It’s been three years since I obtained my British citizenship at Cambridge Shire Hall. That was a lovely day, as warm and sunny as today: I was extremely anxious from the early morning, thinking that something would definitely go wrong—I’d be turned away from the ceremony due to newly revealed inconsistencies in my documents, or my surname would be scrambled at the very end, or whatnot—Constant Worry was my name. However, despite all my disquiet, everything went smoothly.
The procedure itself was beautiful and simple: there were quite a few of us, people of different origins—German, Costa-Rican, Indian, Zimbabwean and many more—we sang ‘God, Save the Queen,’ got our certificates (passports came a day later) and, of course, had tea with biscuits at the end.
I felt happy: the British passport didn’t make a Briton of me, of course (any amount of documents never would for that matter), yet it gave me a confirmation of my love and devotion to this country, which became my homeland.
I love Britain. I love England with its glorious and complex history, incredible literature and endlessly many marvellous locations that remain in my heart forever (yes, Norfolk’s Cromer is one of the most precious of them). I love Scotland with all its Gothic beauty and bleakness, which totally resonates with my soul and introverted nature.
I love people of this land: they are calm and quiet, and never take anything except cum grano salis, their irony and common sense are notorious. Yet they are persistent, and vigorous, and great.
The thing that happened to the country yesterday is tragic, and I consider it as a wrong turn. Yet I still believe that people’s persistence and wisdom will defeat all pompous nonsense. I really do.
I believe in you, Britain. And I love you.
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