Stoltheten över att vara en del av sitt land

I den svenska valrörelsen kan det vara lämpligt att påminna om vad det är att vara en del av ett land. 

Monologen ”I am an Englishman” grep mig när jag hörde den för första gången för många år sedan. Den handlar om nationell identitet och tillhörighet, om familj och tradition. Om stoltheten över att vara en del av sitt land. Den kunde lika gärna heta ”Jag är svensk”.

Den brittiske skådespelaren Marc Warren framför monologen ur BBC’s 2001 NCS Manhunt, ett tal av en man vid namn Laurence Bright. Jag beklagar ett svagt surrande biljud i ljudupptagningen, men det är innehållet som räknas. Texten följer här.

I’m an Englishman.
I’m from Bermondsey, SouthEast London.
My father was called George.
He was also from Bermondsey.
His father, another Bermondsey man, was called George, too.
And his father, my great grandfather, is from the same place.
He was called Edward.

These three generations of my family were in the fish trade.
I’m the first member of my family not to work at the market in Billingsgate.
My great grandfather had eleven brothers and sisters; they all married except one.
They had fortythree children – of these thirtyseven married.
And between them they had a further a hundred and fiftynine children.

One of those was my father.
I don’t know exactly how many of his generation married or exactly how many children they produced…
I’ve so far tracked over twohundred of them.
Many still live in Bermondsey.
Some are still in the fish trade.
There are seven called George and five called Victoria.

I stand here in front of you as a representative of all of them.
And I ask in their name the great question put by our patron Mr Powell, what do they know of England who only England know?
Or, what can my family who come from England, who lived in England, who know only England say of this our country?

Enoch Powell (1912-1998), brittisk konservativ politiker som varnade för massinvandringens konsekvenser.

Mr Powell once spoke of the destruction of ancient Athens, and the miraculous survival in the blackened ruins of that city, of the sacred
olive tree.
The symbol of Greece, their country.

And he also spoke of us. The English, at the heart of a vanished empire, seeming to find within ourselves like one of our own oak trees, the sap rising from our ancient roots, and he said:

”Perhaps, after all, we, who have inhabited this island fortress for an unbroken thousand years, brought up”, as he said, ”Within the sound of English bird song under the English oak, in the English meadow, beneath the red cross of St George…it is us who know most of England.”

And I appreciated him for saying that.
Because it was as if he spoke for my family, who understand well their own country, who understand even better their own capital London town (as we used to call her).

As we strolled in her parks, as we marveled at her palaces, so we did business in the city, went West for a dance, took a boat on the river, the pale ale and eel pie of old London, the London of my family for as many generations as I know, the London that within fifteen years will be less than fifty percent white.

London, where in fifteen years a white person will be in the minority
Am I racist? No! Do I have anything against people of other races? No! Would I prevent them from coming into my home? No!

So what then is my gripe? My gripe, and I speak on behalf of seven men called George and five women called Victoria, my gripe is quite simple…

My gripe is that we were never asked.
My gripe is that we were told, not asked!
And everyday we are told again and again how we are to be and how our country is to be!

We’re told by them and we know who they are–they’re English, too!
They’re the class that has always set themselves apart,
they’re the class that has always taken whatever they wanted for themselves, and now they are the class that is giving England away.

They have never asked us.
And they never will.

Do we allow them to sell our heritage? Or is it time for us to speak?
To speak, to refuse them the right to give away our holy, our bountiful, our only England that has, that has nurtured us naked grown us as the oak?

Is it time for us that England know to come yet again and defend our country with our fire, our fists.
Is it time for our suns to rise again?

I say yes.
I say yes.
I say yes.

8 reaktioner till “Stoltheten över att vara en del av sitt land

  1. Jag kommer att tänka på den stoltaste dagen i mitt liv för 10 år sen, när jag blev insvuren som Amerikansk Medborgare.

    Domaren som skötte ceremonin sa något väldigt tänkvärt, ungefär såhär:

    “Ingen kan nånsin bli fransman. Eller engelsman. Eller ryss. Dom och så många andra länderna föddes i dimmor i historiens gryning. Man kan bara vara nån av dom om man är född där och ens familj bott där i många generationer.
    Men USA är ett ungt land, grundat på unika och väl uttänkta principer. Ni här har visat en vilja att bli Amerikaner, ni har visat er värdiga att bli så, och från idag, trots era tidigare nationaliteter, ÄR ni Amerikaner!”

    Och detta är ju alldeles riktigt och klokt! Även den som får ett franskt pass, bemästrar sina circumflexer, börjar röka Galouise, sticker en baguette under armen och njuter ett gott rödvin till sin lunch, är INTE fransman!

    Julia har alldeles rätt, du som inte har två svenska föräldrar från en släkt som befunnit sej här i generationer, är inte SVENSK. Svenskheten är en folksjäl, grundad djupt ner i vår nordiska mylla.

    Inga vänsteraktivistiska tjänstemän på Migrationsverket kan förändra detta faktum.

    Min plan var en gång att flytta tillbaks till hemlandet efter pensioneringen.

    Men efter den etniska rensning som nu sker finns det snart inget att resa åter till…..

    Kapten Bo

    Liked by 1 person

  2. My home town in northern England doesn’t exist any longer. I’ve lived abroad for many years, but I have nowhere to return to, should I ever want to go home again. It’s true that everything changes with time, that towns and cities, villages and neighborhoods evolve and are not the same today as they were 10, 20, 50, 100 years ago.

    But at every point in their history it can be seen where they came from, and they give a feeling of where they are going. There is a connection with their past that can also be projected into the future, they have a place on an historical continuum.

    But what has happened to my northern English home town is not evolution. It is not an historical progression, it is an historical discontinuity. The bond with the past has been broken. The old has not morphed into the new, it has died and vanished forever. What has replaced it is not new, it is itself very old and has a place on it’s own historical continuum.

    My home town has been eradicated and replaced with Islamabad and Dhaka A Pakistani or Bangladeshi would feel more at home in my old home town today, because the town I grew up in now on the historical continuum of those places. It has lost it’s connection with England.

    Liked by 4 people

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