In March 2022, Ukrainian flags appeared all over my neighbourhood. Some of them may have been raised by Ukrainian refugees arriving in the area, as many did in the opening months of the war. But most were raised by British people wanting to express solidarity with Ukraine. They were unfurled on flagpoles, hung out of windows and on lamp posts, and stuck in car windows. The ambiguity was minimal. The flags said “We stand with Ukraine,” and “Putin must be stopped,” and “Bullies cannot annex other people’s countries,” and “Ukrainian refugees welcome here.” During the England-Ukraine match at Wembley Stadium in early 2023, they even said, “We don’t really mind if we lose this one, because we stand with you (and will probably qualify anyway).”

Three years later I was in Birmingham, driving down a long street in which every single lamppost was flying a Palestinian flag. What did those flags say? A range of things, I imagine. For many they were exact equivalents of the Ukrainian flag: “We stand with Gaza.” “Palestinians welcome here.” “We grieve the deaths of innocent children.” But reading the posters and graffiti in the area alongside the flags, it was clear that for some people—and it is hard to say how many—they said more than that, from “Stop the genocide” to “Britain should not support Zionism” or even “Israel should not exist.” Flags speak, but they speak ambiguously. Needless to say, the message that a Jewish person would hear on driving down that street is different to the message that I heard, which may well be different again from the message that many of the residents intended.

Two months after that, I went for lunch with my wife in a local café that was festooned with Pride flags. I don’t mean that there was one in the window, or a notice about Pride month; I mean that there was rainbow bunting across the entrance, a large rainbow flag on the way in, and rainbow coloured streamers on every table. What did those flags say? To the proprietor, they may well have said no more than “LGBTQ people welcome here,” or “Pride month gives us a chance to make this place more colourful.” But they communicated more than that to me. They also said, “We support unlimited sexual freedom,” and “Bigots (including evangelical pastors like you) are not welcome here,” and “If you believe in traditional marriage, you might want to have lunch somewhere else.” And it said those things to me whether the proprietor—or interior decorator—intended anything of the sort.

So what does a St George’s Cross say? It depends. During the World Cup there is no ambiguity: it means, “I am cheering for England rather than Germany / Argentina / Brazil.” During a coronation or royal jubilee it means, “I love my country and am grateful to live here” (and possibly also “I am hazy on the difference between England and Britain”). But what about when it appears on flagpoles and bridges all over the country one August, as if from nowhere? Does it mean something different if it appears at the same time as a major protest against migrant hotels? Or when hung alongside banners saying “Stop the boats”? Or when waved on a march at which Tommy Robinson is speaking? Would my decision to hang a St George’s Cross in my front window today say something different to my neighbours than it would have during the last World Cup? Even if my convictions are exactly the same now as they were then?

Of course it would. Flags speak. And they do so in a context that is much broader than the intention of the person who flies them. I cannot possibly know the motivations of all the people who have flown St George’s Crosses in the last few weeks—I suspect they range from the respectfully patriotic (“I love living in England”) to the politically pointed (“uncontrolled migration is a major problem”) to the downright racist (“reclaim England for white people”)—or the proportion of people characterised by each. But to many in this country, especially people of colour, they will be heard to carry an insidious message of chauvinism and white supremacy, even if the person flying it has no such agenda. And I think that is worth considering carefully.

I love England. People who know me at all will have heard me go on about it: castles and pubs, cricket and football, Sussex and London and Yorkshire, rhododendrons and village greens, the industrial revolution and the Royal Navy and the West End and the final scene of Dunkirk. But at this point in time, that flag means more than that to a lot of people, and not in a good way. Many of my brothers and sisters respond to it with apprehension, or fear, and I can see why. It’s worth thinking about.