By Katrijn Geerts
I am sitting in the common room of a reception center on the outskirts of Brussels. The walls are pale yellow, the coffee machine hums softly, and the air smells of detergent and reheated pasta. Across from me sits Ahmed, sixteen years old, a Moroccan boy with tired eyes and restless hands. I came here to write a story about movement: about why some people cross borders to survive, while others cross them to relax. I did not expect the question to become personal so quickly.
Ahmed scrolls through photos on his phone. His mother stands in a small kitchen with blue tiles, henna still visible on her hands. Outside, rain taps against the window. Belgium at its greyest. He tells me how his parents sold jewelry and borrowed money to get him here. “They said Europe is the future,” he says quietly. “Now I have to become that future.”
The dilemma arrives later that afternoon, not with noise, but with silence. While Ahmed speaks about struggling at school, about not finding work, about sending reassuring lies to his parents, my own phone lights up with a notification. A travel newsletter: Discover the magic of Morocco – sun, culture, escape. The contrast feels almost violent. I look at Ahmed’s worn sneakers, then at glossy images of palm trees and hotel pools. The same country, two completely different realities.
As he talks, I notice details that stay with me: the way he keeps his jacket on indoors, as if always ready to leave; the faint smell of cigarette smoke on his sleeves; the exhaustion in his voice when he says, “My head is always traveling.” He admits he sometimes smokes hash with other boys, not to rebel, but to stop thinking. He cannot go back. Going back would mean failure. Staying means waiting.
That is when my internal conflict begins. What am I supposed to do with this story? If I focus on suffering, do I reduce Ahmed to a symbol of victimhood? If I contrast him too sharply with tourists, do I turn travelers into villains? I came as a journalist, not as a judge. Yet I feel the temptation to “take a side,” to expose, to accuse. I wonder where the line is between showing injustice and performing moral superiority.
On my way home, I pass a travel agency. Warm lights glow behind the windows. Posters advertise desert tours and rooftop breakfasts in Marrakesh. A couple stands inside, pointing at brochures. I slow down. This is the other half of my story. Not because they are doing something wrong, but because their desire mirrors Ahmed’s in an uncomfortable way. They want escape. He wanted opportunity. Both are chasing a better version of life.
That evening, I make a decision. I will not write a story that tells readers what to think. Instead, I will write one that invites them to look. I decide to stay close to Ahmed’s daily reality, to describe rather than judge, to place his story next to the tourism narrative without forcing a conclusion. My role, I realize, is not to solve the dilemma, but to make it visible.
When I meet Ahmed again weeks later, he tells me he has found undeclared work in a warehouse. Night shifts. Low pay. Still, he smiles. “Now I can send something home.” The pride in his voice is fragile but real. I ask him what he truly wants. He thinks for a long time. “Not to be rich,” he says. “Just normal. Not always explaining myself.”
Walking back to the train station, I replay his words. Normal. It sounds simple, yet it feels unreachable. Around me, people scroll through travel apps, sip coffee, complain about delays. Movement has different meanings depending on who you are. For some, it is freedom. For others, it is necessity.
Writing this chronicle has changed the way I see travel journalism. I used to think travel stories were about destinations: landscapes, food, experiences. Now I understand they are also about absence — about who leaves, who stays, and who cannot move at all. Travel does not happen in isolation. It exists within global inequalities, economic pressure, and human longing.
Ahmed stayed behind in the rain while others flew south toward the sun. Not because Belgium is his dream, but because returning is no longer an option. His story does not ask for pity. It asks for attention.
Migration and tourism are not opposites. They are two forms of desire. One is marketed with comfort and discounts. The other is paid for with uncertainty and risk. Standing between those two realities, I learned that ethical storytelling is not about choosing sides — it is about holding space for complexity, and letting readers step into it with open eyes.
This article is part of the practical work carried out by students on the Master’s Degree in Travel Journalism at the School of Travel Journalism.
