home’. Such an attachment will usually lead someone to iden-
tify with the history of the locality or institution. An extreme
example is illustrated by an incident at Syracuse, where, look-
ing out over the sea, my wife asked a friend who was with us,
a native of Syracuse, whether she was looking in the direction
in which the Athenian fleet had arrived. ‘Yes’, he said, ‘just
over there. But we defeated them’. He was not claiming to be
descended  from  the  ancient  Greek  inhabitants  of  Syracuse,
any more than an English Catholic of Italian descent is deny-
ing his ancestry when he joins in with ‘Faith of our Fathers’,
singing,  ‘Our  fathers,  chained  in  prisons  dark’.  This  is  the
‘we’ that may be used by a member of a college or a cricket
team when recalling events in which it took part before he
or  any  of  his  colleagues  were  members;  it  is  the  ‘we’  of
belonging.
Many people, probably most, have at least a dual identity:
Catalan as well as Spanish, Welsh as well as British, Bengali as
well as Indian, Syrian as well as Arab. People vary in which of
their  different  identities,  the  wider  or  the  narrower,  is  the
more important to them, the more definitive of who they feel
themselves to be. But in all these cases, the attachment is not
only to a body of people with whom they share a language
and a culture, but also to a land, the land where those people
live. Of course, not everyone enjoys this association of land
and  people;  not  everyone  can  say,  ‘The  place  where  I  was
born and where I live is where my people belong’, nor even,
‘The place where I came from is where my people belong’.
But to those who do it is a consolation. No one needs to be a
fierce  nationalist  in  order  to  be  happy  to  think  that  those
with  whom  he most  closely identifies  himself  have a  place
that is peculiarly theirs, whether or not it is where he himself
lives or was born. Moreover, cultures are fragile: they can be
19 Some General Principles