In the marketplace of ideas, words are not neutral. There is a saying that words are fragile and delicate, and once spoken, they cannot be unsaid or taken back, much like a broken egg can’t be put together.
Words carry weight, power, and historical shadows. One such word – seemingly harmless, ubiquity – is “local.” As a descriptor, it appears in newsrooms, humanitarian reports, academic papers, development programs, and diplomatic briefings.
However, behind its simplicity. lies a linguistic hierarchy that continues to shape global inequality. When people from the Global South are repeatedly labelled as “locals” or “local engineers” while their Western counterparts are simply called experts, journalists, or professionals, language becomes a tool of quick subordination.
Across Africa, Asia, the Middle East, Latin America, and the Pacific, “local” has become a qualifier that shrinks expertise. It hardly describes geography alone. It often functions as a signal – intentional or not – that some knowledge is global while other knowledge is provincial.
In disaster zones, NGO reports frequently speak of “locals on the ground,” even when those “locals” include accomplished doctors, engineers, reporters, and civil servants. When an earthquake hits Europe, the coverage rarely mentions “locals.” But when it hits Turkey or Morocco, the noun appears instantly, flattening millions into an anonymous group whose identities are not worth specifying.
The linguistic imbalance becomes even sharper in professional contexts. Consider the phrase “local engineers.” In development projects, a foreign contractor from Europe is introduced as a “technical expert,” while an engineer from Kenya, Bangladesh, or Bolivia is introduced as a “local engineer.” The same degree, the same experience, the same technical expertise – but one is global and authoritative, and the other is local and secondary.
In academic publications, researchers from the Global South are frequently referred to as “local collaborators,” even when they contribute most of the fieldwork, analysis, and community knowledge. Meanwhile, Western authors enjoy elevated status as principal investigators or lead researchers.
Even within countries like Canada, the same principles apply. Professional identity should always take precedence over geography. Journalists, engineers, doctors, and other experts are defined by their training, experience, and integrity – not the city or country where they are based. Referring to someone as a “local reporter” or “local engineer” unnecessarily diminishes their expertise.
A far better standard is to identify them by their profession or the organization they represent: “a CBC reporter in Vancouver,” “a Vancouver correspondent for CTV News,” or simply “a journalist reporting from Lagos.” These formulations provide context without implying hierarchy. They respect both the individual’s [professional standing and the audience’s need for clarity. Geography may matter for situational detail, but it should never define the credibility of a professional.
The noun “locals” is particularly problematic. It homogenizes entire populations, erasing nationality, identity, and individuality. It reduces Nigerians, Indonesians, Peruvians, or Syrians to an anonymous mass, even in situations where their names, professions, and expertise matter. This flattening mirrors colonial-era vocabulary that labelled whole societies as “natives” or “tribespeople,” regardless of their diversity and complexity.
Meanwhile, professionals from Western nations are never called “.locals”; an engineer in Berlin is simply an engineer, but an equally skilled engineer in Nairobi suddenly becomes a “local engineer,” as though expertise changes with latitude.
Such language does not only describe geography – it creates inequality. It legitimizes the idea that some knowledge is universal while other knowledge is provincial. It shapes global narratives to privilege outsiders over insiders, foreigners over citizens, and Western voices over non-Western ones.
In a supposedly interconnected world, the persistence of this linguistic bias reveals how deeply embedded old hierarchies remain. If the global community genuinely seeks equity in knowledge and expertise, it must start by naming professionals as professionals, and people ads people – without shrinking their credibility behind the adjective “local.”
The; problem is not the dictionary meaning of “local.” The issue is how global language deploys it as a subtle ranking system. A journalist in Nairobi is a “local journalist”; a hydrologist in Canada is an expert This asymmetry reveals a deeper truth: the world continues to believe that knowledge flows outward from Western centres of authority, while everyone else is merely responding to the world rather than shaping it.
This is not a trivial matter of semantics. Language shapes legitimacy. Legitimacy shapes policy. Policy shapes lives. When Western institutions frame themselves as global but describe others as local, they implicitly claim the role of universal arbiters. Kit is the same logic that once allowed colonial administrators to present themselves as “civilizing” agents while dismissing the knowledge systems, governance structures, and intellectual traditions of the societies they dominated. Today’s global vocabulary does not need to be overtly racist or colonial to replicate that hierarchy; it simply needs to appear neutral while systematically elevating one group’s expertise over another’s.
It also manifests in humanitarian work. A medical doctor trained in Lagos lor Jaipur can have decades of experience working in resource-strained environments, managing outbreaks, or handling emergencies. Yet, international reports routinely refer to them as “local doctors,” while newly arrived Western volunteers – sometimes with less experience – are described as “international medical teams.” A Western intern in an NGO is an “international staff member.” A Nigerian with twenty years of experience is a “local worker”
The imbalance is as absurd as it is revealing!
Even in tourism, the term “locals” carries a subtle othering. In many travel narratives, “locals” are painted as colourful characters inhabiting an exotic background – sources of wisdom, charm, or danger depending on the angle – but rarely as fully realized citizens with their own complexities. When a travel writer lands in Rome, he meets “Romans.” But when he lands in Lagos, he meets “locals.” The difference is not accidental. It reflects global imagination.
The world is changing, and expertise is no longer centred on the West. If it ever was. African scientists lead breakthroughs in epidemiology; Indian engineers anchor the global technology sector. Journalists in Latin America expose corruption at great personal risk. Environmental researchers in the Pacific are at the frontlines of climate science. Sociologists in Southeast Asia are reframing global theories of power and community. These are not “local professionals.” These are global voices, shaping global knowledge.
If the world wants to move beyond the inherited hierarchies of the colonial past, the language of colonial reporting, scholarship, and diplomacy must evolve. Words can either reinforce the old order or help build a more honest one. Using “local” with care – and with awareness – may seem small. But dismantling a hierarchy often begins with noticing it.
The earlier the linguistic habits were retired the better so that they may cease confining people to the margins of their own expertise. The world cannot claim to value diversity while continuing to describe the majority as “local.”
In the economy of global narratives, it is time for equality – not just in policy and practice, but in language itself.
