What Seeing Your Country On the World Stage Means to Immigrant Communities

Today, Egypt plays Argentina in the FIFA World Cup knockout round. It’s a historic moment for the country, which hasn’t progressed this far since 1934. And while, of course, it’s an exciting moment to see both Egypt and Morocco progress so far in the tournament, the hope it’s offering many means so much more.

As the daughter of Egyptian immigrants, being Egyptian was my entire world as a child. It was in the food my mother cooked and the language my parents insisted we speak. But outside of this space, our homeland often felt like something I had to explain. I learned early on how to hide parts of myself to avoid being singled out. But when Egypt was in the finals for the 2010 Africa Cup of Nations Finals against Ghana, there was no shrinking.

I was a junior in high school, sitting in an SAT prep class with the colors of the Egyptian flag painted on my cheeks. Outside the classroom door, two of my Egyptian friends pressed their faces against the narrow glass window, mouthing, “yalla beena.” We ran down the stairs, packed ourselves onto the subway like sardines, taking the 7 train to the R train to Steinway Street, or as our Egyptian parents called it, “Stainway.” On days like this, the street was transformed—Algerian, Moroccan, and Egyptian flags hung above hookah cafes filled with uncles blowing smoke while balancing tiny glasses of red tea, while Arabic commentators blasted from television screens. Moments like this filled me with a joy unlike anything I had experienced before. I was Egyptian. I was African. And although it was “just” a soccer match, it felt inseparable from who I was.

When Egypt won, something remarkable happened. For that one afternoon, my neighborhood, which was made up of many cultures, became one. There was a shared sense of community and joy that would show up again and again anytime either of our countries played.

The streets were flooded with people. Cars leaned on their horns. Children banged pots and pans. Aunties ululated from sidewalks and apartment windows. Arabic songs blasted from speakers. Steinway Street became Alexandria, Egypt, by way of Queens for a single night of celebration. But it also became something so much better than a celebration of a game won: For our immigrant communities who lived under so much pressure, it was a release. For a brief moment, people who spent much of their lives being treated as outsiders became the center. We occupied public space unapologetically.

As the 2026 World Cup unfolds, the world is both the same as that day in 2010 and so very different. Now, I bring my baby to watch Egypt (and Morocco) play. In those moments, I always pause to take in the beautiful scene around me: I see elders perched on the edge of their seats, waiting for a moment to explode with joy. I watch strangers become family for ninety minutes. I hear languages overlap. I see flags draped over shoulders and children learning where they come from through chants in their native tongues and celebrations.

Of course, it's a different time, too. A time when immigrants are portrayed as threats rather than neighbors, and a time when gentrification threatens the very existence of our working-class immigrant communities. We don’t know how long we can stay here because of either the threat of rising costs or the threat of ICE.

Yet, the World Cup offers something precious: a chance to feel a safe communal joy. For many of us, these gatherings become a home away from home. We can feel a little less nostalgic, and a little less homesick, a little less anxious about what's to come. Because we gather in neighborhoods built by people who arrived carrying memories, recipes, prayers, and dreams from somewhere else. We create spaces of safety in lands that do not carry the lineages of our ancestors. For a few weeks, the distance between those worlds shrinks.

That is what soccer means to me—and so many people around me. It is the feeling of watching people who have spent years navigating borders, paperwork, prejudice, and longing momentarily become free. And every time I hear the roar of a crowd after a goal, I am transported back to Steinway Street in 2010, amidst the flags, the tea, the shisha smoke, the ululations, and the certainty that, for one unforgettable afternoon, an immigrant neighborhood in Queens felt to me like it was the center of the world.