A Country of Countries – and a Kingdom Divided

“They have a nostalgia for a world that never existed.”
— Lamine Pearlheart, on nationalists

In a time where wars threaten to redraw borders, and world leaders appear to romanticize an era of empires and global dominance, Pearlheart’s observation perfectly captures the zeitgeist of the 2020s, and describes what might end up being the downfall of our world as we know it. The longing for an imagined past has manifested in banal nostalgia such as the Swedish kulturkanon, introduced as a tool for integration, a form of “cheat sheet” for what it entails to “be Swedish”, but which instead reinforced the idea that Swedishness is something you must have grown up with to understand.

What is framed as inclusive guidance becomes a gatekeeping device, implying that belonging is conditional on pre-existing familiarity rather than shared participation. In other, more dangerous cases, the nostalgia is one for supremacy and brutal imperialism. In the search for empires that should have never existed, our increasingly interconnected world is becoming more divided than ever, and the Swedish kulturkanon becomes one of several examples of qualifications required for certain national identities.

While I won’t dwell further on the kulturkanon itself, it isn’t an outlier, but part of a larger conversation happening across Europe about national identity and belonging, and an urge to define identity through exclusion. In this article, I’ll consider how Sweden, the UK, and Spain each approach these issues, and what their responses reveal about their visions of unity and community.

Whenever the topic arises in debates or discussions, it becomes apparent that one side interprets national identity as symbolic and fluid, something inclusive and self-defined: “if you consider yourself Swedish, you are Swedish. We offer you our warmest welcome to the land of seasonal depression and awkward silence!” The other side, however, regards it as an immutable birthright, something that cannot be acquired or renounced by choice. The rising levels of global migration bring these tensions to the forefront: Are we expected to belong only to the nation or community within which we were born? And are national identities inherently divisive?

I began thinking about these matters one Sunday night, specifically on October 12th of this year. As the leaders of Sweden’s parliamentary parties gathered for a televised debate, I poured a cup of tea, naively hopeful that the upcoming two hours would be informative. Instead, what followed was a screaming match with few of the questions actually being answered.

One almost satirical example of this occurred when the question at hand was the development of affordable rental housing in suburban neighborhoods. What started as a question of residence quickly shifted into a heated discussion on integration, with Jimmie Åkesson, leader of the Swedish Democrats, declaring that “Coerced mixing of groups is not popular.” He went on to say that any segregation in Sweden, especially along cultural or ethnic lines, is highly voluntary and that it is natural to want to live among people who speak the same language, have the same culture and religion as yourself. He ended his note by arguing that these facts are all reasons for limiting immigration.

I had already begun writing this article when the debate aired – but Åkesson’s remarks crystallized something: how deeply migration is entangled with fears about division, whether within nations or between them. For some, like Åkesson, immigration is seen as a threat to social cohesion, as something that deepens cultural and economic divides to the point where “community” becomes a proxy for sameness. The solution, in this view, is separation – between different countries or different neighborhoods. 

For others, the main worry when it comes to migration isn’t about numbers or borders, but how it can pull countries apart. From that perspective, generous immigration politices aren’t just bureaucratic rules, but ways to promote unity, or if nothing else, solidarity. Governments have to juggle these concerns when figuring out how to integrate newcomers, balancing social cohesion at home with pressures from outside. These choices are not just political but deeply personal, impacting the everyday lives of people and communities.

These matters became impossible to disregard in Europe in 2015, when the continent saw a record 1.3 asylum seekers – the highest number in a single year since World War II, according to the OECD. It was dubbed the “refugee crisis”, a label that has since been criticized as the EU had the resources to manage the influx but failed to develop the necessary infrastructure. Following 2015, the number of displaced people seeking safety in Europe has continued to grow with governments responding in diverse and conflicting ways, by tightening border controls, negotiating deals with non-EU countries, and restricting access to asylum.

Populist parties have capitalized on this lack of cohesion, promoting the idea that national governments have lost control over their borders and, by extension, their sovereignty. Across Europe, immigration has become one of the defining issues of our time, not just in terms of policy, but in how countries understand themselves. As borders tighten or open, what’s really at stake is a deeper question of who gets to belong, and on what terms? Two countries that offer strikingly different answers to this question are the UK and Spain. 

When the UK voted to leave the European Union in June 2016, just over half the country, more specifically 51.9%, were drawn to the idea of tighter borders and limited immigration. The slogan “Take back control” became the British echo of “Make America Great Again”. The government of the time and former Prime minister Boris Johnson adopted a narrative of restoring Britannia and recovering the empire, yet the post-Brexit reality proved nothing like what was promised.

When the COVID-19 pandemic hit, severe labour shortages in healthcare and other key sectors led to the government opening new visa routes, the very thing Brexit was meant to end. Migration numbers soared, and with them came outrage from the same corners that had once cheered “Leave”.

In the years that followed, the “crisis” debate was reignited, this time over migration and the Brexit vision of sovereignty. The British right-wing movement pushed harsh new laws, revoked visas, and framed the influx as a “betrayal” of Brexit’s spirit. By early 2025, thousands of migrants who had lived and worked legally for years faced deportation or a new, precarious status.

Then came another controversy.

On September 25th, Prime Minister Keir Starmer announced the BritCard – a digital ID required for migrants to work or rent in the UK. Supporters said it would deter illegal crossings across the English Channel. Critics called it digital discrimination. Activists warned that the BritCard would exclude those without smartphones or digital literacy. Civil liberties groups said it amounted to mass surveillance.

And in Northern Ireland, the backlash was fiercer still. There, the BritCard forced citizens to declare themselves “British”, reopening wounds that had barely healed since The Troubles -the three-decade conflict marked by violence between mainly Catholic nationalists wishing for Irish unification, and mainly protestant Unionists who wanted to remain within the UK.

The conflict was not only about religion, but about identity, sovereignty, and belonging. It ended in 1998 with the Good Friday Agreement, which guaranteed peace by allowing Northern Irish citizens to identify as British, Irish, or both. Now, with less than a third of the population identifying as British, many consider the BritCard a betrayal of the delicate peace, and Northern Ireland’s First Minister Michelle O’Neill dubbed it “an attack on Irish citizens’ rights” – and on the peace deal itself.

What was meant as a bid to once again “take back control” may instead deepen the cracks that Brexit left behind – reviving old conflicts and potentially rekindling talk of Irish reunification. 

Further south, another country has faced its own identity struggles, but ended up on a different path. 

For much of the 20th century, Spain’s dictator Francisco Franco attempted to erase regional differences. Catalan and Basque languages were banned, and a single, rigid Spanish identity was imposed. But after Franco’s death in 1975, democracy brought decentralization and with it, a resurgence of regional pride.

Today, Spain is a patchwork of 17 autonomous regions, each with its own culture, government, and sometimes even language. Catalonia still debates independence, and Basque nationalism hasn’t vanished. Yet, beneath the surface, there’s a growing sense that these identities can coexist. I was living in Madrid in the fall of 2022 and remember someone describing Spain as “un país de países” – a country of countries. While it would be naïve to assume that Spain is free from conflict or political tension, its history of cultural oppression and recovery appears to have generated unity through diversity. 

While Britain has tightened its borders, Spain has chosen a more open path. The government has expanded family reunification, simplified residency rules, and even moved to legalize hundreds of thousands of undocumented migrants each year. “Immigration generates wealth and shared prosperity”, said Minister of the Presidency Félix Bolaños earlier this year, with the promise of maintaining liberal laws promoting immigration and integration.

Instead of casting immigration as a crisis to contain or moral favor to bestow, Bolaños treats it as an opportunity, and the government’s language is clear: immigration is not a concession but a contribution, and essential to the country’s future. Spain will continue to be a country of countries, and it might be the very thing that ensures its unity.

Both Britain and Spain have experienced recent conflict, oppression, and division surrounding national, religious, and regional identities. Despite these similarities, while Britain’s immigration debate has become yet a symbol of division, Spain has turned diversity itself into a political and social asset. Perhaps what Britain needs is less “take back control” and more “un país de países”.

Like Spain, the UK is a mosaic of identities – English, Scottish, Welsh, Northern Irish – each with their own history and voice. Within this mosaic, migration should be seen not as a threat but another thread in the national fabric, enriching rather than dividing it. Yet instead of embracing multiplicity, policies like the BritCard push toward homogeneity, demanding citizens fit neatly into one category, resulting not only in the isolation of the British Empire, but divisions within it.

To me, Åkesson and Starmer’s idea of a culturally, linguistically, and ethnically homogenous country is not only unappealing but about as realistic as Trump becoming a vegan. Humans have migrated for as long as we have existed, and the conception of state borders and sovereignty is less than 400 years old. Setting aside the question of what it even means to be Swedish, Spanish, or British, should citizens be forced to comply by a national identity they feel no connection to or agree with? And should migrants be excluded based on such an identity just because a vocal few assign it significance? 

In Sweden, Spain, and the UK alike, immigration has materialized as a mirror reflecting deeper anxieties about identity, belonging, and social cohesion. In this reflection, immigration often becomes unjustly blamed for causing the division itself whereas Spain and Bolaños show that it can be an asset and expression of pluralism, rather than Åkesson’s separate societies, afraid of “coerced mixing”. In line with Åkesson’s narrative, Great Britain move increasingly from cultural to constitutional division with both Brexit and the BritCard making evident that efforts to “regain control” more commonly lead to new fractures, between regions, nations, and communities.

Spain’s post-Franco history continues to show that “unity in diversity” makes up a win-win scenario building cohesion through inclusion. While Starmer and Åkesson’s rhetoric captures a fear of cultural dilution and frame unity as homogeneity, it is clear that across Europe, the real divide is not between citizens and migrants, but between competing visions of what community means.

Migration policy remains a proxy for debates over national identity, democracy, and modernity, and each of these cases begs the question: How can nations address change without succumbing to fear? The answers determine not just who gets to belong, but what belonging itself will mean in 21st century Europe.