Who gets to tell the story of a place? Well, it’s complicated

Historically, the voices of travel writing have been and still remain predominantly white, and over the years, the industry has been pushing for more local stories shared by residents of a place. Especially from marginalized communities who have been spoken on behalf of, by others not from their land.

That centuries-old trope of “giving voice to the voiceless” requires the loudest voices to keep quiet long enough by creating space to hear each other’s voices.

While parts of the industry are proactively sharing primary voices on the ground and reducing “helicopter journalism”—a derogatory term used for writers who ‘parachute’ into a destination with little knowledge to write about them—what about alternative voices who call places their home even if they aren’t from there? Especially if they are Black or Brown?

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I often ponder this question when I’m asked why, as a Black African with no original roots in the Nordics and Baltics, I write with such authority about a predominantly-white region I now call my home. This, despite being married into the culture, raising its next generation, speaking its language, visiting for close to two decades, and now living here for over a decade.

Crowning who gets to tell the story of a place is complex—and the collective debate often leaves little time for genuine exploration.

This conversation requires a lot more nuance than we’re genuinely willing to give, especially when the storyteller is white and they’re living in predominantly Brown and Black spaces. If you’re white and have lived in Laos for over 20 years, do you also have the right to tell the story of Laos? More or less so than a Laotian born and bred on their own soil?

Beyond pushing for equity in storytelling so that historically marginalized voices can be fully heard, what about the subject matter or themes of the stories we want to tell which locals themselves aren’t interested in?

Could being born in a place bring with it so many blind spots that only an outsider might be able to pick up on their first try?

I often say that immigrants are the keenest of observers. Mostly because we inhabit that space between being mere tourists visiting a place and a born-and-bred local. We are a subset of residents who are excellent at observing the nuances that locals often take for granted.

Italian food and lifestyle consultant Thea Duncan behind the popular brand, Doing Italy, has lived in Italy for close to two decades and is an expert on Northern Italy, particularly the greater Milan area.

As a Black woman, Thea has dealt with various forms of discrimination, which have taken the form of blatant racism and rejection to more subtle instances, such as when her expertise of Italian food was questioned, ridiculed and sneered at while she was on a popular TV cooking show in Italy.

But Thea told me that once people get to know her, they realize how much she truly knows about Italian culture in general and specifically about Italian food.

A pure passion for a subject matter means digging deeper than many locals are willing to go. Many Italians might boast about their grandmother’s best traditional dish, but may not be interested in learning how to make it themselves. This intrinsic passion has led to Thea taking numerous cooking classes as well to perpetually seek out the best food producers in the region.

So, who would you take Italian cooking tips from? Someone born and bred in Italy with no professional kitchen expertise, or a foreigner who has spent close to two decades studying the craft of Italian cooking?

This is the breadth and depth of questions we need to ask ourselves as readers when we look for stories about places. Thea notes that the greatest danger of discrimination is making people feel less than. This feeling can also be distilled down to second-guessing and questioning the knowledge and expertise we bring to the table as storytellers, simply because we’re in predominantly white spaces.

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I often say that immigrants are the keenest of observers. Mostly because we inhabit that space between being mere tourists visiting a place and a born-and-bred local. We are a subset of residents who are excellent at observing the nuances that locals often take for granted.

While the marks of great travel writers are tied to their observational skills, it’s when stories exclude Indigenous voices and perspectives and don’t give local communities the space to share in their own narrative that it becomes dangerous. And that’s true regardless of a writer’s ethnicity or birthplace.

What if we flip the narrative? What about residents of a place who are expecting a certain type of storyteller to come visit and write about their travel experiences?

To put it bluntly, many residents are often more welcoming of white journalists because they assume a white person writing about their country will bring affluent white travelers versus Black and Brown travelers—this is despite the fact that in 2019, Black travelers alone spent roughly $110bn on travel.

I’ve experienced this in-country bias many times when residents want white journalists but meet me on assignment instead. Jini Reddy, whose roots are Indian, has also experienced this. She was born in London to Indian parents from South Africa and grew up in Montreal, Quebec. She also happens to be a fellow travel journalist and the author of Wanderland, shortlisted for the Stanford Dolman Award for Travel Book of the Year and the Wainwright Prize.

She finds that occasionally the bias, subtle though it may be, has been from her hosts on the other side of the world who had also expected a white journalist. Jini’s words resonate with some of my experiences while on assignment, witnessing the difference in treatment between my fellow white travel journalists on the same trip. It can be as obvious as simply ignoring my questions or as subtle as being handed the worst-looking, hastily-presented plate at the table.

By diversifying the storytellers, we build more accurate images of places as multidimensional and more complex than whatever tourism campaigns or sleek branding a destination has created for itself.

But there is an upside too, Jini tells me. Sometimes, she has formed bonds more easily because local people don’t see her as a threat to their culture—”there is no whiff of colonialism, however distant,” she adds.

My friend Jessica M van Dop DeJesús is the award-winning expert behind The Dining Traveler and I wanted to get her unique take as a Puerto Rican who writes with authority about the Benelux countries. What Jessica finds extra special is meeting other immigrants living in these countries during her work travels. She loves how many people open up to her about their experiences, giving a unique and honest perspective about the destination.

This leads back to my original point about immigrants being the keenest observers and in a sense, the truth bearers of a culture. It is what personally drives me to keep writing different stories about Sweden—whether it’s chasing northern lights and immersing in Indigenous Sami culture to telling raw challenging stories of living, loving, and surviving versus thriving as a Black woman in Sweden. I am sharing a more complete picture of a place I love.

Taking this reasoning one step further, how do we interrogate the tensions of writing about cultures and traditions in places we haven’t been historically welcomed? For example, Pakistani writers writing about India and vice versa? Intersectional subcommunities writing within already marginalized communities? Could innate or subconscious bias based on historical trauma be introduced into that work or reflection?

So, the energetic debate surrounding who gets to write about a place requires a lot more depth of exploration and nuance, which we aren’t collectively ready to give.

We each bring our own perspectives and flavors to how we navigate the world. By diversifying the storytellers, we build more accurate images of places as multidimensional and more complex than whatever tourism campaigns or sleek branding a destination has created for itself. We no longer see places as perfect utopias which we continue to exotify or raise upon pedestals of idealism.

A lifetime of carefully-curated images of Sweden was what provoked that white male editor to write back in such infuriatingly-condescending fashion—because I dared question that one-dimensional view in his mind.

Diverse stories—whether narratives shaped by immigrants or other forms of inclusive storytelling—paint the places we experience as deeply human with vulnerabilities. This is what builds true cultural connection to the people we read about. A connection where we recognize our unmasked humanity in each other, while still appreciating the panoramic landscapes and physical beauty of what makes those places different.