald’s restaurants, war between them would become increasingly unlikely. His “Golden Arches Theory” became a symbol of its age: shared economies, expanding middle classes, global consumer culture, hamburgers and, supposedly, world peace.
But like many elegant theories, it shattered on contact with reality.
The most obvious example is Russia and Ukraine—two countries that once had hundreds of McDonald’s restaurants and became the battlefield of a full-scale war in 2022, after conflict had already begun in 2014. The theory had cracked even earlier, during NATO’s war against Yugoslavia in 1999 and the Russia-Georgia war in 2008. Economics and globalization did not stop war. They merely gave it a common backdrop.
The World Cup is no different.
On June 22, 1986, at the Azteca Stadium in Mexico City, 114,800 spectators witnessed a match that became far more than soccer. Argentina faced England, just four years after the Falklands War, in which 649 Argentines and 255 Britons were killed.
In the 51st minute, Diego Maradona used his hand to score what became known as the “Hand of God.” Four minutes later, he ran nearly 60 meters, dribbled past five English players and scored the “Goal of the Century.” Argentina won 2-1.
After the match, Maradona said it was “a little revenge” for what had been done to Argentina in the war. No further explanation was needed. Everyone understood the message.
The 1998 World Cup produced a moment that now seems almost imaginary. In Lyon, the United States faced Iran, 18 years after the hostage crisis and after years of hostility, chants of “Death to America” and references to the “Great Satan.” The Iranian players walked toward their American opponents and handed them white flowers. The two teams posed for a joint photograph. Then-President Bill Clinton spoke of a small step toward reconciliation.
Iran won 2-1. After the match, American defender Jeff Agoos said, “We did more in 90 minutes than the politicians did in 20 years.”
It was moving. It was also brief.
Soccer is a mirror of what happens internationally: divided, charged, tribal and cruel.
In 2022, in Qatar, the two teams met again, this time against the backdrop of the Mahsa Amini protests and the regime’s violent crackdown in Iran. The Iranian players stood silent during their national anthem. The white flowers were forgotten. The United States won 1-0.
For Israelis, the link between soccer and war is not distant history. It is a recurring reality.
The 1982 World Cup opened seven days after Israel’s invasion of Lebanon. Many Israelis know the absurd scene from the 1991 film “Cup Final,” in which an Israeli reserve soldier and his Palestinian captors find themselves in the middle of the First Lebanon War, united only by their passion for the 1982 World Cup final.
It is hard to imagine a more powerful image of the irrationality of Israeli reality. Outside, a war is being fought over borders and survival. Inside, in front of a flickering screen, sworn enemies share moments of grace, excitement and disappointment over a soccer match. Soccer briefly becomes the last bubble of humanity in a place where humanity itself is being erased. The real game is played on the field. War, always, has no rules of play.
In 2014, soccer and war met again. The unforgettable finals between Germany and Brazil took place on the same day that “Operation Protective Edge” began, as sirens sounded in Israel and rockets were fired from Gaza.
Games do not end wars
Looking toward 2026, the Israeli question is even sharper. Pressure to suspend Israel from international frameworks, including soccer, is no longer marginal. For Israel, participation in international tournaments is not merely a sporting matter. It is a question of international standing, diplomatic pressure, legitimacy and the ability to keep playing as a normal country in an abnormal world.
Sometimes, the effect of the game works in reverse. It is not war entering soccer, but soccer igniting war.
In 1969, Honduras and El Salvador met in qualifiers for the 1970 World Cup. The two countries were already strained by deep tensions over immigration, land, poverty and nationalism. The matches lit the fuse. Violence in the stands moved to the streets, and from the streets to the border. On July 14, 1969, El Salvador invaded Honduras.
The war lasted roughly 100 hours and ended with approximately 6,000 dead. History remembers it as the “Football War.” It is difficult to imagine a more fitting name.
FIFA likes to market itself as a unifying force, one that stands above politics. History teaches the opposite. Soccer can produce rare moments of humanity: a white flower, a shared photograph, a smile between rivals, 90 minutes in which two peoples look at one another not through the sights of rifles, but through a game.
But in most cases, it’s not an escape from the world. It is a mirror of the world: divided, charged, tribal and cruel. Sometimes, it even becomes the match that lights the fire.
In 2026, 22 players will walk onto the field. The real question will not be only who lifts the trophy. It will be which wars enter the white lines with them.
Because in our world, even when the ball is rolling, war never really stops.
