I still remember the first time I held my passport in my hands. It wasn’t just a small blue book with my name inside – it was a key, a promise, a declaration of possibility. I was in my 20s and wasn’t immediately sure what travel would do for me, but I had what I needed to find out. As a Black Muslim woman, travel has been a way of expanding my world, learning my history beyond what textbooks tell us, and reclaiming my freedom in ways my ancestors fought for.

And yet, too many Black people in the United States don’t have access to this freedom. According to a survey from 2023, only 34% of Black Americans hold a valid passport.

I can promise that this statistic is not about not wanting to travel internationally; it is more of a reflection of systemic barriers that have long restricted our mobility. From the $165 passport application fee to the deep-rooted fears of traveling abroad, many Black Americans feel locked out of the world.

Furthermore, the lack of representation in travel media or stories of anti-Black racism abroad can create well-warranted anxiety. If we don’t see ourselves safely represented in the narrative of international travel, why bother?

And then there’s the unspoken reality: For generations, Black Americans were actively discouraged – or outright prevented — from moving freely, both within and beyond U.S. borders.

At 38 years old, I’ve lived in five countries and traveled to countless others, digging my heels into the literal paths traversed by Audre Lorde, Maya Angelou, James Baldwin, and so many other Black creatives who not only dared to dream but lived those dreams out loud and in the world. In every place I’ve called home, I’ve felt the weight of their footsteps and the power of their choices. Their journeys weren’t just about escape, they were about expansion—about finding spaces where they could breathe, create and exist beyond the confines of racism and oppression.

These choices were deeply political. They reflected a refusal to accept the criminalisation of Black folks, the silencing of Black voices, and the daily toll of surviving in a country built on anti-Blackness. Much like today, Black people then were searching for places where their full humanity could be recognised.

And so, the desire to explore the world isn’t just rooted in wanderlust. It’s an act of resistance, a declaration that we deserve rest, joy and safety. Leaving the United States, for many, has always been about more than just seeing new sights – it’s about finding freedom in places that won’t criminalise our very existence.

But I also know that for too many Black people who want to visit other countries, the barriers to entry are too high. That’s why I started my Paid Passport Initiative: to remove one of the biggest obstacles standing between Black people and the freedom to move.

The concept is simple but powerful. I would cover the cost of a passport book and the processing fee for Black adults who are ready to take that first step toward global mobility. Using my creator funds from TikTok, along with community support through a campaign I created on GiveSendGo, I’ve been able to fund 18 passports since Jan. 1, 2025 – each one representing a life opened to new possibilities. When I first launched the initiative, I expected interest, but I wasn’t prepared for the overwhelming response, especially since it’s just me. I just wanted to do something to impact people the way travel has impacted me.

Within the first 24 hours, I received 1,500 submissions, and to date, over 9,428 people have applied. They shared stories of wanting to reconnect with their ancestry, pursue job opportunities abroad, or simply experience a world they’ve only seen in books and on screens. It was a reminder that the desire to move and go has always been strong – and my goal is to eliminate the first financial hurdle.

Beyond travel, a passport is one of the strongest proofs of citizenship – a document that can mean the difference between security and uncertainty, especially at a time when citizenship, rights and even personhood are under attack. With voter suppression laws, mass incarceration and policies that disproportionately strip Black people of their rights, having a passport isn’t just about seeing the world – it’s also a safety precaution.

A valid passport ensures that if ever the need arises, we have the ability to leave, to seek refuge, to claim space elsewhere. It’s a safeguard against a system that has historically tried to limit our mobility and erase our belonging. In a world where political tides shift rapidly, possessing a passport isn’t just about freedom. It’s about protection.

Having a passport is a small act of resistance against a system that has long tried to keep us in place. And it’s a reminder that mutual aid, collective care and community support can create real change.

I know firsthand how transformative travel can be. It has shaped my identity, deepened my understanding of myself, and connected me to a global diaspora that exists far beyond the margins of the United States. I want others to experience that – to know that they are not confined and that their existence is not defined by limitations but by possibility.

My goal is to fund 100 passports by the end of 2025, but this is bigger than me. It’s about shifting the way Black people see themselves in the world. It’s about planting the idea that movement is our birthright. Because when we have access, when we have options, we are free. And Black freedom – no matter where it exists – is always worth investing in.

I don’t plan on stopping at 100 passports. Because when we move, we learn. And when we expand, we become unstoppable.