I’ve Witnessed Xenophobia My Entire Life—Here’s How to Handle It While Traveling

🌍Hook

The bus driver in Oaxaca didn’t meet my eyes when he handed me the ticket—just slid it across the plastic ledge like it was contaminated. Two teenage boys behind me snickered as I fumbled with my Spanish phrasebook. When I asked where the restroom was, the woman at the terminal shook her head, muttered 'no hablo inglés', and turned away—even though I’d spoken only in Spanish. That moment, standing under fluorescent lights smelling of diesel and stale coffee, wasn’t isolated. It was the 14th time in as many countries that year I’d felt the quiet, heavy weight of being perceived as ‘other’—not because of who I am, but because of how I look, where I’m assumed to be from, or what language stumbles out of my mouth. If you’ve witnessed xenophobia your entire life—or are just beginning to recognize it while traveling—here’s how to handle it: anchor yourself in preparation, move with intention, and protect your emotional bandwidth without retreating from the world.

✈️The Setup: Why This Trip Happened

I booked the flight to Mexico City on a Tuesday morning, three weeks after my visa application for Japan was denied—not for incomplete paperwork, but with a handwritten note: 'Purpose of visit unclear.' That rejection sat like a stone in my chest. I’d spent six months building a freelance portfolio documenting street food culture across Southeast Asia; I’d photographed night markets in Chiang Mai, interviewed tamale vendors in Antigua, and slept in hostels where roommates shared stories over shared rice cookers. Yet, somewhere between the embassy’s marble lobby and my laptop screen, I’d been reduced to a risk category. Not a person. A variable.

This trip wasn’t escape—it was recalibration. I chose Mexico deliberately: a country where I’d studied Nahuatl phrases before departure, where I’d researched bus routes instead of booking flights, where I knew hostels in Coyoacán accepted cash-only payments and offered communal kitchens (a lifeline for budget travelers who cook to stretch pesos). My plan was simple: ride second-class buses through central highlands, stay in locally run guesthouses, document daily routines—not landmarks—and listen more than I spoke. I carried two notebooks: one for observations, one blank, reserved for moments I couldn’t process yet.

🚌The Turning Point: What Went Wrong

It began subtly in San Cristóbal de las Casas. At the market near Santo Domingo, a vendor refused my 20-peso coin, holding it between thumb and forefinger as if it might burn him. ‘¿De dónde eres?’ he asked—not curious, but interrogative. When I answered, ‘De Estados Unidos, pero mis abuelos son de Guanajuato,’ he cut me off: ‘No se nota.’ (It doesn’t show.) His tone wasn’t hostile. It was weary—like he’d rehearsed this dismissal hundreds of times.

Then came the bus to Tuxtla Gutiérrez. Midway through the winding descent into the Grijalva Valley, the conductor announced a ‘security check’—a phrase I’d never heard on Mexican buses before. Three men boarded wearing plain clothes but carrying walkie-talkies. They moved down the aisle slowly, pausing at each seat, asking passengers for ID. When they reached me, one flipped open my passport, stared at the U.S. stamp, then asked—in English—‘You’re not from here, right?’ I nodded. He didn’t ask for my ID again. He just held my gaze for three seconds too long before stepping aside. No one else was questioned.

That night, in a borrowed room above a panadería, I traced the condensation on the windowpane with my finger. The scent of fermenting masa rose through the floorboards. My hands shook—not from fear, exactly, but from the exhaustion of constant translation: translating gestures, translating silence, translating myself into something legible enough to pass.

🤝The Discovery: People Who Held Space

Two days later, I got lost walking back from the botanical gardens in Tuxtla. My map app failed; the alleyways folded in on themselves like origami. An elderly woman sweeping her sidewalk stopped, watched me circle twice, then called out, ‘¿Te perdiste, mija?’ Her voice held no suspicion—only the dry warmth of someone who’d seen generations of strangers pause mid-step.

She didn’t give directions. Instead, she walked with me—slowly, deliberately—to the corner pulquería, introduced me to the owner as ‘una amiga que viaja sola’, and insisted I try the curado—pulque flavored with pineapple and nuts. As we sat on mismatched plastic chairs, she told me about her son in Chicago, how he sent money every month but hadn’t visited in seven years. ‘La gente piensa que el extranjero es un lugar, pero para m�� es una persona que no puede volver,’ she said. (People think ‘abroad’ is a place—but for me, it’s a person who can’t return.) She didn’t say ‘xenophobia’. She named its consequence: absence.

Later that week, at a textile co-op in San Juan Chamula, I met Elena, a Tzotzil weaver who taught me how to wind thread onto a wooden shuttle. Her fingers moved with impossible speed, coaxing indigo and cochineal red into geometric patterns that told stories older than colonial archives. When I asked how she learned the designs, she smiled: ‘My grandmother’s hands taught mine. Not books. Not schools. Hands.’ She paused, looked at my knuckles—still raw from gripping bus handrails—then placed her palm flat against mine. ‘Tu piel también tiene memoria. Solo necesitas escucharla.’ (Your skin also holds memory. You only need to listen to it.)

These weren’t ‘fixes’. They were interruptions—moments where expectation dissolved, and presence replaced performance. No one asked me to prove belonging. They simply made space, and in doing so, modeled what safety feels like: not the absence of threat, but the presence of witness.

🌄The Journey Continues: Building Resilience, Not Armor

I stopped trying to ‘blend in’. In Oaxaca City, I wore my grandmother’s rebozo—a faded blue shawl woven in Puebla—even though shopkeepers eyed it strangely. I ordered chapulines at the mercado without checking prices first. I let myself mispronounce ‘chapulín’ three times before the vendor laughed and corrected me gently: ‘No es “cha-poo-leen”. Es “cha-poo-leen” con la lengua arriba.’ (Not “cha-poo-leen.” It’s “cha-poo-leen” with the tongue up.)

What changed wasn’t external perception—it was internal calibration. I began carrying fewer assumptions: about who would help me, who might withhold, or what ‘kindness’ looks like across contexts. I noticed how often xenophobia traveled alongside economic anxiety—the taxi driver who refused my fare because I ‘looked like a journalist’, the hostel owner who raised prices when he saw my camera gear, the café server who ‘forgot’ my order until I repeated it in slow, deliberate Spanish. These weren’t personal failures. They were symptoms of systems—of migration policies, tourism economies, and decades of unequal exchange—that land unevenly on individual interactions.

I started keeping a ‘resilience ledger’: small, concrete actions that grounded me. Examples included:

• Buying fruit from the same street vendor for three consecutive days (she began setting aside my favorite mangoes)
• Learning five new words weekly—not for fluency, but to disrupt the power dynamic of ‘listener vs. expert’
• Sitting still for ten minutes each morning watching light move across walls (a sensory reset)

This wasn’t self-care as consumption. It was maintenance—like checking tire pressure before a long drive. Necessary, unglamorous, non-negotiable.

💡Reflection: What This Experience Taught Me

Xenophobia isn’t monolithic. It wears different masks: the polite dismissal at a hotel desk, the over-scrutiny at border control, the assumption that you’re a threat until proven otherwise, the micro-invalidation of your identity (“You speak Spanish so well!”), or the outright hostility that makes you clutch your bag tighter. But none of it defines the places I visited—or the people who live there.

Travel taught me that geography doesn’t erase history, but it does complicate it. In San Cristóbal, I walked past churches built atop Mayan temples—stone layered upon stone, belief stacked upon belief. That’s how resilience works too: not by erasing harm, but by laying something true beside it.

I used to think handling xenophobia meant developing thicker skin. Now I know it means cultivating finer perception—knowing when to engage, when to disengage, when to name what’s happening, and when silence serves better than speech. It means understanding that my safety isn’t guaranteed—but neither is my obligation to perform ease for others’ comfort.

📝Practical Takeaways Woven Into Real Decisions

None of this worked because I followed a checklist. It worked because I treated preparation as relational—not transactional. Here’s what that looked like in practice:

I also learned to read infrastructure as information. In rural Oaxaca, I noticed which bus stops had benches (indicating regular community use) versus bare pavement (often serving transit hubs for outsiders). I paid attention to where children played—near shops with open doors, or tucked behind shuttered windows. These weren’t ‘signs of danger’—they were data points about social rhythm, trust, and daily negotiation.

⭐Conclusion: How This Trip Changed My Perspective

I returned home with calluses on my palms from hauling my own luggage up cobbled hills, a notebook filled with sketches of corn husk bundles and bus ticket stubs, and a quieter certainty: xenophobia isn’t proof that the world is unsafe—it’s evidence that the world is unfinished. And unfinished things can be tended to. Not by waiting for perfection, but by showing up with precision: choosing where to spend attention, conserving energy for meaningful exchange, and refusing to mistake surveillance for hospitality.

Travel didn’t teach me how to disappear. It taught me how to occupy space—firmly, kindly, unapologetically—and how to recognize the difference between being seen and being scanned. That distinction, more than any visa stamp or souvenir, is what I carry now.

❓Frequently Asked Questions

How do I prepare for potential xenophobia without assuming it will happen everywhere?

Research local histories of migration and labor—not just tourist guides. Look for community radio stations, independent journalism outlets, or municipal cultural center newsletters. If a region has experienced recent deportations, border militarization, or tourism-driven displacement, those pressures may surface in everyday interactions. Preparation means understanding context—not predicting behavior.

What should I do if I experience xenophobic treatment mid-trip?

First, assess immediate safety: Is your physical well-being at risk? If yes, remove yourself calmly. If not, pause before reacting—breathe, ground yourself physically (press feet into floor, feel fabric of clothing), then decide whether engagement serves you. Document discreetly if appropriate (e.g., photo of bus ticket + timestamp), but prioritize emotional preservation over evidence collection. Report incidents only to trusted local organizations—not always authorities, as responses vary widely by jurisdiction.

Are certain types of accommodation safer or more supportive for travelers who’ve experienced xenophobia?

Homestays coordinated directly through municipal cultural centers or university extension programs tend to involve hosts vetted for intercultural experience. Avoid platforms that rank ‘authenticity’ as a selling point—this often reinforces extractive dynamics. When booking independently, message hosts with specific questions: ‘Do you welcome guests who speak limited Spanish?’ or ‘Is there a local clinic nearby?’ Their responsiveness—and whether they answer in kind—offers insight into alignment.

How can I support local communities without falling into saviorism or reinforcing stereotypes?

Ask yourself: Who benefits economically from this interaction—and how? Prioritize businesses owned by residents of the area (verify via local chamber of commerce directories or neighborhood associations), pay fair prices without haggling aggressively, and decline photo requests that exoticize people or places. If invited to participate in ceremony or ritual, follow guidance without recording—presence without documentation is often the deepest form of respect.