There are platforms where you “save” elephants in the morning and teach a French class in the afternoon. You pay, you post a photo, you leave with the feeling you’ve “helped.” I’ve often brushed up against that world, drawn in by its energy and urgency.
Yet, when you look more closely, you see a market of emotion: activities designed for us—for our story, our résumé—not necessarily for the needs of a community. We know it, but we look away: voluntourism soothes the conscience, and a clear conscience has its travel agencies.
The critique isn’t new: “white saviorism” thrives in those cracks where we confuse help with staging. We assign passersby roles that should belong to professionals from the country—teachers, educators, social workers—or, worse, we expose vulnerable people to our desire for instant “usefulness.” Op-eds keep reminding us: when the foreigner moves to the center of the story, we erase the agency of those concerned; we strip them of the power to narrate and to act. And often, the promised impact fades the moment our plane takes off.
On the flip side, digital nomadism has its blind spots. Our salaries, converted into local currencies, drive up rents; our favorite cafés become early signs of gentrification. We occupy spaces meant for residents who don’t share our mobility or purchasing power. Cities in Latin America, Asia, and Southern Europe already feel it: entire neighborhoods change their face to meet our temporary needs. Naming this reality isn’t about shaming every individual; it’s about asking: what do we leave behind when we go?
So, what should we do instead? First, slow down. Refuse “thrill” assignments that put us center stage, and prioritize requests formulated by local teams within a clear framework. Don’t let yourself teach what you’re not trained for—being a French teacher isn’t something you improvise because you speak French. Work remotely when possible, to limit your footprint and the temptation to keep “holding hands” for too long. And above all, document what you do: a deliverable without a user guide isn’t a legacy, it’s an empty promise.
Next, acknowledge the value of stepping aside. We don’t come to “give a voice”; sometimes we come to learn how to be quiet, to facilitate the circulation of existing tools, to strengthen a system that already worked—maybe it just needed a website, a donation page, a clearer identity. Heroism doesn’t measure well by applause; it’s measured by the autonomy of those who remain.
Nomad Impact is my attempt at coherence. I choose assignments where I can be useful without placing myself at the center of the picture. I favor the sober, the transferable, the local-led. I don’t have a miracle solution, but I do have a discipline: listen, produce, transmit. It’s less photogenic than an exotic “before/after,” but it’s exactly what we lack: tools that hold up after the story ends.