Fifty-two
On the ten-year anniversary of the Brexit result, I am carrying a passport I never wanted.
I have a British passport. I did not want one. It cost me £99.50 and considerably more than that. Following the referendum vote, I had no confidence in the government protecting my interests as a foreign, European national, despite having worked and paid tax here for ten years. I am not British, yet I’ve ended up with that navy booklet, forced into the only course of action available to me. Citizenship should never be just a logistical status. It should be a matter of the heart. At every juncture, I have had to act out of necessity rather than emotion. I now own a document that I did not want, placed in my hands by a country that had spent a decade making me feel unwelcome.
I am the definition of a third-culture kid. Born to a Spanish family and raised in Germany from toddler stage, I came to study at university in the UK in 2001. I felt European first, linked to others by shared ideals. European for me was not about nationalities, nor a political preference, it has always been at the core of my identity. Following my studies, London made sense not only because of its creative industries, but also because it was cosmopolitan, internationalist, and genuinely plural. The 2012 Olympics were the cultural high watermark of my years here. At uni, I realised how much my friends joked about foreigners. I had tolerated and minimised comments calling me Manuel, or jokes about the Krauts, because the broader backdrop felt progressive. I could never imagine that Brexit would be seriously considered; I always thought that despite the bluster, Brits were level-headed. I was wrong.
The discourse as we approached the vote on June 23, 2016 unleashed and validated an anti-immigrant sentiment. Tribalism and hating the ‘other’ became the norm in a country that was inherently multicultural. Impartiality was such a priority for the BBC, that they gave equal voice in short-form interview formats to evidence-based Remain voices and largely petulant and misleading Leave campaigners. Fact checking became mandatory, but by the time points were corrected, these soundbites had run, and won. Common sense no longer prevailed, and the age of logic was over. I was horrified as the results for Sunderland and Newcastle were announced. It was the night it all broke for me. This was not a political disappointment - it was an identity rupture.
I can’t stand the number 52. Today, I feel triggered and cannot have the TV remote on volume 52; I notice every time that a basketball game hits a 48-52 scoreline. I remember the anniversary of the vote every year, or more accurately, I have PTSD of how I felt the morning after. Nobody else in the country knows this date, or if they do, they no longer care.
In 2018, I concluded a year-long process of naturalisation, in order to secure my situation, and not out of pride. The Life in the UK test is supposed to confirm your knowledge of and integration in Britain, yet in learning all the largely pointless facts I realised that at least 90% of British born people would fail. There is some sweet irony in this. I woke up on the day of the citizenship ceremony feeling dread. I did not sing the anthem. I refused the customary photo in front of the Queen’s portrait, flanked by the Union Jack and the officiating arbiter. I felt like crying, and left without mingling. I don’t speak of my dual citizenship - only with employers around the right to work. The certificate of naturalisation was enough to secure my rights, so I swore I would never own a passport. Then, in February of this year the law changed.
Brexit happened a decade ago, but my pain remains, and my disconnect with the people of this country feels calcified. My hardened emotions may offend people, and I understand that. If 52% gave sufficient mandate to restructure a country, reject its neighbours, embolden its ugliest voices, and make people like me feel like we are guests on probation - then 52% is sufficient margin for everything that follows. My British girlfriend asked if I would consider donating blood, or volunteering at a soup kitchen. The answer is no - I do not feel that altruistic. What I do: I pay my taxes, and I don’t commit any crimes. That is my deliberate ceiling - minimum viable citizenship. I won’t be supporting the Three Lions at the World Cup.
Great Britain is still a country that rarely wants to say my full name, with people instead asking me how to shorten it, or if they can call me something else. Why? If you can learn how to say Tchaikovsky, you can learn to say my name. There is always an offensive, yet quiet, assumption of hierarchy. Brexit did not create this, but it licensed it. Even as a EU member, Britain made exceptionalist demands and secured their Thatcher rebate.
To the 52% voters who would vote the same again: I am not an abstraction, I am a real person who built a life here, paid into this country, and was told by a slim majority that belonging was conditional. Last weekend my partner picked up a knitted England football top in a shop and said, quietly, “you’d probably never wear this.” I said the colour wasn’t right. We moved on. After a decade together she no longer asks me directly - she has learned the shape of this wound so precisely that she goes around it automatically. The 52% who don’t know me, who voted without a thought for people like me, never had to.
On 3 July I will leave the country, and when I return a week later, I will pass through border control. I will hand over a document that I did not want, bearing the identity of a country that I did not choose in any meaningful sense. I am still here. I am still European. And I am carrying your passport.