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Saturday 19 July 2025 20:47:56 GMT
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To travel the world as a Black person is to move through space carrying more than a passport and luggage. You carry the weight of stories—some told, many untold. You carry the memories of ancestors who could not travel freely. You carry the silent prayers of parents who hope you come home safe. You carry the burden of being seen before you even speak, and of being misunderstood before you can explain. In some cities, you sense curiosity that brushes against the edge of discomfort. People turn their heads not because you are strange, but because they are unprepared for you. You remind them of a world bigger than they have known. Sometimes, you are met with warmth—open smiles, gentle greetings, welcome arms. Other times, it is suspicion, distance, the cautious folding of bags, the tight clutch of purses, the careful shift of space on public transport. It is not always spoken. But it is felt. To travel as a Black person is to become both a visitor and a mirror. You reflect back to others what they have learned or failed to learn about your kind. You show them their assumptions, their quiet fears, their buried ignorance. You become the walking answer to questions they’ve never dared ask out loud. But it is not always suspicion. Sometimes it is fascination. Children point and smile, trying to guess where you are from. Locals want to touch your hair or take your picture, as if to capture something they’ve only seen on screens. You learn to choose your moments—when to explain, when to educate, when to simply smile and keep walking. And yet, beyond all this, joy lives. A quiet, burning joy. You sip chai in an old café in Istanbul and feel the warmth of the world itself. You dance at night on the streets of Rio, feet moving to rhythms your blood already knows. You swim in the saltwater of new seas and remember: your body belongs in every ocean. In these moments, you do not shrink. You expand. You claim the space your ancestors dreamed of. Because to travel as a Black person is not only to be watched. It is to bear witness. To see the wide world and say: I am here too. It is to leave pieces of yourself in strange places and to carry strange places back home in your chest. It is to gather stories that your grandmother never imagined, to walk freely where chains once dragged. Your joy is resistance. Your laughter is defiance. Your presence is quiet, enduring power. Belonging may not always be given. But it is claimed, worn like a garment woven from courage and grace. You stand in busy train stations and quiet temples, on crowded beaches and empty mountain paths, and you remind the world: I am part of this. My story threads through this place too. And sometimes, when the wind is soft and the sky wide, you forget the burden. You are not the stranger. You are simply the traveler. Hungry for wonder. Open to grace. As free as anyone who dares to roam.
To travel the world as a Black person is to move through space carrying more than a passport and luggage. You carry the weight of stories—some told, many untold. You carry the memories of ancestors who could not travel freely. You carry the silent prayers of parents who hope you come home safe. You carry the burden of being seen before you even speak, and of being misunderstood before you can explain. In some cities, you sense curiosity that brushes against the edge of discomfort. People turn their heads not because you are strange, but because they are unprepared for you. You remind them of a world bigger than they have known. Sometimes, you are met with warmth—open smiles, gentle greetings, welcome arms. Other times, it is suspicion, distance, the cautious folding of bags, the tight clutch of purses, the careful shift of space on public transport. It is not always spoken. But it is felt. To travel as a Black person is to become both a visitor and a mirror. You reflect back to others what they have learned or failed to learn about your kind. You show them their assumptions, their quiet fears, their buried ignorance. You become the walking answer to questions they’ve never dared ask out loud. But it is not always suspicion. Sometimes it is fascination. Children point and smile, trying to guess where you are from. Locals want to touch your hair or take your picture, as if to capture something they’ve only seen on screens. You learn to choose your moments—when to explain, when to educate, when to simply smile and keep walking. And yet, beyond all this, joy lives. A quiet, burning joy. You sip chai in an old café in Istanbul and feel the warmth of the world itself. You dance at night on the streets of Rio, feet moving to rhythms your blood already knows. You swim in the saltwater of new seas and remember: your body belongs in every ocean. In these moments, you do not shrink. You expand. You claim the space your ancestors dreamed of. Because to travel as a Black person is not only to be watched. It is to bear witness. To see the wide world and say: I am here too. It is to leave pieces of yourself in strange places and to carry strange places back home in your chest. It is to gather stories that your grandmother never imagined, to walk freely where chains once dragged. Your joy is resistance. Your laughter is defiance. Your presence is quiet, enduring power. Belonging may not always be given. But it is claimed, worn like a garment woven from courage and grace. You stand in busy train stations and quiet temples, on crowded beaches and empty mountain paths, and you remind the world: I am part of this. My story threads through this place too. And sometimes, when the wind is soft and the sky wide, you forget the burden. You are not the stranger. You are simply the traveler. Hungry for wonder. Open to grace. As free as anyone who dares to roam.
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