The humanitarian borderscape on Gran Canaria (Part 2)

Where are the angry white saviours?

Text by Melina Fischer (Paris-Lodron University Salzburg)

Art by Amber Rijcken

>> Read part 1 here <<

Humanitarian Borderwork on Gran Canaria

Humanitarian borderwork “is oriented around alleviating the worst excesses of the violence of sovereign borders” (Pallister-Wilkins 2015b, 5) and as such consolidates the border as “selectively permeable spaces of inclusion and exclusion” (Pallister-Wilkins 2015b, 6). Through categorizations of vulnerability – determining who deserves what kind of help – bordering processes are enacted, and socio-political hierarchies reinforced (Pallister-Wilkins 2017, 120). Thus, based on critical humanitarian and critical border studies, Pallister-Wilkins makes clear that humanitarianism’s foundation on one humanity and its principle of impartiality are nothing more than an ideal[1]. In reality, “categorizations of vulnerability”, such as the division of adult men, children, and women, are an integral aspect of humanitarian aid. Hence, apart from the resulting dissociation from politics, as discussed in the first section, this foundation leads to the obscuration and reproduction of existing inequalities and socio-political hierarchies such as gender, age, or race. Moreover, this has clear implications for how humanitarian borderwork unfolds. Here, I argue, insights gained from critical whiteness studies are illuminative. In the following, I will illustrate how humanitarian borderwork on Gran Canaria, despite good intentions, was influenced by racialized narratives based on white ignorance, which shaped volunteers’ perceptions of vulnerability and influenced their interactions with migrants.

No Racists in a Borderless World

Racism directed towards migrants with a “Moroccan” appearance persisted as a systemic challenge on Gran Canaria. Instances of graffiti bearing anti-Moroccan sentiments and firsthand accounts from migrants themselves underscore the prevalence of such discriminatory attitudes. Perhaps most revealing is the observation that the majority of migrants living on the streets were young male Moroccans, while other migrant groups found refuge in shelters. Within volunteering circles, while overt expressions of racism may be limited, they nevertheless existed. Spain’s colonial history and geopolitical tensions with Morocco contribute to the structural discrimination faced by Moroccan migrants. Anti-Muslim sentiments, exacerbated by the post-9/11 securitization, further compound their marginalization. Volunteers’ perceptions of vulnerability are thus influenced by racialized narratives and historical legacies, shaping their interactions with migrants. For instance, some volunteers stopped preparing the bocadillos for migrants (mostly Moroccan men) living on the street in Las Palmas because they felt Senegalese migrants (mostly Muslims themselves) as more deserving of assistance. One volunteer told me that she had visited Morocco as a tourist and had seen with her own eyes that it is not a poor country and there was no need to leave it. This selective approach to assistance reflects broader bordering processes that reinforce socio-political hierarchies and perpetuate racialized understandings of vulnerability.

United in Color-blindness: White Ignorance And The Illusion of One Humanity

“Soy ciudadana del mundo” – “I am a citizen of the world” (Maria, 27.10.2021, interview conducted in Spanish, translated by the author).

This simple statement by Maria, a Spanish volunteer on Gran Canaria, encapsulates a deeply rooted humanitarian ideal: the belief in a universal, borderless human community (Fassin 2007). Yet, beneath its inclusive veneer lies a profound contradiction. Maria’s claim reflects a color-blind, universalist worldview that erases structural inequalities and reinforces white ignorance (Mills 2007) - a refusal to see how race, history, and mobility shape differential experiences at Europe’s borders.

This notion of global citizenship, akin to the humanitarian ideal of a shared humanity, is rooted in the “noble idea” that everyone is “born free and equal in dignity and rights,” thus nominally part of a single, universal “human family” (Chapman et al. 2018, 146). While this critique has been central to critical humanitarian studies (Fassin 2007; Ticktin 2011), scholars like Walters (2011) and Pallister-Wilkins (2015b, 2021) build on this work to trace how these ideals take shape at the border. Pallister-Wilkins (2021, 101) argues that the ideal of universal humanity not only legitimizes humanitarian action but also reinforces racialized perceptions through bordering practices. Critical whiteness scholars like Charles Mills (2007) and Gloria Wekker (2016) extend this critique by showing how these ideals operate epistemically - through mechanisms such as white ignorance and color-blindness. Sylvia Wynter (1996) argues that the moral commitment to “all human life” obscures the reality that, in our world, this typically refers to the white, cis, “bourgeois” man. This perspective facilitates the neglect of issues related to race and racism. Mills (2007) describes this systemic refusal by white individuals to acknowledge the imperialist past and its contemporary consequences as “white ignorance,” a “group-based cognitive handicap” that implies the possibility of an opposing “knowledge” (Mills, 15). This ignorance is linked to processes of de-contextualization. I argue the humanitarian borderscape is haunted by this “fundamental epistemic asymmetry” (Mills 2007, 17). Humanitarianism’s founding principle of one universal humanity has merely transformed white normativity into “color-blindness” (Wekker 2016), allowing white individuals to avoid confronting Europe’s colonial history and its ongoing consequences.

Revisiting Maria’s statement through this theoretical lens makes clear how her sense of global belonging is entangled with the racialized asymmetries that structure the humanitarian borderscape. Maria, a Spanish language teacher, and I frequently taught together. The classes were small, typically comprising three to five migrants, predominantly from Senegal, Gambia, or Ivory Coast, which afforded us ample time for conversation. Maria, in her mid-thirties, was born and raised in mainland Spain. However, she had spent two years working with a Spanish NGO to build a school in rural Mali. She moved to Gran Canaria during the “emergency” period, driven by a strong desire to support migrants. While seeking employment, she engaged in various volunteer activities. When Mohamed, a 32-year-old migrant from Senegal, first joined our class and asked Maria where she was from, she responded, “ciudadana del mundo”. Her answer – delivered with ease – reflected not only a cosmopolitan self-image but also a taken-for-granted sense of global mobility and belonging.

Yet, this moment also brought into stark relief the contrast between her mobility and Mohamed’s. The difference between the relative freedom of movement enjoyed by volunteers and the constrained, often dangerous trajectories of migrants exemplifies the asymmetry entailed in white ignorance. The group of volunteers on Gran Canaria was quite international, with individuals coming from countries such as the Netherlands, Italy, mainland Spain, Germany, and Poland. The highly mobile lives of white volunteers, who have the privilege to choose destinations based on personal preference, starkly contrast with the constrained and perilous journeys of migrants, who often flee desperate conditions and arrive in places like the Canary Islands out of necessity, not choice. Known for its warm climate, the Canary Islands – geographically closer to Africa than Europe and often referred to as one of Spain’s last colonies – attract many volunteers during high season in winter, when, due to the calmness of the sea, most migrants arrive. This asymmetry in mobility is further complicated by the reality that migrants, despite being highly mobile and international themselves, cannot claim the same status as “global citizens”. For example, Mohamed, who asked Maria where she is from, had previously worked as a model in South Africa and traveled extensively, meeting people from all over the world whom he now calls friends. His journey from Senegal to South Africa, back to Morocco, and ultimately to the Canary Islands is a testament to the incredible mobility and resilience of many migrants. Volunteers’ ability to move freely and their often temporary presence in the Canary Islands not only illustrate the epistemic asymmetry integral to humanitarian borderwork but can also lead to a lack of deep engagement with the long-term, systemic issues faced by migrants.

While the sentiment of belonging to a global family, as articulated by Maria and echoed by many volunteers, suggests an inclusive and egalitarian worldview, the realities on the ground reveal deep-seated prejudices and systemic discrimination. The persistence of racism against migrants with a “Moroccan” appearance on Gran Canaria stands in contrast with the volunteers’ professed ideals of a borderless, universal community. This disparity between the humanitarian ideals of a unified human family and the lived experiences of racialized migrants underscores the illusion of one humanity. It reveals how humanitarian borderwork, despite good intentions, can perpetuate racial hierarchies and reinforce the very borders volunteers seek to overcome.

Another example that illustrates these different worldviews is the rigid adherence to nuclear family structures. State-enforced practices and volunteer actions both reflect Eurocentric norms, but at different systemic levels. The strict protocols of DNA testing imposed on migrant families to verify biological relationships upon arrival, as described earlier, illustrate how Eurocentric notions of family and white ignorance manifest in violent ways. These practices enforce rigid definitions of kinship, disregarding cultural norms and contributing to the dehumanization of migrants within the humanitarian borderscape. At the shelter for women and children where I regularly volunteered, volunteers frequently took children to the playground or the beach to provide them a much-needed break from the confines of the shelter. According to the shelter’s rules, mothers were required to accompany their children; if they refused, the children could not join. While exceptions were occasionally made – such as another woman signing a document to take responsibility for an additional child – they were guided by long discussions. Many mothers, often traumatized and depressed themselves, did not want to leave the shelter. The result was frequent scenes of children crying, begging their mothers to go outside, while volunteers tried to persuade the women to join so their children could play.

One Dutch volunteer, Lisa, reflected on this frustration during an interview: “I really do not understand the mothers. Why does Fanta never want to go out with [her child]? If I were her, I would make sure my son gets to have fresh air and fun at least once a day. Eye roll It’s so annoying to have the same discussions every day, and honestly, it breaks my heart to leave children behind. All they want to do is play.” Lisa, a twenty-year-old volunteer in the midst of “finding herself”, was unsure about her future career or studies. Initially planning to travel to Latin America, she instead came to Gran Canaria to surf and support migrants when Covid-19 restrictions changed her plans. Lisa’s comment, though seemingly compassionate, is steeped in white ignorance, particularly in its failure to understand the mothers’ cultural and emotional context they faced. Her frustration stems from a color-blind, universalist perspective, where she assumes everyone should behave according to her own cultural norms.

This view overlooks the racial and cultural factors that shape the mothers’ behavior. By ignoring these differences, Lisa’s perspective obscures the deeper inequalities and power imbalances within the humanitarian borderscape, making it harder to address the specific needs of the women in the shelter. In many “non-Western” cultures, including those of the women in the shelter, caregiving is communal – children are often cared for by multiple adults, all of whom may be referred to as “Mama” (McEwen 2017). The rigid insistence on individual maternal responsibility, as seen in the shelter’s rules, reflects a Eurocentric worldview shaped by colonial maternalism (Sahraoui & Tyszler 2021) that ignores cultural differences and lacks sensitivity to the mothers’ mental health. These women, many of whom had risked their lives fleeing violence in hopes of a better future for their children, were often struggling with trauma and emotional exhaustion. Their reluctance to comply with the rules was not a sign of neglect, but rather a lack of understanding why each mother should personally accompany her child on top of the (minimum two) volunteers who joined.

The reluctance to confront racism within humanitarian circles reflects a broader trend of color-blindness, where individuals profess not to see race, thereby obscuring the systemic inequalities faced by racialized communities. This tendency was palpable during informal conversations, where topics like racism or whiteness were often met with silence or discomfort. Volunteers frequently deflected or avoided discussions about racism, insisting that “we are all one” or that “race doesn’t matter here.” When I once proposed organizing a workshop on racism and white privilege for volunteers, the idea was met with resistance, not overt hostility, but genuine confusion and discomfort. One volunteer, visibly surprised, told me with full conviction: “But I work with migrants. That means I can’t be racist.” This statement, though perhaps well-intentioned, revealed how whiteness can shield itself from scrutiny by equating proximity to racialized others with immunity from racism. Such responses highlight how color-blindness functions as a moral alibi – a way for white volunteers to maintain an image of benevolence while sidestepping the deeper structural conditions of inequality. In this sense, whiteness retains the power not only to define what counts as racism, but to deny its own involvement in it. Thus, despite their best intentions, color-blind volunteering practices risk reinforcing the very systems of oppression they seek to challenge.

Discussion: No Angry White Saviors

Another central indication that the idea of one universal humanity has is that it is “taken up as a call to action for people in the North to save people in the global South under a mirage of unity and ally-ship” (Chapman et al. 2018, 159). In my analysis, I encountered a profound interplay between the notion of one universal humanity, the manifestation of the white savior complex within humanitarian borderwork and emotions of grief and sadness for the migrant victim.

The white savior complex is “a network of practices, policies, organizations, and institutions responsible for reifying historical inequities by continuing to maintain control over (…) People of Color through a complex system of predominantly white-led initiatives” (Willer-Kherbaoui & Aronson 2022, 269). Most organizations involved in humanitarian borderwork on Gran Canaria – whether grassroots, repurposed hotels, or established organizations – were white-led. Often, it was not even local humanitarian borderworkers but people coming from other European countries such as Norway or Germany. The fact that white individuals dominate these leadership positions, rather than those directly affected by migration or local actors, perpetuates a top-down model that reinforces the existing racial power dynamics. Moreover, the “white savior complex” requires the victimization of Black people so that whites can co-construct their position as saviors (Willer-Kherbaoui 2019; Manji 2019; Flaherty 2016). Because most of the migrants who arrive at Europe’s southern border are male, to be identified as “in need of help” infantilizing processes were enacted (Palillo 2022, 332). Hereby, emotions of feeling sorry for the less fortunate played an important role in maintaining these asymmetrical power hierarchies.

Infantilized Masculinities

During my fieldwork, I observed instances where well-intentioned volunteer efforts led to the infantilization of adult male migrants, treating them as passive recipients of aid rather than as individuals with agency. One compelling example unfolded during the organization of a weekend retreat for migrants at a remote mountain finca. Although the volunteers endeavored to create an environment of recreation and engagement, the activities planned for the migrants bore a striking resemblance to those typically associated with children’s birthdays. As the migrants, predominantly men in their thirties, were invited to participate in games and crafting sessions, their expressions of frustration and disinterest were palpable. It became apparent that these activities, while well-intentioned, failed to resonate with their lived experiences and needs.

One migrant named Mustafa found himself unable to attend his usual work selling blankets and bracelets on the beach due to his participation in the activities at the mountain finca. As the organizer had promised to provide him with a ride back to the city in time for him to catch the bus and work for some hours in the evening, Mustafa had agreed to join the retreat. However, when the time came for him to leave, the organizer's car had been rented out to someone else for the entire afternoon, leaving Mustafa stranded and unable to go to work. This situation highlighted the unintended consequences of well-meaning volunteer initiatives, rooted in white ignorance. While the retreat was intended to provide migrants with a brief recovery from the challenges they faced, Mustafa’s inability to return to work meant forfeiting much-needed income that he would have otherwise sent to his family back home.

Further, language serves as a potent tool in shaping perceptions and reinforcing power dynamics within the humanitarian borderwork, particularly in the manifestation of white saviorism. The use of seemingly benign terms such as “boys” and “Mama Africa” in interactions between volunteers and migrants illustrates how language can perpetuate harmful narratives and reinforce existing hierarchies. When adult male migrants are referred to as “boys”, it not only infantilizes them but also diminishes their agency and autonomy, positioning them as passive recipients of help rather than individuals with their own experiences and identities. Similarly, the self-designation of a volunteer as “Mama Africa” imbues her with a maternal authority over the migrants under her care, further reinforcing the dynamic of white saviorism.

As scholarship on the “emasculation”, “the erosion of the masculine identity” (Palillo 2021, 334), and the infantilization of male migrants shows, apart from race, masculinity has become a key classification for humanitarian borderworkers to formulate categorizations of vulnerability. This is due to the fact that predominantly young male adults arrive at Europe’s southern border (Palillo 2021, 332). Because the volunteers need “innocent victims” to be able to construct themselves as “saviors”, and because grown-up, mostly Muslim, Black men do not fit into the image of vulnerable victims in need, infantilizing processes were enacted. As Liisa Malkki illustrates, “childlike innocence“ is the archetype of “innocent victims”. It “(…) is a way of making recipients of humanitarian assistance a tabula rasa, innocent of politics and history, innocent, in a way, about causes of war and enmity. Thus is their need for help neutralized. Pure need” (Malkki 2015, 82). These infantilizing processes further act to de-humanize migrants, who – like Mustafa – get constituted not as “self-determined individuals, capable of desires, actions, and speech” (Fleischmann & Steinhilper 2017, 21) but as passive recipients of humanitarian aid (Nyers 2006). De-humanization involves the reduction of “a complex group of people into one simplified stereotype, attempting to systemically deny individuals the ability to define their own identity and reality” (Willer-Kherbaoui 2019, 14).

Moreover, these infantilizing processes are good examples to describe how colonial hierarchies and racialized narratives get reproduced and manifested in spaces such as the humanitarian borderscape. Historically, othering processes played an important role in the construction of the “civilized Western self”. As Ranjan Bandyopadhyay and Vrushali Patil illustrate, with the Enlightenment and its focus on progress, “the racialized and gendered others of European colonialism were increasingly imagined as children who could be and should be educated and developed (…)” (Bandyopadhyay & Patil 2017, 648). The Black body was portrayed in opposition to the civilized Western self – only “in terms of what they are not. They are considered chaotic not ordered, traditional not modern, (…), underdeveloped not developed, irrational not rational, lacking in all of those things the West presumes itself to be” (Manji 2019, 3).

In summary, infantilizing and de-historicizing processes enable volunteers on Gran Canaria to de-humanize migrants and turn them into “innocent victims” in need of help. This is an essential step because it allows the volunteers, even if un-consciously, to co-construct themselves as saviors. Moreover, the infantilization of migrants allowed volunteers to sustain emotions of sadness and grief towards the “Other” and thus prevented a critical confrontation with structural inequalities that put migrants in this situation in the first place. In the following, I will delve into the nuances of these emotional dynamics, exploring how they inform humanitarian borderwork and influence the broader socio-political context of the European borderscape.ape.

Empathy or Ignorance?: Lessons From Black Feminist Thought

“The white savior mentality is shaped by a desire to feel good doing something for another” and “revolves around an emotional experience and a desire to receive an emotional reward for ‘doing good’” (Willer-Kherbaoui 2019, 19). Brittney Cooper, in “Eloquent Rage” (2018), discusses how the perpetuation of the “feeling-sorry” narrative for the less fortunate is deeply rooted in a superficial understanding of the lived experiences of marginalized populations. In the humanitarian borderscape on Gran Canaria, emotions such as sadness and pity, when coupled with white ignorance and a refusal to acknowledge colonial past and present complicities, facilitated infantilizing processes that enabled humanitarian volunteers to position themselves as white saviors, ultimately maintaining white privilege. Cooper emphasizes that while these emotions may stem from a place of empathy, they often lack a deeper engagement with the structural inequalities that perpetuate the suffering of marginalized groups. This dynamic is evident among humanitarian borderworkers on Gran Canaria, where the narrative of ‘innocent migrant victims’ often prevailed, allowing volunteers to avoid critically reflecting on their own positionality as white European citizens.

Audre Lorde, in “The Uses of Anger” (1981), argues that anger is a rational and necessary response to the injustices faced by marginalized groups. If the white saviors on Gran Canaria were to fully comprehend the structural inequalities rooted in the colonial era, they would, like the angry humanitarian borderworkers I encountered during my research, feel indignant and angry. This anger can serve as a clarifying force, revealing the systemic injustices faced by migrants and motivating volunteers to address these issues. However, it requires a shift away from directing emotions solely towards the immediate suffering of migrants and towards a critical self-reflection on their own positionality. This shift could transform their volunteering activities from acts of charity into efforts aimed at historicizing and contextualizing migration and fighting racism within their own societies.

A clear example of this politicized anger came from Fayna, a volunteer from Tenerife. During our online interview, she expressed frustration and indignation – not directed at the migrants, but at the political and economic systems that perpetuate their suffering:

“I also think political denunciation is very significant. I think it is very important to make an analysis as well. What is happening here? What is happening at the international level? What is happening in the countries of Mali, Senegal, or Morocco? Aaaand … and then we have to transmit this information... basically it's about fighting xenophobia and racism, and for that, political education is very central... We have to transmit to society that interculturality is something valuable and rich [rico]. It is not a threat, that's why we work like this.” (Fayna, 16.11.2021, interview conducted in Spanish, translated by the author)

Unlike many volunteers who maintained a depoliticized stance, Fayna’s anger transformed her work. Fayna’s emotional engagement offers a counterpoint to the depoliticized grief and pity of other volunteers, illustrating how anger can provoke critical self-reflection and politically conscious action. Her organization, which originally formed in response to the “emergencia,“ soon shifted its focus to combatting racism within local communities. They created workshops for school children on topics like colonialism and interculturality, aiming to challenge racism and offer a more critical understanding of migration within broader socio-political and historical contexts. This reflects hooks’ (1995) argument that anger, when shared constructively, can inspire collective anti-racist struggle and challenge deeply embedded systems of power.

In “Killing Rage: Ending Racism” (1995) bell hooks reflects on her personal journey, recalling how she learned to suppress her rage while growing up in the racially segregated South of the United States, only later realizing its transformative potential. While Cooper critiques the superficial empathy that drives the white savior complex and Lorde emphasizes the necessity of anger as a rational response to injustice, hooks delves deeper into the transformative power of (Black) rage. She argues that anger is not only a reaction to oppression but also a vital tool for dismantling the very structures that sustain it. Hooks writes, “Rage can act as a catalyst inspiring courageous action” (hooks 1995, 16), and insists that this anger must be embraced, not feared, as it has the potential to both construct and destroy. She further highlights the collective potential of rage, noting that “sharing rage” can bridge divides, connecting older and younger activists – both Black and non-Black – who are eager to engage in anti-racist struggle. She asserts that renewed and organized Black liberation cannot occur without tapping into this collective rage, which has the power to inspire and sustain resistance (hooks 1995, 19-20). Unlike emotions like grief or sadness, which, as I have argued in this article, can often reinforce the status quo by positioning the oppressed as perpetual victims, hooks’ concept of rage challenges these dynamics by rejecting victimhood altogether: “My rage intensifies because I am not a victim” (hooks 1995, 18).

However, Black feminists also caution against the simplistic valorization of anger over other emotions, emphasizing the importance of understanding the context in which emotions arise. I am aware that binary thinking, which positions emotions like anger in opposition to sadness or grief, oversimplifies complex emotional landscapes and reinforces Eurocentric perspectives. Emotions like sadness and pity, often seen as passive or unproductive, can be powerful motivators for change when understood and harnessed correctly. As illustrated in Black feminist scholarship, sadness can foster empathy and a deeper understanding of suffering, while anger can drive action against injustice. The key is to recognize the interplay of these emotions and their potential to either perpetuate or dismantle power structures, depending on the specific context. Moreover, love and solidarity are central to Black feminist thought. bell hooks (2000), in particular, emphasizes that love, when rooted in a deep, empathetic understanding of others’ experiences, can transcend the limitations of grief and sadness, transforming them into a force for genuine solidarity and collective action.

Conclusions

In conclusion, the humanitarian borderscape on Gran Canaria is shaped by “processes of im/mobility” that “produce specific times, spaces and types of care” (Pallister-Wilkins 2017, 114). The immobility of migrants in the winter of 2020/21, crucial for the emergence of the „emergencia,“ played a vital role in reconstructing the humanitarian borderscape. It acted as a catalyst (Verbalyte et al. 2022) for predominantly emotions of grief and sadness, mobilizing a range of humanitarian volunteers and introducing them into the border setting.

However, while these emotions spurred efforts to alleviate the violence of Europe’s borders, they also led to a de-contextualized and de-politicized view of migration. Humanitarian volunteers, guided by the principle of neutrality and impartiality, positioned themselves as the counterpart to politics, thereby failing to grasp their complicity in a repressive border regime. Additionally, the pervasive notion of “global citizenship”, stemming from humanitarianism’s foundation on one humanity, obscured and perpetuated existing inequalities and socio-political hierarchies through the enactment of categorizations of vulnerability. Processes of infantilization allowed humanitarian volunteers to construct their identity as saviors of the “innocent migrant victim”, perpetuating a narrative of paternalistic superiority. By treating migrants as helpless children in need of saving, humanitarian borderworkers reinforced power imbalances and denied agency to those they were seeking to assist.

This article challenges existing narratives and calls for a politicization of humanitarianism, advocating for a more nuanced understanding of emotions and power dynamics in humanitarian contexts. It underscores the importance of recognizing the systemic inequalities rooted in colonial legacies and the need for critical self-reflection among humanitarian volunteers. By harnessing the transformative potential of anger, humanitarian borderworkers can work towards dismantling oppressive structures and fostering more equitable and effective approaches to addressing the complexities of migration and inequality along Europe’s borders and beyond.

Notes

[1] Scholars of critical humanitarian studies have long argued that these ideals are not simply personal moral commitments but systemic foundations of humanitarianism itself - foundations that inherently shape and limit the kinds of responses available (Fassin 2007; Malkki 1996; Nyers 2006).

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