A foreigner in my own country.
I am a baby boomer, born in the late 1950s, a time not so long after the second world war, that dark time when our island fought with its allies to prevent the fascist onlaught. A child of the 60s, I had every reason to be proud to be British, the music, fashion, the hovercraft, the mini. A young adult in the mid 70s, I joined the British Army, proud of my flag and ready to put my life in harm’s way to protect our way of life. I was proud of the English flag, the cross of St George, my flag. When I left the army in 1997 that flag had been hijacked by xenophobic extremists, the cross of St George now the t shirt uniform of beer bellied thugs. But at least I could still be proud to be British and proud of the Union flag.
Fast forward now to June 2016. Fascism, racism and xenophobia have hijacked my flag once again. Being one of those on the “losing” side, my rage and lack of acceptance of the referendum outcome brands me an unpatriotic traitor. I am now no longer one of the people, my will is not the will of the people. What am I now if not a foreigner in my own country? I feel nothing but shame for what was once lauded as the Mother of all Parliaments. I find myself apologising to everyone who is working here but not born here. I feel more affinity with “foreigners” than I do with the ill informed of my so called countrymen. How has this country fallen so far and so fast that I now feel a foreigner in my own country?
Andrew Parnall @dontbrexitfixit