Not my England: The changing face of home
I pined for home, my beloved England.
My parents dragged me kicking and screaming to New Zealand when I was 10. It was many years before I forgave them.
I pined for my home, my beloved England with its fairytale forests and carpets of bluebells. With its ancient spires and excellent comedy shows. I devoured every book of English history that I could find. I was determined, as soon as I was old enough, to go back. To regain my rightful place.
There were things I loved about New Zealand: the unspoilt nature of its beaches, the otherworldly volcanic attractions of the North Island, the epic scenery of the South Island, the unpretentious, laid-back attitude of its people.
But it wasn’t where my heart belonged.
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* UK terror prompted my move back to NZ
* London, I love you
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There were things I loved about New Zealand, like the otherworldly volcanic attractions of the North Island.
I idealised my England. I wasn’t blind to its faults, nor to the fact that my parents had probably given me a better life by moving to New Zealand, but I knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was where my future lay.
Then the future happened.
I enrolled at the University of Auckland because I was too scared to try for Oxford or Cambridge; too scared to live that far away from my parents, now settled in Tauranga.
More future happened and I met my soulmate, a Kiwi with German parents. We decided we’d travel to Europe together and find jobs. More future happened and we ended up in Hamilton. Don’t laugh.
Then Brexit happened.
Last year, for the first time, I found myself truly glad to be living in New Zealand instead of England.
Obviously, I was hoping that Britain would stay in the EU. Beyond my own desire for hassle-free travel within Europe, I figured it would probably be best to do the exact opposite of whatever Nigel Farage wanted. The scenes of crass xenophobia emerging from the country of my birth were sickening.
Those scenes may have been eclipsed in the popular memory by the even worse scenes that emerged from the Trump rallies, but they happened. Scenes reminiscent of 1930s Germany. The insidious fear-mongering, the aggressive, pig-headed nationalism, the demonising of immigrants and refugees… I always thought my home was one of the world’s saner countries.
2016 shattered my innocence.
It wasn’t the decision to leave the EU that disheartened me. There were many perfectly reasonable reasons to do so. It was the apparent licence that decision gave for all the racists to come out of the closet at once.
England – and the world – seemed to be slipping back into a frighteningly primal tribal mentality. Us versus them. Do people never learn?
You read it in the history books over and over again. The Second World War was less than 75 years ago – well within living memory – and still people can’t see past the ends of their own noses.
All I could think was, don’t let it happen in New Zealand. Please. Don’t let it happen in New Zealand.
When the Manchester terror attack happened, my first thought was: Oh no, more fuel for the xenophobes – this’ll send the voters running towards the right-wing nationalists.
Then came the general election. I resigned myself to the inevitable crushing of an already crushed soul.
But that’s not what happened. The right fell, the left rose.
It didn’t rise quite enough to win, but enough to restore my faith in the land of my birth. After the Brexit vote, I was disappointed that so few young people like me had bothered to stand up and be counted. In this election, young people voted in droves, with a perhaps 30 per cent higher turnout than the last election. And most voted left.
Whenever you think you can’t be bothered voting because your vote doesn’t matter, remember this election. Remember what happened in the US. Remember what almost happened in the Netherlands and France. Don’t let it happen in New Zealand. Please. Don’t let it happen here.
Abigail Simpson is the author of Poms Away: A British Immigrant’s View of New Zealand.
- Stuff Nation
