Mohibi's "gun" and the flag FIFA failed to guard.

Mehrabi raised his hands to his temples. Fingers together, thumbs pointed up.

It was a gun. The muzzle, aimed at his own head.

The LED screen at SoFi Stadium was still replaying the goal—the ball skimming the turf, slipping through the New Zealand goalkeeper's fingers. 2-2. Iran had fallen behind twice in the second half and equalized twice. But in the stands, no one cared about the ball anymore.

Everyone was watching Mehrabi's hand.

That hand hung in the Los Angeles night sky for three seconds. Broadcasters fell silent—they didn't know whose rules to use to explain an Iranian international mimicking a gun to his temple after scoring. FIFA's disciplinary code lists "provocative gestures," but "provoking whom" and "why" only made things more tangled.

Boos, a Gun, and a Failed Ban

June 15, 2026. Los Angeles, Inglewood. Group G. Iran's World Cup opener.

FIFA had billed this match as a "group-stage appetizer." New Zealand, ranked outside the top thirty, had never beaten Iran in their history. Before kickoff, no one had written a prediction favoring the All Whites.

But hours before the match, no one was talking about football.

When Iran's national anthem played, the stands at SoFi Stadium didn't stand in silence. Whistles, boos, and a few gold-based flags half-pulled down by security—FIFA's ban had been signed and sealed by a Los Angeles judge less than 24 hours earlier, but the things that shouldn't have been there still appeared.

The TV broadcast was "diplomatic," muting those minutes of live audio. Agence France-Presse's recording equipment was less "diplomatic." Everyone present heard it.

"Down with terrorists." That's what the diaspora called Tehran.

"We support Persian culture and heritage, but not the regime," an Iranian fan told the Mirror. It was division, not protest.

Outside, the scale was even bigger. AFP said hundreds, the Mirror said hundreds, Mundo Deportivo wrote "around 200," and AFP's French article used "plusieurs centaines"—in any case, several hundred Iranian-Americans gathered around SoFi, chanting anti-Tehran slogans. Some walked around selling T-shirts and caps emblazoned with the Lion and Sun. Others trampled the current green-white-red tricolor flag. A protester named Parsa, recorded by Mundo Deportivo, threw the flag bearing the Sword of Allah onto the asphalt, next to a cardboard sign: "Step on it."

This area, called "Tehrangeles" by locals, holds the largest Iranian diaspora community outside Iran—bigger than any Iranian city outside Tehran. A million people packed into those streets of Inglewood and West Hollywood, where Persian is more common than in Washington, D.C. FIFA putting the World Cup here meant placing a match in the heart of the Persian-speaking world.

FIFA didn't want to see any of this on the pitch.

Three days earlier, at Levi's Stadium in Santa Clara, California. Qatar vs. Switzerland. The Athletic’s reporter saw fans bring multiple Lion and Sun flags into the stands, unfurling them in the first half—golden lights forming a sea. FIFA's stadium code of conduct bans "any political or discriminatory materials." The Lion and Sun—Iran's flag before the 1979 overthrow of the Pahlavi dynasty—FIFA deemed it "political."

So Iranian-Americans stepped in for the fans, taking FIFA to court.

The "Society of Iranian-American Voices for Freedom" filed a lawsuit. Grounds: the First Amendment. Los Angeles County Court. The judge's name wasn't mentioned in reports, but the ruling was clear—rejected hours before the match. Reason: "Last-minute changes to enforcement rules are too burdensome."

FIFA won the case. But as the whistle blew for kickoff, it lost even more decisively on the pitch.

The Athletic documented dozens of fans holding the gold-based flag. Security confiscated them, forced covers, and escorted people out. Some flags were yanked from the stands and torn in half. Le Monde's report was more detailed—per court orders and FIFA regulations, security simultaneously removed both the Lion and Sun flags and pro-Tehran posters. Both sides were taken away. FIFA's "political neutrality" clause looked like a rain-soaked piece of paper—the words were there, but it tore at the slightest touch.

This flag had appeared at the 2022 World Cup in Qatar and the 2024 Asian Cup. Each time, FIFA said it would be strictly controlled. Each time, it failed.

The Iranian players on the pitch never moved. During the anthem, they stood with crossed arms or hands over their hearts. No one made political gestures—the federation had warned beforehand: if "hostile symbols" appeared again, Iran might withdraw. But the federation could control the players, not the stands.

Inside and outside the stadium, a strange picture formed: players mourning the current regime's flag, fans cheering for the opposite flag. On one side, the federation's warning: "Do it again and we withdraw." On the other, Tehran pushing players as "national ambassadors" onto the world stage. On Group G's pitch, no one was free—players weren't free, with Tehran behind them; fans weren't free, with the LAPD and FIFA's security contracts behind them.

New Zealand became the most irrelevant protagonist. Eli Just scored twice, both goals his. No one in the media wrote much about him.

That was the metaphor of the night—the protagonists were never on the pitch.

The Lock in FIFA's Hands, the Key on LA Streets

Mehrabi's "gun" was the final straw.

No one could confirm what he was imitating—a tribute to suppressed compatriots, a threat to Tehran, or pure emotional release. But his identity as an Iranian international launched the gesture onto the global stage. FIFA would likely impose additional penalties—their disciplinary code is clear on "provocative gestures." But whether FIFA could simultaneously control the flags inside, the flags outside, and the "gun" inside and out—that was another question.

FIFA President Gianni Infantino was in SoFi's VIP suite that night.

He watched it all unfold.

This might have been the most awkward moment in football history. An organization claiming "political neutrality" found itself undermined by its own neutrality clause in a single match—torn apart inside and out, banned one flag while the boos for another drowned out the anthem, and a player's goal gesture silenced broadcasters worldwide. FIFA's "political neutrality" had always been self-deception—the quadrennial World Cup, from bidding to voting to hosting, is stamped with money and votes at every step. The phrase "politics has nothing to do with it" has never truly applied to any corner of the World Cup.

Now it was Iran's turn.

The backdrop was real and heavy: In February 2026, the U.S. and Israel jointly launched military action against Iran. The war lasted months. On June 14—the day before the match—news of a peace agreement emerged, but bombs had already fallen. In January 2026, the Iranian government cracked down on dissenters domestically, described as "deadly repression." Two layers of context turned a World Cup group-stage match into an extension of geopolitics.

Iran's participation was briefly in doubt. They ultimately qualified on sporting merit—their Asian qualifying record gave FIFA no legitimate excuse to exclude them. But legal didn't mean logistical—due to visa and logistic issues, the team was based in Tijuana, Mexico. Training in Tijuana, matches in Los Angeles. A national team without its football association president—Mehdi Taj and other staff couldn't enter the U.S. due to visa disputes, severing half the command chain. They had to play a World Cup in another country, relying on a patchwork transatlantic command.

Their opponent was New Zealand—an island nation of five million, a mere number on any major power's chessboard. But that night, the number became the protagonist. New Zealand scored two goals, but none of the next day's headlines would be about them.

This match was never about New Zealand.

In the stands, things got even stranger. Some held Israeli flags, others American flags. Vendors sold T-shirts printed with "names of those killed by the regime"—each like an obituary, each name a story from an Iranian diaspora family. These "political symbols" were also banned under FIFA's code, but FIFA's security contracts clearly didn't reach street vendors outside the tickets.

FIFA says a stadium isn't a political square.

But when you put the match in Los Angeles, in "Tehrangeles," in June after the U.S. and Israel just fought Tehran, on a night when few believe "football has nothing to do with politics"—

Then what exactly were you expecting to see?

What Infantino saw from that VIP suite won't appear in any official FIFA documentary. FIFA's PR team will likely dismiss it all as "individual fan behavior" and sell the next four-year sponsorship cycle. But the gold lion doesn't care about PR—it only remembers the Tehran before 1979, when women could still show their hair.

All Group G matches on June 15 ended in draws.

On the pitch, no one lost. Beneath the pitch, politics lost everything.

That photo of Mehrabi's "gun" will travel further than any match report. Next match, Iran is still in Group G—who they play or what the score is doesn't matter. What matters is whether the gold flag will appear again at SoFi, whether New Zealand's stands will echo with the same boos, and whether players will keep their arms crossed during the anthem.

FIFA will hold another emergency meeting. File another lawsuit. Lose again.

FIFA's "political neutrality" is the most expensive piece of empty paper in the world. Every page has been bought with dollars, euros, and Qatari riyals. But the melody of Iran's national anthem has nothing to do with that empty paper.