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Author: Fiona Murphy, Assistant Professor in Refugee and Intercultural Studies, Dublin City University
Original article: https://theconversation.com/go-back-to-where-you-came-from-channel-4s-social-experiment-makes-a-spectacle-of-empathy-for-refugees-248803
The new Channel 4 programme Go Back to Where You Came From is unsettling viewing, almost unbearable at times. It takes six British citizens – some staunchly anti-immigration, others more open – and drops them into lives shaped by conflict and displacement.
The premise is to cultivate understanding of the refugee experience, to make the unimaginable tangible. But in doing so, the show risks turning forced displacement into spectacle, reducing suffering to an immersive learning experience for those with the privilege of ignorance.
The show opens with participants offering their views – filmed in their homes or standing at the cliffs of Dover, where one man declares: “What I’d do is, I’d set landmines up, and then any boat that comes within 50m of this beach, they’d get blown up.”
Then, two teams, two journeys. One is sent to Somalia, the other to Syria.
In Mogadishu, Nathan, Jess and Matilda navigate a city carved up by checkpoints, escorted by an American security team. Nathan surveys the streets like a man assessing a lost cause: a “shithole”, he mutters. Jess, fiercely anti-immigration, feels exposed – her fear magnified by the weight of unfamiliar eyes, the choreography of a life not her own. She wants to leave.
At a camp for internally displaced people, women speak of gender-based violence, of female genital mutilation, of lives spent in spaces never built for them. Jess listens, nods and files their words neatly into the folder of convictions she brought with her. She does not question; she confirms. The mindsets of Somalian men, she concludes, are the problem.
In Raqqa, Bushra, Chloe and Dave pick their way through streets reduced to rubble. Chloe complains about the rubbish, as if it were neglect rather than obliteration. “They should stay and clean it up,” she says. The children sifting through debris do not register. In a bombed-out home, a father speaks of safety, the only thing he wants for his children. The children do not speak.
The violence of ‘refuge’
Watching the show, I thought of the conversations I’ve had with asylum seekers and refugees on the island of Ireland as part of my research. Many speak of the quiet violence of exclusion – how “welcome” is so often a hollow gesture, how refuge can feel like another form of exile.
Many recount racial hatred in the streets, the fear woven into daily movements, the gnawing sense that they are barely tolerated, not wanted. Some have told me, with devastating clarity, that had they known what awaited them here – homelessness, suspicion, a life in bureaucratic limbo – they might never have fled at all. Not because home was safe, but because this isn’t living either.
These experiences are not anomalies. They are built into the asylum systems in the UK and Ireland, where deterrence is policy. As of mid-2024, 122.6 million people have been forcibly displaced worldwide, yet the UK hosts just 1% of them.
And “hosting” often takes the form of offshore detention, indefinite waiting and policies designed to make seeking refuge as inhospitable as possible. In Ireland, the failure is just as insidious: asylum seekers sleeping rough, vulnerability assessments in name only, the quiet withdrawal of care until people simply disappear from view.
Read more:
’When you get status the struggle doesn’t end’: what it’s like to be a new refugee in the UK
After the first episode of the Channel 4 show, I am left wondering: what is the point of each participant’s journey? The documentary trades in empathy – tracking transformation by how much the participants feel, learn and change. But empathy, when it stops at the self, is just another performance. It asks: how have I been altered? Instead of: what must I do with what I now know?
This is the trap of a genre that packages suffering into something neatly consumable. As film researcher Pooja Rangan argues, humanitarian documentaries often render asylum seekers passive, their worth measured by how much sympathy they can elicit. Go Back to Where You Came From follows this script, focusing not on the agency of the displaced, but on the moral awakenings of those who continue to look away.
The real question is not whether the participants feel something, but whether feeling will ever translate into action – by them, or by us as viewers. To hold governments to account. To insist that refuge is a right, not a privilege. To refuse the quiet, grinding violence of neglect.
“Go back to where you came from” is a phrase hurled not just at refugees, but at anyone deemed out of place. The programme inverts it, sending its wielders on a reckoning. But in the end, they return. To safety, to comfort, to homes untouched by war or exile. Or, as one put it, back to the pub.
And yet, for those seeking refuge, the journey drags on – through border camps, detention centres, doorways, the freezing cold and the bureaucracy of the asylum system – while the world watches, then turns off their televisions.