Saman, a professional runner and coach born in the late 1970s, recently invited a few friends over to his home in Tehran to watch the 2026 World Cup . They welcomed the idea, but two of them added a jarring caveat: they would come, but they preferred not to watch Iran's matches together.
"They said it would just cause arguments," Saman says. "It was shocking. They believe that supporting the current national team is equivalent to supporting the government. I don't agree with that view, and that's exactly why they felt it was better to avoid watching those specific games together."
For Saman, this painful alienation extends far beyond the pitch. "It feels like a thousand years have passed. People are no longer standing side-by-side. Society has splintered, and every group feels thousands of miles apart from the next."
Throughout his life, the World Cup was a sacred timeline: the euphoria of the 1998 qualification, the bitter 2002 defeat in Manama, cheering inside Azadi Stadium in 2006, dancing in the streets in 2014. By 2018, his house was the designated hub for friends to watch the games.
"As kids, we played freely in the dusty alleys. All we needed were four stones for goalposts and a ball. We loved gathering around a neighbour's colour TV. The fact that today no one has any enthusiasm for football is painful, but understandable."
The divide between Saman and his friends today stands in stark contrast to the passion and togetherness football once inspired. A team that lost its people "It was around 3 p.m. when the final whistle blew. For the players of Iran's national team, it marked the end of the match. But for us, it felt like the dawn of a new world." Even now, excitement surges in Faramarz's voice when he recalls the autumn of 1997, the day of the Iran-Australia match, a gripping draw that secured Team Melli's qualification for the 1998 World Cup in France .
Then, a 22-year-old living in a Tehran university dormitory, he remembers the day vividly. "There were six of us. We skipped our afternoon classes and gathered at a friend's house on Karim Khan Zand Street to watch the game," he shares with The New Arab. "Hopes for a victory were slim, but it was as if we were all waiting for a miracle. Our landlord usually complained about the noise, but that day, not only did he leave us alone, his own cheers were echoing through the building."
At the final whistle, the city spilt into the streets. Men and women, young and old, children, everyone was out, screaming and dancing.
Nearly three decades later, the 2026 World Cup is underway. But the streets of Tehran are silent. The passion has evaporated.
Raha, a 28-year-old sociological researcher, believes that a confluence of factors, most notably the conduct of the national team's players and coaching staff, has driven disillusionment among many. "To say I feel nothing for the national team and don't care at all wouldn't be entirely honest," she says. "I still remember the day Iran lost to Argentina, yet the streets were packed with people. I was 16. I went to a nearby square with my high school friends. We danced and celebrated until midnight. I love the national team, I don't love this national team."
She traces the alienation to the players' conduct during the 2022 'Woman, Life, Freedom' protests , which erupted following the death of Mahsa Amini , a young Kurdish-Iranian woman who died in police custody over alleged violations of the country's hijab laws.
"People were fighting in the streets, and right before the World Cup, the players were laughing, joking, and taking photos looking utterly joyous," Raha says. "I will never forget those pictures."
She might still watch the matches. But a loss won't upset her, and a victory won't bring her joy.
Faramarz says he has no specific plans to tune in either, though a part of him still wants Iran to win.
"It truly breaks my heart," he says. "Once upon a time, this team had figures like Nasser Hejazi , true legends who stood alongside the people. Now, we have players who wear the captain's armband while flattering the government or engaging in repulsive behaviour, like what the national team captain did recently during a club match for Tractor ."
Hejazi was Iran's legendary goalkeeper for the national team and Esteghlal FC during the 1970s, who played in the country's first World Cup in 1978 . He is revered across all club divides for his fierce independence and refusal to bow to the political establishment, and remains a symbol of what a national team player could be. He died in 2011.
The player Faramarz is referring to is national team captain Shojae Khalilzadeh . In April 2025, during a heated match between Tractor SC and Chadormalu SC, home fans began chanting against Tractor players.
Khalilzadeh responded by making an obscene gesture toward the stands. Club officials initially defended him, claiming footage showed him gesturing to his own bench about a groin injury, but subsequent video widely circulated on social media disproved that account. He reportedly repeated similar behaviour during a later match against Malavan FC, drawing severe criticism from fans and sports media.
Team Melli was once a rare unifying force in a deeply divided society. It has become a source of division in its own right. Barred from the stands The internal crisis of faith is only half the story.
The 2026 World Cup is hosted by a country whose recent military strikes against Iran still cast a shadow over Iranian cities.
For the first time in World Cup history, a host nation is welcoming a team from a country with which it is engaged in an active military standoff.
The United States placed significant logistical hurdles on the Iranian squad, signalling an unwillingness to allow the team to reside on US soil.
FIFA President Gianni Infantino coordinated with Mexican President Claudia Sheinbaum to designate Mexico as Iran's base camp, forcing players to commute massive distances for every match.
Despite a nominal US agreement to issue visas, not all members of the Iranian delegation were cleared. A portion of the technical staff and accompanying personnel were denied entry , a move the Iranian Football Federation condemned as "political."
Iran also sits at the top of the list of nations subjected to a comprehensive US travel ban . Under an executive order issued by Donald Trump, which entered a new phase in January 2026, Iran is among 19 nations facing a full suspension of entry.
The result is that even Iranians who want to support their team have been entirely shut out.
Alireza, a 29-year-old digital marketer living in Canada, had set aside money for tickets long before the tournament. He decided not to go.
"Everyone I consulted told me that given the US government's treatment of Iranians, my chances of actually getting a visa and having a hassle-free trip were extremely low," he told The New Arab. "In the end, the fear of buying a ticket and then being barred from going stopped me from taking the risk. If the conditions were more open, I would have gone without hesitation. Some of my colleagues are easily travelling to the US for the World Cup, and seeing that I cannot is truly painful." An empty tournament The stands at Iran's matches carry none of the colour that travelling fan bases bring to a World Cup. No mass of Iranian supporters, no flags carried across continents, no collective release for a diaspora that follows Team Melli closely from abroad.
The team plays its group stage fixtures commuting from Mexico, without the domestic support that once filled streets at home, without the diaspora in the stands, under the shadow of a war with the country hosting the tournament.
That shadow deepened on Monday morning. As Iran's players prepared for their next fixture, Israel struck the Karun petrochemical complex in Mahshahr , the first hit on Iranian energy infrastructure since the April ceasefire . Iran fired back at Israeli air bases.
In Tehran, petrol stations filled up before dawn. Some residents loaded their cars and left the city. The war that had briefly paused was back, while the national team played on in America.
For Faramarz, who once danced on Karim Khan Zand Street waiting for a miracle, the distance between 1997 and 2026 is not just measured in years.
"It truly breaks my heart," he says. He is not sure he will even watch. On Monday morning, with missiles in the air and his city bracing again, the question of whether to follow a football match felt beside the point. Ariya Farahmand is an Iranian journalist This article was published in collaboration with Egab *The writer has used a pseudonym for security reasons. *All sources in this story are identified by first name only to protect their safety.