Lest anyone is under the impression that the government has won its war of attrition against the “self-styled eco-crusaders-turned criminals” * or, as they prefer to define themselves, concerned citizens lobbying for action to save everybody from ecological disaster, a.k.a. supporters of Extinction Rebellion (XR), they are alive and well and picnicking in parks – while it is still legal to do so. For the Police, Crime, Sentencing and Courts Bill, currently with the House of Lords, contains provision for this and other forms of peaceful assembly to be criminalised at the whim of the Home Secretary.
As it happens, I have been to a few XR picnics, ranging from large, organised events to small, informal gatherings. Food is shared as a gesture of the commonality of the biosphere and the XR flag is flown to draw attention to the cause and to rally supporters. Otherwise, they are just ordinary social gatherings, a way of keeping people in touch with each other during covid-restricted times. Last Sunday, however, our local XR picnic was disrupted by the rain. In fact, it didn’t really happen, although, despite the weather forecast, my OH insisted we proceed as planned in case anyone turned up and was disappointed. She packed a hamper (one of those natty, insulated back-packs), then dug out our two XR flags, furled around 4-foot, bendy bamboo poles, which she attached, by some makeshift method, to my rucksack. Then we donned our waterproofs, grabbed our litter-pickers and splashed our way to the nearby park, where, on taking shelter in the bandstand, we put our packs down and waited for the others to arrive. That was when we noticed the flags were missing.
Flags, of course, are important. Everyone identifies with them in some way and to some degree. But therein lies a danger. Unscrupulous politicians misuse them to win votes or, as Arundhati Roy put it, “Flags are bits of coloured cloth that governments use first to shrink-wrap people's brains and then as ceremonial shrouds to bury the dead.” And the recently deceased Euro 2020 footy tournament provided ample proof that the English flag represents an over-simplification of national identity and a misinterpretation of its constituency. Beneath the flag of England there are complex and various interpretations of Englishness, though our government would wish it otherwise.
We spent last week in Cornwall, a county that takes pride in waving its own wannabe ‘national’ flag, thereby proclaiming its perceived otherness from the rest of the mainland. Like England’s, its flag is also named for a saint, though secularism has long since diluted the religious significance of both emblems. And, like the rest of the country, Cornwall’s ‘traditional’ identity is in flux. Its language died, along with its mining industries. More recently, its fishermen have struggled to make a living in the face of international quota disputes. And, most egregiously, its quaint coastal villages are being commoditised by second-homers, greedy for a slice of someone else’s pie. In short, the uniqueness that made Cornwall a favourite holiday destination is eroding fast. Yes, it is now possible to get good Italian-style coffee in every tourist hot-spot, but don’t we appreciate diversity of place? What happened to the refreshing a-change-is-as-good-as-a-rest approach to holidays? Where I see an Italian flag, I expect sublime espresso. Where I see a Cornish flag, I expect first-class pasties. Perhaps we expect too much from pictorial symbols. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but the story doesn’t always stack up under scrutiny.
Nobody turned up to Sunday’s picnic, unsurprisingly, but on the way home we found our flags lying on a pavement, sopping but intact. I was pleased to reclaim them. They may mean nothing to a passer-by, but to me they have acquired significance as battle colours of a sort.
* Priti Patel, Home Secretary, in an address to the Police Superintendents’ Association annual conference, 2020.
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