Chapter 1: The Dream Job That Wasn’t
I still remember the excitement I felt when I first got the job.
It was 2018, and I had just been hired as a course content developer at Staff Asia, an offshore office of a UK-based eLearning company. The job seemed perfect—a chance to create educational courses, research new topics, and contribute to global learning. The course development team of this office was small, just me and my supervisor, but I saw it as an opportunity to grow and make an impact.
I was eager, passionate, and ready to prove myself.
Then came my first assignment.
I spent days researching, structuring, and writing a course from scratch. Every word and every lesson was carefully crafted, infused with the best practices I had learned. I was proud of my work—until I showed it to my supervisor.
He skimmed through my document, frowned, and then said something that shattered my enthusiasm.
“We can’t use your writing. You’re not a native English speaker.”
I laughed nervously, waiting for him to say he was joking.
He wasn’t.
“We’re only allowed to cite and copy from others’ work,” he continued. “It’s company policy.”
I was stunned. Wasn’t I hired to write? To create?
I argued, I protested. But in the end, I was powerless. The rule was clear: my words were not welcome here.
Chapter 2: Learning to Stay Silent
Despite the unfairness, I stayed.
I worked within their narrow rules, collecting content from books, articles, and websites, piecing together courses without ever truly writing them. I learned how to blend in, to be invisible, to exist without a voice.
And I excelled at it.
By 2019, I was promoted to team leader. Our team had grown from two to six, and now, it was my job to enforce the same rule that once crushed me.
“We don’t write,” I told my team members. “We just cite.”
I hated saying it. But what choice did I have?
Then, one day, an opportunity came. The big boss—a UK-based director—was in a Zoom meeting with me, and I finally had the chance to ask.
“Why can’t we write in our own words?”
He looked at me, sighed, and opened a spreadsheet filled with customer complaints.
“Learners complain if they find anything other than British English,” he explained. “They demand refunds if the content doesn’t sound ‘native’ enough.”
It wasn’t just a company policy—it was a business decision. The learners were from the UK, and their prejudices shaped our work.
I was frustrated, but what could I do? If the customers saw non-native English as wrong, how could I change that?
I swallowed my frustration and kept working.
Until the system collapsed.
Chapter 3: The Collapse
The company’s copy-paste model soon ran into copyright issues. Without original content, legal trouble loomed. The entire course development operation was at risk.
The directors panicked. Their solution?
Hire native English writers.
Their logic was simple:
“Native speakers write naturally, so they won’t need to copy anything.”
Of course, they still believed that a native speaker, by default, writes better than an experienced non-native writer.
Then, COVID-19 hit. The demand for online courses skyrocketed, and the company needed writers fast. They hired every native English speaker who applied—assuming that was all it took to create quality content.
And the result?
A disaster.
The courses were disorganized, poorly researched, and full of errors. The “native advantage” didn’t translate into good instructional design or strong pedagogy.
Suddenly, I found myself in a meeting with the directors.
“The courses are failing,” they admitted. “We need a solution.”
I saw my chance.
“Let our team write again,” I suggested. “We’ve been doing this for years. We know what works.”
They shook their heads. “No. We still need native writers.”
I knew I couldn’t change their deep-rooted bias, so I took a different approach.
“Then let us guide them.”
Chapter 4: The Ghostwriters of eLearning
And so, my team became the invisible force behind the company’s success.
We rewrote, revised, and reconstructed the courses. We saved the company. But our names were never on the courses.
The British writers got the credit.
The British writers got the money.
We, the non-native writers, were paid just 5% of what they earned.
But the irony was clear—without us, the company would have failed.
It was painful, but it was also proof of something powerful:
Native English doesn’t equal expertise.
And non-native English doesn’t equal incompetence.
But as long as businesses prioritize bias over talent, as long as linguistic discrimination is disguised as “customer preference,” people like us—skilled, experienced, and invisible—will continue to exist in the shadows.
Chapter 5: Breaking the Cycle
Looking back, my journey through raciolinguistic marginalization has shaped the way I see the world of eLearning. It taught me hard lessons:
- 🔹 Bias dictates legitimacy – No matter how skilled a non-native professional is, they are often perceived as inferior to their native counterparts.
- 🔹 Language hierarchies erase voices – Policies like “only British English is acceptable” don’t just protect business interests; they silence talented educators.
- 🔹 Profit over pedagogy – Companies choose what sells over what’s right, reinforcing linguistic discrimination for financial gain.
- 🔹 The myth of the “natural writer” – Being a native speaker does not automatically make someone a better writer or teacher than an experienced non-native professional.
The system tried to erase us, but in the end, it needed us.
Now, the question is: How long before we stop being invisible?
Final Thoughts
This is more than just my story. It’s the story of countless multilingual professionals who work behind the scenes, ghostwriting success for companies that refuse to acknowledge them.
It’s a story of power, language, and survival.
And maybe, just maybe—it’s time for that story to change.
Mahbub Amin 