So I’m South African. Born and raised. I carry with me a distinctive green passport and I speak with flat vowels and use the words “hey” “yah” and “bru” a lot. Most of my loved ones live in the land of green and gold, I get choked up when I hear Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika and I often dream of the rolling hills of KZN. I’m undeniably South African, however I am not a resident of South Africa. I am a resident of Britain, however I am not British.
I am able to vote in both countries. I pay taxes in both countries. In my homeland though I’m a native. I can get a mortgage. I have a credit rating. In the country that I’ve chosen to make our home, I’m a migrant and I tick a box for ethnicity that reads “White Other”. I cannot get a mortgage. I have no credit rating. My children attend a British school, speak with a British accent and learn about the 66 monarchs spread over a history of 1500 years. They are being raised in Britain by two soutie Saffas whose only previous experience of royalty was an encounter with a queen in a pink feather boa and silver stilettos in Greenpoint, Cape Town. There was no castle either, except of the lager kind.
I instinctively refer to South Africa as “home”. It’s my default setting. It’s not correct though. The UK is technically home. It’s where we are. It’s where we live. Even though our resident status is currently subject to a visa. Even though we can be asked to leave our home. “Pak jou goed en trek” would be the Afrikaans version of the UK Border Agency’s courteously worded instruction that would most likely come via same-day recorded post. The British do love their Royal Mail.
Three and a half years in I feel slightly at odds with where I belong. I’m having what can only be described as an immigration identity crisis. On the one hand, we haven’t lived here long enough to warrant citizenship. And on the other hand, we’ve been away from South Africa long enough to feel out of it.
Sting wrote a song about being an alien. A legal alien. An Englishman in New York. I’m neither English, nor am I in New York. But I can understand those lyrics. I feel a lot like a legal alien. I stand out in my Saffa-ness. The way I raise my children with little respect or regard for health and safety. How they run kaalgat like mountain goats in the garden. How we all like to go barefoot. The braais we have in the depths of winter. I’m proud of my heritage, but having to constantly link the dots for people gets tiring. “Why are you here?” they ask. “How long do you plan to stay?” The former is easy to answer. A career opportunity for my husband and an adventure for our family. The latter – not so much. I leave things open and vague. The Brits are happy with that. It’s just up their street of aloof where you turn right at polite but stop at over-share.
Being as I am a human being who needs a piece of paper backed by a very good business reason to live in this country, this whole Brexit debacle struck a chord. It seems crazy to think that in a world intrinsically connected by trade, technology, knowledge and so much more – it’s still perceived as good governance to impose borders to restrict the freedom of movement for people who seek to work, study, travel or gain asylum. Borders intended to block those who simply aspire to their best life. I still think of the majority of humanity as good. Some may call that naïve. I call it being a South African who lives with hopeful heart and a spirit full of Ubuntu. As Madiba famously once said: “A fundamental concern for others in our individual and community lives would go a long way in making the world the better place we so passionately dreamt of.”
Every human being is searching for a place to call home. No government should have the power to intervene in this pursuit. It’s a basic human right as far as I’m concerned. I am not alone in my quest for a sense of belonging or in my feelings of unsettledness it appears. It’s a problem very close to home at this moment in time.
And so for now, I shall make like a local and with a stiff upper lip live with my head in one country and my heart in another and hope that the two are reunited soon. And I’ll look to Sting and his wise lyrics for guidance and “Be yourself no matter what they say.” There’s got to be something in that. I mean look how well it turned out for him. Alien and all.
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| I had to tick that box. True story. |
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| Truer story still. |
