Abbott Slams Islamic Games, Texas Schools Fold Under Terrorism Claims

Paul Riverbank, 1/22/2026Texas school sports event for Muslim kids sparks political, religious, and civil rights controversy.

Governor Greg Abbott’s statement electrified the situation when he urged local schools to abandon talks with the Islamic Games. Suddenly, a kids’ sports gathering ballooned into a statewide controversy. Somewhere between bureaucratic caution and public accusations, old fault lines surfaced again.

Looking back, organizers like Salaudeen Nausrudeen, who leads the Islamic Games, can hardly believe the turn things took. “We are deeply concerned that a sporting event for children is being targeted,” he said, his voice catching a bit when reached by phone. His group, determined to clear the air, insisted that CAIR—a Muslim civil rights organization based in Washington—was neither a sponsor nor an affiliate. One vague internet archive page from 2023, suggesting a slight CAIR-NJ connection, became the focus of a storm. “It was just some free drawstring bags, nothing more,” Nausrudeen explained, almost exasperated, pointing out it was a one-time gesture, not a partnership.

For Abbott’s critics, the event shouldn’t have become a lightning rod. But the governor’s 2023 declaration dubbing CAIR a “foreign terrorist organization” nudged many school districts into a corner. Figuring the safest course was to quietly withdraw, Grapevine-Colleyville ISD and Cypress-Fairbanks ISD both stopped talks before anything could go wrong. “GCISD provided notice that it is severing the negotiations for the use of District properties for the 2026 Islamic Games,” said Nicole Lyons, speaking carefully. Citing state law, she explained—once a group is blacklisted at the state level, schools’ hands are tied.

Inside the community, opinions split quickly. Republican State Board member Brandon Hall put it bluntly: "An organization with any ties to someone who's been designated as a foreign terrorist organization should absolutely not be able to use school facilities.” His stance was firm, if divisive: He’d dig deeper, he promised.

CAIR, for its part, has always been quick to push back on such labels. It bills itself as the country’s largest Muslim civil rights group, and on its website flatly denies any links to overseas movements or foreign agendas. Yet the echo of accusations—never fully substantiated—linger far longer than a press release.

Those directly involved can’t help but feel squeezed, neither sure whom to trust nor what comes next. “All these kids are doing is trying to play sports,” said Mustafaa Carroll, the interim director for CAIR in Dallas-Fort Worth. “They just want to belong. And here they are having to worry about this shadow hanging over them for nothing they did.” The disappointment is familiar—he’s seen it before. Even the games themselves went out of their way recently to state on their website that the event is “open to any individual or team regardless of race, ethnicity, nationality, or religion,” as if anyone needed reminding.

Still, this isn’t the first sign of unease. Weeks back, national media fixated on Texas’s first Muslim legislators, Reps. Salman Bhojani and Dr. Suleman Lalani. The scrutiny wasn’t about policy, really—it was about symbolism. Their use of the Quran at the swearing-in became a talking point for some, like BlazeTV host Sara Gonzales, who openly questioned whether such a ceremony was appropriate in Texas. With little evidence, she drew far-reaching lines, speculating—wrongly—on the potential for laws inspired by countries like Pakistan. Her warnings about “honor killings” and “child marriage” sounded more like fevered hypotheticals than grounded political critique.

Neither Bhojani nor Lalani has proposed, let alone written, any measure resembling foreign law. Their tenure in the capitol has mostly involved the kind of ceremonial resolutions that pass without fuss—except now, when every gesture is under a magnifying glass.

Underneath all this, a bigger question takes shape. Last year, Texas adjusted its own rules to allow religious groups—of any stripe—greater access to school facilities after hours, a well-intentioned move toward equality. But as the Islamic Games case shows, what’s on paper and what’s practiced aren’t always in sync. For many, safety and law have become a matter of drawing hard lines. For others, it’s about the right to simply gather and play, not just to worship.

So Texas, as ever, finds itself balancing on a familiar tightrope: between honoring its proud history of religious pluralism and falling prey to modern-day anxieties. Where that balance will ultimately land remains, as always, an open question.

The air felt heavy at the Grapevine-Colleyville school board meeting—more tense than usual. Nobody mentioned it outright at first, but most in the packed room understood what was at stake: a familiar struggle at the edge of religion and politics, cast into sharp relief by this time, an event meant for Muslim athletes.Governor Greg Abbott’s statement electrified the situation when he urged local schools to abandon talks with the Islamic Games. Suddenly, a kids’ sports gathering ballooned into a statewide controversy. Somewhere between bureaucratic caution and public accusations, old fault lines surfaced again.Looking back, organizers like Salaudeen Nausrudeen, who leads the Islamic Games, can hardly believe the turn things took. “We are deeply concerned that a sporting event for children is being targeted,” he said, his voice catching a bit when reached by phone. His group, determined to clear the air, insisted that CAIR—a Muslim civil rights organization based in Washington—was neither a sponsor nor an affiliate. One vague internet archive page from 2023, suggesting a slight CAIR-NJ connection, became the focus of a storm. “It was just some free drawstring bags, nothing more,” Nausrudeen explained, almost exasperated, pointing out it was a one-time gesture, not a partnership.For Abbott’s critics, the event shouldn’t have become a lightning rod. But the governor’s 2023 declaration dubbing CAIR a “foreign terrorist organization” nudged many school districts into a corner. Figuring the safest course was to quietly withdraw, Grapevine-Colleyville ISD and Cypress-Fairbanks ISD both stopped talks before anything could go wrong. “GCISD provided notice that it is severing the negotiations for the use of District properties for the 2026 Islamic Games,” said Nicole Lyons, speaking carefully. Citing state law, she explained—once a group is blacklisted at the state level, schools’ hands are tied.Inside the community, opinions split quickly. Republican State Board member Brandon Hall put it bluntly: "An organization with any ties to someone who's been designated as a foreign terrorist organization should absolutely not be able to use school facilities.” His stance was firm, if divisive: He’d dig deeper, he promised.CAIR, for its part, has always been quick to push back on such labels. It bills itself as the country’s largest Muslim civil rights group, and on its website flatly denies any links to overseas movements or foreign agendas. Yet the echo of accusations—never fully substantiated—linger far longer than a press release.Those directly involved can’t help but feel squeezed, neither sure whom to trust nor what comes next. “All these kids are doing is trying to play sports,” said Mustafaa Carroll, the interim director for CAIR in Dallas-Fort Worth. “They just want to belong. And here they are having to worry about this shadow hanging over them for nothing they did.” The disappointment is familiar—he’s seen it before. Even the games themselves went out of their way recently to state on their website that the event is “open to any individual or team regardless of race, ethnicity, nationality, or religion,” as if anyone needed reminding.Still, this isn’t the first sign of unease. Weeks back, national media fixated on Texas’s first Muslim legislators, Reps. Salman Bhojani and Dr. Suleman Lalani. The scrutiny wasn’t about policy, really—it was about symbolism. Their use of the Quran at the swearing-in became a talking point for some, like BlazeTV host Sara Gonzales, who openly questioned whether such a ceremony was appropriate in Texas. With little evidence, she drew far-reaching lines, speculating—wrongly—on the potential for laws inspired by countries like Pakistan. Her warnings about “honor killings” and “child marriage” sounded more like fevered hypotheticals than grounded political critique.Neither Bhojani nor Lalani has proposed, let alone written, any measure resembling foreign law. Their tenure in the capitol has mostly involved the kind of ceremonial resolutions that pass without fuss—except now, when every gesture is under a magnifying glass.Underneath all this, a bigger question takes shape. Last year, Texas adjusted its own rules to allow religious groups—of any stripe—greater access to school facilities after hours, a well-intentioned move toward equality. But as the Islamic Games case shows, what’s on paper and what’s practiced aren’t always in sync. For many, safety and law have become a matter of drawing hard lines. For others, it’s about the right to simply gather and play, not just to worship.So Texas, as ever, finds itself balancing on a familiar tightrope: between honoring its proud history of religious pluralism and falling prey to modern-day anxieties. Where that balance will ultimately land remains, as always, an open question.