I am often asked why I hate this country. Whenever I criticise our political culture (which has been rather a lot recently, for obvious reasons), I am asked by various pleasant people on the internet why I am so ungrateful to the country that naturalised me. The simple answer, of course, is that you don’t have to hate a country to point out what is wrong with it. The more complicated answer is that sometimes, you point out what is wrong with the country precisely because you believe – because you know – it can do better. Because you have hope.
My own hope was cultivated in a country that doesn’t exist any more. It grew every time I found solace in times of precariousness – which I did, over and over again. I arrived in the UK in the mid-noughties, with little money and even fewer connections. I went to night school and survived by finding the cheapest canteens and supermarket deals, and taking temping jobs all over London. I stuffed envelopes and answered phones (badly – I was told I was too curt, and was not invited to return). And when cracks did inevitably appear, in jobs or homes or immigration applications, I came to depend on a growing network of friends and partners who came through for me.
