I was listening to today’s Gibraltar Today discussion on how National Day came about and the issues of self-determination, and was thinking: why is it that it has, to this day, continued to be a central focal issue?
Indeed, the SDGG has done absolutely incredible work through the decades, but the fight for self-determination started well before. It was a developing change of perception, especially among the younger generations, who started to call out and question our status. We were grateful to our parents and forefathers, but we did not accept that what we had was it. And I can point to one young man in those days who probably would nod at what I’m saying. He became the Chief Minister and is among those who have questioned where we stood and asked why we couldn’t stand like others, which nowadays we sort of do a bit more than we did before, although there is still a long way to go.
It was the generations in the late ’80s and very early ’90s who didn’t walk the streets with red-and-white T-shirts and flags, singing with beer bottles in our hands. We were doing something else. We were questioning things at every step we were taking. Among those we questioned were the same people who governed us: Britain.
We weren’t saying, “We are British,” or “We want to be British.” We were asking: WHY CAN’T I BE GIBRALTARIAN? Why can’t I be British Gibraltarian, or any type of Gibraltarian, but Gibraltarian?
We at the time had been carrying second-class British passports because we had not yet been given the right to hold first-class British passports.
There were actions we took and issues we pressed on which few will ever know about, but which happened and which, through natural progression, brought us to today: a community which has found, or is finding, its identity — that of GIBRALTARIAN in its own right.
In other words, we said: we belong here. You might own us, as was the case with Britain. You might claim us, as was the case with Spain. But WE BELONG HERE, and it is for us to decide and choose our fate, nobody else.
We were saying we have the right to decide either one or the other, or none at all if we so wish. This is my home and, in my home, I say what goes on. You don’t tell me.
We were calling out injustices, and we were no longer willing to cover with roses the injustices we saw before our eyes.
I, for one, remember back in 1991/92, in my final year in Fine Art in Gwent, how my final degree piece was not just another nice piece of art to please the institution. I clashed with the institution, and I clashed head-on with it at the risk of being thrown out.
You could say I was fortunate. I had decided to study in Wales rather than England, or London, as the opportunity had arisen, but had chosen Wales instead, where fortunately for me some understood and stood behind me.
That was probably MY first act of self-determination.
My degree show was titled, “Mother England, you have fucked us” — and yes, quite rude and controversial, but it was meant to be.
It was a piece which stretched through a six-month period, starting immediately after what was my last Christmas holiday, which I had coincidentally not come to Gibraltar for but instead had spent in London, at the time living with my fiancée, very much a Londoner. We had a son, and he describes himself as Gibraltarian and English, so you really cannot say I hate the English. I questioned them, though.
The piece started with a Live Performance Art Installation which went on for the first six weeks. On a daily basis, I would arrive at college and go through a routine which would see me end up inside a caged area, where I would draw on a wall — thoughts, comments, interactions and so on. This was monitored by other assigned collaborators who, at intervals, would provide breaks and water, and take me out for walks through the college whilst cuffed. All of this was documented on a daily basis and, at intervals, filmed live onto the college television screens.
This is where the first clash came.
Since, when I was being walked, part of the performance was to respond to officials walking by, kneeling down and cleaning the floor or asking if they would like me to polish their shoes. All this was done with a black hood on, so there was an immediate reaction.
The idea was to highlight the class distinctions between myself and them, even though we were supposedly equal.
The performance did not sit well with half of those assessing me for my degree, which, as many know, in art you are constantly assessed, especially in your final year.
At one point, as the performance developed and progressed, I was even warned — well, threatened — that I would be dismissed from the course and my Government would be informed, to which I responded:
“If you think that is what you need to do, so be it, my fine Englishman.”
That clash prompted what was the first debate over my status, you could say. The Welsh assessors supported me; the English ones didn’t.
The live performance developed throughout the six months into what was the final piece, where a final installation was created using the caged area, lighting, sound and barbed wire to create a final memorial piece.
For me, it was like saying, through this final piece, that there comes a time when what you have done, and what has been done, will come to an end, and those left will remember and progress from it.
The gates were open, the handcuffs were off, and I knew that I was walking into my future having gone through the British system of education, which, in many senses, I was questioning too. I was saying: I have gone through your system, been brought up with your culture, which clashes with my natural one, and what comes from it is me.
I suppose that the first act towards my self-determination was not just my act but that of the response from others. My English friends understood who I was much better and respected me for it. The course had to debate whether I deserved to get a degree or not, and, well, I obtained an honours degree — a lower second, but still an honours degree.
So those who had supported me and believed that I had a right to voice my views through what was essentially political art, even if it attacked or questioned the very institutions it was being delivered through, had essentially won the debate, because they were the ones who guaranteed I passed my degree.
Now, this was June 1992.
I had never seen a National Day Rally, never been a part of a self-determination protest action in Gibraltar, yet what I was doing was that very act itself.
Why?
Because I was part of the generation that was questioning why and was not satisfied with the response.
It’s many years since, and we might have won many battles, yet I still do not believe we have achieved that one act which will essentially stamp our identity and say that we have obtained, whether others support it or not, our self-determination.
There is one vote that needs to be cast. One vote where we, the people of Gibraltar, shift from having started our right to defend our rights, as we did in 1967, to now saying that only we decide what to choose.
We were given two choices.
The day we have ALL the choices, and can choose from them, will be the day we can say we have self-determination.
And it is solely for us to put down what those choices are, nobody else.
The day we have the choice to choose for ourselves, and nobody else, whether we choose to vote for it or not, will be the day we can say we have achieved it.
Now, get one thing right: I don’t hate being British. I don’t dislike Britain. I am actually quite proud to have been brought up knowing two very different cultures which I have been able to mix and match to become who I am.
My son is both Gibraltarian and English. My daughter is Gibraltarian and doesn’t speak a word of Spanish, and I am proud of both.
But I was born in Gibraltar and this is my home, and before anything else, even if aliens invaded and we were all colonised by Martians, the one thing I know I am is Gibraltarian.
In 1985, I wrote across the walls of my neighbourhood: “British we are, British we stay.”
In 1992, I was still restating this, but stating that it was because I had chosen this, not because someone was telling me to be.
In the early 2000s, I was writing an opinion piece which asked why independence was not an option, which some Deputy Governor did not take too kindly to and warned that I could be arrested for such views.
In 2026, I no longer ask why it is not an option, but when will we make it an option?
Options are not there solely to be taken. They are there to be decided upon.
And it is having the option that matters.
You ask me, someone who was pro-independence for many decades, whether I would choose it or not, and my answer today, as things stand and in the world we live in, is that I would choose to stay as we are and hope that eventually we become part of a greater Europe.
If not, our children can decide.
stephenignacioart 
Leave a comment