The other day I accused a pundit of confusing ‘patriotism with chauvinism, either of them with nationalism and all of them with tribalism’. This calls for elucidation, as nuances matter.
Patriotism may have been the last refuge of a scoundrel to Dr Johnson, and indeed many a scoundrel has used it as such. But there’s nothing wrong with loving one’s country, especially if it’s lovable. (‘For a country to be loved it ought to be lovely’ was how Burke put it.)
However, patriotism elevated to the perch previously occupied by religion is always pernicious. Here it would be useful to consider its various levels as expressed through everyday phrases reflecting them. This is best imagined as a ladder, with degrees of patriotism forming descending rungs.
‘I love my country’ sits at the top. This is an unobjectionable, indeed laudable, statement. One’s country doesn’t have to be perfect any more than a woman has to be perfect to be loved. Whether or not it’s perceived as flawed, one’s own country offers the degree of intimacy, warmth and shared historical memory that’s keenly felt. Like two siblings sharing a knowledge inaccessible to a stranger, countrymen – regardless of their individual differences – are always united by a bond as strong as it may be invisible to outsiders.
Often this doesn’t need expressing in words: Two Englishmen visiting, for example, Italy may exchange knowing smiles at the sight of some local shenanigans, say a shop shut when it should be open, people using their hands when talking, or a woman dressed to the nines just to pop out for a loaf of bread.
Such semiotic exchanges would take several pages to explain on paper, but for the two countrymen there’s no need for words: they understand each other perfectly anyway. Their mutual understanding indeed comes close to the feelings of two siblings: in that sense, brotherly love and love of one’s country are similar.
Nor is there anything wrong with regarding one’s country as unlike any other. All countries are; if they weren’t, there wouldn’t be so many countries. This is so obvious (and empirically observable, this side of Scandinavia) that one would think it hardly needs saying. But of course what matters here isn’t the text but the subtext: when people insist that their country is exceptional, they don’t mean ‘different from’, they mean ‘better than’. They’re entitled even to that opinion, though tastes may differ.
Moving down a step, ‘I love my country, right or wrong’ begins to be problematic. However, the problem isn’t insurmountable: after all, though we like for something, we love in spite of everything. A son can’t always stop loving his mother just because she’s a compulsive shoplifter. Nor will a mother stop loving her son even if he boasts a string of juvenile convictions. So perhaps Burke’s aphorism ought to be ever so slightly qualified. A country has to be lovely to be liked – loving it is something else again.
Another step down, and we overhear the statement ‘I love my country because it’s always right.’ Between this step and the previous one, a line was crossed separating patriotism from jingoism.
No country is always right. Expressing such sentiments we begin to leave behind the rivers supposedly flowing with milk and honey and approach a swamp fuming with putrid emanations. Implicit in this statement is the tribalist, what pre-PC used to be called Hottentot, morality: if I steal his cow, that’s good; if he steals my cow, that’s bad. It took several millennia of civilisation to overcome tribalism, and by the looks of it the job isn’t yet finished.
Another step down, and the morass sucks us in waist-deep. Here one hears ‘My country is always right because it’s guided by God.’ Often heard in America, this has nothing to do with any true religious spirit – after all, Christ was unequivocal in stating that his kingdom was not of this world.
America or any other country is ‘under God’ because everything is – but only for that reason. At this level American ‘manifest destiny’ is joined by the ‘third Rome’ of Russia (replaced for a few decades by even worse messianism) and the ‘Gott mit uns’ of the SS. The underlying assumption is that our actions can’t be judged by outlanders, only by God, and he has given us an open-ended endorsement. Thus anything we do is justified simply because we do it.
The lowest rung is at the bottom of the swamp, where real creepy-crawlies take refuge. Here the sentiment is ‘Because our country is guided by God, it’s our duty to impose our ways on others, whether they want it or not. Others may be either seduced or coerced, doesn’t really matter which, as long as they join the fold.’ Since no real faith in God underlines this feeling, the explanatory clause at the beginning of the sentence may at some point be dropped for being superfluous.
This brings us to the chaps who drape their windows with Union Jacks during the Olympics. One suspects that building Jerusalem in England’s green and pleasant land isn’t their overriding objective. Their patriotism lacks the pseudo-religious fervour one often observes on the other side of Atlantic.
Yet it also differs from traditional English patriotism simply because their behaviour isn’t traditionally English. I’d go so far as to say that, by abandoning the time-honoured qualities of dignity, understatement and emotional reserve, they at best qualify as jingoists, not as true patriots.
Hundreds of thousands have died to uphold the values symbolised by the Union Jack. Waving it at those who are clever enough to beat the doping tests, thereby qualifying for millions in endorsements, cheapens the flag – and everything it stands for. Confusing this with patriotism constitutes aiding and abetting – especially when such confusion is fostered by those who really ought to know better.