Matthew Parris
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Portugal, meanwhile, takes a bite out of Iberia’s bottom as its own sovereign nation with its own language, but one cannot help thinking that but for accidents of history Portugal might be a province of Spain, and the Basques and Catalans sovereign states.
But to a visitor these divisions are nothing like as sharp as, to the tribes within them, they genuinely feel. Though it annoys Catalans and Basques when one says so, an outsider can drive from Barcelona to Bilbao, stopping off along the way, and feel that the people and the places in between are all much more like each other than they think. There are differences (as there would be driving across England from Newcastle to Liverpool) but to the outsider’s view there’s a clear cultural affinity between people all across the Iberian side of the Pyrenees. And physically, though there are some physiognomies that a local would tell you are ‘typical’ of Catalans, Basques, etc., any Anglo-Saxons like us would feel that they all look pretty southern European: shortish, predominantly dark-haired and often swarthy. You encounter much greater diversity in physical types among the French or Italians, and indeed the British.
It irritates Catalans and Basques intensely when we remark they all seem similar to us. They feel acutely aware of what we might see as secondary differences. They have become almost allergic to the differences, blocking their minds to what’s shared.
And — think about it — isn’t there a symmetry here with our own united kingdom? We English, Welsh and Scottish are conscious of the differences between us; and we too (particularly the Scots and Welsh) are irritated when foreigners overlook the differences, and keep forgetting to say ‘Scotland’ or ‘Wales’ or ‘Britain’, and call it all ‘England’. In vain do we remind them of the particularities of the nomenclature; outsiders can’t be bothered.
Perhaps it is we who are exaggerating the differences rather than they who are overlooking them. As a foreigner you could drive across the whole British Isles, including Ireland, identifying differences in accent and (sometimes) attitude and some slight variations in appearance, but still feel that in world terms we shared a rather similar culture; and that it was an arbitrariness of history rather than a powerful differentiation of societies that had drawn the political map.
Which brings me to my theory of ‘nationality’. I stand ready to be told that the distinction I am about to make is already famous among academics and I’ve come late to this analysis; but if so, then the analysis has yet to penetrate popular understanding.
I think national identity is fostered by one or both of two entirely separate forces. These are a) affinity and b) affiliation.
Affinity is the grouping together of people who think and live and remember alike. Shared history, territory, interests, fears, ambitions, customs and perhaps language and race or religion — a shared cultural mindset — make this group feel comfortable and familiar with each other, trust each other. This is the standard explanation of nationalism.
Affiliation is your choice — I repeat, choice — of team. It has nothing to do with how alike you are to other members of the group you’ve chosen, but springs from a deep instinct to join a pack.
If I’m right about the importance of the affiliatory instinct, it would explain why (as Linda Colley in Forging the Nation has argued) national identities can be ‘forged’ in both senses of the word ‘forge’. Look at how fast Braveheart Scotland has arisen. I cannot help but believe that this has less to do with deep and real cultural difference and collective memory, and more to do with an exciting and self-affirming new affiliation: not dissimilar to what football (or war) can provide.
If I’m right, then the battle for the Union may not be hopeless. There may be reason to sit out a wave of affiliatory nationalism, hopeful that it is less deep than supposed; and that it may recede, as it rose, capriciously.
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