Last week, out of the blue, I was asked to “appear” on Radio NZ. They needed a British expat to talk about Brexit, and I can only assume Google led them to this blog.
Okay.
I wasn’t exactly an expert, but I agreed. I figured it would be the most interesting thing to happen to me all week. I did tell them that I was only ten years old when I moved to New Zealand, and had therefore never been registered to vote in Britain in my life, let alone in the last fifteen years. This meant I was unable to actually vote on the EU referendum. (My mum was still eligible – just, but didn’t feel it was her place to.) They still wanted me, so I hurriedly set about doing some research.
Not getting a say in Brexit, I hadn’t thought too deeply about it. I was vaguely aware of the disturbingly racist turn things were taking, and of the exaggerated threats of a financial Armageddon turning into the actual Armageddon, but I hadn’t thought far beyond how it would impact upon me directly: I’d rather not give up my EU passport, thank you very much! I like having the option of living and working indefinitely – hassle-free – on “the Continent”. In fact, my New Zealand-born, German-bred boyfriend and I attempted to do just that a couple of years ago. (We only returned to New Zealand because his mum was diagnosed with terminal cancer.)
I realised, of course, that it was selfish to think this way. If I’d believed that it was in Britain’s best interests to leave the EU, (and if, of course, if I’d been able to vote,) I would have voted Leave. After doing some proper research, however, I did not believe that leaving the EU was in Britain’s best interests. When pretty much every expert in the world says it’s a bad idea, and when Nigel Farage and Donald Trump think it’s a good idea… it probably isn’t a good idea.
During the course of my research, I became seriously disheartened. The lies of the politicians, the stupidity of the people, the crass xenophobia suddenly given not just a voice, but a megaphone… I do realise there were perfectly good reasons to leave the EU, and if you’re one of the many perfectly nice, non-racist people who actually thought about their vote with some degree of intelligence, fair enough, and I have no qualms with you. The thing is, the more I researched, the more I came to realise that the worst outcome wasn’t leaving the EU: the worst outcome had already happened.
The atmosphere that this whole Brexit debacle has awoken in Britain is bloody terrifying. Watching from New Zealand, I’m seeing scenes reminiscent of 1930s Germany. Does the human race never learn anything?! The insidious fear-mongering is simply disgusting. Aggressive, pig-headed nationalism isn’t a good look for any country and, surely, we all know where it leads. Human beings should be working together for peace, not demonising anyone with a different accent! As an immigrant myself, I can sympathise and it’s scary.
I always thought my homeland was one of the saner places in the world. Well there goes my innocence.
I watched the votes being counted on the BBC website all throughout last Friday afternoon. (It was the middle of the night in Britain.) I became increasingly nervous, not just because I was waiting to go on the radio and make complete tit of myself, but because Leave was winning. That wasn’t supposed to happen! What about Scotland?
“Don’t worry,” I said half-jokingly to a friend on Facebook. “Scotland will save us!”
The thing is, I have four hundred Facebook friends. (When you move around a lot that tends to happen.) Of those four hundred, only two (that I saw) expressed a desire for Britain to leave the EU. Now, my friends are, naturally, made up of mostly people of a similar age to myself, i.e. young people. They are mostly either:
- Brits living in Britain
- Brits living/studying in other European countries
- Brits living in New Zealand
- New Zealanders living in New Zealand
- New Zealanders living in Britain
When the result of the vote was announced, my Facebook wall was flooded with dismay. People weren’t just disappointed, they were angry and scared. Some of them – New Zealanders, obviously – were amused. (You know, watching Britain tear itself apart is funny.) Being mostly young people, it’s not surprising that the vast majority of my friends wanted Britain to remain in EU. The vast majority of young people who voted in the referendum voted Remain. Forgive us for being optimistic.
Young people are often called selfish by the older generation, yet my generation is, so far, the most tolerant, open and accepting of any in history. We celebrate diversity. Most of us have been brought up with the message that love is love. We want to live in peace. We want the world to live as one. (Not in a homogenised way, in an inclusive way.) We want to look outwards, and out for each other.
To me, the entire Brexit thing was deeply demoralising. A sad, ironic version of John Lennon’s Imagine has been looping in my mind since Friday. I’ve seen the young voters criticised as idealists – well, bloody hell! What’s wrong with striving to live in an ideal world? As soon as you give up striving, you slide backwards and history repeats itself!
And I really don’t want history to repeat itself now we’ve got nuclear arsenals.
You know, I’m not a hippy. I’ve never particularly loved John Lennon. I’ve always enjoyed his music in the background, but, until these last few days, it’s never brought tears to my eyes.
You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will live as one
Remember, older generation? Remember when you loved that song? You used to be young and hopeful like us. I know your experience of the world since has made you cynical. Made you want to protect your own with no room for anyone else. Back when you had nothing, you were perfectly happy to share. Why aren’t you now?
Of course, I know the answer to that. And it is disheartening.
But anyway, here’s a link to my radio thing if any of you are interested. I didn’t quite manage to say what I wanted to say. You’ll probably be able to tell by my voice that the phone was shaking in my hand. You’ll definitely be able to tell that the final question threw me – what do you think of the answer I gave? (Also, my mum said I sounded Kiwi! I don’t, do I?)
I want to make it clear that, although I said Brexit was “a bit of a bum result for young people”, I’m not one of those young people railing at old people for forcing us into a future we don’t want. Yes, something like 75% of young people voted to remain in the EU, but less than half of them actually bothered to vote in first place. Which is just another reason to feel disheartened.
Meanwhile, the Brexit vote has reignited New Zealand’s flag debate. (If anyone thought that referendum was bad…) It’s also ignited a new republic debate. What’s the point, many Kiwis are asking, of staying in the commonwealth if Britain will no longer be our gateway to Europe? Many British expats in New Zealand are now saying, well, we may as well get New Zealand passports then. (Their British passports won’t be superior for much longer.) Many here are sharing the joke that Brits can no longer call Americans stupid. (But, of course, America has a Trump card.) I’m just sitting here feeling physically sick at the thought of Nigel Farage happy.
Britain doesn’t look like a nice place to be at the moment. I’m glad I’m in New Zealand.
As someone who grew up surrounded by tall, narrow houses with pitiful gardens, the fact that New Zealand’s houses are mostly single-storied and set apart from one another threw me at first. The ten-year-old me actually started missing stairs. I was delighted to find that one of my new Kiwi friends lived in a multi-storied house! Of course, this was in a small town in New Zealand. The new houses going up around Auckland all have stairs, being built tall and narrow to save space.
No one goes around barefoot in England, except at the beach. In New Zealand – or, at least, in small towns in New Zealand – people go to school barefoot, and down the high street, and round the supermarket… Kiwis found the ten-year-old me strange because I hadn’t got toughened, hobbit-like soles. People laughed at my inability to go barefoot, but I haven’t really gotten any better at it in the last fourteen years.
Well, actually, they are trees. The tree fern is the most iconic plant in New Zealand. They’re everywhere. In England, ferns are low-growing plants you don’t take much notice of. In New Zealand, they tower over you. The ten-year-old me used to expect dinosaurs to come crashing out of them! Today, whenever I return from overseas and see tree ferns at the side of the road, I know I’m home.
There are probably a lot of New Zealand primary schools that have uniforms, but no uniform seems to be more common. The ten-year-old me was delighted to find I no longer had to wear a uniform. In England, our primary school uniform had ties and everything – even for girls! And, if you were a girl, you were only just allowed to wear trousers in winter. Being forced to wear a skirt in an English winter is just cruel.
In England, hot weather is rare. When it does get hot, however, it gets hotter than New Zealand. That’s too hot. New Zealand gets almost too hot in summer, but is nice the rest of the year. What I found strange when I first moved here was how warm the winters are. Often, New Zealand in winter is warmer than England summer. (And, don’t forget, it’s happening at the same time. Relatives on the phone get so jealous!)
New Zealand houses aren’t built with radiators. Instead, they have wood-burning stoves. When me, my mum and my seven-year-old sister first arrived in New Zealand, my dad picked us up from the airport and took us to the one-storied house he’d rented. As soon as my little sister set foot in our new lounge, she flopped down in front of the wood-burner and let out a disappointed wail: “That’s a really small television!” I should point out that, immediately to the left, was a big television.
When we first moved to New Zealand, the ten-year-old me sometimes found it quite difficult to understand what people were saying. The Kiwi accent is like a less stressed version of Australian. For example, to me, the word ‘ten’ sounded like ‘tin’, and the word ‘deck’ sounded like… a story I’ve told again and again for the last fourteen years. Being told by a fellow ten-year-old to go and sit on the dick… anyway.
I got bit so much my first year in New Zealand! I started to dread summer, because it meant the arrival of the mosquitoes. I would bath myself in repellent yet, somehow, still end up with itchy splotches that drove me insane. The last few years, though, it hasn’t been so bad. Maybe you get used to them? People often have citronella lamps in their gardens here, so you can sit outside during the long summer evenings and not be bothered by them so much.
Where I lived in England, there were no grass verges. The narrow, terrace-lined streets were grey from edge to edge. Half the pavement was taken up with cars parked nose-to-tail down both sides. It was effectively a one-lane road, as you had to drive carefully down the centreline to get to your house. When I moved to New Zealand, I was struck by how wide and pretty the streets were. And everyone has garages, so you don’t have the street parking problem.
My British childhood was blighted by these buggers. The alley behind our house was overgrown with them. You often had to sidle along the wall with your stomach drawn in to avoid their touch. Then there was that time when I was three years old, riding my bike and wearing nothing but a thin leotard, (because it was summer and I was on my way to a dancing lesson,) and next-door’s enormous dog chased me and knocked me off into a towering patch of them! Every inch of my skin was stung!
Obviously. It rains a lot in New Zealand too, but really not as much. And it’s not the grey, relentless, oppressive rain you get in Britain. And I haven’t experienced any sleet since moving to New Zealand. Or had to wade through any of that awful, brown slush you get up the streets in winter. 
Everywhere has groups of young people from rough backgrounds trying to have a good time in ways that many would perceive as misguided, and New Zealand is no exception. The Kiwi equivalent of the British chav – the bogan – seems nowhere near as crass, however. Perhaps this has to do with the fact that New Zealanders as a whole are more laidback than Brits.
It’s common for Brits to communicate in complaints. The shared sense of disgruntlement creates a warm camaraderie that other nationalities often don’t quite understand. It can be difficult to take when you’re not used to it. When I went back to Britain last year, after thirteen years of living in New Zealand, I actually felt a bit oppressed by the constant moaning. Everyone was bringing everything down all the time. I mean can’t you just appreciate the good things and not let the bad things worry you? They’re not that important anyway. That’s the Kiwi way – the “she’ll be right” attitude – and to those that criticize it for creating a nation of complacent people, I say it’s better than the miserable alternative. No wonder Kiwis call us 
New Zealand has a few fatuous celebrity gossip magazines, but it doesn’t have anything like The Sun or the Daily Mirror! Returning to Britain last year and having endless headlines like ‘ROYAL SEX SCANDAL SCOOP’ and ‘CELEBRITY SNORTS COCAINE OFF OWN TITS’ blasted in my face really made me despair for the state of the nation.
My heart was perpetually agitated. I couldn’t sleep and when I did I had such nightmares that I woke up with my heart racing, feeling like I hadn’t had any rest at all.
POMS AWAY! 