Gorée Island: Where History Holds Us, and Love Leads Us

A Visit Long Awaited

We arrived in Dakar late at night, and I knew immediately that Gorée Island had to be one of our first stops. I didn’t want the days to pass without going, I didn’t want to miss it. This wasn’t just another place to visit, it was something I had felt I needed to witness for years.

The next morning, a Friday just before the weekend rush, we made our way to the ferry terminal. Earlier that day, we had already visited a few landmarks in Dakar, including the magnificent African Renaissance Monument. Even though we spoke little French, locals smiled, greeted us with curiosity, and made an effort to connect in English, in Spanish, and always with joy when talking to my son, Thierry. While we waited for the ferry, people came up just to chat. We felt welcomed.

The ferry ride was short, only about thirty minutes, but full of life. A group of schoolchildren a little older than Thierry filled the boat with laughter and chatter. Thierry found a group of men playing Senegalese maracas and quickly joined in. Before I knew it, he was clapping along, smiling ear to ear. When I joined them, they were shouting “This time for Africa!” while clapping and dancing, and they even taught him how to play the instruments. It was a warm and joyful moment. One I’ll carry with me always.

But as the island came into view, something shifted in me.

The Silence of Stone

The sea was calm, and the sky perfectly clear, bougainvillea spilling over colorful buildings and fishing boats floating gently along the shore. Gorée looked peaceful, idyllic even. But I knew what lay ahead... I could feel it, like a quiet weight settling in my chest.

When we stepped off the ferry, that silence deepened.

We walked toward the Maison des Esclaves, the House of Slaves. There weren’t many other visitors, and no one said much, because we didn’t need to. Inside, the air changed. It was heavier with the weight of history. You could feel it settle in your chest as if the silence had its own presence.

Only the guides’ voices moved softly through the stone corridors, speaking of horrors I still struggle to put into words. I walked slowly, sometimes alone because I didn’t want to rush through it. I wanted to listen, not just to the facts being told, but to the silence and the walls. I ran my hand along the stone, especially in the room where women and children were held. I knew that space held too many stories for words.

One detail that will never leave me: how they punished those who resisted, people who refused to accept being treated as less than human. They were locked in a hole in the wall, a cell so small not even a child could stand upright. That image still turns my stomach.

The Door of No Return

Eventually, we reached the Door of No Return. A simple arch, facing the sea. This was the last thing thousands of enslaved Africans saw before being forced onto ships, taken far from their homes, their families, their land. From everything they had ever known, straight into the unknown.

I stood there with tears in my eyes. I didn’t take pictures of myself. I couldn’t pose, and I didn’t want to. But I did take a photo of Thierry, with his right fist raised, standing in front of that door. This wasn’t about me. I wanted him to have that moment, to carry it with him, to remember where he comes from, and to hold the strength of those who came before him.

Just before that, two Spanish tourists asked me to take a photo of them, smiling and ready to pose in front of the door and it felt so wrong. I believe that door is not for smiles but it is for silence, reverence and memory.

Standing there, with only darkness behind and ocean ahead, something in me cracked open. I imagined Thierry’s ancestors and their pain, their fear and I imagined them watching us now. I hoped, somehow, that they would feel proud of him, and of what he will become.

Later, Thierry didn’t say much but he held my hand tightly as we walked back to the ferry. I think he understood, not everything, but enough to carry something with him.

We often visit places like this thinking we’re there to learn but I believe sometimes, we’re also there to unlearn, to be quiet, to ask ourselves: "what does this place need from me, beyond my curiosity?".

Before we left, we stopped at a small artist’s stall near the dock and Thierry picked a handmade maraca. We wanted to contribute, even in a small way, to the people who live there.

But that moment also reminded me of something uncomfortable... Not everyone on the island benefits from the tourism it receives. Despite the steady stream of daily visitors, many locals struggle to earn a living. Some have even been pushed out due to rising costs and the growth of commercial tourism that profits from Gorée’s history without reinvesting in its community. Memory must also be honored with fairness, dignity, and support for those who keep that memory alive.

The Lineage He Carries

I left feeling heavy, but also proud. Proud to have taken my son there and to have planted a seed, a seed of history, of pride and of resilience. I know he’s only seven, and he won’t remember every word, but I hope he remembers the feeling. That standing there mattered. That he comes from a line of people who survived. Who carried music, language, and culture and who passed it on for future generations, despite people trying to erase it and demonize it. 

Being there as a white woman was uncomfortable, as it should be. I wasn’t there to “understand” in a superficial way. I was there to listen, to witness, and to carry the weight with humility.

As a mother of a mixed-race child, I felt anger, sadness but also pride. Because despite everything that was done to people who looked like my son, he is here alive, joyful, whole and his story deserves to be honored, not erased or ignored.

I don’t want to impose answers on him. I want to give him space, space to ask his own questions, to discover his roots, and to carry that with pride.

More Than a Visit

The rest of the island is beautiful, calm, full of flowers and soft breeze. And that makes the weight of its history feel even sharper because both peace and pain live there, side by side. They always have.

Gorée changed me.

Not because it taught me something new, but because it made me feel it deeply. It reminded me that memory is not passive, it is not just about the past but about how we live now, how we raise our children and how we show up in the world.

It reminded me to travel with intention, to support local communities, not just observe them, to speak up and stand up against injustice, not just about the past, but about the present, so we can create a better future together.

Because racism didn’t end with slavery. Colonization is still very much alive. Africa is still misrepresented and underestimated.

And because memory without action is never enough.

If You Ever Go

If you ever go to Gorée, go with your heart open. Don’t just take pictures. Listen to the local voices. Support the local community. Walk slowly. Let yourself feel in your discomfort.

And when you leave,
carry it with you.
Tell the story.
Keep the memory alive.

Because Gorée is not just a place.
It’s a mirror.
A wound.
A lesson carved into stone.
A call to remember,
and to do better.

So that we never look away.
So that we never repeat it.
So that we honor what was lost
in the way we choose to live,
to teach,
to raise our children,
and to carry memory forward.