I recently researched my background more deeply and discovered that, on my mother’s side, my grandfather was a Sinhalese migrant from Sri Lanka. He was relatively affluent. I am unsure whether he left because of the way the Sinhalese treated the Tamil population, or whether he simply preferred life in England. He paid for a ticket, came legally, and built a life here.
The treatment of Tamils in Sri Lanka was abhorrent. That is not something I feel pride in. The methods used to eradicate and suppress Tamil people feel disturbingly relevant when viewed alongside modern conflicts. History echoes in uncomfortable ways.
(Many parallels to be drawn between Israeli/idf treatment of Palestinians/hamas and Sinhalese treatment of the Tamils/tamil tigers from language used, to dehumanisation, to arms provided and interest in such a random conflict. To me it served as a dress rehearsal to see if what they wanted to do could happen in ‘their’ land years later).
That Sinhalese blood runs through me, and while heritage is not chosen, it still invites reflection.
What I take from my grandfather’s story is this: he was a man of means in a violent and divided land who either left to escape moral compromise or left out of opportunity and preference. He could have gone elsewhere, but he chose England. That choice matters. He wanted England — Great Britain — specifically.
His partner, my Irish grandmother, also left Ireland during a difficult period in its own history. Her departure, too, was shaped by forces larger than herself, as well as personal choice.
On my father’s side, my grandparents were Turkish Cypriot. My grandfather worked with the British and spoke Greek, passing on information during a time of conflict. When this was discovered, he was beaten. Whether through misjudgment or necessity, he no longer felt safe in Cyprus. As someone aligned with the British, he was able to move to London. There, he worked hard, built a business, created wealth — and eventually lost much of it to gambling.
He is a man I never met and never truly knew. From what I hear, he was intelligent and capable, but struggled with addiction.
He married my grandmother when she was very young — something that makes me uncomfortable today, though it reflected the norms of that era. My grandmother, who passed away when I was young, seemed gentle and kind. Yet a sixteen-year-old married to a thirty-year-old can only exercise so much agency in her own life.
I feel deep love and respect for my grandmothers — women who directly and indirectly endured the weight of patriarchy.
I feel anger toward my grandfathers for the ways they may have participated in, benefited from, or upheld those same structures.
My parents, however, are perfect to me. They are hardworking people who love each other, my sister, and me deeply. They faced hardship in their own childhoods but grew into compassionate, loving adults. They raised us with that same love — a love my sister and I still carry.
I have criticised the British Empire before — and rightly so. Even in my own family’s story, the subconscious and indirect effects of empire shaped my grandparents’ realities in their native lands. But it is not enough to blame empire entirely. Each of them made conscious decisions. Each of them, in their own way, wanted to come to England.
What I struggle with today is the version of patriotism I see — one often defined by hostility toward migration. My own family history complicates that narrative. My ancestors left their indigenous lands willingly. Their migrations were not purely driven by desperation; in many cases, they were shaped by choice and opportunity. That makes me question what ethnic pride even means if identity can be set aside so decisively.
My story of migration is largely one of relative privilege and agency. I cannot speak for those fleeing war or persecution, but I can empathise with them. My ancestors came not because they had no alternative, but because England offered something they desired — stability, opportunity, freedom, and belonging. They were shaped by empire and, in different ways, contributed to it and benefited from it.
That is a complicated inheritance.
So what is empire?
Is it a pre-emptive assertion of dominance — a belief that other nations, if left unchecked, may one day threaten us?
Is it a failure of coexistence, justified through claims of moral superiority?
Or is it theatre? Ritual? A crown filled with stolen jewels placed upon a monarch’s head — a ceremony that sanctifies conquest through pageantry and tradition?
Coronations, costumes, solemn music — these rituals can legitimise histories built on violence. They make power feel sacred and therefore unquestionable. They turn conquest into continuity. Colonisation into heritage.
Is that something to aspire to? If we benefit from past wrongs, does continuing to defend the structure that produced them make us complicit? Is it only acceptable when we are the ones holding the crown?
An immigrant’s arrival in England — whether by need or by desire — could be seen as a submission to empire. But what is that empire now? The world is shifting. Global power structures are changing. Britain is no longer what it once was.
And yet, what makes Britain great has never been domination. It has been people.
The indigenous and the migrant. Those who rebuilt after war. Those who worked, contributed, created, and sustained the country. We need each other because we are human.
In all of this, I do not reject Englishness or patriotism. If anything, I claim it more consciously now. I want the best of Britain — its fairness, resilience, humour, creativity, and tolerance — to shape its future. Not division. Not scapegoating. Not internal conflict that weakens us while others profit from it.
We should recognise what truly makes us strong and build upon that.
There are places my ancestors once called home that I do not feel connected to. Not because the land is tainted, but because history there feels heavy and unresolved. Yet here, in England, I do not feel surrounded by evil. I feel surrounded by ordinary people trying to live decent lives.
If past generations committed wrongs, that does not make us irredeemable. People are not genetically evil. We are shaped by systems, incentives, fear, and power — but we are also capable of growth.
I love this country because it feels like home to me — just as it feels like home to you. Let that love be expansive, not exclusionary. Let it spread through shared responsibility, not nostalgia for domination.
Patriotism should not mean defending every chapter of our history. It should mean protecting the people beside us. It should mean preserving what is good and reforming what is not.
Do not let anger harm those closest to you. They are the ones who will stand beside you if the powerful ever turn their backs.
That — not conquest — is strength.
