Whose story is it? Children need books where characters don't all have blue eyes and fair skin

A teacher plays with children at a nursery in Abidjan, Cote d’Ivoire. There is a downside of allowing only one perspective to define an entire culture. AFP

When it comes to cultural narratives, you would think that by now we would be past the point where it’s acceptable for other people to tell our stories for us, to describe our experiences and ascribe motivations, attitudes and behaviours to us. But a quick scan of current news headlines and social media discourse shows immediately that those who hold the power of which stories get told and who gets to tell them shapes our world at macro and micro levels.

But cultural power doesn’t begin in the newsroom or with politicians. The shaping of the stories has a thread that can be drawn right back to infancy and childhood years, defined by which stories are told and who gets to tell them. Those cute fluffy baby board books where you tickle the character’s tummy, or the picture books you sit and intimately read with your child, are a barometer of who gets to own and tell their stories and by extension, whose stories, voices, rights and opportunities are prioritised in society.

As a columnist, non-fiction author and children’s writer, the importance of bringing stories from under-represented groups, and trying to broaden the types of authors – and by extension the stories they get a chance to tell and the language, perspectives and images they use – has been at the forefront of my 20-year writing career. Which perhaps gives some context to what I consider to be the enormity of a new report out about who is writing children’s books and the stories they are (not) telling. I was, to put it mildly, gobsmacked.

Excluded Voices, published by Inclusive Books for Children (IBC) this month, looked at the (lack of) presence of “own voice” creators in children’s literature looking at books aimed at ages 0 to nine. They looked at how minoritised groups appear in these books (if at all) and then who was writing and illustrating those stories.

More than 83 per cent of baby and toddler books that featured marginalised characters were written by non-Own Voice creators – people who don’t share the identity of the characters they write about. 78.3 per cent of non-white characters in children’s books were black or ambiguously black or brown, and 53 per cent of those stories were written by white authors.

Representation isn’t just about telling accurate stories. It’s about giving children the tools to understand themselves and the world. Books serve as mirrors when they reflect a child’s life and experiences. For others, books are windows into new worlds, helping them understand lives different from their own. The lack of authentic mirrors hinders belonging and the development of the sense of self. The lack of windows hampers empathy, respect and the space for equality.

The idea of the “Own Voice creator” is more than just having “lived experience”; it means taking control of your cultural power and telling your own story, on your own terms. This is not to say that others can't describe you or tell your story ever. But often when they do, they tend to miss the nuance, or worse, distort it entirely, perhaps inadvertently shaping your world as they see it, or at times in the adult world maliciously to serve their own ends. But with Own Voice, there is ownership and authenticity, which is vital not just in literature and media.

And from here, the thread to social discourse and equality is as direct as it is explicit. Just as non-Own Voice authors (in this case white) dominate the narratives about minoritised groups in children’s books, the same thing often happens in news and politics.

At the heart of this problem is cultural power. To a large extent, those who control the cultural narrative shape society’s values and policies. A lack of cultural power leaves marginalised groups at the mercy of the dominant narrative, often leading to harmful policies and social exclusion.

Authors such as Edward Said and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie have looked at how cultural power shapes the way societies are perceived. A renowned literary critic and professor at Columbia University, Said introduced the concept of Orientalism, arguing that western narratives portray the East through a distorted lens, reinforcing stereotypes and maintaining dominance over the region.

Similarly, Adichie, an award-winning Nigerian author and speaker known for her novels such as Half of a Yellow Sun, spoke about The Danger of a Single Story in a TED Talk and the risks of allowing only one perspective to define an entire culture. She stressed the importance of marginalised people telling their own stories to challenge misrepresentation. Their work underscores the relevance of narrative control in balancing cultural power and dismantling harmful stereotypes.

She pinpoints how she as a child herself was affected by children’s literature. “When I began to write, at about the age of seven […] I wrote exactly the kinds of stories I was reading. All my characters were white and blue-eyed, they played in the snow, they ate apples, and they talked a lot about the weather, how lovely it was that the sun had come out.”

It didn’t occur to her that black Nigerian girls like her, talking about Nigerian things, could exist in literature, until she experienced it directly herself in Nigerian children’s literature which was scant at the time. “I went through a mental shift,” she says. “I started to write about things I recognised.”

The more control we have over our narratives, the better we can shape how the world understands us. It needs to start from that warm cuddle when your child is snuggled up in your arms ready to discover what the world holds for them. And one of the first things to learn in the words and pictures they imbibe should be that the world has a place for them, and that their own story matters.