From the Margins to the Main Stage

Two headers. One half. The world turned upside down. Saint-Denis, July 1998: Zinedine Zidane rose twice to meet corners in the FIFA World Cup final and, in doing so, sent the footballing world spinning off its axis. Brazil—four-time champions and the tournament’s irresistible force—were beaten. Ronaldo, the tournament’s anointed genius, was scarcely visible. And the man who had upstaged him was the son of Algerian immigrants from a working-class district of Marseille.

I watched it from a packed café in North London, still raw from England’s gut-wrenching exit at the hands of Argentina days earlier. Around me, people cheered for France as a football story. But for many Muslims in that room—and for millions more watching from Casablanca to Cairo, from Karachi to Kuala Lumpur—this was something else entirely.

It was a coming-of-age moment for the Muslim Ummah—the global community of believers. Not because Zidane spoke of faith, or was marketed as an icon of Islam. He was neither. But symbolism in sport carries a power found almost nowhere else in public life, and the signal that evening was unmistakable: Muslims were no longer merely watching global culture unfold. We could shape it. Define it. Lead it.

Zinedine Zidane © IMAGO / Marca

Nearly three decades on, that night in Paris looks less like an exception and more like the opening chapter of a historic transformation.

The story of Muslims and the FIFA World Cup—through Muslim-majority nations and Muslim players representing non-Muslim countries alike—is one of the most significant and under-appreciated shifts in modern sport. From the margins of global football in 1934 to the centre of the game’s future within a single century, the Muslim world has reshaped football culturally, politically, economically, and emotionally.

In an era increasingly defined by arguments over immigration, identity, nationalism, and Islam itself, football has become one of the few global arenas where Muslims are encountered not through fear or geopolitics, but through brilliance, discipline, creativity, and shared joy.

From Outsiders to Contenders

When the first FIFA World Cup kicked off in Uruguay in 1930, no Muslim-majority nation was present. Much of the Muslim world remained under colonial rule or lacked the sporting infrastructure and international connectivity to compete on the global stage. The first breakthrough came four years later: in 1934, Egypt became the first Muslim-majority nation—and the first African nation—ever to compete at a World Cup. A milestone, though it would be decades before Muslim nations became genuine fixtures at the tournament.

For much of the mid-twentieth century, the World Cup remained a European and South American affair. Football’s governing institutions, wealth, and infrastructure were concentrated there, far outpacing most newly independent states across Africa, Asia, and the Middle East. Yet the game spread like wildfire through Muslim societies. On the crowded alley-ways of Cairo and Istanbul, the dusty pitches of Dakar and Casablanca, the schoolyards of Tehran and Jakarta, football became more than entertainment. It became aspiration, identity, and escape.

The post-colonial decades gradually produced stronger national teams. By the 1970s and 1980s, Algeria, Morocco, Tunisia, and Iran had grown increasingly competitive. Then came one of the most consequential matches in World Cup history.

At the 1982 tournament in Spain, Algeria stunned West Germany 2–1 in one of football’s greatest upsets, demolishing the stereotype that African and Arab football lacked tactical sophistication or elite technical quality. Algeria’s reward, however, was scandal. West Germany and Austria played out the infamous “Disgrace of Gijón”—a mutually convenient 1–0 result that eliminated Algeria despite their superior performances in the group. The outrage was so intense that FIFA permanently changed its scheduling rules, requiring all final group-stage matches to be played simultaneously. Algeria exited the tournament. But, in doing so, they changed the World Cup forever.

The following decades saw Muslim-majority nations establish an increasingly permanent footprint. Morocco reached the Round of 16 in 1986. Saudi Arabia announced themselves with a scintillating debut in 1994, Saeed Al-Owairan’s mazy solo goal against Belgium later voted the sixth-best in FIFA’s Goal of the Century poll. Türkiye finished third in 2002. Senegal reached the quarter-finals that same year. Algeria returned to the last 16 in 2014, pushing eventual champions Germany to extra time.

Lamine Yamal © IMAGO / NurPhoto

And then came Qatar 2022. Morocco became the first African and Arab nation ever to reach a World Cup semi-final, defeating Belgium, Spain, and Portugal in succession, and uniting supporters across three continents in the process. The scenes in Doha became iconic: players embracing their mothers on the pitch after victories, Palestinian flags waved alongside Moroccan ones, Arab crowds chanting deep into the desert night. For millions of Muslims watching worldwide, Morocco’s journey represented something far larger than football. It was recognition.

The Rise in Numbers—and in Rankings

The data reinforces what the eye could already see. Morocco’s rise offers the starkest illustration: ranked as low as 95th in the world in 2010, the team climbed into the global top fifteen following their Qatar run and went on to achieve their highest-ever ranking—sixth in the world—in 2026. Senegal became African champions and regularly features among the world’s top twenty. Iran has consistently dominated Asian qualification despite crippling international sanctions. Saudi Arabia, absent for two editions after 2006, have since returned as a consistent presence—and will host the tournament themselves in 2034.

These successes were not accidental. Countries that invested seriously in youth academies, coaching standards, diaspora recruitment, sports science, and professional leagues tended to rise rapidly. Morocco’s Mohammed VI Football Academy is now cited globally as one of the finest development models in the sport. The evidence speaks for itself: beyond the senior men’s team, Morocco won the FIFA U-20 World Cup in 2025, becoming the first Muslim-majority nation to claim that prize.

Egyptian team at FIFA World Cup 2026 © IMAGO

The pattern mirrors broader global realities: in modern football, success depends far less on population size than on institutional quality. Which raises a fascinating—and somewhat troubling—question.

The Mystery of the Missing Giants

Indonesia, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nigeria, and Egypt together represent one of the most glaring collective under-achievements in world sport: nations whose World Cup records bear no relationship to their passion, population, or continental pedigree. The reasons reveal uncomfortable truths about the gap between potential and performance.

Nigeria has produced extraordinary footballing talent across generations: from Jay-Jay Okocha’s showboating genius to Nwankwo Kanu’s sublime touch to Rashidi Yekini’s clinical finishing. The Super Eagles have qualified repeatedly but no nation better illustrates the gap between potential and performance than Nigeria. Three AFCON titles. Olympic gold in 1996—beating Brazil and Argentina to claim it. A record eight continental bronze medals. Yet six World Cup appearances have yielded not a single quarter-final. The reasons are familiar: federation instability, corruption, relentless coach-ing turnover, and chronic underfunding—institutional failures that have repeatedly squandered one of Africa’s greatest footballing inheritances.

Egypt presents perhaps the most striking paradox of all. The most successful nation in African football history—seven Africa Cup of Nations titles, more than any other country—had appeared at just three World Cups in over ninety years. Administrative dysfunction, political turbulence following the 2011 revolution, and chronic over-reliance on individual brilliance over squad depth have all taken their toll. Mohamed Salah’s heroics delivered a 2018 qualification—their first in 28 years—only for a bruising group-stage exit to underline how much ground remained to close. For the nation that broke the World Cup barrier first, in 1934, the gap between historical pioneering and performance had, until the 2026 tournament, been one of African football’s most painful ironies.

Mo Salah during his years at Liverpool © IMAGO

Indonesia, the world’s largest Muslim-majority nation, possesses enormous football passion but has never appeared at a modern World Cup as an independent state, its vibrant football culture persistently undermined by administrative dysfunction, inconsistent youth development, and systemic corruption. Pakistan historically channelled its sporting energy into cricket, and governance crises—including FIFA suspensions—have made serious qualification a remote prospect. Bangladesh faces deep structural challenges: chronic underinvestment, a weak domestic league, and limited infrastructure.

One quietly remarkable Pakistani contribution to the global game deserves mention, however. The northern city of Sialkot serves as the manufacturing heartland of world football, producing an estimated 70% of the world’s match balls—including the official ball for the 2026 FIFA World Cup. Pakistan may not be on the pitch. But its finger-prints are on every game.

The contrast with Morocco is instructive. Morocco invested in infrastructure, diaspora integration, and long-term planning. Others relied on raw talent alone. Modern football, as Algeria proved in 1982 and Morocco confirmed in 2022, punishes institutional weakness and rewards structural ambition.

The Diaspora Revolution

One of the defining features of modern Muslim football is the extraordinary role of migration and diaspora communities. Morocco’s 2022 squad illustrated this perfectly: many players were born or raised in France, Belgium, Spain, or the Netherlands, combining European technical education with deep cultural roots in North Africa. The same pattern applies across Algeria, Senegal, and Türkiye.

The diaspora advantage is multifaceted: access to elite European academies, advanced sports science, tactical sophistication, and high-intensity domestic competition. But it also raises emotionally charged questions about identity and belonging.

During the 2022 semi-final between France and Morocco, European media openly debated where French citizens of Moroccan heritage should place their loyalties. Were they French? Moroccan? Both? I confess this particular dilemma feels somewhat academic in my own household. With England, Pakistan, and the UAE as the relevant national allegiances, there is precious little prospect of that question ari-sing at any major tournament—save, perhaps, an ambitious friendly.

But the question itself lays bare anxieties running deep through contemporary European politics. Football increasingly reflects a reality many politicians struggle to acknowledge: identity is layered, and complexity is not the same as disloyalty. A supporter in Paris may feel culturally French, ethnically Moroccan, religiously Muslim, and emotionally attached to multiple teams simultaneously. Football did not create these hybrid identities. It simply makes them visible.

Mesut Özil with the German national team © IMAGO / Laci Perenyi

At times, that visibility generates genuine tension. When Mesut Özil announced his retirement from the German national team in 2018, following a storm of criticism rooted in his Turkish heritage, his parting words reverberated far beyond football: “I am German when we win, but I am an immigrant when we lose.” It was one of the defining political statements in modern sport—and it resonated across communities well beyond Germany.

Muslim Players and the Reimagining of European Football

Zidane was the forerunner. The generation that followed transformed not only European football’s talent pool but its cultural fabric, rewriting what a world-class footballer could look like, sound like, and stand for. Nowhere was this more starkly illustrated than in Russia in 2018, when France lifted the World Cup with seven Muslim players in their squad—among them Paul Pogba, the midfield engine whose surging runs and physical authority helped drive the campaign, and N’Golo Kanté, the defensive shield whose tireless interceptions held the entire structure together. France was not alone in this transformation. Across the Rhine, Mesut Özil, İlkay Gündoğan, and Antonio Rüdiger had spent a decade redefining what a German international could look like—and what German identity itself might mean in a diverse, post-migration society. Further south, in Spain, teenage sensation Lamine Yamal has since been hailed as one of the most gifted players of his generation. These players did not merely represent their countries. They redefined them.

These European Muslim players were matched by a generation of African Muslim stars who came to dominate the continent’s top leagues:  Mohamed Salah of Egypt, Riyad Mahrez of Algeria, Sadio Mané of Senegal, and Achraf Hakimi of Morocco. Each served not merely as a crowd-pleaser, but as a linchpin—for his club and his country alike.

Consider Dembélé and Hakimi, instrumental in Paris Saint-Germain finally claiming their first European Champions League trophy. Or Salah and Mané, the twin pillars of Liverpool’s resurgence—one of the most devastating attacking partnerships in Premier League history, hauling the club back from stagnation to the very pinnacle of European football.

France’s Ousmane Dembele © IMAGO

It would be remiss, however, not to linger on what many regard as the greatest sporting miracle of the modern era: my hometown club, Leicester City’s Premier League title in 2015–16. To appreciate the improbability: bookmakers offered shorter odds on the Loch Ness Monster being discovered (500-to-1) and Elvis Presley being found alive (2,000-to-1) than on Leicester winning the league (5,000-to-1). While Jamie Vardy broke goalscoring records, it was Riyad Mahrez who provided the creative spark and N’Golo Kanté who served as the team’s defensive conscience. Mahrez was named PFA Players’ Player of the Year; Kanté led the Premier League’s interception statistics by a staggering margin. Two Muslim players of North African heritage at the heart of English football’s most improbable championship.

Riad Mahrez playing for Leicester City in 2017 © IMAGO

Together, this generation normalised visible Muslim identity within elite sport. Breaking the Ramadan fast on the sidelines and returning to the pitch. Performing sujood—the Islamic prostration of gratitude—on hallowed turf after scoring. Invoking faith in post-match interviews. Displaying the kind of profound family bonds and immigrant narratives that football had rarely made space for before. What had once seemed unfamiliar became, within a decade, an unremarkable feature of football culture.

Sadio Mane © IMAGO

No example of football’s power to shift perceptions is more compelling than Salah’s impact at Anfield. A 2019 Stanford University study found Mohamed Salah’s popularity in Liverpool was linked to a 16-19% decrease in Islamophobic hate crimes in the Merseyside area and a halving of anti-Muslim tweets, while anti-Muslim sentiment among supporters measurably softened. Football did not eliminate prejudice. But it humanised communities that political discourse had too often reduced to abstractions—and created one of the few spaces in British life where millions of non-Muslims cheered openly for a Muslim hero every single weekend.

Qatar 2022: A World Cup Beyond Football

No tournament reflected these dynamics more dramatically than the 2022 World Cup in Qatar—and none generated more controversy before a ball had been kicked. When Qatar won hosting rights, Western reaction focused overwhelmingly on the negatives: labour rights abuses, climate concerns, corruption allegations, and the treatment of LGBTQ+ people dominated headlines for a decade. Many of these criticisms should perhaps have been expected, yet the tournament itself also challenged assumptions in ways few had anticipated.

Operationally, Qatar delivered one of the most efficient World Cups in recent memory. Compact geography meant minimal travel. Infrastructure functioned smoothly. Stadiums impressed even the most sceptical visitors. Crime rates remained exceptionally low.

More significantly, this was the first World Cup ever hosted in an Arab and Muslim-majority country. For millions across the Muslim world, that symbolism mattered enormously. Visitors encountered aspects of Islamic and Arab culture largely absent from mainstream Western narratives: extraordinary hospitality, intricate calligraphy, family-centred social life, the sight and sound of public religiosity, and Arabic aesthetics on a genuinely global stage. Qatar did not resolve political disagreements. But it complicated simplistic narratives about Muslim societies in ways that a thousand op-eds could not.

And Morocco’s extraordinary run amplified that cultural moment almost beyond measure. Their campaign produced not just results but images that will endure: a team rooted equally in diaspora and homeland, celebrating victories that felt, to many watching, like the arrival of an entire civilization on sport’s grandest stage.

The Future: Morocco 2030 and Saudi Arabia 2034

The 2026 FIFA World Cup in North America was the most expansive in the tournament’s history, with 48 nations competing for the first time. It also witnessed the largest representation of Muslim-majority countries ever assembled at a World Cup: 13 nations, plus Côte d’Ivoire, an African country with a substantial Muslim population. Jordan and Uzbekistan featured as debutants, while Qatar qualified on sporting merit for the first time.

Moroccan players celebrating their goal against Portugal in the Quarter Final in the FIFA World Cup in 2022 in Qatar. © IMAGO / NurPhoto

As a group, Muslim nations made real progress in 2026. Algeria returned to form, progressing beyond the group stage, while Bosnia and Herzegovina and Côte d’Ivoire exceeded expectations to reach the knockout rounds for the first time. Egypt produced the finest World Cup performance in its history, emerging as one of the tournament’s standout stories before narrowly losing to Argentina in controversial circumstances. Morocco, meanwhile, proved that 2022 was no anomaly. The Atlas Lions followed their historic run four years earlier with another deep campaign, reaching the quarter-finals before falling—again—to France. Back-to-back top-eight finishes mark an unprecedented level of consistency, and Morocco can now be reasonably counted among the world’s strongest footballing nations, capable of troubling any elite side.

This sets the stage for a decade that will deepen the Muslim world’s relationship with football still further. Morocco will co-host the 2030 World Cup alongside Spain and Portugal. Four years later, Saudi Arabia will host the 2034 edition outright. The symbolism is hard to overstate: for the better part of a century, the World Cup operated within an essentially Euro-Atlantic cultural framework. By 2034, Muslim-majority nations will have hosted three of four consecutive tournaments.

The Sportswashing Question

Critics argue that Gulf states are engaged in “sportswashing” —deploying football to launder reputations tarnished by human rights controversies. The charge deserves scrutiny. But history offers sobering context: the World Cup has always been entangled with political image-building, from Argentina’s military junta in 1978, to Vladimir Putin’s Russia in 2018, to Donald Trump’s commentary and interventions in 2026. Many observers have also pointed to the treatment of the Iranian team—subjected to extreme logistical restrictions by the US government—as arguably the most politicized mistreatment of any nation in tournament history.

What distinguishes the Gulf states is not the existence of soft-power ambition, which every host nation has harboured some version of, but its unprecedented scale, and the speed with which it is reshaping the financial architecture of the global game.

What is harder to dismiss is the deeper shift underway in football’s centre of gravity. The Muslim world is no longer merely consuming football. Increasingly, it is financing, hosting, shaping, and redefining it. The economic and demographic logic of the global game is moving east and south, and the next decade of World Cups will be where that shift becomes impossible to ignore.

More Division—or More Understanding?

This transformation arrives during a politically febrile era. Across Europe and North America, debates over immigration, nationalism, secularism, and Islam have intensified sharply. Right-wing populist movements increasingly frame Muslim communities as culturally incompatible with Western identity. Football does not exist outside those tensions; at times it reflects them with uncomfortable clarity. The furore surrounding Özil, arguments over match interruptions for players to break their Ramadan fast, the display of Palestinian flags, and players’ relationships with national anthems all demonstrate that the pitch can become a proxy battleground for wider social anxieties.

But football also creates possibilities that conventional politics rarely can. The World Cup remains one of humanity’s few genuinely shared global experiences, compressing billions of people into a common emotional rhythm of hope, heartbreak, pride, and celebration. Within that shared experience, Muslim players and Muslim-majority nations increasingly occupy central rather than peripheral roles.

For younger generations especially, exposure matters more than argument. A child in Liverpool cheering Salah, a teenage fan in Tokyo marvelling at Lamine Yamal, or an Argentine supporter sharing an embrace with Moroccan fans in Doha may seem trivial against the scale of geopolitics. But cultural perceptions shift not primarily through ideology. They shift through familiarity—through faces, through names chanted in packed stadiums, through moments of shared exhilaration that no political speech can manufacture.

Football cannot solve racism, xenophobia, or geopolitical conflict. But it can create moments of genuine recognition—and in a world chronically short of them, that is not a small thing.

The Long Game

That is why the memory of Zidane’s performance in Paris in 1998 still matters, all these years later. Sitting in that North London café, I could not have imagined that within my own lifetime a small Muslim nation would host the World Cup, another would reach the semi-finals, and future tournaments would head to Morocco and Saudi Arabia. Nor could I have foreseen how profoundly Muslim players, investors, and institutions would shape global football—both on the pitch and far beyond it.

Football cannot solve racism, xenophobia, or geopolitical conflict. But it can create moments of genuine recognition—and in a world chronically short of them, that is not a small thing.

But perhaps that is the real lesson of the beautiful game. Long before politicians acknowledge social change, sport reveals it. The scoreboard does not care about ideology. The stadium does not check passports. And the ball, as Sialkot has quietly known for decades, belongs to everyone.

By the time the World Cup reaches its 25th edition in 2034, the Muslim world will no longer be a guest in football’s grand narrative. It will be one of its defining protagonists—and who knows, perhaps even one of its champions. Insha’ Allah.