Sigmund Freud, Lily Allen and the New

Borders of Europe
Erik Ringmar

In 1915, six months into the bogged-down horror which was the First World War,
Sigmund Freud reflected on the world that had been lost. Before the war, Europe
belonged to all of us, he recalled, and its achievements were our shared heritage.
We read all the great philosophers and poets and admired all artists regardless of
their nationality. None of them were alien to us just because they spoke a different
language. And we went to live abroad too, without regard for borders. There was
no need to chose between the gray waters of the Baltic or the blue waters of the
Mediterranean, between the snow clad Alps or the green river valleys, since all of it
belonged to all of us. We Europeans were the proud progeny of this mixture of
cultures, languages, history and peculiarities of physical environment.

And then all hell broke lose, and the war which engulfed Europe was far bloodier
and more destructive than anything previously experienced. The war, said Freud,
has brought to light the barely conceivable phenomenon of civilized nations
knowing and understanding each other so little that one can turn from the other
with hate and loathing. The European of only a few months ago now finds
himself helpless in a world that has grown strange to him when he sees his great
fatherland disintegrated, the possessions common to mankind destroyed, and his
fellow citizens divided and debased. In 1938, after Hitler and the Anschluss, Freud
too was forced to take sides. Friends with connections in high places whisked him
off to Britain in the nick of time.

Now, after the Brexit vote, a large number of Europeans are once again forced to
take sides. Poles living in England will be returned to Poland, Romanians returned
to Romania, and Brits living in France and Spain forced to consider whether to
change their citizenship or go home. If the whole European Union falls apart,
where will we all go? One thing seems certain: we will not follow Freud to Britain.

***

In November 1994, Sweden held a referendum on whether to join the European

Union. The country was deeply divided. After all, neutrality and non-alliance
politics had served the Swedes well. After narrowly avoiding both world wars, and
selling goods to a post-war Europe in ruins, Sweden had become a prosperous
country. The wealth paid for a welfare state which was the envy of the world. To
many Swedes there seemed to be few reasons to depart from a course which had
brought such success. Europe could join us if they wanted but why should we join
them?

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I voted in favor of EU membership in 1994 and for me it was a simple matter of
identity. Growing up in a small industrial town in northern Sweden, my ostensible
homeland had always seemed far too small and too confining. Visiting England and
France on holiday trips as a child, I quickly decided I was European. Like Freud, I
wanted all of Europe to belong to me. I wanted to claim the hills of Tuscany as my
heritage and to wander the streets of Paris as though they were my own. The EU
referendum was my opportunity, and I was delighted when 52 percent of my
countrymen agreed.
***
While the Swedes were voting, Yugoslavia was falling apart. In Zagreb the author
Slavenka Drakolic opened her home to a friend, Drazena, who needed a refuge
from the atrocities committed in Sarajevo. One day, while staying with her, Drazena
went out to buy a pair of high-heel shoes, just like the ones you would wear for a
party. Drakolic reacted with indignation: How can you buy a pair of high-heel
shoes! You, a refugee! And then, in mid-sentence, Drakolic stops herself, suddenly
realizing what the war has done not only to her friend and their friendship but also
to herself. There used to be nothing that separated them. They were fellow
citizens of the same Yugoslavia, sharing the same kinds of lives and the same kinds
of dreams. But now the war had made Drazena into a refugee, a someone, that is,
who should queue up to receive handouts from the Red Cross. Refugees cannot
wear high-heel shoes. This is how borders are drawn, Drakolic realizes. It is by
naming the alien, the not-me, that atrocities become possible. This is the border
which her condescension has revealed. This is how she became an accomplice.

In Britain, the same kind of borders are now being drawn. The owners of shops
selling Polish delicatessen are suddenly fearing for their lives and the Polish Social
and Cultural Association in West London, founded by Polish exiles in 1942, is being
spray-painted with racist graffiti. Here in Sweden I find myself reacting instinctively
to late-night reruns of British TV series. Why after all should we watch this
imported stuff? Why can't Swedish TV put on some European programming? And I
gloat far too visibly when England makes its ignominious exit from the UEFA cup
finals. Serves you right, you bastards, you were never Europeans anyway! There it
is again, that border between you and me, between the victim and the perpetrator.

***

Yesterday my daughter played Lily Allen's Smile on Spotify and I remember the
first time I heard that song, back in 2006 when we still lived in London.
When you first left me
I didn't know what to say
I'd never been on my own that way
Just sat by myself all day
We lived in London for 12 years and my children were born and grew up there.
Dancing and singing along to lyrics they did not understand, my girls often invited
Lily Allen into the front-room of our terraced house in Harringay. She too was from
North London after all. But listening to her again here in Sweden after the Brexit

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referendum, she has suddenly become a foreigner, and even her accent, which once
was ours, is alien and alienating. A border has gone up in our minds between Britain
and Sweden, between Lily Allen and us. No, it's even worse than that: the border is
cutting our own lives in two, separating a present which is European and a past
which no longer belongs to us.

It is of course the Brits who have shot themselves in the foot and they are the ones
who will suffer the consequences of a Brexit. It is their little island which now will
start sinking into the North Sea. We Europeans will be OK. We have the larger
market after all and the bigger footprint in international politics. The hills of
Tuscany are still my heritage and I can still claim the streets of Paris as my own. The
breakup will be traumatic but we will get over it. After all, Lily Allen did.

At first when I see you cry

It makes me smile
Yeah, it makes me smile
At worst I feel bad for awhile
But then I just smile
I go ahead and smile

And yet, listening to Lily Allen in the wake of the British EU referendum brings me
to the brink of tears.