A Fair Hearing

It is late at night on the eve of the Scottish Independence Referendum, an event which is easily the most historic (if one can use that phrase before it has even happened) of which I have ever been a part.  The hour is late and, after days of doing little but liking articles and comments and, on one occasion only, actually sharing one, I find that I do want to have my say.  Everyone else is having theirs and that's what the internet age is all about, right?  Getting to give our points of view, regardless of whether or not it makes any sense or anyone is actually listening?

Yes, I'm aware I'm lampooning this even as I write - I get the irony, but I'm doing this because the desire to be heard is a strong one and it's one of many which has fired up this referendum in the first place.

I don't want to write a series of arguments or clever points to get you to swing around to my point of view, however.  I'm sure you've already made up your mind, or, if you haven't this late in the game, then you're probably not going to be swayed at the last minute by meagre ramblings.

I'm also not here to congratulate everyone on their political engagement, to point out all the wonderful things the referendum debate has brought into the public consciousness, to pat everyone on the back in advance of the final whistle and remind us all to be sportsmanlike in victory, or defeat.

I'm not condemning either of those actions, either.  We all have a right to speak up about the things we believe in and are passionate about and there is much truth to the positive, 'we're all friends here, right?' posts as well.

No.

All I want to do is express myself and, primarily, I mean how I feel.



To explain, this referendum has made the last couple of weeks stressful, tense, uncertain, depressing and, yes, also a little exciting, exhilarating even, albeit in very small doses.  In short, it has been emotional.  I'm not talking about waves of melodrama - it has been too internalised for that, too personal and, to be quite frank, too confusing.

Take this evening, for example.  I left work, stepped out into a thick Aberdeen haar and preceded to turn it into ominous poetic imagery:

A mist hands over the city, a driech shroud which makes all lights hazy and all paths treacherous.  You can walk right through it, try to ignore it, carry on as if it were not there, but you cannot escape it.  In the end it will soak you too and you'll find we are all drowned out by its sodden white noise...

That was an actual message I sent to a friend (I know, I'm not quite right in the head) and you don't have to look to far to see where I'm going with my images.  By the time I'd gotten home I was weaving spiders in (exposed webs once hidden all around) and it was all getting a bit silly.  The poem is not the point, however, it's the desperate need to express something about this situation - this mad, unprecedented situation (in my life at least) - and to explain to a world so full of statistics and accusations that this actually hurts.  There are real emotions behind the actions in this referendum, on both sides.  People are genuinely excited and genuinely scared.  There is real joy at a chance to make a change and real upset that change might come.

For me it is mostly the latter.  I've heard this whole referendum described, on numerous occasions, as a divorce.  Such references have usually been at least partly tongue in cheek, but in many ways it's an apt description, complete with the emotional ramifications.

To put this into context, let me explain a little about my national identity.  I was born in England, lived there for the first five years of my life, then moved to Northern Ireland, where half my family is from.  I lived there for the next thirteen years, experiencing all but one year of the Northern Irish education system and, though I probably wouldn't realise it until much later, being formed and moulded by the thought and culture of that small nation.  I then moved to Scotland to study and have lived here now for almost as long as I lived in Northern Ireland.  When asked what nationality I am, my first response is, quite genuinely, British.

I sound English, but I have no overriding sense of Englishness.  I grew up in Northern Ireland, but, whilst my Irish side has come out more clearly since moving to Scotland, I never really felt Irish living there because of my English origins.  And now, in Scotland, a country I love to live in and be part of, it is clear to me that I'm certainly not Scottish, but that I have absorbed a certain amount of Scottishness.  (I have not spent much time in Wales...sorry Wales).

I'm a sort of mongrel and what's left in this mixed bag of national identities is the one which has, however tenuously, held them all together throughout my lifetime and for centuries before that: Britishness.

Now, I'm no patriot, at least not in the usual sense of that word.  For me patriotism has always sounded just a little too like xenophobia with positive wording.  I do not believe that I live in the best country in the world, nor that it can do no wrong.  I am well aware of the atrocities in our (shared) history and the horrible things we have done to one another.  I am equally aware of the poor decisions which are being made, even as we speak, in our councils, our assemblies and parliaments, but, despite all this, I am nonetheless pleased to live here.  I like being British.  There are many good things about this country.  It is, for the most part a prosperous, successful, democratic, socially conscious, positively influential nation.  The quality of life here is, on average, a good one.  We are, most of us, very lucky to have been born here.

All this has come out of nations once at war and squabbling tribes before that.  It has not been perfect, it has never been ideal, but it's produced more than enough to make up for its faults.  And now we sit on the threshold of (possibly) seeing it dissolve.  How can that not hurt?  I'm not an Englishman watching Scotland wave goodbye, nor even a Northern Irishman watching the gulf widen between myself and the rest of the UK.  I'm a Briton, seeing a part of my homeland just cut itself off.

When I was growing up I was surrounded by the controversy that was Northern Irish politics and the question of whether one wanted to remain part of the Union or join a united Ireland was heavy in the air with almost all social interactions.  I was largely indifferent, but times have changed.  I've come to realise that it is not one small part of the UK which I belong to, but the Union as a whole and I do not want to see it dissolve.  And dissolve it will if Scotland goes independent.  I don't see it being very long before Wales decides to hold its own referendum and Northern Ireland continues to balance on a knife point anyway...

I'll watch my country fall apart.

And it all just seems so mad!  Why is this happening?  Was what we had here really that bad that any of this was necessary?  Have I been living in a different dimension to everyone else?  What did I miss that means Scotland might have to go?

And me with it...

If Scotland becomes an independent country then the uncertainty (when we have a small child to consider) and the instant sense of alienation (when neither of us are Scottish and have no family here), will almost certainly lead to us leaving and returning 'home', even though that means leaving behind jobs, friends and our church.

That last is a particular wrench, because in the absence of family our church has filled that gap and helped get us through some trying times.  A Yes vote tomorrow could mean the end of that and, as much as we don't want to say goodbye, we're not sure we can take the risk of staying.  I'm not sure I want to live in a place which is, so suddenly and against my will, no longer my home.

My mind flits back and forth from one idea to the other, leaps into territories unexplored by this post, through dark forest of confusion and uncertainty, canyons of pressure and stress, through passes of hope and into valleys of gloom.

It's not the end of the world, however.  Thinking this all through has led us to realise that, even in the event of a Yes, things might work out well for us, albeit elsewhere.  We've been forced to remember that we need to trust in God first and foremost and that whatever happens He is still in charge.

Despite all I've said above, I have, for the most part, made my peace with this referendum.  I can still get riled up by the things people are saying in the news, or on social media.  I still want a No victory.  The stress has faded somewhat, however, the idea of a Yes is slightly less terrifying and my thoughts incline every so slightly more towards Heaven than they did before.

We all want to be heard.  I want to be heard, so I write this (admittedly very rambly) blog.  The Internet wants to be heard, so it is filled with more blogs and vines and tweets and status updates.  Scotland wants to be heard, so tomorrow everyone living there will have the chance to have their say.  We all want to be heard, but there's a God who listens, all the time and if there's one thing we ought to do before we step into that polling booth tomorrow, it's to speak to Him.

Pray for forgiveness, for all the hurt caused by both sides in the campaigns of the last few weeks.  For thanks for the privileges we already have in the UK and the opportunity to have a say in its future.  For those who will be on the losing side, disillusioned and disappointed, that they would not lash out, or cause trouble, but would work to make the most of the outcome.  For the leaders on both sides, that they would live up to their promises, and work hard to ensure they make their country or countries better places for all.  For yourself, that you'd make the best possible choice and that, regardless, God would be glorified.

God will hear your prayers and He will give an answer.

Sleep well.