(Originally written June 2017)
So, since I’ve last checked in, it seems as though the world was made anew, kind of.
Corbyn’s dramatic, unexpected, and unironically cool and good showing has changed the political calculus, and the brave new horizons presented by the furthest (non-Scandanavian) penetration of actual radicalism in parliamentary socialism are still being sorted as I type. Jezza’s feat* shall be remembered for decades, centuries if this is actually the pivot point when the green, social democratic milennial generation manages to wrest control of the political levers of power from their selfish boomer betters (*no, not Labour’s feat, considering the Blairites who’ve had their twitter replies filled with constituents reminding them that they voted for Jez and the manifesto).
So, so, much of my Canadian-American brain that craves analysis and synthesis from smashing my two nationalities together, what with all of the attendant comparisons and contrasts between the two, has been outsourced back to the fatherland since June 8th. Because, inasmuch as I’m Canadian, let’s be real, I’m Welsh.
My Nan and Bampi lived that real life Horatio Alger story, the rags to riches American dream. It’s just that, in a brilliant twist that would fortell the fates of the two North American children of England in the century moving forward, that American Dream was more accessible, durable, and holistic in Canada.
But that is a concept and a thought from another day. It’s where they came from before landing in Sault Ste. Marie (ON not MI) that interests me since the events of June 8th.
Wales. Cymru. Land of my fathers, land of song, land of Red Dragons, dragons lying dormant until all Saesneg can be driven back east, behind Offa’s Dyke, back to Lloegr. I am Welsh, and ever since my Bampi made clear to me the distinction between English, Welsh, and British in 2002 (probably because I was cheering for the Three Lions and he wanted to put a stop to that shit), I’ve held that component part of my identity close and cherished.
Even as I drifted ever leftward, dispelled all manner of social conditioning designed to divide and conquer for the purposes of splitting those groups abused by power, I could not let go of the extremely romantic notion that I was, in essence, a Dragon–and Red at that.
At the same time, I was (and am) firmly committed to the ideal of a world without borders, without walls. The walls and the borders, as constructed, simply exist to impede freedom of movement in order to control more thoroughly a local proletariat. It is simple to understand, and it is from this thesis that makes dismissing any appeals to nationalism, even if benign, much easier.
And yet, I want an independent Wales. I want an independent Scotland. I want a unified Ireland, an independent Catalonia, and a Brittany that takes whatever form the Bretons so choose. I believe in the right of all peoples to self-determine, and it is in this impasse–the absolute right of self-determination and the inherent truth of a global working class oft divided by synthetic national distinctions to keep them weak–that I find my thoughts swirling around an interminable eddy.
This wasn’t an issue until recently. Not that it wasn’t a logically-inconsistent position, one that inherently causes cognitive dissonance, but it just wasn’t materially important. Especially as it applied to the realm of solely Parliamentary Socialism. Vote Plaid in assembly elections, vote tactically in Westminster elections but make sure that you send either Plaid or Labour, depending on the constituency. Wasn’t altogether difficult to reconcile.
But it is in the True Trot analysis that I bring to the situation, coupled with Y Ddraig Goch literally tattooed in my body, that I must find the nugget of truth that allows me to keep the useful bits of both.
There is the thought I had, a thought that this 20th and 21st century variation on nationalism that the Celtic nations are stoking is substantively different. For instance, going back to the election results that sent me down this thought rabbit hole, take a look at the respective nationalist parties. Scotland’s SNP is nominally social democratic (though there’s a debate to be had there, folks), Plaid Cymru is a fusion between a green and social democratic party (which is beautiful and makes sense and warms me heart), and Sinn Fein* is… well, Sinn Fein. You know what they’re all about, and we here at Left Of Lenin are wholeheartedly pro Gerry Adams (*N. Ireland, because, as makes sense, this thesis doesn’t hold once you take it out of the UK; Ireland can have multiple political takes on Irish Nationalism). So, on a surface basis, each of the main nationalist parties representing the constituent nations of the U.K. are social democratic, at the very least. This is a good start.
But, strip away the policies for a moment, strip away the personalities, and the current material conditions, and everything that one should take in to account in making a political analysis. Simply regard the history, and then regard the parties. Bereft of everything that actually makes a hard Lefty like myself sympathetic to their nationalisms moreso than I rightfully should be, the modern Celtic Nationalisms are peculiar in one respect: they are reactive. Most nationalisms that we recognize sprouted up from events or timeframes that codified a regional or religious or ethnic distinction into a national one. The Celtic variant is interesting to me because, in reading their rhetoric and platforms, theirs is more of a reactive notion of what they are not: English. So, while there is an obvious spatial element, there is no other clear dividing bright line of connection to the nationalisms of the past. There is no American Indian War or ANZAC participation in WWI for the comparable English holdings’ nationalistic geneses. There is no great single event of rupture with the sovereign–after all the Miners Strikes didn’t solely emanate from South Wales.
I can (and will, later on) expound at greater length and in greater detail what a “Welsh” nationalism can even mean when even self-identifying and proud Welshmen have probably 50% English DNA and filial backstory. But at the moment, allow me to put forward a thesis: This expanding Celtic Left Wing Nationalism is the convergence of many strands of Celtic culture, English treatment of its subjects, and the material political moment. But it is potentially one of the first variants of nationalism in a long time–perhaps even since Ireland–that has a chance to do the rare and beautiful thing: to channel the inherently dangerous and insanely powerful force of nationalism into a project of liberation.
