The Winter Olympics sell the same fantasy every four years — that sport can float above the world, as if the world will politely pause its wars, repression and crises until the closing ceremony. For plenty of the Games, Milano Cortina delivered that illusion, but the politics did not stay entirely off camera. The moments where it broke through were the moments that felt most honest.
One of the clearest breaks came from Swiss broadcaster Radio Télévision Suisse (RTS), which aired commentary calling attention to the online conduct of Israeli bobsledder AJ Edelman, including posts that celebrated Israel’s genocidal campaign in Gaza. The journalist, Stefan Renna, did this during the live call, which is exactly when commentators are meant to talk about the person on screen, what they represent and the story they are trying to bring with them into the Games.
RTS later pulled the segment from its platforms, even while acknowledging the underlying facts from Renna. Renna would have known that refusing to play along could invite backlash and career consequences. Yet, he still chose to call out the selective outrage on air, in a media environment that often treats “stick to sports” as the price of admission.
That selectivity has shaped the Olympic project for years, and it sharpened once Russia and Belarus became the benchmark, while Israel remained welcome under its flag. Russia and Belarus have faced sweeping restrictions and neutrality frameworks. These restrictions were framed as the moral minimum for consequences when state conduct breaks the Olympic Truce. If that is the standard, then allowing Israel to compete under its flag while credible allegations of grave violations of international law prompt mass protest and sustained scrutiny worldwide reads less like neutrality and more like selective enforcement. This is why the boos directed at Israel during the opening ceremonies landed with such force. They cut through the spectacle and reminded everyone that the Olympic stage cannot wash a state’s conduct clean.
The International Olympic Committee’s (IOC) responded to tensions by doubling down on control, especially over athletes, speech and in the specific writing of eligibility rules. Rule 50.2 of the IOC Olympic Charter prohibits political, religious or racial demonstrations in Olympic settings, including the field of play, podium moments, official ceremonies and the Olympic Village. The absurdity here is not that the IOC wants to keep athletes from being turned into instruments of political messaging, but rather the claim that politics only enter the picture when an athlete speaks. Politics were there when the eligibility rules were written. They were there when sanctions were chosen or avoided. They were there when “neutral athlete categories” were created. They were there when flags and anthems were treated as sacred or expendable. They were there when broadcasters were told that naming a double standard was inappropriate for a sports broadcast. The Olympics did not remove politics — they curated them and chose to ignore it.
The pattern shows up not only in IOC rules and eligibility decisions, but also in broadcast choices about which countries were singled out and which contexts were left unsaid.
During CBC’s opening ceremony coverage, when Saudi Arabia entered the parade of nations, commentator Adrienne Arsenault remarked, “No women on this team, as you might notice.” It was a true observation, and women’s rights in Saudi Arabia remain an ongoing concern. The line still landed oddly because it arrived without any political context and without consistency. Other small delegations also appeared without women and did not receive the same pointed remark. Without any follow-up or explanation, the remark on Saudi Arabia read like a quick white feminist aside. This matters as it highlights the selective politics the Olympics depend on. Broadcasters will gesture at gender inequality when it’s an easy statement to get away with but rarely apply proper scrutiny or consistency. It signalled moral distance without harder work of analysis, which fits the Games’ broader pattern of offering gestures instead of context.
The world is deeply divided and full of crises, and it is worth remembering that the people competing on the ice and in the games are living in that world too. Athletes are asked to represent countries on the most visible stage on earth, while also being ordinary people with families, friends and communities they worry and care about. This is true in different ways across delegations, including nations like Iran, where repression and state violence are currently at the forefront of their reality. The Olympics lean hard on the language of unity, but without pausing to acknowledge what it means to carry national symbolism at a moment when the nation, and the world, feels anything but united.
If the Olympics want people to believe the unity they sell, they need to stop mistaking silence for unity. Pride in athletes and pride in performance can coexist with clear-eyed honesty about division and crisis. Politics do not stop at the edge of a rink. The Games can stage togetherness, but they cannot pretend the fractured world is not in the building.
