Delving into grisly crimes and terrorism-related sites, a question arises: Where does the boundary lie for 'dark tourism' becoming excessively morbid?
With the possibility of Guyana accepting a proposition by a government-backed tour operator to allow tourists to explore a previously untouched facility, a topic of interest regarding so-called "black tourism" arises. This type of tourism involves visiting locations associated with misfortunes such as past catastrophes, natural disasters, high-profile deaths, and confinements.
What is it that draws people to these places tied to tragedies? By visiting, what does it imply about us and our fascination with encountering the epicenter of calamities and malevolence? What role does the government play in offering or withholding access to such sites? Who ultimately decides how history is presented to tourists, and what effect do these events and tourist influx have on people living near these spots?
There aren't any straightforward answers to these questions, but it's crucial to wrestle with them nonetheless.
Is it just about history?
black tourism
During my initial cross-country trip in college, my girlfriend and I decided to stop at the Alamo in San Antonio, Texas, a site of a battle that resulted in nearly 200 casualties, including a former US congressman named Davy Crockett. A week later in Los Angeles, our local relatives brought us to the crime scene location of Nicole Brown Simpson, who had recently been murdered. While the Alamo excursion felt like learning American history, the LA visit was more akin to morbid curiosity. And between these two instances lies the fuzzy line that black tourism continually straddles.
Black tourism (also referred to as commemorative tourism, or thanatourism, derived from the Greek “Thanatos” meaning death, or, more mockingly, as gloomy tourism, or mourning tourism) manifests in various forms.
Gettysburg was the site of the deadliest battle in U.S. Civil War history, wherein 51,000 lives were lost, and yet attracts countless school field trips and, according to the National Park Service, approximately 1.5 million visitors annually. Is this "black tourism"? What about visiting the French beaches where between 8,000 and 14,000 soldiers perished during the D-Day invasions, which helped the Allies win World War II? And what of the Ground Zero and Flight 93 memorials for the over 3,000 who lost their lives on September 11, 2001?
I have explored Cambodia's Killing Fields, where a survivor of the Khmer Rouge genocide, responsible for the murder of between 1.5 and 3 million individuals (following the Jonestown tragedy), shared their story. Is it necessary to visit such tragical sites, or former Nazi concentration camps?
The reason for visiting these places is to feel uneasy, to serve as witness, to share your experiences and emotions. Travel opens our perspectives, and often, because of our exposure to humanity's darkest corners.
You've heard of the Disneyfication of places. Black tourism is its antithesis. These are the unhappiest places in the world. Yet, they are unforgettable locations that should never be forgotten. To visit these locations is a way to pay tribute to the departed, their legacy, their suffering.
How far is too far?
There are instances where the boundary seems less clear, where witnessing past events feels more like observing the aftermath of a fatal car crash.
The first time I visited Savannah, Georgia, I took a “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil” tour. This tour documented a real double-murder that took place less than 10 years earlier near the site. During the tour, I couldn't help but ponder, "The people residing near these locations have likely lived alongside the victims and might even have been their friends."
Just recently, we reported on the Menendez Mansion in Los Angeles becoming the "black tourism" hot spot following the brothers' recent media attention and the release of a new documentary. The overwhelming question is: what insights do visitors gain by simply observing a crime scene? It put me in mind of my visits to the Simpson murder scene and the LA's Cielo Drive site, where members of the Manson "family" carried out their 1969 murders.
But how many steps are these excursions away from touring Ford's Theatre in Washington DC, where a president was assassinated, or the Sixth Floor Museum at Dealey Plaza in Dallas, where another president was killed from? Is it permissible to view thousands of Mount Vesuvius victims in Pompeii, Italy, given that they were killed 2,000 years ago? Is it appropriate to embark on an entertaining tour of Jack the Ripper's victims in London from the late 1800s? Or spending a significant amount of money to explore the Titanic – a place where just over 1,500 lost their lives almost 110 years ago? Does time lesson the pang of these crimes and misfortunes?
What is your motivation?
I happened upon Crow's Nest, a local bar made famous in the book "The Perfect Storm" and its film adaptation, during a visit to Gloucester, Massachusetts, in the early 2000s. I felt the pull of visiting the tight-knit community's salty bar, where six fishermen from the area lost their lives during the 1991 storm.
While walking along Gloucester's small harbor, I saw a new ice cream shop called The Perfect Scoop. I couldn't help but feel repelled by this name, a term I had never before nor since used to label ice cream, and it left me feeling embarrassed for having contemplated visiting the Crow's Nest. I ultimately decided to leave the seaside bar to its local patrons.
I've had a blast exploring murder-filled night tours of Alcatraz in San Francisco, strolled through the Bloody Sunday area of Derry, Northern Ireland, and even visited Anne Frank's house in Amsterdam. I was deeply moved by The National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis, Tennessee, located at the old Lorraine Motel where Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. This summer, I'm organizing a family vacation to Japan and decided to incorporate Hiroshima into our plan. I believe it's vital for my daughters to connect with the brutal history our nation inflicted upon another country, causing the deaths of at least 66,000 people there.
For quite some time, Jonestown has been on my travel bucket list. During my time in San Francisco, before attending a concert at the popular Fillmore auditorium, I took a detour to check out the site of Jim Jones' Peoples Temple, a stop before their journey to Guyana. I'm compelled by the chilling tale and feel the need to delve into this horror in reality, which has remained unchanged since the mass fatalities took place. I want to interact with the locals, gain a clearer understanding of the events, serve as a witness, and venture into the depths of darkness.
A crucial question to consider before embarking on such a trip is: What's the motivation? Are you driven by a desire to learn and comprehend, or simply by morbid fascination? Consider the feelings of the locals, including friends and family connected to the tragedy. Will your visit pay tribute to the legacy, or exploit the tragedy? Ultimately, you alone can evaluate the morality of visiting these places.
Visiting the Alamo and the Nicole Brown Simpson crime scene during that college trip demonstrated the blurred line between learning history and morbid curiosity, falling under the category of black tourism. This form of travel includes visiting sites associated with tragedies, such as the Killing Fields in Cambodia or Ground Zero in New York City.
As travel expands our perspectives, some argue that visiting these tragic locations serves as a form of tribute to the departed and their legacy. While many people may find the Disneyfication of places appealing, black tourism offers an alternative view of the world, illustrating humanity's darkest corners and offering a sobering historical context.
