Maccabi Tel Aviv fans have been banned from attending their Europa League match against Aston Villa due to safety concerns. On the surface, it looks like a routine measure — the kind of restriction often imposed on ultras across European football. Yet this case is different.

What makes it remarkable is that independent MP Ayoub Khan, who represents Birmingham Perry Barr, publicly welcomed the decision, pointing to the political sensitivities surrounding the fixture. This is no longer just a question of crowd control: it exposes something deeper. The ban, and its political endorsement, reveal the fragmentation not only of British multiculturalism but of liberal democracy itself, whereby moral reasoning gives way to symbolic and identitarian posturing.

We should not underplay the significance of an MP publicly aligning himself with a security-based exclusion. Our elected politicians are meant to uphold liberal principles and defend civic equality, not endorse the barring of certain citizens from public spaces. When that exclusion carries religious or ethnic overtones, it legitimises the idea that some communities are simply too unsafe to host — especially in certain parts of the country. What might once have been a narrow security decision thus becomes a moral and political statement about belonging. One can only wonder how Birmingham’s Jewish community — with roots in the city dating back to the 18th century — must feel watching this unfold. It should be noted that 25% of Birmingham Perry Barr’s population is Muslim; the national proportion stands at 6.5%.

Pluralism became a defining feature of the postwar ideal, running through the narrative of multiculturalism that helped shape modern Britain. Yet this model always rested on a crucial assumption: that the state would defend inclusion, not retreat into exclusion. The political class was meant to act as a guarantor, holding difference within a shared civic order rather than suppressing it. That is why Khan’s intervention cuts so deep: it signals a breach of that old moral contract.

There may well be valid reasons for the ban. Hooliganism is not uncommon in European football, and the violent conflict last year in Amsterdam between Maccabi supporters and pro-Palestine Ajax fans has clearly influenced this decision. Only last month, away supporters  — including Ajax fans — were barred from two Champions League fixtures by local authorities on safety grounds. But it is the framing that should trouble us. When security decisions, which ought to rest on intelligence and policing, become implicit political statements about who is allowed to be in a specific place, something vital begins to erode.

We saw this immediately in the reactions. Tory leader Kemi Badenoch declared last night that the situation proved there are now “parts of Britain where Jews simply cannot go”. Such statements capture a deeper unease: a nation losing confidence in its ability to be both increasingly diverse but bounded by a common civic pride.

What makes this all the more disheartening is that football once offered a place where politics was somewhat contained, existing largely in the context of club rivalries. Now it has become an extension of political theatre: MPs weigh in, campaigns claim the moral high ground, and identity groups stage their protests.

The exclusion of fans no longer feels like a matter of safety but a symbol — a question of who belongs, who is protected, and who is judged too dangerous to host. The ban itself is troubling enough; the political endorsement is worse. It marks a shift from regret to acceptance, from liberal caution to moral signalling. When a politician welcomes the exclusion of a minority from a public ritual, the game is lost — not merely on the pitch, but in the civic imagination.

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Jide Ehizele writes on faith, culture, and belonging in modern Britain.

OBEhizele

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