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Dark tourism: When tragedy meets tourism

The likes of Auschwitz, Ground Zero and Chernobyl are seeing increasing numbers of visitors, sparking the term ‘dark tourism’. But is it voyeuristic or educational?

Dark tourism: When tragedy meets tourism
Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant Zone. Image: Getty

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Days after 71 people died in a London tower block fire last June, something strange started to happen in the streets around it. Posters, hastily drawn by members of the grieving community of Grenfell Tower, appeared on fences and lamp posts in view of the building’s blackened husk.

‘Grenfell: A Tragedy Not A Tourist Attraction,’ one read, adding — sarcastically — a hashtag and the word ‘selfies’. As families still searched for missing inhabitants of the 24-storey block, and the political shock waves were being felt through the capital, people had started to arrive in North Kensington to take photos. Some were posing in selfie mode.

“It’s not the Eiffel Tower,” one resident told the BBC after the posters attracted the attention of the press. “You don’t take a picture.” Weeks later, local people were dismayed when a coachload of Chinese tourists pulled up nearby so that its occupants could get out and take photos.

Grenfell Tower, which still dominates the surrounding skyline (it’s due to be demolished in late 2018), had become a site for ‘dark tourism’, a loose label for any sort of tourism that involves visiting places that owe their notoriety to death, disaster, an atrocity or what can also loosely be termed ‘difficult heritage’.

It’s a phenomenon that’s on the rise as established sites such as Auschwitz and the September 11 museum in Manhattan enjoy record visitor numbers. Meanwhile, demand is rising among those more intrepid dark tourists who want to venture to the fallout zones of Chernobyl and Fukushima, as well as North Korea and Rwanda. In Sulawesi, Indonesia, Western tourists wielding GoPros pay to watch elaborate funeral ceremonies in the Toraja region, swapping notes afterwards on TripAdvisor.

Along the increasingly crowded dark-tourist trail, academics, tour operators and the residents of many destinations are asking searching questions about the ethics of modern tourism in an age of the selfie and the Instagram hashtag. When Pompeii, a dark tourist site long before the phrase existed, found itself on the Grand Tour of young European nobility in the 18th century, dozens of visitors scratched their names into its excavated walls. Now we leave our mark in different ways, but where should we draw the boundaries?

Questions like these have become the life’s work of Dr Philip Stone, perhaps the world’s leading academic expert on dark tourism. He has a background in business and marketing, and once managed a holiday camp in Scotland. But a fascination with societal attitudes to mortality led to a PhD in thanatology, the study of death, and a focus on tourism.

“I’m not even a person who enjoys going to these places,” Stone says from the University of Central Lancashire, where he runs the Institute for Dark Tourism Research. “But what I am interested in is the way people face their own mortality by looking at other deaths of significance. Because we’ve become quite divorced from death yet we have this kind of packaging up of mortality in the visit economy which combines business, sociology, psychology under the banner of dark tourism. It’s really fascinating to shine a light on that.”

Historical roots

The term ‘dark tourism’ is far newer than the practice, which long predates Pompeii’s emergence as a morbid attraction. Stone considers the Roman Colosseum to be one of the first dark tourist sites, where people travelled long distances to watch death as sport. Later, until the late 18th century, the appeal was starker still in central London, where people paid money to sit in grandstands to watch mass executions. Hawkers would sell pies at the site, which was roughly where Marble Arch stands today.

It was only in 1996 that ‘dark tourism’ entered the scholarly lexicon when two academics in Glasgow applied it while looking at sites associated with the assassination of JFK. Those who study dark tourism identify plenty of reasons for the growing phenomenon, including raised awareness of it as an identifiable thing. Access to sites has also improved with the advent of cheap air travel. It’s hard to imagine that the Auschwitz-Birkenau memorial and museum would now welcome more than two million visitors a year (an average of almost 5,500 a day, more than two-thirds of whom travel to the Polish site from other countries in Europe) were it not for its proximity to Krakow’s international airport.

Peter Hohenhaus, a widely travelled dark tourist based in Vienna, also points to the broader rise in off-the-beaten track tourism, beyond the territory of popular guidebooks and TripAdvisor rankings. “A lot of people don’t want mainstream tourism and that often means engaging with places that have a more recent history than, say, a Roman ruin,” he says. “You go to Sarajevo and most people remember the war being in the news so it feels closer to one’s own biography.”

Hohenhaus is also a fan of ‘beauty in decay’, the contemporary cultural movement in which urban ruins have become subject matter for expensive coffee-table books and a thousand Instagram accounts. The crossover with death is clear. “I’ve always been drawn to derelict things,” the 54-year-old says. As a child in Hamburg, he would wonder at the destruction of war still visible around the city’s harbour.

That childhood interest has developed into an obsession; Hohenhaus has visited 650 dark tourist sites in 90 countries, logging them all and more besides on his website. He has plans to put together the first dark tourism guidebook. His favourite holiday destination today is Chernobyl and its ‘photogenic’ ghost town. “You get to time travel back into the Soviet era but also into an apocalyptic future,” he says. He also enjoys being emotionally challenged by these places. “I went to Treblinka in 2008 and heard the story of a teacher at an orphanage in Warsaw who was offered a chance to escape but refused and went with his children to the gas chambers. Stories like that are not everyday, you mull over them. Would you have done that?”

But while, like any tourism, dark tourism at its best is thought-provoking and educational, the example of Grenfell Tower hints at the unease felt at some sites about what can look like macabre voyeurism. “I remember the Lonely Planet Bluelist book had a chapter about dark tourism a while ago and one of the rules was ‘don’t go back too early’,” Hohenhaus says. “But that’s easier said than calculated. You have to be very aware of reactions and be discreet when you’re not in a place with an entrance fee and a booklet.” Hohenhaus said he had already thought about Grenfell Tower and admits he would be interested to see it up close. “It’s big, it’s dramatic, it’s black and it’s a story you’ve followed in the news,” he says. “I can see the attraction. But I would not stand in the street taking a selfie.”

A mirror to mortality

An urge to see and feel a place that has been reduced to disaster shorthand by months of media coverage is perhaps understandable, but Stone is most interested in the draw — conscious or otherwise — of destinations that hold up a mirror to our own mortality. “When we touch the memory of people who’ve gone what we’re looking at is ourselves,” he says. “That could have been us in that bombing or atrocity. We make relevant our own mortality.” That process looks different across cultures — and generations — and Stone says we should take this into account before despairing of selfie takers at Grenfell Tower or Auschwitz.

“I’ve heard residents at Grenfell welcoming visitors because it keeps the disaster in the public realm, but they didn’t like people taking photos because it’s a visual reminder that you’re a tourist and therefore somehow defunct of morality,” he explains. “We’re starting to look at selfies now. Are they selfish?” Stone argues that the language of social media means we no longer say “I was here”, but “I am here — see me”. He adds: “We live in a secular society where morality guidelines are increasingly blurred. It’s easy for us to say that’s right or wrong, but for many people it’s not as simple as that.”

“Travel itself is innately voyeuristic,” argues Simon Cockerel, the general manager of Koryo Tours, a North Korea specialist based in Beijing. Cockerel, who has lived in China for 17 years and joined Koryo in 2002, says demand has grown dramatically for trips to Pyongyang and beyond, from 200 people a year in the mid 1990s, when the company started, to more than 5,000 more recently. He has visited the country more than 165 times and says some clients join his tours simply to bag another country, and some for bragging rights. But the majority have a genuine interest in discovering a country — and a people — beyond the headlines.

“I’ve found everyone who goes there to be sensitive and aware of the issues,” he says. “The restrictions do create a framework for it to be a bit like a theme park visit but we work hard to blur those boundaries. More than 25 million people live in North Korea, and 24.99 million of them have nothing to do with what we read in the news and deserve to be seen as people not as zoo animals or lazy caricatures.”

More challenging recently has been the US ban on its citizens going to North Korea, imposed last summer after the mysterious death of Otto Warmbier. The American student had been arrested in Pyongyang after being accused of trying to steal a propaganda poster. Americans made up about 20% of Koryo’s business, but Cockerel argues the greater loss is to mutual perception in the countries. “The North Korean government represent Americans as literal wolves with sharpened nails,” he says. “At least a few hundred Americans going there was a kind of bridgehead against that. Now that’s gone.”

At Grenfell Tower, responsible tourism may yet serve to keep alive the memory of the disaster, just as it does, after a dignified moratorium, at Auschwitz and the former Ground Zero. Hohenhaus says he will resist the urge to go until some sort of memorial is placed at the site of the tower. At around the time of a commemorative service at St Paul’s Cathedral six months after the fire, there were calls for the site eventually to be turned into a memorial garden. The extent to which Hohenhaus and other dark tourists are welcomed will be decided by the people still living there.

Front view of block 10 at Auschwitz concentration camp, Poland. Image: Getty

Front view of block 10 at Auschwitz concentration camp, Poland. Image: Getty

5 dark tourism sites

North Korea
Opened to visitors in the late 1980s, North Korea now attracts thousands of tourists each year for a peek behind the headlines.

Auschwitz-Birkenau
The former Nazi death camp became a memorial in 1947 and a museum in 1955. It’s grown since and in 2016 attracted a record two million visitors.

9/11 Memorial and Museum
Built in the crater left by the twin towers of the World Trade Center, the museum, opened in 2014, has won plaudits for its portrayal of a disaster and its impact.

Rwanda
Visitor numbers to genocide memorials have grown in Cambodia and Bosnia as well as in Rwanda, where there are several sites dedicated to the 1994 massacre of up to a million people. The skulls of victims
are displayed.

Chernobyl & Pripyat, Ukraine
Several tour companies exist to send visitors to the exclusion zone and ghost town left otherwise empty after the nuclear accident in 1986. All are scanned for radiation as they leave.

Published in the March 2018 issue of National Geographic Traveller (UK)