The Legacy That Lingers
My understanding of colonialism, slavery, and empire has been shaped by my education, my experiences in Africa, and my upbringing in the church. My earliest awareness of slavery came through the story of the Exodus. Though my family isn’t Jewish, one year we celebrated Passover. My mom went all out—matzah, bitter herbs, salt water—everything prepared with care. As a child, I didn’t grasp the full meaning, but as we asked the questions—why this night is different, why the bread is unleavened, why the herbs are bitter—the story unfolded. In my limited child’s understanding, it was my first glimpse of God’s deliverance from bondage and the truth that slavery stands in opposition to the freedom and dignity God intends for His creation.
Now, living in a post-colonial African country—one that was the last to abolish slavery and where it is still practiced—I see every day how deeply colonialism has shaped society and how its influence lingers. There are moments when I’ve sat in a local home and wondered about the freedom and story of the person serving me tea. Because of these realities, much of my daily reflection circles back to questions such as: Where do I still notice echoes of colonial thinking in the world around me? How can I, shaped by both Western and African influences, resist repeating those patterns? And how do I live with the awareness that slavery is not only history but a present reality?
Living in Africa has confronted me with uncomfortable truths—the persistence of foreign paternalism, the ways local elites sometimes reinforce it for social or economic advantage, and the ethical tensions that allow such systems to endure. I have also witnessed a version of slavery that differs sharply from the transatlantic understanding I was taught in Western classrooms—less visible, but deeply rooted in a culture that permits its continuation.
Slavery, I have come to see, is not confined to one region or culture. Jeremy Black affirms this in A Brief History of Slavery: “It is scarcely surprising that slavery does not have a single meaning, nor a uniform context.”[1] He continues, “An important part of human history, slavery has no starting point, but it seems to have played a major role from early times.”[2] His observation reveals that slavery is not confined to any one civilization but is a recurring human reality—one that adapts, survives, and conceals itself in new forms. As Black further notes, “Slavery is not only a matter of the past but also has echoes to this day, not least with such practices as debt bondage, penal labour, sexual slavery, human trafficking, and girls sold by dowry into marriages that are little better than servitude.”[3]
Although colonial rule has ended, its influence still shapes much of Africa. Today, colonization takes new forms—economic and political. Western powers continue to exert control through global finance, trade policies, and development programs that often foster dependency rather than autonomy, leaving nations burdened with debt.
Even when intentions are good, our efforts to help can sometimes have consequences we do not fully see—sustaining the very systems that hold others back. Economist Dambisa Moyo argues that modern aid is often shaped by guilt more than partnership. She writes, “It was debt that was holding Africa back. And in that sense it was the West’s fault, as it was the West to whom Africa owed billions. Morality—Western, liberal, guilt-tripped morality—seeped into the development equation.”[4] Western nations often see aid as a moral duty, yet this sense of obligation can unintentionally reinforce dependency. Moyo notes, “The trouble with the aid-dependency model is, of course, that Africa is fundamentally kept in its perpetual childlike state.”[5] The ongoing cycle of loans, debt, and relief—what she calls a “merry-go-round”[6]—may ease the conscience of donors more than it strengthens the independence of those receiving the aid.
Nigel Biggar, in Colonialism: A Moral Reckoning, explores the moral complexity of empire, urging a more balanced evaluation. He argues that while imperial Britain often patronized those it ruled, there were also instances where officials made genuine efforts to understand and respect local cultures. “Did the imperial British patronise native people? Yes, they often did,”[7] Biggar concedes, “but… sometimes they paid them the respect of making a serious investment in getting to know them well, learning their languages and customs, spending time among them and learning from them.”[8] His reflection emphasizes a tension that still persists today—the fine line between engagement and condescension, between partnership and paternalism.
That same paradox appears in William Easterly’s The White Man’s Burden, where he recalls Edmund Burke’s critique of the British East India Company as “a few obscure young men… subverted and tore to pieces the most ancient and revered institutions of ages and nations.”[9] Easterly adds that Belgian administrators in the Congo were “too young and incompetent… isolated, powerless… they do not get to know the villages.”[10] Both authors highlight a recurring pattern: well-intentioned outsiders, convinced of their civilizing mission, misunderstand those they claim to serve. Their observations challenge me to consider how even contemporary development work can echo those same dynamics of pride and distance—especially when aid becomes a substitute for genuine relationship.
Faith, too, is not immune to these complexities. Throughout history, it has both challenged and cooperated with empire—sometimes serving as its conscience, and other times as its instrument. Christian missionary movements reflected this strain. They arose from sincere conviction and compassion, yet often operated within systems that reinforced dependency and control. The same gospel that proclaimed freedom for the oppressed could, when entangled with worldly power, become a tool of subjugation.
Lamin Sanneh, in West African Christianity: The Religious Impact, reflects on this paradox, noting that missionary ideals of self-reliance and indigenous leadership often faltered when Africans began to claim real authority within the church. The very independence missionaries once prayed for was reinterpreted as defiance.[11] Sanneh’s insight exposes the deep moral and theological contradiction at the heart of the missionary project: a faith intended to liberate became bound up in the very systems it sought to redeem.
After engaging with these readings and reflecting on my own experience, I have come to see the legacy of colonialism, slavery, and empire not as a single, coherent story but as a complex web of motives, fears, and moral contradictions. Biggar reminds us that “the British Empire was not from its inception a coherent project… nor animated by a single aim.”[12] Early expansions were driven by a desire for safety and stability—“the desire of a state for security against enemies who threatened its autonomy.”[13] Later, that instinct for protection transformed into domination. As Biggar notes, “A minority that feels itself beleaguered naturally becomes defensive, and if it is a ruling minority, one way of defending itself is to impress its own natural superiority upon the ruled majority… keeping one’s distance, avoiding the equality of intimacy.”[14]
Those words struck a chord. Living as a foreigner in an African country, I’ve felt that same human impulse—to protect myself through distance. Over time, distance becomes a posture, not of dominance but of withdrawal, shaping how we navigate difference and justify our caution. In that sense, colonialism’s legacy is not only structural but relational. It lingers in how we manage discomfort and how fear can disguise itself as prudence.
Empire, then, is not merely the pursuit of power; it is a failure of trust—a belief that control ensures safety. As a Christian, I find this realization both convicting and clarifying. The same faith that gave moral vocabulary to abolition also lent justification to conquest. Yet God’s deliverance—from Egypt to Calvary—exposes the illusion of control that fuels every empire and reminds me that true leadership begins not with superiority but with humility.
I still wrestle with what it means to live ethically as a foreigner, aware of both the history that shaped this place and the privilege it grants me. I cannot change the past, but I can choose how I inhabit the present—whether to maintain guarded distance or risk genuine relationship. For Christian leaders, this is the call: not to mastery, but to presence. To face history with discernment rather than defensiveness, to name sin without despair, and to lead with humility rooted in grace.
[1] Jeremy Black, A Brief History of Slavery: A New Global History (London: Robinson, 2020), preface, PDF eBook.
[2] Black, A Brief History of Slavery, 21.
[3] Black, A Brief History of Slavery, preface.
[4] Dambisa Moyo, Dead Aid: Why Aid Is Not Working and How There Is a Better Way for Africa (London: Penguin Press, 2010), 25, Kindle edition.
[5] Dambisa Moyo, Dead Aid (London: Penguin Press, 2010), 31, Kindle edition.
[6] Dambisa Moyo, Dead Aid (London: Penguin Press, 2010), 55, Kindle edition.
[7] Nigel Biggar, Colonialism: A Moral Reckoning (London: HarperCollins, 2023), 99, Kindle edition.
[8] Biggar, Colonialism, 99, Kindle edition.
[9] William Easterly, The White Man’s Burden: Why the West’s Efforts to Aid the Rest Have Done So Much Ill and So Little Good (New York: Penguin Books, 2006), 273, Kindle edition.
[10] Easterly, The White Man’s Burden, 274, Kindle edition.
[11] Lamin Sanneh, West African Christianity: The Religious Impact (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1983), 55.
[12] Biggar, Colonialism, 34, Kindle edition.
[13] Biggar, Colonialism, 35, Kindle edition.
[14] Biggar, Colonialism, 101, Kindle edition.
About the Author
Elysse Burns
16 responses to “The Legacy That Lingers”
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Elysse, I know you have spent several years researching this topic. What is one change you want to make in your own interactions with Africans to minimize these patriarchal behaviors seen in Western influences?
Hey Kari,
Thank you for your question. Over the past few years, one of the most freeing lessons for me has been learning to pursue authentic relationships with no agenda. I’ve found that when I let go of expectations or outcomes, there’s room for more natural and honest conversations—about faith, loneliness, family, self-worth, and everything in between.
I still wrestle with the instinct to jump in and try to “fix” things or rescue people. But I’ve been blessed with a great colleague—and the gentle prompting of the Holy Spirit—who remind me to slow down, listen, and look for ways to truly walk alongside others instead of rushing ahead of them. And yes—that colleague is you!
Elyse,
Nicely written reflection. You brought some great outside resources into this discussion. As an American Christian in a Muslim country, what steps do you take to ensure the native citizens see your expertise yet not seeing you as exhibiting an America knows best attitude?
Hey Jeff,
Thank you so much for your kind words. When it comes to avoiding the “American who knows best” attitude, I really try to approach every interaction with humility and curiosity. I make it a point to listen carefully and seek to understand where each person is coming from. I try to ask thoughtful questions and offer encouragement for what others are doing—even when their choices or perspectives are very different from my own.
I’ve also learned how valuable it is to let others speak into my life. This past summer, several local friends encouraged me and lifted me up when I was feeling discouraged. Their support reminded me that mutual learning and genuine care go both ways.
I’ll admit, I don’t always get this perfectly—but I’m learning and growing through each experience. So, if I had to sum it up, I’d say the key is to pursue authentic relationships built on respect, openness, and a willingness to learn from one another.
Elysse,
I love this line, “I still wrestle with what it means to live ethically as a foreigner, aware of both the history that shaped this place and the privilege it grants me.” This is always a challenge when you carry a blue passport and can return back to your home culture with a plane flight.
I spoke with a White-Brit who grew up in Cape Town as he drove me to the hotel. He highlighted how even driving is rooted in colonialism. As in many parts of Africa, the whites were the only ones who had cars and the black Africans had to watch out for the cars. While in the UK everyone drives and the pedestrians have the right of way, jumping in front of cars without fear.
Hey Adam,
Thanks for taking the time to respond to my messy thoughts on colonialism and slavery. It’s something I care about deeply, and honestly, I’m still figuring out how to process it all. I often feel the weight of knowing that my blue passport gives me the freedom to leave, to see the world, and to have choices that many of my friends don’t. Some of them may never step outside their country and face daily realities that are incredibly hard.
It’s painful to recognize how much of that hardship is tied to the long-lasting effects of slavery and colonialism.
Hi Elysse, your experience living in an African country as a minority, and the experience of your mother introducing a sacred rite that was different than the typical Christian traditions, have given you a rich perspective. In your setting, you are living in the midst of differences in your life experiences and those around you. Do you find that you have to guard your thoughts or interactions so that you don’t slip into a parental stance with the local people that might stem from my way is better?
Hey Diane,
Thank you for your kind words. I hate to admit it, but every day I have to fight against slipping into that “parental” mindset toward the people here. Living in a culture so different from the one I came from really challenges me to pause and remind myself, “this isn’t wrong—it’s just different.”
Right now, I’m wrestling with this in a very real way. I left my car with a mechanic to be repainted and have some cosmetic work done, and it’s been hard not to call every day asking for updates or to stop by to check on the progress. Back home, I probably wouldn’t even think to do that—but here, I catch myself wanting to stay in control, as if my way of doing things is automatically better.
Part of this journey, I’m realizing, is learning to trust others here—to believe that they care about doing good work, even if it looks different from what I expect. Trusting people in this country has been stretching for me, but it’s also teaching me patience and humility in ways I didn’t anticipate.
Thanks for working out your perspectives from living as a minority. There is a soul-searching honesty in your comment, “Where do I still notice echoes of colonial thinking in the world?”
You quote Biggar on the fact that there is “a tension that still persists today—the fine line between engagement and condescension, between partnership and paternalism”.
What mechanisms do you have to address this tension in your everyday life? How do you avoid perpetuating dominance?
Hey Joel,
Thank you for your kind words. Honestly, I have to check myself every day because that subtle mix of condescension and paternalism can creep in, especially when I’m feeling the need to control things. It’s uncomfortable to admit, but it’s there.
I’ve learned that I do a lot better when I stop trying to make everything fit my expectations and just let the day happen on their terms. I try to move with the rhythm of the culture here—adjusting my schedule, slowing down, and being present in people’s lives instead of trying to manage everything on my own timeline. That shift has eased a lot of the frustration I felt when I first got here nearly five years ago.
And honestly, I have to pray about this a lot. It’s a gut punch when I realize that something I meant as helpful might actually come across as patronizing. I’m still learning, still unlearning—and trying to approach each day with a bit more humility than the one before.
Thanks for your honesty, Elysse.
You wrote, “Those words struck a chord. Living as a foreigner in an African country, I’ve felt that same human impulse—to protect myself through distance.”
How do you move toward people in a way in your context in a way that is non-colonial yet gospel?
Hey Graham,
Thank you for your kind words. Something that’s been really freeing for me is learning to approach each relationship with no agenda. It can be discouraging at times when there aren’t visible results or clear signs of progress that tell us we’re being effective by Western standards. In those moments, I keep coming back to 2 Corinthians 4:18 — “So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.” That verse reminds me that the most meaningful impact often happens in ways we can’t measure.
I’ve also had to step away from some nonprofit work that started to feel too shaped by a colonial mindset. It hasn’t been easy, and this current season of waiting—asking the Lord to show me what’s next—has stretched me in ways I didn’t expect.
Right now, I’m simply trying to pursue genuine relationships—to step into people’s lives without fear or an agenda, to listen well, and to let the culture around me shape and refine how I see the world. This has created space for natural, honest faith conversations that help me understand where someone really is spiritually. Those moments feel real, unforced, and deeply anti-colonial—rooted in mutual respect and shared humanity rather than hierarchy or agenda.
Elysse, what a great, thought-provoking post. As you are striving to live ethically as a foreigner, what is one piece of advice that you can give to people living outside of their home country?
Hey Christy,
Thank you for your kind words. If I could give one piece of advice to anyone living as a foreigner in another country, it would be this: get comfortable being uncomfortable. Not in ways that put you in danger, but in the everyday moments that stretch you—when you stumble through the language, sound ridiculous with your accent, or completely fail at eating rice with your hand for the first time.
Don’t stay in your bubble. Go to the long weddings that seem to last forever. Sit in a hot, dusty house where the air barely moves, and the walls are stained and the paint is curling away from the heat and time. Use the squatty potty. Watch the rhythm of daily family life—the kids running barefoot, the laughter, the noise, the food, the mess. Take it all in.
Be uncomfortable. Let it teach you something. Because when you stop trying to control or clean up every moment, that’s when you really start to see people—and to be changed by them.
Thank you, Elysse, for the wonderful post. I enjoyed reading it. Several of your points get my attention; three of them are (1.) slavery is not confined…but adapts, survives, and conceals itself in new forms, (2.) one lingering form of slavery is dependency, and finally (3.) “For Christian leaders, call to presence (not mastery), to name sin without despair, and to lead with humility rooted in grace.”
Though slavery had not explicitly occurred in Micronesian, it existed in different form, one form I am most definite that still exists is ‘dependency.’ As Christian leaders, could you expand more on the phrase, humility rooted in grace? Thank you once again for the wonderful post.
Hi Noel,
I really resonate with what you said about dependency. I see it so clearly in my own context, and it breaks my heart because the people here are fully capable of creating their own solutions. When I talk about humility rooted in grace, I’m speaking from the perspective of a foreigner—of someone learning, often imperfectly, how to lead with a posture of listening, learning, and extending grace to a culture that is very different from the one I came from.
This is where I still see traces of colonialism creep in. So often, foreigners arrive with the desire to “fix” things, bringing blueprints that may have worked in their own countries but end up being temporary, expensive, and ultimately unsustainable here. It’s not always malicious—it’s just unexamined. But it still communicates control rather than partnership.
To me, leading with humility and grace means walking alongside people, not ahead of them. It’s about letting go of the need to manage outcomes and instead creating space for others to lead and innovate in ways that make sense in their own context.
Those are just a few of my thoughts—but honestly, this is something I could talk about for hours.