OP-ED: Vozinha in Tears: Trump’s America Shuts the Door on a Cape Verdean Mother

Maxime Marquette

2026-06-27 16:00:27

Forty Years to Reach the Top

To understand why this match was so emotionally charged, you have to understand who Vozinha is. Josimar José Évora Dias began his professional career at age 25, in 2012—an age when most top-level goalkeepers already have several seasons in the top flight under their belts. He started at Batuque FC before joining CS Mindelense, and currently plays in Portugal’s second division with GD Chaves. His nickname, Vozinha, means “grandmother” in Portuguese and Cape Verdean Creole—a term of endearment he’s had since his youth, when the elders in his neighborhood gave him this affectionate moniker.

He nearly quit several times. He said as much himself with disarming candor after the match: “There were times when I thought about giving it all up, but I persevered for this dream.” That dream is of playing in a World Cup. He achieved it at age 40—the second-oldest goalkeeper to make his World Cup debut, behind Egypt’s Essam El-Hadary, who was 45 during the 2018 World Cup. Against Spain, Vozinha didn’t just guard the goal. He embodied everything we call resilience.

An archipelago making its mark on world soccer history

Cape Verde is the third-smallest country to have qualified for a World Cup. Its ten islands, located in the Atlantic off the coast of Africa, are home to approximately 600,000 people. The national team, the Blue Sharks, regularly faces opponents far better equipped in terms of resources, sports infrastructure, and international visibility. Holding Spain—winner of Euro 2024 and a major contender for the World Cup title—to a 0-0 draw, with just one shot on goal by Cape Verde in 90 minutes, is objectively a resounding feat.

According to data provided by FIFA’s technical study group, Spain attempted 28 shots on Cape Verde’s goal. Vozinha stopped seven of them. The team’s defensive discipline was remarkable—only one foul called throughout the entire match, a historic record since 1966 according to BBC statistics. In a different political context, this result would have been nothing more than a great sports story. But on the evening of June 15, 2026, it became something both greater and more painful.

There is much talk of the magic of soccer, of its ability to unite people. Vozinha embodies this better than anyone else in this World Cup. But that magic has a bitter taste when one of the main protagonists of this beautiful story is crying for a reason that has nothing to do with sports—and everything to do with an immigration policy that treats the world’s poor as suspects by default.

The $15,000 security deposit: a bureaucratic weapon against low-income families

A measure presented as preventive, but perceived as punitive

In January 2026, the Trump administration added Cape Verde to the list of countries whose nationals wishing to enter the United States must first post a refundable bond of up to $15,000. This measure, officially designed to discourage overstays, also applied—before being partially lifted—to Algeria, Côte d’Ivoire, Senegal, and Tunisia, five of the countries that qualified for the 2026 World Cup. Under intense pressure from FIFA, the administration finally granted exemptions for holders of official tournament tickets, effective May 13, 2026.

But for Ana Cândida Évora, this partial lifting of the ban came too late. She had not begun the process in time, discouraged from the start by the amount required. In fact, Vozinha’s mother did not even have a valid passport at the time the story broke in the international media, according to reports by CNN and picked up by several other outlets. Bureaucracy does not educate. It imposes, it excludes, and it moves on.

Dozens of Countries Subject to Restrictions

The Cape Verdean case is not an isolated one. According to a BBC analysis of data from the U.S. State Department, the visa rejection rate exceeds 40% for nationals of eleven of the 48 countries qualifying for the World Cup. For Type B tourist visas (the most commonly recommended for attending the tournament), this rate averages 34%. In Jordan, 57% of U.S. visa applications were denied in the year leading up to September 2025, according to Abu Kass, head of the Jordanian supporters’ association.

In total, 39 countries are subject to total or partial travel bans imposed by the Trump administration. For Iran and Haiti—two qualifying teams—the restrictions are even more severe: their citizens simply cannot be issued a standard U.S. visa. Entire families of players have been forced to watch the matches from their home countries, thousands of kilometers away, on a phone screen.

Let’s be honest: the United States has the right to control its borders, and some restrictions have a legitimate security justification. But when the denial rate reaches 40% for entire countries—including nations that have nothing to do with terrorism or organized crime—we’re no longer talking about national security. We’re talking about systemic discrimination disguised as an administrative procedure.

The viral outpouring of emotion and the political mobilization that followed

From 50,000 followers to 5 million overnight

The video of Vozinha in tears after the game, surrounded by his teammates on the field in Atlanta, went viral around the world in just a few hours. His Instagram account grew from 50,000 followers to over 5 million, according to reports by GQ and Al Jazeera. Paul Pogba, a French icon in world soccer, reacted on social media, writing: “The Cape Verde goalkeeper—what a guy, waaa.” Millions of people were moved by his tears, his humility, and his simple words in front of the microphones.

His statement to the press became one of the most widely shared quotes of the tournament. “I cried because I grew up with my grandparents, and they’re no longer here. They passed away a few years ago. My mother couldn’t be there either because of the visa. The money we needed to pay for the visa—we couldn’t get it together in time. I really wanted her to be there.” It’s a statement without rhetoric, without pretense. A statement from a son, a grandson, a man who waited forty years to experience this moment and who experienced it alone.

Hakeem Jeffries Calls Out Marco Rubio

The emotional shockwave quickly reached the U.S. Congress. Democratic Representative Hakeem Jeffries, the House Minority Leader, personally contacted Secretary of State Marco Rubio to request that Ana Cândida Évora’s status be regularized as a matter of urgency. “No mother should miss the chance to see her child make history,” Jeffries said in a statement released on Wednesday, June 17, 2026, as reported by Reuters.

A few hours later, the news broke: all fees had been waived, in accordance with the State Department’s official policy regarding family members of qualified players. Ana Cândida Évora would be able to attend her son’s next match, on Sunday, June 22, against Uruguay in Miami. Vozinha and his mother would be reunited. But this happy ending should not obscure the essential point: it took high-level political intervention for a mother to secure the right to watch her son play.

I want to be fair here: Jeffries did the right thing. Rubio responded. The system, this time, corrected its injustice. But how many mothers without a famous soccer-playing son, how many families without a world champion to champion their cause, remain on the other side of this barrier with no one to hear them? That is what troubles me deeply.

Trump, the World Cup, and the contradiction of an America that closes itself off to welcome others

The Paradox of the Great Global Celebration Organized by the World’s Largest Democracy

Donald Trump presented the 2026 World Cup as a symbol of American greatness. A historic event—the largest soccer tournament in history—co-hosted by the United States, Canada, and Mexico, with 11 U.S. host cities. The president promised a one-of-a-kind celebration, a spectacle the world would remember. And yet, the figures released by the American Hotel and Lodging Association (AHLA) are stark: nearly 80% of hotels in the host cities reported bookings below their initial projections, according to data cited by Axios. One of the main reasons cited: visa restrictions and uncertainties related to immigration policy.

There is something deeply paradoxical about hosting the world’s largest sporting event on one’s own soil, touting its universal appeal, and simultaneously excluding dozens of entire nations—not for security reasons documented on a case-by-case basis, but through systemic measures that indiscriminately affect families, tourists, and professionals alike. The White House, in a statement sent to Axios, affirmed that “President Trump is determined to make this World Cup the safest and greatest experience in history.” It’s a fine promise. The reality, for thousands of people, is quite different.

The other victims: a Somali referee, an Iraqi soccer player, and Moroccan fans

Vozinha’s case is not the only one to have shocked the world. Omar Artan, a 34-year-old Somali referee and member of FIFA’s official refereeing team for this World Cup, was turned away at the Miami airport despite holding a valid U.S. visa and all the required FIFA documents. The Department of Homeland Security declared him “inadmissible due to vetting concerns,” allegations that Artan formally denied in an interview with The New York Times. He was unable to referee the tournament.

Iraqi striker Aymen Hussein was detained and questioned for several hours at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, according to Reuters, citing an Iraqi sports official. Moroccan fans holding official, paid-for tickets were denied visas without explanation, according to Al Jazeera. Accredited sports journalists faced obstacles upon entry, to the point that the International Sports Press Association sent a formal letter to U.S. authorities. With 39 countries subject to total or partial travel bans, the 2026 World Cup sometimes seems less like a global celebration and more like a private club with an exclusion list.

I’m not lumping all these cases together. A Somali referee and a Cape Verdean mother are not in the same situation. But what unites them is this: they were all treated as presumed guilty rather than as guests. And in a country that prides itself on being a beacon of freedom, that’s a contradiction I cannot ignore.

The Human Cost of Immigration Policies: Beyond the Vozinha Case

Players’ Families Caught in the Middle

Yet the rule exists—and it is clear, at least on paper. According to the U.S. State Department’s website, athletes, team members, and their immediate family members participating in the World Cup are eligible for visa bond exemptions. But this rule, announced belatedly after months of confusion, could not be applied in time for everyone. In the case of Ana Cândida Évora, the State Department even initially stated that it had no record of a visa application from her—which illustrates just how opaque and inaccessible the process is for families in the affected countries.

According to reports by CNN and several international media outlets, Vozinha’s mother did not have a valid passport at the time of the incident—a common reality for millions of people in low-income countries, where obtaining a passport already involves considerable delays and costs. Even before reaching the $15,000 bond requirement, routine administrative hurdles can discourage and exclude people acting in good faith who want nothing more than to see their child play soccer.

The Economic Impact of Restrictions on the U.S. World Cup

Immigration restrictions don’t just hurt individuals. They also have a measurable economic impact on the tournament itself. The American Hotel and Lodging Association reported that hotels in host cities were seeing occupancy rates well below projections, partly due to visa uncertainties. Tens of thousands of potential fans from countries affected by the restrictions have simply given up on making the trip—not because they didn’t want to come, but because they weren’t sure they’d be allowed in, or because the cost of trying (visa, plane ticket, lodging, security deposit) was too risky.

FIFA itself, through its president Gianni Infantino, acknowledged the complexity of the situation: “It’s not easy to process and verify 300,000 accredited individuals, the majority of whom come from outside the United States.” ” But Infantino also clarified that FIFA does not get involved in the host governments’ immigration processes—a cautious stance that leaves individuals facing the administrative machine without any institutional safety net.

Gianni Infantino is right about one thing: FIFA is not a state. But when it chooses to award the World Cup to a country that enforces such draconian immigration policies, it bears a share of moral responsibility. Choosing a host country also means choosing its values. This merits careful consideration—something the organization seems to be carefully avoiding.

The U.S. Response: Between Defending Sovereignty and Diplomatic Embarrassment

Washington Defends Itself, but Struggles to Be Convincing

The U.S. administration’s official response to the criticism has been, for the most part, predictable. A State Department spokesperson stated that the United States was “ready to welcome visitors from around the world for the biggest and best FIFA World Cup in history,” noting that “the majority of foreign fans do not need a visa” because they come from countries eligible for a visa waiver. The White House dismissed the criticism as “absurd intimidation tactics by left-wing activist groups.” The Secretary of Homeland Security, in a May 2026 interview on CBS, insisted that ICE’s mission was not to “round up people en masse,” but to target the worst offenders.

These statements are not false in principle. The vast majority of nations represented at the World Cup can indeed travel to the United States without a visa. Border security measures have a real justification. But they do not answer the fundamental question raised by the Vozinha case: Why must a mother whose son is representing his country in the world’s largest sporting competition prove that she is not a threat to the United States? The reversal of the burden of proof—systematically applied to nationals of so-called “high-risk” countries—reflects a worldview in which geographic origin alone is enough to make someone a suspect.

FIFA’s Silence and the Limits of Global Olympism

On the eve of the tournament, Gianni Infantino was careful to clarify that FIFA’s role was to be a sports organization, not to intervene in U.S. admission procedures. This institutional caution is understandable—FIFA cannot risk losing the host government’s cooperation for millions of visitors. But it leaves a gaping void. No major international organization has firmly and publicly taken up the cause of the families excluded by U.S. immigration restrictions.

The Somali Football Federation protested. Human rights organizations issued statements. Individual players spoke out in a personal capacity. But there was no strong collective stance from the institutional players in world soccer. The Vozinha story existed because an image touched millions of hearts. Without that viral image, without that moment of grace on the field in Atlanta, Ana Cândida Évora would have stayed at home, and no one would ever have heard of her.

That’s where it hurts the most for me. We live in a world where injustice must go viral to be corrected. Where millions of people have to share a video before a bureaucrat deigns to pick up the phone. That’s not policy. It’s management by emotion. And it only protects those lucky enough to be filmed at the right moment.

Trump as a Necessary Evil: The Difficult Balance Between Firmness and Humanity

A President with His Own Logic—and His Blind Spots

It would be intellectually dishonest to simply condemn Trump without acknowledging the logic behind his immigration policy. The United States faces real problems with illegal immigration, border control, and national security. Some of the measures taken since January 2025 address legitimate demands from a segment of the American electorate and well-documented security concerns. The issue of visa overstays is real—millions of people remain in the United States beyond their authorized stay each year, and the enforcement mechanisms were clearly insufficient.

Trump is a necessary evil in the sense that he has forced a debate that his predecessors had sidestepped with comfortable hypocrisy. Previous administrations carried out mass deportations while presenting themselves as welcoming. Trump, on the other hand, says what he does. One can detest his rhetoric, his excesses, his crude generalizations—and there are many—without denying that a structured immigration control policy is a necessity for any sovereign state. The West needs managed borders. That is a reality.

But the blind spots of indiscriminate toughness

The problem isn’t the border. The problem is the lack of discernment in its enforcement. Treating a 60-year-old mother coming to watch her son play soccer as an immigration risk equivalent to an undocumented passenger on a watchlist is like applying a policy with a jackhammer where a scalpel is needed. The result is not enhanced security. It is mass humiliation inflicted on millions of ordinary people who asked for nothing more than to cross an ocean for a moment of joy.

The $15,000 bond is not a security measure. It is a tool of exclusion based on money. It does not screen out terrorists, who have other means. It filters out the poor. It says, in essence: if you don’t have $15,000 to put up, your emotions, your family ties, and your dreams don’t deserve to set foot on American soil. This is where Trump’s policy loses its legitimacy—not in its principle of control, but in its brutal execution and its blindness to human realities.

I defend the West. I defend its values and its institutions, even if they are imperfect. But the West is great precisely because, at its best, it has known how to distinguish between the enemy and the foreigner. Tonight in Atlanta, Vozinha carried her country’s flag with absolute dignity. Her mother did not deserve to be treated as a threat.

The Conclusion: A Mother on Her Way to Miami

Jeffries’ Statement and the Mechanics of Political Grace

On Wednesday, June 17, 2026, Hakeem Jeffries, the Democratic minority leader in the House of Representatives, issued a statement announcing that he had personally contacted Secretary of State Marco Rubio to secure the removal of obstacles to Ana Cândida Évora’s visa. Jeffries stated: “No mother should miss the chance to see her child make history.” ” He added that he was proud to announce that Vozinha’s mother would be able to obtain her visa in time to attend her son’s upcoming match against Uruguay on Sunday, June 22, in Miami. “All fees have been waived, in accordance with official policy,” he clarified.

The State Department confirmed the news. The fees had been waived, the process expedited, and travel arrangements made by the Cape Verdean Football Federation. A Chinese businessman who has lived in Cape Verde for more than twenty years also helped facilitate the trip by providing luggage and travel gear, according to reports in the Global Times. Ana Cândida Évora traveled the 6,400 kilometers from Praia to Miami. Mother and son were reunited. Vozinha had waited for her his whole life.

What This Happy Ending Does Not Fix

The story has a happy ending. But it should make us uncomfortable. Ana Cândida Évora obtained her visa because her son became a global celebrity, because a video went viral, because a congressman deemed it politically expedient to intervene, and because the Secretary of State agreed to respond. This is not a system. It is a favor granted on the merit of popularity—not on the merit of humanity.

For every Vozinha whose story makes headlines around the world, how many families remain in the shadows? How many mothers have watched a game on a cell phone from their island, from their village, from their modest apartment, knowing they had been deemed too poor or too foreign to deserve to be there? Immigration policy doesn’t just produce statistics. It produces absences. Silences. Tears that no one sees.

I’m relieved that Ana Cândida was able to see her son. Truly. But that relief is tinged with a cold anger, because this outcome isn’t a matter of policy—it’s an exception made possible by viral attention and political calculation. And an exception, by definition, does not invalidate the rule.

What soccer reveals that politics prefers to hide

Sports as a Mirror of the Divisions That Diplomacy Hides

The 2026 World Cup is, unwittingly, becoming a brutal mirror of the divisions of our time. It exposes the inequalities between nations that travel freely and those that must endure Kafkaesque procedures just to earn the right to spend a few days on American soil. It reveals the gap between the universalist rhetoric of sports—“soccer unites people”—and the reality of a two-tier passport system, denied visas, and unaffordable bail bonds.

The World Cup is the biggest sporting event on the planet. It brings together 48 teams from every continent, representing billions of people. When the host country’s immigration policy prevents fans, officials, and players’ families from attending, it betrays the very spirit of the competition. Somali referee Omar Artan, barred from the tournament despite his valid visa, deserved to officiate his matches. He was one of 52 referees selected by FIFA. He was declared “ineligible due to vetting concerns”—with no possibility of appeal and no transparent explanation.

The Big Winners and the Forgotten Figures of History

History will remember Vozinha as the hero of this World Cup—the 40-year-old goalkeeper who stopped Spain with his bare hands and the heart of a lion. It may also remember the image of a mother reuniting with her son in Miami. But it will not remember the tens of thousands of Moroccan, Senegalese, Haitian, Algerian, and Tunisian fans who were unable to cross the Atlantic. It will not remember the names of the referees, assistant coaches, and strength and conditioning coaches who were denied entry with no recourse.

The West is the center of the world, and it must remain so—but to be that center, it must earn its moral authority. It earns it when it defends freedom, when it protects individual rights, when it distinguishes between a real threat and performative fear. It loses that authority when it treats mothers and soccer referees as suspected criminals, simply because they hold passports from the “wrong” part of the world. That is not greatness. It is pettiness disguised as politics.

I believe deeply in the West—in its values, its institutions, and its capacity for self-correction. But this self-correction cannot depend on a viral video or the goodwill of a congressman. It must be rooted in rules, in humane procedures, and in a worldview that recognizes that dignity is not something to be earned—it is granted.

Vozinha, a symbol of a generation that resists without hatred

Quiet Resistance as a Model

What is striking about Vozinha’s attitude is the total absence of bitterness in his words. He did not accuse the United States. He did not give a political speech. He simply told the truth: his mother wasn’t there because they hadn’t been able to pay for the visa in time. This modesty, this restraint, this dignity in the face of pain are perhaps the most powerful message of this entire story. A 40-year-old man, born on a small Atlantic archipelago, who has spent his life as the least expected person in the room, and who finds himself at the center of the world for the duration of a game—without losing his humanity.

He also said something remarkable about his team: “Our greatest strength is our unity. ” In a world where identity-based rhetoric seeks to divide, where immigration policies draw lines between “good” and “bad” foreigners, Cape Verde played the game of unity. Eleven men defending every centimeter of their imaginary territory, marked in white on a green field in Atlanta. This is what sports can be at its best.

A story that isn’t over yet

As I write these lines, Cape Verde has played its match against Uruguay on June 22, 2026, with Ana Cândida Évora in the stands in Miami. The Blue Sharks continued their World Cup journey. Vozinha continued to guard his goal with the same intensity, the same outward calm that hides an iron will. The story isn’t over for them—neither on the field nor off it.

But what will remain of those two weeks in June 2026, beyond the scores and statistics, is this image of a man crying for his absent mother on the field of one of the world’s greatest stadiums. And the question it poses to everyone who saw that image: Does the world we’re building live up to the dreams that sports embody? I’m not sure the answer is yes. Not yet.

Vozinha reminded me of something essential: it is possible to resist injustice without fueling it with hatred. It is possible to cry without pointing fingers. It is possible to be great without crushing anyone. In a political world that is shouting ever louder, this lesson in silence and dignity is perhaps the most valuable one there is.

Cape Verde, Senegal, Haiti: The Nations Left Behind by Globalization in Sports

When Small Nations Fight with Unequal Weapons

Cape Verde’s qualification for the 2026 World Cup is in itself a remarkable achievement. With a population of 600,000 spread across ten islands, the country does not have the same sporting resources as the major African nations. There is no structured professional league, no training centers comparable to those in Morocco or Côte d’Ivoire, and no stadiums on the archipelago that meet international standards. Cape Verdean players pursue their careers in Europe—primarily in Portugal, France, and Belgium—and come together as the national team during FIFA international windows.

This model of a soccer diaspora is common to many small African and Caribbean nations. It relies on people’s mobility—their ability to cross borders, settle elsewhere, and succeed far from home. But this mobility is one-way: while players can leave, the families left behind in their home country find it increasingly difficult to join them when the moment of collective pride arrives. The right to travel is not universal. It is tied to the passport you were given at birth.

Haiti, Senegal, Iran: Other Stories That No One Tells

Vozinha’s story resonated globally because it had a face, an image, and an emotion that could be shared directly. But the stories from Haiti, Senegal, and Iran remain largely in the shadows. Woodensky Pierre, the only Haitian player still residing in Haiti, received his visa at the last minute to participate in the tournament. Other members of the Iranian coaching staff were denied entry, even though the players themselves had obtained their visas—creating an absurd situation in which coaches were preparing their team from Mexico, having moved to a training camp across the U.S. border.

According to the BBC report, Senegalese fans were among the first to sound the alarm about visa restrictions as early as December 2025. The rejection rate for B1/B2 visas for countries like Jordan reached 57% in the year leading up to September 2025—meaning many fans chose not to apply rather than risk losing their money if their application was denied. This isn’t caution. It’s structural exclusion.

I often think about these invisible stories—the ones without a “Vozinha,” without a viral video, without a congressman to advocate for them. It is in these stories that the true value of a policy is measured. Not in the exceptions it grants under pressure, but in the rules it imposes amid indifference.

What Vozinha Tells Us About the World Cup We Deserve

The Possible World Cup vs. the Real World Cup

The World Cup we deserve would be a celebration where a 40-year-old goalkeeper can cry tears of joy, not pain. Where players’ mothers can cross the Atlantic without having to prove their financial solvency to the host government. Where referees selected by FIFA based on their athletic merit can arrive in Miami without being declared “ineligible” based on opaque vetting algorithms. That World Cup is possible. It is not a utopia. It simply requires the political will to treat people with a presumption of humanity rather than a presumption of threat.

The real World Cup—the one in 2026—is both extraordinary and disappointing. Extraordinary because teams like Cape Verde have proven that the hierarchy of world soccer can be overturned in 90 minutes of courage and unity. Disappointing because the host nation has chosen to use the world’s biggest sporting event as a backdrop for its policy of excluding migrants. These two realities coexist, and it is dishonest to celebrate only the first.

The image that will linger

The image that will remain from this June 2026, at least for those who look beyond the scores, is Vozinha in tears on the field in Atlanta. Not the tears of victory—but those of a man who gave his all for his country, who achieved something historic, and who, at that precise moment in his life, was searching the stands for his mother’s eyes and couldn’t find them. It is an image of loss. A loss brought about not by fate, but by a political decision.

And perhaps that is precisely why it touched so many people. Because in Vozinha’s pain, millions of people recognized something of their own experience with the border—that invisible line that separates those who have the right to be together from those who must wonder whether their country of birth will grant them that permission. Soccer knows no borders. Passports, however, do.

I’ll end with this: I’m a columnist, not an activist. I don’t claim to have all the answers about U.S. immigration policy, about the balance between security and hospitality, between sovereignty and humanity. But I know how to recognize the face of injustice. And on June 15, 2026, in Atlanta, that face belonged to Vozinha—and he was crying for a mother who hadn’t been able to come. No policy in the world should produce this image. None.

Conclusion: The Border as Destiny, Soccer as Resistance

What Cape Verde Gained Beyond the Score

Cape Verde left Atlanta with one point. Just one point, snatched from one of the best teams on the planet, in the tiny island nation’s very first World Cup match. That point is worth far more than the statistics suggest. It shows that soccer can be great even when resources are scarce. It shows that collective resilience can overcome technical superiority. It shows that forty years of hard work and patience are never wasted.

But beyond the point, Cape Verde has gained something even more precious: a place in the collective memory of world soccer. In the span of a single match, Vozinha became the symbol of an entire generation that refuses to be defined by its shortcomings. His story—with its tears, the absence of his mother, the struggle to obtain a visa, and the reunion in Miami—is a complete story, with its shadows and highlights, just as real life produces them.

What we must demand of those who shape the world

The 2026 World Cup will be judged by its matches, its goals, and its champions. But it will also be judged by the stories it has produced off the field. Vozinha’s story is one among hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people whose World Cup experience has been marred by immigration policies that fail to recognize them as ordinary human beings with ordinary desires. We must demand better. Not the abolition of borders—but their humanization. Not the end of immigration control—but its alignment with the values the West claims to uphold.

Trump’s America can throw a big party. It can even pull it off logistically and in terms of security. But for it to be a true celebration—universal, inclusive, worthy of the Olympic ideal—it must accept that a nation’s greatness is also measured by how it treats those who knock on its door unarmed and without ill intent. Vozinha had no other ambition than to play soccer. His mother had no other ambition than to watch him play. It is for them, and for all the invisible people like them, that this post exists.

By Maxime Marquette, columnist