By Kessler Lite
The moment I raised my camera, the woman turned away. Their silent refusal was a boundary I hadn’t prepared to respect.
Two years later, back in my apartment in the Netherlands, that memory still haunted me as I researched my documentary on Oman. The evening light bled through the window, turning my notes golden, but no amount of academic preparation could soften what I’d learned in Nizwa’s market that day. It started as a perfect shot. Vibrant dresses flashed between the market stalls, women’s hands weaving patterns into textiles with practiced ease. I lifted my camera, already imagining the caption: “Omani craftswomen preserving tradition.” Then, movement. Heads turned, palms lifted to cover faces, bodies angled away. The message was clear before I even asked. Even my gestures asking for permission were met with polite but firm head shakes. Not angry, just certain. Some of the men were no different. An elderly Bedouin man, with a long white beard, sitting in the desert with his family, froze when he saw my camera. “No photo,” he said, cutting off my broken Arabic explanation. The message was clear: some stories aren’t mine to take.
What struck me further was encountering similar resistance throughout the market. An elderly craftsman carving traditional khanjars appeared uncomfortable when I approached with my camera, despite my attempts to explain my project. “No photo,” he said simply, returning to his work. Standing there with my camera hanging uselessly around my neck, I confronted an ethical dilemma I hadn’t fully anticipated. These weren’t merely cultural guidelines I had read about in travel books. These were real people with genuine boundaries, and my desire to document their culture suddenly felt secondary to their comfort and cultural values.
Back then, I’d lowered my camera, humbled. Now, preparing to return for my master’s program documentary project, the ethical weight of that moment crystallized. How could I document Omani culture authentically when half its voices, women’s, were inaccessible to me as a male journalist? If my footage showed only men, would I unintentionally reinforce the Western stereotype of the Middle East as a place where women lack agency?
The questions multiplied as I reviewed my research notes. I had entered travel journalism to transcend surface-level content and showcase authentic voices. Yet I knew that in this deeply conservative Islamic society, I would have restricted access to half the population as a male journalist. The irony burned. I’d spent my master’s program dissecting power dynamics in travel journalism, yet here I was, constrained by the very systems I’d critiqued.
My professors’ words echoed: “Authenticity requires accountability.” But what did accountability mean when cultural norms barred me from balanced representation? I reflected on lessons about ethical journalism and the importance of authentic representation. But what happens when cultural boundaries make such representation seemingly impossible? If my documentary predominantly features men, would audiences assume this reflects the entire reality of Omani society?
Would I be perpetuating harmful stereotypes by working within these constraints, or would I create different problems by challenging them? Late one night, I found my answer scribbled in a margin: “Transparency is its own integrity.” The dilemma itself could become part of the story. Instead of hiding the gaps, I would name them, collaborate with Omani female journalists for perspectives I couldn’t access, film in spaces where women consented to be seen, and let the audience understand why some voices were absent. I opened a new document to outline potential solutions, informed now by experience rather than theory alone. Could I work with local female journalists who could provide perspectives I cannot access? Would there be appropriate opportunities for brief, respectful interactions at family gatherings or cultural events where such engagement is welcomed? This wasn’t a compromise; it was a deeper kind of honesty. Ethical storytelling isn’t about forcing doors open, but about acknowledging which ones remain closed, and why. This reflection taught me that ethical journalism isn’t about achieving perfect access to every story. It’s about maintaining honesty regarding limitations, working respectfully within cultural constraints, and finding innovative ways to honor both subjects and audiences. Sometimes the most authentic story isn’t the one with the most comprehensive access, but the one that honestly acknowledges what cannot be fully captured. The invisible half of the story has become one of the most visible challenges I must navigate once again, transforming from obstacle into opportunity for deeper, more reflective storytelling.
This article is part of the practical work carried out by the students of the Master’s in Travel Journalism.
