We’re all global citizens
Growing up in South Africa – where I lived from the age of two – I was occasionally reminded I was not South African simply because of my birthplace.
Jennie Ridyard.
A few weeks ago I became someone new: I became an Irish girl. After 15 years of living somewhere that was never officially home – even though it’s where my sons, my dogs, and my Dubliner fella are – I finally went through the long, document-heavy, costly process of applying for citizenship.
Finally it came through, for me and for the 650 other brand-new nationals who attended the ceremony with me, who swore an oath together, shook hands, clapped for ourselves, and asked each other where we were from.
I queued with Joss, from Uganda; I sat beside Ruth, from Scotland. In the room were gathered applicants from Brazil to New Zealand, Nigeria to Pakistan, Canada to, yes, South Africa…
That was me. That still is me. I’m still South African, in my bones. I’m English too, by birth. And now I’m Irish. Or am I? In delight, I tweeted after the event, and I thanked the government minister who welcomed us immigrants into this nation of emigrants.
True to form, an anonymous stranger responded saying I would never be Irish unless my forefathers had been here for thousands of years, unless they had bled, starved, and been persecuted for Ireland – presumably so that people like him could squirm about incognito on the internet, posting poison from their armchair.
I imagine he thought I was black, given that my profile was plain blue in solidarity with the people of Sudan. Briefly, I glimpsed the spectre of racism… Yet it wasn’t the first time I’ve been told I don’t belong.
Growing up in South Africa – where I lived from the age of two – I was occasionally reminded I was not South African simply because of my birthplace.
Briefly, in the 1990s, I lived in the UK – where I was born – but it was not home. How could it be when a blue-stockinged volunteer in the citizens’ advice bureau snarled that I should “go back to where you came from”?
Since coming to Ireland, some of my Saffer countryfolk have reminded me yet again that I am not South African, even though I am exactly that by naturalisation, by education, by the dust in my veins and the yearning in my heart.
And now I’m Irish too. Or not. I’m a citizen of the world. But ultimately, aren’t we all?
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