Remote” Health Writing Jobs Aren’t Remote — They’re Just American

At 11:47 p.m. in Nairobi, I refreshed my inbox and opened Zoom.

The interview was scheduled for 5 p.m. Eastern Time. The listing had promised a “remote,” “location-flexible,” “global newsroom” role. I’d spent the afternoon polishing clips on Kenyan public health financing and infectious disease reporting. I set alarms so I wouldn’t oversleep. I rehearsed answers about cross-border collaboration and asynchronous workflows. I told myself this was what global work required: small time sacrifices for larger opportunity.

The interviewer never logged on.

A week later, a polite email arrived. They were “moving forward with candidates based in the U.S.”

The job had been listed as remote.

Over the past two years, I’ve applied for dozens of health and science writing roles described as “remote,” “distributed,” or “international.” Many belong to outlets that brand themselves as global authorities — publications that regularly cover clinical trials in Nairobi, maternal health programs in Lagos, vaccine distribution in Dhaka.

But the fine print tells a different story:

“Must be authorized to work in the United States.”
“Preference for candidates in Eastern or Pacific Time.”
“Experience with U.S.-based institutions strongly preferred.”
“No visa sponsorship available.”

In practice, “remote” often means remote within America.

This isn’t simply about geography. It’s about infrastructure. Payroll systems built around U.S. tax law. HR departments structured for domestic compliance. Fellowships restricted by residency. Editorial meetings anchored to American time zones. Professional networks formed in graduate programs and media circles clustered in New York, Boston, Washington, and London.

These systems quietly determine who belongs.

Global health journalism speaks fluently about equity. Its hiring practices often do not.

The contradiction becomes stark when you consider where the reporting originates.

Global health coverage depends heavily on research conducted in Africa, Asia, and Latin America — clinical trials, field data, epidemiological studies, interviews with local doctors and policymakers. The stories begin here. The stakes are lived here.

But the bylines, salaries, and editorial authority remain concentrated in Western hubs.

As a Nairobi-based writer, I’ve reported on donor-funded public health initiatives. I’ve interviewed Kenyan scientists about malaria prevention and maternal mortality. I’ve pitched those stories to outlets that describe themselves as global. Often, I’m told the piece has been assigned to a staff writer — someone thousands of miles away.

The logic is subtle but consistent: data can be global; authority is domestic.

No individual editor is solely responsible for this dynamic. Many are supportive. Some actively want international contributors. But industries are shaped by systems, not intentions. And the system favors proximity to Western institutions.

When a job listing says “remote,” it usually signals flexibility of space — not redistribution of power.

There is also a reputational advantage to the word. “Remote” and “global” signal modernity. They imply openness, borderless collaboration, democratized access. They make organizations appear forward-thinking and inclusive.

But branding can outpace structure.

If a newsroom consistently covers health crises in Africa while hiring almost exclusively from North America and Europe, it isn’t global. It is internationally focused. That distinction matters.

One model extracts information across borders. The other shares decision-making across them.

To be fair, international hiring is complicated. Tax compliance is costly. Employment law varies. Infrastructure is real. But then the industry should describe itself honestly.

Call it U.S.-based with international coverage. Call it regionally distributed. Specify jurisdictional limits upfront.

What feels disingenuous is the performance of globalism without the structural commitment to it.

The consequences extend beyond professional frustration. They shape narrative authority.

Who interprets global health data?
Who contextualizes outbreaks?
Who determines which local voices are credible?
Who frames policy debates that affect millions?

Perspective influences emphasis. Emphasis influences funding. Funding influences outcomes.

A writer embedded in a health system sees nuances that a distant observer might miss — informal care networks, local bureaucratic realities, cultural tensions. Neither proximity nor distance guarantees accuracy. But when one geography consistently dominates interpretation, the field narrows.

Global health journalism cannot meaningfully interrogate inequity abroad while reproducing it at home.

Late at night, refreshing my inbox, I’ve started to hear the word “remote” differently.

It no longer sounds like possibility. It sounds like containment — a promise with jurisdictional boundaries.

The internet collapsed distance. Payroll did not.

Geography still shapes hiring pipelines. It structures trust. It determines who edits and who pitches, who assigns and who asks.

Remote doesn’t erase borders. It redraws them more politely.

Until global health journalism aligns its labor practices with its rhetoric, “remote” will remain a marketing term — expansive in description, narrow in practice.

And writers like me will keep adjusting our sleep schedules for interviews that quietly confirm what the fine print already said.