World Cup: If Xenophobic Mobs Hunted Americans or Israelis, Would the Orange Nation Still Be Celebrated?

 

Brufut, June 9, 2026

(By Abioye Tosin Lawrence)

There are tragedies in this world that arrive with sirens, sanctions, and emergency summits. There are others that arrive with silence.

The latter is what troubles my conscience.

Across Africa, families have buried sons and daughters who crossed borders not in search of conquest, but in search of survival. They travelled with dreams folded inside worn-out passports, believing that an African brother's land would offer them shelter, opportunity, and dignity. Instead, some met hostility. Some met violence. Some never returned home.

Yet, the world appears to move on.

A press statement is released. A condemnation is issued. Leaders promise action. The headlines fade. The dead remain dead.

And so I struggle with a question that refuses to leave my mind: at what point does recurring xenophobic violence become more than a regrettable incident? At what point does it become a matter demanding the full weight of international justice?

Perhaps lawyers and diplomats will argue about thresholds, jurisdictions, and legal definitions. But grief does not understand legal vocabulary. A mother who buries her child does not measure pain in statutes. A widow does not count her loss according to international conventions.

She only knows that someone she loved is gone.

What makes this even more painful is the uncomfortable reflection it forces upon us as Africans.

For decades, Black people have spoken passionately against racism. We have told the world about the cruelty of judging people by where they come from, by how they look, or by the language they speak. We have demanded recognition of our humanity.

But what should we call it when Black migrants become targets on African soil?

What name do we give to the hatred that turns a fellow African into an outsider?

How did we arrive at a point where the border between two African nations became stronger than our shared history, our shared struggles, and our shared humanity?

These questions become even more difficult when one considers South Africa's own story.

The nation endured the wounds of apartheid. It benefited from solidarity that stretched across the African continent and beyond. Many countries stood with South Africans during some of their darkest hours. That history should have made South Africa a symbol of hospitality and continental brotherhood.

Instead, the recurring images of migrants fleeing violence have cast a shadow over that legacy.

This is not to suggest that every South African shares responsibility. Millions reject xenophobia and have courageously spoken against it. But a sovereign nation carries a duty: to ensure that those who live, work, and seek refuge within its borders are safe.

That responsibility does not disappear because the attackers are mobs rather than officials.

And this leads to the question many are reluctant to ask.

If the victims of repeated xenophobic attacks were citizens of the United States or Israel, would the international response look the same?

Would sporting organizations remain as comfortable?

Would diplomatic pressure be stronger?

Would sanctions be discussed?

Would global headlines refuse to let the story die?

Or would the world still insist that handshakes, ceremonies, and celebrations continue uninterrupted?

These are uncomfortable questions precisely because they force us to examine whether all human suffering receives equal attention.

Football, we are told, is a force for unity.

The World Cup gathers people from every continent, every race, every language, and every belief. For a few weeks, humanity shares one field, one ball, and one dream.

It is a beautiful idea.

But unity must be more than a slogan painted on banners.

What is the purpose of celebrating unity inside a stadium if fear waits outside its gates?

What is the meaning of brotherhood if a foreigner cannot walk freely because of where he was born?

What value is there in exchanging handshakes before kickoff while some families still exchange tears over loved ones lost to hatred?

Perhaps FIFA cannot solve xenophobia.

Perhaps football cannot heal every wound.

But the global game possesses a moral voice powerful enough to remind the world that every life carries equal worth.

The death of a migrant should matter as much as the death of a citizen. The tears of an African mother should carry the same weight as the tears of any mother anywhere on earth.

Until that principle is universally embraced, the beautiful game will continue to face an uncomfortable question:

Can we truly celebrate unity while ignoring those who died seeking it?

Abioye Tosin Lawrence writes from lived experience as an immigrant, documenting these silences and struggles in his memoir, Voices From the Fire: My Journey Through a Hollow Empire.