IAIN HUNTER
The writing of my previous article on why ethno-nationalism will not destroy Britain forced me to consider why I chose to see myself as an ethno-nationalist, an ‘ethno-nat’, rather than a civic nationalist, a ‘civ-nat’. It’s perfectly simple really; one only needs to consider the definition of a nation which, according to WikipediA, opens as follows:
A nation is a type of social organization where a collective identity—a national identity—has emerged from a combination of shared features across a given population, such as language, history, ethnicity, culture, territory, or society.
There you have it – shared features such as language, history, ethnicity, culture and territory. You’ll note that language, history and ethnicity are listed ahead of culture although language and history, it has to be said, are a part of culture. It goes on to say:
Some nations are constructed around ethnicity while others are bound by political constitutions. A nation is generally more overtly political than an ethnic group.
This is introducing the idea of civic nationalism which means that it is a form of nationalism that adheres to traditional liberal values of freedom, tolerance, equality, and individual rights, and is not based on ethnic identity. These days we have the invented British values which are commonly defined as democracy, the rule of law, individual liberty, mutual respect, and tolerance of those with different faiths and beliefs. Believe in all that and you can be British regardless of where you were born and who your parents and ancestors were.
The trouble is, with freedom of speech and thought which are inalienable rights, someone could refuse to believe in any one or even all of the vaunted ‘British Values’ and he or she would still be British because he or she was born here of British parents and was completely culturally, linguistically and identifiably British. That’s a bit of a bind for those who believe in ‘civic nationalism’. I’d go as far as to say it rather blows the whole ridiculous idea out of the water. It also means that those who live among us who belong to certain foreign demographics cannot possibly be seen as British civic nationalists. A double whammy for the promoters of civic nationalism.
That leaves us with ‘blood and soil’ nationalism which is dangerously close to a core Nazi principle (Blut und Boden) which is probably why the term ethno-nationalism is preferred. Of course, the distinction which is deliberately overlooked is the socialism aspect to Nazi ideology. One can easily be an ‘ethno-nat’ without being a socialist and I’d venture to suggest that actually describes the great majority of, though not all, British ethno-nationalists.
Scottish by birth and family, I was brought up among elders, including my father, who had served in all branches of the British armed forces during the two world wars. The history I was taught at school in Edinburgh was, after a broad treatment of the ancient civilisations, the history of Scotland, England and Britain after the two united. Curiously, Welsh history was left out although we had to know about Irish nationalism and Ireland’s journey towards full independence. We were taught about the American War of Independence, The American Civil War, the French Revolution, the European empires and the Russian Revolution. I filled in the gaps in Welsh and early Irish history myself later in life.
Geography lessons introduced me to the local landscape: Eskers, drumlins, moraines, hanging valleys – all products of glaciation – as well as the volcanic crags and tails and the Great Highland Fault Line, the limestone karst of middle and Northern England, and the gentler landscape of the South protected by the hard rocks of Devon, Cornwall, Wales and the Lake District.
As far as books were concerned, there was (and is) a vast amount of literature from British, Irish and European writers, both prose and poetry, to be read and studied as well as Shakespeare and The Bible, all of which contributed to giving young British men and women a very strong concept of just who they were among the peoples of the world.
The influence of radio and television brought different accents and dialects from around the Isles into our living room. There were the distinctions between different Scottish accents, but I also became familiar with Cockney, Geordie, Brummie, Scouse, Lancashire, Yorkshire, West Country, Welsh and Irish accents and expressions as well as ‘BBC English’ as it was in the 1950s and 60s. All formed part of the rich pattern of the ‘national conversation’.
Travel around the country introduced the warp and weft of its terrain, the major landmarks and a familiarity with the cities and some of the towns. The major historical sites – castles, palaces, abbeys and monuments brought a solidity to the ‘narrative’ as it is called these days. Six years living in the South of England when a boy had introduced me to London and gave me a feel for the greater context in which my Scottish homeland existed. Looking back, I don’t think there’s an area or county I haven’t visited during my life.
Then there was the extended family, many of whom at the time I did not realise were cousins or second cousins of either my parents or myself. They were just people who visited us occasionally, and we did the same to them. My grandparents had come from large families which seemed to be the norm in the late 19th and early 20th century. It was only in later life that the connections became meaningful. One fellow I knew had 73 first cousins. 73! That sort of family connection draws people together and creates a wide web of relations, friends, acquaintances and contacts so it is easy to understand how families formed tribes or clans and tribes and clans came to form nations. Although one has to be careful otherwise you end up with clan loyalty trumping national loyalty or even giving rise to a mafia.
The writer, broadcaster and podcaster Neil Oliver who famously voted “No” in the 2014 Scottish Independence Referendum and earned himself undying hatred from the SNP’s supporters, links his own appreciation of a wider British identity to his presenting the ‘Coast’ series for the BBC. Working on ‘Coast’ allowed him to explore the natural and social history of the British coastline, which deepened his understanding of how geography influences cultural identity and historical narratives in Britain. This experience has influenced his views on the interconnectedness of historical events and the significance of place in shaping national identity. This all played a crucial role in developing his love for the entirety of Britain, as it gave him a basis for sharing and celebrating our history and culture.
It was a similar story for me but from a different perspective – the air.
Becoming an RAF fighter pilot meant low flying and lots of it. Through the 1970s and 80s I became at one with the lay of the land from 250 feet above the ground to 40,000 feet plus. Even when cloud blanketed the country there could be markers – stratiform over the lowlands, cumuliform over hills and mountains. One always knew when one was over the Trent Valley because each one of its power stations would throw up great cumulus clouds to pierce the fog and stratus. No longer. They have been demolished.
Gradually I came to know the land from the lowlands of East Anglia and Fenland to the Derbyshire Peak District, Northwards into the Yorkshire Dales, the North York moors and on into Northumberland. Round Southern Scotland I would fly before heading up between Edinburgh and Glasgow and on towards Perth and the Highlands, as far North as John o’ Groats, Cape Wrath and even, on one occasion, around Scapa Flow in the Orkney Islands. I’ve flown down through the Western Isles, past Skye and over the Mull of Kintyre into the Firth of Clyde before heading on over Galloway and the Solway Firth to the Lake District.
Wales was a happy hunting ground because for nearly four years, while an instructor based at RAF Brawdy on the Pembrokeshire coast, I came to know it like the back of my hand. In fact, from Brawdy, The whole of Wales, Devon, Cornwall, Somerset, Wiltshire, Gloucestershire, Herefordshire, Shropshire, Cheshire, the Bristol Channel and the South-West approaches were our aerial playground.
While talking to each other over the radio during our training sorties we used a shorthand in which topographical features had nicknames. Llyn Celyn, a North Wales reservoir, was “Pork Chop” because it was shaped like one; Likewise, Lake Vyrnwy was “Cucumber”. Grassholm Island 20 miles off the Pembrokeshire coast, a gannet colony, was “Birdshit Rock”; Clee Hill and Brown Clee Hill in Shropshire were “Sally’s Tits”. There were many more, but you get the picture.
I knew the run of the coast, every bay, where we were permitted to fly, every estuary and every river valley, all the little curves and indentations as well as the major points such as Spurn Head, Flamborough Head, the Amble lighthouse and St Abbs Head up to the Firths of Forth and Tay to Rattray Head. Down the other side from the Western Isles to Ailsa Craig and the Mull of Galloway and on to Anglesey and Strumble Head in Pembrokeshire. Past St David’s Head and St Anne’s Head right on down past Dartmoor and Bodmin Moor to Land’s End. I’ve flown over it all at low level and had a real bird’s eye view. Flying through the Highlands, the Lake District and Wales was always the most exhilarating aspect because one didn’t so much as fly over the terrain as fly in it.
Becoming an airline pilot gave a slightly different perspective because at least half an airline pilot’s working life is flying at night. One of the features of night flying is that distances appear to be foreshortened. When you survey the terrain ahead you can see only the lights of settlements, towns and cities and they appear to be much closer than they actually are. But it’s on that rare, completely clear night that you get the best view of all from the flight deck. Flying South from Aberdeen or Inverness, the darkness of the Highlands is punctuated only by the lights of Perth on the Highland boundary. Then the brightness of Edinburgh and the Central Scottish Lowlands across to Glasgow and the Clyde coast dominates ahead of the black hole of the Southern Uplands as cruising altitude is reached. Carlisle is a bright spot just before the Lake District hole. Looking East, Berwick-upon -Tweed, Tyneside and Tees-side stand out while to the West, Belfast and Londonderry are visible. Ahead are the splashes of light that are Greater Manchester, Liverpool, Leeds, Sheffield and Birmingham.
Just south of the border, in the far distance is the glow of London, 350 miles away and from Chester round through Colwyn Bay and Bangor the North Wales coast is clearly delineated. On reaching Manchester the glow of Cheltenham, Gloucester, Bristol, Cardiff, Newport and Swansea can be seen while looking Eastwards, the coast of Belgium and the Netherlands is visible and the distant glow of Amsterdam, Antwerp and Brussels. To the West are the lights of Dublin.
Just after Manchester it’s time to start the descent into London, the brightness of which is beginning to be the largest object in the windscreen. As we do so, the South coast, from Hastings to Southampton, Bournemouth and Poole comes into view with Exeter, Torbay, Plymouth and beyond. The whole vista has created an impression of what a small area 70 to 80 million people are packed into compared to other countries I have flown over in the dark. In the descent, the distant lights disappear below the horizon one by one leaving just a glow and eventually that disappears too.
Rolling out on final approach to one of Heathrow’s Westerly runways, The Tower of London, St. Paul’s Cathedral, Parliament, Whitehall, Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus, The Mall, Green Park, The Palace, Hyde Park, Kensington, Knightsbridge and the Albert Hall are all lined up in a bright show of the splendour of what was our Capital City. Then Fulham, Hammersmith, Chiswick, Southall and Hounslow, where the night sky is full of fireworks on Diwali, take over before the rest of the nation outside the boundary of Heathrow airport slips from view.
So, there it is. That is why I am as I am, a son of the rocks and soil of these islands who loves and appreciates every bit of them, their history and the story of our ancestors who lived in them which has been handed down, albeit sometimes imperfectly, through formal education, auto-didacticism and experience. I may not have been a horny-handed son of the soil and toil who knew every inch of his allotted acre down to the last tree, rock and blade of glass but I am of it, nonetheless. That is why I cannot acquiesce to the handing over of any of it to alien creeds and cultures, to the watering down of our stock. Other people may come and be welcome, in controlled numbers, to live with us, even marry and raise families with us, but they may not permanently and collectively own, legislate over or otherwise control any part of our land.
The last word on this has no more eloquently been expressed than by Sir Walter Scott in his Lay of The Last Minstrel, Canto the Sixth. He was writing of Scotland, but it will do for the whole. I’ll leave it to him.
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d,
As home his footsteps he hath turn’d,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung.
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(UKR)