Australia was very kind to me when the only passport I had
was a Rhodesian one – and only South Africa and, I think, Uruguay, recognised
it. Despite my British heritage and my opposition
to the Rhodesian government’s disastrous policies, the UK would not grant me a
passport in the 1970s, nor even agree to admit me should I choose to rock up at
Heathrow. Canada, New Zealand, the US,
even Hong Kong, were in their various ingenious ways, unhelpful. But Australia accepted me on my perceived merits
and gave me a temporary travel document.
You can see why, though I no longer live in Australia, I am fiercely proud
of my Aussie passport.
I had to get a special visa when I emigrated from Australia to
Britain. My grandparents were, all four,
English, but that was considered irrelevant, though two had patriotically responded
to the British government’s campaigns encouraging settlers in the colonies. But now that Empire was inconvenient I
discovered that loyalty works one way only and is anyway time-limited.
Fortunately, my wife had been born in Colchester. The Consulate in Sydney interviewed me at
length before deciding our marriage of ten years was not one of
convenience. I was in – would it be
worth the trouble? – but I had to apply for an “Indefinite Residence Permit” stamp
in my Australian passport. Then, after
twenty years of increasing panic about immigration, it became more difficult
and more expensive exercise to acquire such endorsement.
(Immigrants, by the way, are more enterprising than people who have not
chosen a country but just happened to be born there.)
Anyway, I was summoned to attend the Immigration Enforcement
Centre at Sandford House in Solihull, and joined the other applicants as they waited
fearfully for ages in their serried rows.
My name was eventually called and three minutes later, after a
perfunctory interview and a cheerful welcome, I was pronounced genuine! Great.
But of course I am white, aren’t I? There was an Asian student nurse ahead of me and
one of her documents was slightly wrong: extension denied. “Can I come back with the right document
later?” No, she would have to reapply
from scratch. The official’s tone was
curt, unsympathetic, dismissive. And it
would have been cripplingly expensive for her.
Then there was the fellow who had bought a Post Office cover for his
worn Pakistani passport, to keep it tidy, he said. The official positively screamed at him: “The
cover says ‘UK Passport’! You are
committing a criminal offence!” and the offending cover was snatched away and
binned. A large black man with a tiny
baby was behind me in the queue. He
looked like Joshua Nkomo. He was
sweating with fear. Uncharacteristically
emotional, I laid my hand on his arm and whispered: “Good luck, mate.” Officialdom was probably worse where he came
from.
At first I was not allowed to have dual nationality unless
one country was my place of birth – and Zimbabwe wanted none of me. Later the rules changed and I was allowed to hold two passports,
and neither had to be my place of birth, but I carried on with just the
Australian one. There was an element of
bloody-mindedness in my attitude, but I was
more Australian than British, though I feel an alien in any country. However, it became hideously expensive to have
the embossed mini “Indefinite Leave” authorisation placed in my Australian
passport – cheaper to become a UK citizen and sport two passports. No more trips to Solihull. God knows how crassly ill-mannered, after a
few more years of practice, they are today.
And
when I next pass through Heathrow I hope I will be received politely, as I always
have been. And who knows, perhaps
darker-hued folk will also be well-received.
And how will Brexit affect things? I bet ours won’t ever be as offensive as the
rudest of all passport officials in the history of immigration control, the
South Africans at Beit Bridge in the 1950s.
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