There are several experiences in this life which are akin to crossing the Rubicon; parenthood is one of them. The other is giving up home and hearth for pastures new. Growing up in the EU, being a teenager in a world still dizzy from the fall of the Wall, it was a given that people were no longer tied to that area where they grew up, not even to that country, but could make a home in one of the other European countries.
At the age of 21 the UK felt claustrophobic and
I longed for the opportunities of being able to jump in a train and cross a
border, without even having to show my passport. A year abroad in Regensburg
had already shown me how easy it was to quickly hop to Wien, Cracow or Paris,
have a quick weekend getting to know another city, hear another language and
drink Turkish coffee in Prague, espresso in Italy, coffee in Vienna and (ahem)
more coffee in Paris.
I was in the Czech Republic when Diana died. In
Czesky Krumlov, to be precise. We heard the news on the radio and hurried into
town to try and find newspapers with the news. There were, of course, none (the
following day, however, you couldn’t turn around without seeing Diana’s face).
I have never been offered so many shots of vodka in sympathy. I came back to
England with a strange feeling of having been away from my country at a time of
national trauma; saw the masses of flowers laid everywhere in London, saw the
Japanese tourists taking photos of them. I had my first taste of what it is
like to be aware of what it means to belong to the English community. When you
are in England, your nationality, your sense of community is background noise.
When you are abroad, your nationality becomes a defining part of who you are.
Why is this?
It is because you become aware of what it is
that makes you different. You become sharply aware of norms that define you
that come from your culture, from years of watching the BBC, of standing in
queues, of sitting at the dining table watching TV, of enjoying the rather
sticky underfoot feeling of an over-busy carpet in the local pub. The feeling
of home you get when you hear your accent after a long absence. You realise
what part of your personality comes from your Heimat, and what part of your
personality comes from your own internal make-up.
In the few months between February and June
2016 I was told more times than I could count that, by dint of living abroad, I
had given up being English. I found this strange. My government told me I was
not English when they told me I could not vote. I should imagine there are
people on the Falklands who have never set foot on English soil who are
regarded as being more English than I am by a certain group of people. This
jarred strongly with my own self-perception. I felt all the more patriotic and
all the more English for being in Germany.
When you leave your country to find a home
elsewhere you do not lose your nationality on the border. You do not cease to
be a part of that country. You take that country with you and carry it in your
heart. But it is amazing how big the human heart can be. My heart also took on
the German culture (particularly the coffee drinking part). I looked forward to
Tatort on Sundays, my speech became a little bit more direct, I started feeling
bad about not being punctual. I understood that the way to a German’s heart was
through accepted invitations and once you had found a place there, they took
you in as part of the family. I feel English and German in equal parts. It was
the threat of Brexit that reinforced the fact to me that the glue that held
these two aspects of my personality together was my European citizenship. With
my automatic right to be a part of German society, to study and to work here on
an equal footing with my fellow Germans, I was able to reskill to be a productive
member of this society. My children were born in a German hospital, the costs
covered by German insurance. They have gone to Kindergarten with help from the
German State, and they have been given extra lessons to help with their
language deficit thanks to the German school system; and thanks to my European
citizenship all of this has been easier for me.
Living in Europe meant, up until June 24th
2016, that I was a member of a massive, chaotic, cacophonic, creative,
colourful community. On June 24th 2016 it meant I was a legal alien.
Germany hadn’t changed. The people hadn’t changed. I hadn’t changed. My country
had. On that day, a part of my moral right to be abroad was stolen by 17
million people. 17 million people whose voice in the internet had told me I
wasn’t English. And suddenly I felt more English than ever before. And for the
first time in my life, it did not feel good.
Being part of Europe is not like being sugar in
a cup of coffee – you do not disappear into a homogenised mass. It is like
being in a salad bowl. Everyone brings a new, wonderful ingredient to the mix
and every mouthful is tasty, new, exciting. Removing ingredients from the mix
detract from the salad. And, if you have had salad in Germany (and potato salad
really does mean just potatoes and the occasional onion if you are lucky) you
will know – variety is the spice of life.
Together we are crunchier
Gemma is appreciative that the European Union
gave her the chance to study, live, love and have a family abroad. She lives in
Germany, where the German State is allowing her to retrain, all expenses paid,
as a teacher. ‘’Thank you Germany! Thank you, EU!’’ she says. You can find
Gemma’s blog at https://medium.com/@gemmaknowles
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