The topics of ‘travel’ and ‘death’ seem quite dissonant at times. Travel is an activity that you may partake in for a feeling of escape, or to celebrate, or to relax - the word ‘death’ invokes feelings quite the opposite of this
However, if we think about it beyond the surface level discomfort of the word, its tied closely to the tourism industry itself. Outside of resort destinations, much of what creates the desire to visit somewhere is tied closely to its culture or its history – and what is history if not the prolonged study of death.
Sites of historical significance rake in millions of dollars of cash every single year. Auschwitz-Birkenau, the site of some of humanities most despicable crimes, pulled in over 8 million euros in profit in 2020. Cambodia’s 2024 gross tourism revenue amounted to 3.63 billion USD – this is a region where a quarter of the population were lost to the Khmer Rouge’s genocide in the 70s; reminders of this are everywhere in Cambodia. Bullet holes remain in the ‘8th wonder of the world’, Angkor Wat from shootouts between The Khmer Rouge and Vietnamese forces. The killing fields are visited regularly by groups of tourists.
Instead of divorcing the two concepts, I instead argue, that travel and death are inextricably connected to one another. Personally, visiting the ancient site of Angkor Wat summoned a feeling of longing inside of me. An intense desire to witness the stories of the sprawling complex, rather than experiencing it through the imperfect (but much appreciated) recollections of our historians. Witnessing the bullet holes in its walls, and knowing that though initially perceived as destruction, they serve as an important reminder - and a warning of the country’s torrid recent history.
Relics of war are not confined to the bullet holes that litter points of cultural and historical significance, they are found globally; millions of tourists flock to them every year.
Why do we do this? Is it an innate morbid curiosity - dark tourism - or is it to pay our respects, to learn lessons from the bloody human history. One might argue that it’s a case by case basis. Visits to Pablo Escobar’s Guatape mansion for a round of paintball paint a stark comparison to the violent past of the man in question. It may simply be a case of wanting to do something fun in a unique location, but I can’t help but feel that shooting at one another with no consequence in that particular location may have a slightly more sinister reasoning behind it.
The human fascination with death runs deep. It appears in cultural artefacts globally; remembrance monuments are scattered throughout western Europe, Mexico has Dia de los Muertos, Hong Kong and China have Qingming, the list goes on.The human relationship with death is often uncomfortable - but through the study of history and tourism, controversial or not, we warm to the concept. We get closer to it, becoming familiar and comfortable with our proximity to death, all without having to experience it personally. There is a complex relationship between curiosity, cultural tradition, desire for knowledge and also the very human need for shared experiences.The existence of this type of tourism, allows us to engage with the very serious theme of death in meaningful, educational, transformative (and occasionally fun/controversial) ways.
Museums dedicated to the macabre exist throughout the world, from the Mutter Museum in Philadelphia with its collection of medical oddities to Paris's famed catacombs housing the remains of over six million people. These destinations maintain a steady flow of visitors year-round despite—or perhaps because of—their morbid nature. Each visitor walks away with a perspective shift, having confronted mortality through a curated, controlled lens.
Even natural disasters become tourist attractions over time. The ruins of Pompeii, preserved by volcanic ash, draw visitors who marvel at the tragic tableau of life frozen in a moment of catastrophe. Similarly, New Orleans offers "Hurricane Katrina tours" that guide visitors through neighborhoods devastated by the 2005 disaster. The ethics of such tourism is frequently debated—at what point does observation become exploitation?
Travel brochures rarely advertise death explicitly. Instead, they speak of "historical significance" or "cultural heritage," softening the reality that many of these significant sites are cenotaphs to human suffering. Yet we continue to visit, to take photos, to purchase souvenirs. Perhaps this commercialization serves as a buffer, allowing us to engage with death while maintaining emotional distance.
There is, however, a transformative potential in this tourism of tragedy. Visitors to Holocaust memorials frequently report profound shifts in their worldviews. The experience becomes less about witnessing death and more about affirming life—promising to remember, to prevent similar atrocities, to honour those lost by living more consciously.
Some destinations embrace their connection to death openly. Salem, Massachusetts has built an entire tourism industry around its witch trial history. Visitors can tour haunted houses, visit psychics, and purchase witch-themed merchandise. The commercialization might seem distasteful, yet it preserves a crucial historical warning about mass hysteria and persecution.
In our increasingly digital world, where experiences are often mediated through screens, physical presence at sites of historical tragedy provides an authenticity that virtual tours cannot replicate. Standing where others have stood, witnessing what remains of their lives—this embodied knowledge creates a connection across time that textbooks alone cannot achieve.
Perhaps the greatest paradox of death tourism is that at its best, it celebrates life. By confronting us with the impermanence of existence, it urges us to appreciate our limited time. The melancholy that settles after visiting Auschwitz or the 9/11 Memorial isn't solely about mourning—it's a quiet reminder to live intentionally, to resist complacency.
So when planning your next journey, consider what draws you to your chosen destination. Is it the beaches and cocktails? Or is it something deeper—a desire to connect with humanity's ongoing story, to stand where others have stood, to witness the cycle of creation and destruction that defines our shared history? In recognising this connection between travel and mortality, we might discover that tourism at its most profound is not an escape from reality, but a deeper immersion into it.
