Raising the Flag:

Symbols of Belonging in a Fractured Nation

It was a seemingly innocuous tweet during the 2014 Rochester and Strood by-election that exposed a deep cultural rift. Emily Thornberry, then Labour's shadow attorney general, a paragon of establishment elite thought, posted a photo of a terraced house in Strood adorned with multiple St George's Cross flags, a white van parked outside.

No caption, just "Image from #Rochester." To Thornberry, the image spoke for itself: a symbol of backward, flag-waving patriotism, the domain of the "white van man" she and her metropolitan peers presumably viewed with quiet derision. She expected her audience to share the contempt, to chuckle at the vulgarity of overt Englishness. But the backlash was ferocious. The public saw snobbery, a sneering dismissal of ordinary lives. Thornberry resigned from the shadow cabinet that day, rebuked by Ed Miliband for disrespecting hardworking families. I played a modest role in that storm, forwarding the tweet to Guido Fawkes and The Sun, which amplified the outrage and forced the reckoning.

That episode, now over a decade old, feels eerily prescient as I contemplate the "raising the flag" phenomenon sweeping Britain in recent weeks. What began as scattered acts of defiance has blossomed into a nationwide movement: St George's Crosses and Union Jacks hoisted on lampposts, motorway bridges, and public spaces from Birmingham's Shard End to Tower Hamlets in east London, Southampton to Brighton, and even Cannock. Roundabouts painted red and white, zebra crossings marked with the cross, symbols of England asserting themselves in the urban landscape. Last night I cycled through London’s Labour stronghold of Lambeth, and road markings have been transformed with the St George's Cross, a quiet but bold reclamation in one of London's most diverse boroughs. Dubbed "Operation Raise the Colours" by organisers (though it is hard to describe the phenomenon as organised), it has seen thousands of flags raised, with fundraising efforts like Birmingham's £16,000 drive sustaining the effort. I support this gentle uprising, for it breathes life into symbols long marginalised. Yet I acknowledge the disquiet it stirs: in a polarised society, such displays can evoke unease, linked in some minds to far-right agitation or the riots of summer 2024, that and deeper darker memories of NF marches in the 1970s..

Why is this happening now? The timing aligns with the anniversary of last year's Southport tragedy and ensuing unrest, where misinformation, both from the state and other bad actors, fuelled anti-immigration protests that spiralled into violence. Many participants frame it as a response to "two-tier policing", swift crackdowns on native demonstrations while pro-Palestinian marches proceed with apparent leniency. It's a broader reclamation of national pride amid economic stagnation, unchecked migration, and a sense of cultural dilution. For the overlooked, those Thornberry's tweet mocked, this is a way to say, "We belong here." and stronger yet, but uncontroversial in any other land than our own, “This is our land”.

It's contemplative defiance: not riots, but ribbons of red and white asserting identity in a nation where Englishness often feels like an afterthought.

Flags, after all, are profound artefacts. From time immemorial, they have designated loyalty, identity, and place, a statement of territorial dominance, whether fluttering over ancient battlefields or modern stadiums. The St George's Cross, rooted in medieval crusades and saintly legend, embodies England's resilient spirit. In raising it, people declare allegiance not just to soil, but to shared history and values. This is where the fear originates: in an era of fluid borders and globalism, such symbols can seem exclusionary, a challenge to multiculturalism's ethos.

This fear reflects a growing disconnect, as delineated by David Goodhart in his influential work "The Road to Somewhere": the divide between 'Somewhere' people, rooted in community, tradition, and locality - and 'Nowhere' people - mobile elites detached from place, prioritising global networks over national ties. Goodhart's framework highlights how 'Somewheres' feel alienated by policies that erode local economies and identities, while 'Nowheres' thrive in a borderless world. The flags are a visual statement of this disconnect: 'Somewheres' staking claim to their turf amid a world shaped by 'Nowheres' who view such assertions as parochial threats.

Authorities appear particularly unnerved, with councils like Labour-run Birmingham, Brighton and Hove, and Tower Hamlets ordering removals under the guise of safety, flags on lampposts might endanger pedestrians or require costly maintenance. Yet Palestinian flags, waving for months in solidarity with Gaza, remain untouched, even when posing similar (non-existent) hazards. A leaked Birmingham email hinted at fears of "destabilising community cohesion" by removing them, while English ones are swiftly excised. Kemi Badenoch called it "shameful," accusing selective enforcement that alienates patriots.

This disparity begs introspection. If the fear is comprehensible, flags as potential flashpoints in tense times, why is it so acutely felt in England at the sight of England's own emblem? The St George's Cross isn't inherently menacing; it's flown proudly at Euros matches or royal jubilees. Yet for the technocratic, globalist uniparty establishment, those who prioritise transnational alliances over national roots, it evokes discomfort, a reminder of borders and belonging in a borderless ideal. Thornberry's tweet encapsulated this: contempt for the rooted, the 'Somewheres' who cling to place amid globalisation's flux.

Politically, this disconnect has profound ramifications, fuelling the rise of Reform UK as the clearest representative of the 'Somewhere' people. In the 2024 election, Reform captured five MPs and 14% of the vote, drawing from disaffected Red Wall voters alienated by both major parties' globalist leanings. Polling now places them at 29-33%%, positioning them as the potential Government by 2029. Reform's platform, strict immigration controls, anti-net zero pragmatism, tax relief for workers, resonates with 'Somewheres' seeking to reclaim agency from 'Nowhere' elites who champion open borders and supranational governance. The flag-raising mirrors this surge: a grassroots echo of Reform's call to prioritise national identity and community over abstract internationalism. Not for nothing was the first act of the 10 councils Reform won in May was to state categorically that the only flags to be flown from Council premises where the County flag, the Cross of St George and the Union flag - to great gnashing of teeth from the elite, and a wall of support from their voters,

And if that unease stems from not wishing to feel "in England", if the flag's territorial claim chafes against a vision of Britain as a neutral canvas for diverse loyalties, then we must ask harder questions. Why reside in England if its essence provokes such aversion? Or, more pointedly, what about England does this elite disdain so much? Is it the stubborn patriotism of the working class, the refusal to dissolve into a homogenised "global Britain"? The phenomenon highlights a deeper malaise: a governing class estranged from the governed, where symbols of home are suspect while foreign ones flourish.

In supporting this raising, If the flag of this land is itself one of division, if somebody living here and wishing to stay here feels that these flags of our land are intimidatory, or exclusionary, one must ask, what is it about someone that feels that they are not represented by this flag? And why should they claim the benefits of the citizenship and nationality they represent, while regarding its symbols with either contempt or fear?

After all, in a nation of many voices, England's should not be silenced.