Brexit: being foreign, and moving on...
Today is my father’s birthday. He’s from Sri Lanka (which was Ceylon in the old British Empire); a first generation south-east Asian man from the Commonwealth. He moved to the UK in the mid-seventies, purely with the intention to study and return home a qualified engineer; alas he subsequently met a young lady from Northern Ireland and a crazy little thing called love happened…
I open with that salvo in what’s the first post on my own blog in years, to reflect on the aftermath of the EU Referendum result, and the nation’s choice of Brexit. These are my thoughts and musings, not a missive for the other platforms I sometimes write for.
I was (am) an unashamed Remainer, and still believe being In outweighs the benefits of being out. But, it is time to move on. No more silly petitions and the like. The margin of victory was narrow, but being the sports fan I am, a win is a win and you have to respect that. 17 million Leavers is hard to ignore.
Problem is, as better articulated by other coverage on the emotional process following the vote, I was hurt. I was cut deep – I mean, I was deeply affected more than I ever thought possible. Digging down the rabbit hole, I was processing hard. Taking in so much information, observing commentary from all angles and reflecting on more ‘spectives’ than I figured possible.
I guess you’d have to have foreign blood to truly understand what those 24-to-48 hours felt like. You suddenly felt, for all your contributions, all your taxes paid… that you were no longer welcome – no longer part of the fabric. Leavers were rejecting the EU and embracing a world championed by the likes of Donald Trump, Marine Le Pen and Katie Hopkins.
The more time progressed over the weekend, I soon realised what was up: the connection, the tie… the bond I had with the region within which I was born and raised had been damaged. Perhaps not irreparably, but severe enough that I couldn’t look at the world the same way. Confidence, belief – fun, seemed intangible.
Essex (where my family home is) and Bournemouth (home of my other family) both voted Leave in big numbers. In a stroke, both felt cold, inhospitable lands. No-go areas for anyone even remotely foreign.
As the days have passed, it is fair to say that most Leave voters aren’t racist; I give credit to those ‘outing’ themselves on social media. Digesting what you can, it’s clear many feel that their vote was rooted in matters of sovereignty and a different financial future. But, the Leave campaign pushed the immigration topic hard – and their message rarely made a distinction between those migrants from the EU, and elsewhere in the world. Combining what felt like a deliberate lack of nuance coupled with the ‘take back control’ dogma has released an Enoch Powell-shaped genie.
One doesn’t have to dig far on social media to learn there are many more racists and bigots than Leave – or anyone else – would care to acknowledge. The Leave win has empowered that section of society: what’s happened in the last 110 hours should surprise no one, and I’m convinced it will be just the start.
As I said to a colleague yesterday: attacks against tourists and foreigners of any background in those Leave heartlands, you can book it. I fear for my father; I’m lucky that I live in ‘the bubble’ of London – for him, and many like him in all corners of England and Wales, you can’t help but feel concerned.
Leave voters have to own that reality. They are the majority and I respect their will and their victory. And now, they need to prove – every hour, every day, every week, that the Leave vote was about taking everything we love about Britain – be it democratic, fiscal or otherwise – to the next level. Leave voters are on the clock, and the hook. Because it cuts both ways – sure it’s unfair for Leavers to be tarnished with the xenophobe/bigot brush, just as it’s unfair to tarnish all immigrants – whether they’re from the EU, the Commonwealth, or elsewhere – as illiterate, dirty freeloaders. Which is exactly what the Leave campaigns did, constantly.
I chose to, for the first time in as long as I can remember, ignore the England game last night. I felt in no mood to cheer for a country that has seemingly given me, my family and many others the bird. I won’t be led by some God-awful Winnie The Pooh meme – but I hope, in time, I can reconnect and feel like this country is my country again.
My Dad became a fully naturalized member of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland in the mid-eighties. He’s more than paid his taxes, his dues to the state. He’s contributed to his community, and he raised me the right way. Where difference can be celebrated, respected... and succeed. Happy Birthday Pop, love you.