A neighbour put up an England flag and I reconsidered our relationship

It was the middle of summer and just like any other day driving down a main road in London. 

People trying to overtake at breakneck speed, beeping if someone takes more than 10 seconds to start at a green light, rolling down their windows and swearing at the slightest mistake.

Except that this time, when a man in a white van released a string of unsavoury four-letter words at me, there was something white and red fluttering from the van’s roof above him. 

A St George’s flag. 

And that flag meant the whole interaction suddenly felt less like road rage, and more like a racist attack.

You may think this sounds a little like paranoia – or perhaps that I’m reading too much into an everyday driving-related run-in.

But I have good reason to feel worried. 

Thanks to the wave of far right, nationalist action that we have seen over the last few months – the massive and intimidating rally through central London, the anti-asylum hotel protests, the flag campaign, which saw English and British flags draped from lamp posts and painted onto mini roundabouts – things for anyone who is visibly ‘other’ right now feel more frightening and precarious than ever.

It feels like the flag has gone from a symbol of patriotism and national pride, especially during times like the World Cup, to being adopted instead by those who want a version of Britain where people like me simply don’t exist. 

In that context, putting a flag on your car or home or outside your shop – or sticking it on your local lamp post – feels like a direct message to those of us who don’t fit the white-British box: That we are unwelcome here. 

Consequently, as I have been going about my everyday life over the last few weeks, I have found myself second-guessing my actions before going to certain places. 

That corner shop that suddenly has a St George’s flag outside – is it sending a message that customers like me shouldn’t enter?

That house with the flag pole suddenly erected outside – will I find myself the recipient of abuse if I walk right by it?

Again, this isn’t just paranoia. I’ve also witnessed interactions lately that suddenly seem marred with racism when a flag is present. 

Like when I watched a customer in front of me being incredibly rude, entirely unprovoked, to a shop assistant with a foreign accent. When they walked off, the shop assistant and I saw a St George’s flag on the back of their hoodie and we looked at each other with silent understanding. Suddenly, it made sense. 

Or the unnerving experience of someone living nearby we’ve exchanged small talk with for years only just filling their front room window with a St George’s flag – as if they are sending a message to a whole street of mostly brown, Muslim or migrant families.

Ironically, I would never have guessed this person I exchanged smiles and comments about the weather with for years could have been harbouring these ideas. That the person who had taken in my parcels and who my small children waved at as we walked past was now displaying their allegiance.

But seeing a flag in their window was a startling reminder that when racism is legitimised, perhaps even those we thought were on our side are bolstered to show their true colours.

I was even startled when taking my children to a farm, which happened to be near Epping – the site of some of the most ferocious anti-migrant protests – to suddenly realise that all the lamp posts had flags waving from them and that we were the only non-white family there.

I was torn between wanting my children to have a good time and being genuinely frightened for our safety, and I found myself policing their normal childlike behaviour so as not to draw too much attention to ourselves.

My attitude to taking my kids to new and adventurous spots has likely changed forever because of this. I’ve found myself researching whether new locations have had a significant far right presence in the local area lately before risking taking my children there.

This may all still sound like paranoia to you. And maybe it is, in a way.

But isn’t that the point?

In fact, I have opted to stay in more diverse and Muslim-populated areas, which is the exact opposite of the sort of integration these people demand from us.

Although I can’t see the flag debacle dominating the news cycle any more, it is certainly dictating life for me and my non-white friends and family. 

It’s as though the prevalence of the far right has emboldened anyone to reveal their racist and Islamophobic views that they were holding all along. As though the people we have lived and worked amongst all our lives have not only hated us all along, but actually object to our presence in this country.

And this leaves me feeling terrified at our safety and exhausted from the emotional labour of having to weigh up the risk of everything we now do. 

This may all still sound like paranoia to you. And maybe it is, in a way.

But isn’t that the point?

The idea of plastering the flag everywhere, of filling the streets with nationalist protest chants, of anti-migrant rhetoric becoming embedded in the mainstream political narrative, is to send us one distinct message: That we don’t belong here.

You may think it’s harmless to simply place a flag in your window; that it’s a show of innocent patriotism. 

But there’s something sinister and disarming about the quiet anonymity of a flag appearing on the lamp post outside your house, or your child’s overwhelmingly Muslim school, or being drawn on your local halal takeaway. It makes me feel like my whole life in the country I call home is at risk and that my children are already having to navigate the feeling of not being welcome here before they can even understand what that means.

And second-guessing who put it there – or why – makes it feel like each one of our fellow Britons is actually against us, and has been, all along.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

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