Have Meghan and Harry moved the monarchy closer towards its end? If only
Will this be the moment? Will Meghan and Harry do to the monarchy what Diana threatened but never quite achieved, shaking the institution so severely it eventually collapses? Those who believe Britons should be able to choose their head of state have waited patiently for the crisis that finally undoes the House of Windsor, but this week they allowed themselves an excitement they had not known since the 1990s. Polling is stubbornly consistent, showing support for a republic flatlining at around 20%, but might the Oprah interview and all it revealed trigger a shift? Could this, at last, be it?
The case for republican optimism begins with an acknowledgment that this latest twist is hardly unprecedented. On the contrary, each generation seems to have its own iteration of the same plotline, a tale of love and marriage revealing a cold, closed institution thwarting the happiness of its young. It was Edward and Mrs Simpson for my grandparents; Margaret and Group Captain Peter Townsend for my parents; Charles, Camilla and Diana for me – and now the Sussexes for my kids. The public splits on generational lines, the young shaking their fists at the palace as monarchists feel a tremor of fear, anxious that the public will finally turn on the institution and demand its abolition.
Usually it comes to nothing but, says the republican optimist, this time is different. Harry and Meghan have introduced a new, radioactive element into the mix: race and racism. The coming generation will not tolerate that, just as they will not forgive the callous dismissal of a declared mental health problem. True, Diana made that latter complaint too, but attitudes to mental health have advanced since then. In this view, the Windsors have crossed two lines that, for younger Britons, must never be crossed – and that could destroy the public consent on which monarchy rests.
The racism accusation is particularly lethal, because the conventional remedies are not available to royalty. They cannot promise to “prioritise diversity” or to ensure their personnel “better reflect Britain in 2021” because that’s not how a hereditary monarchy works. It allocates its – and therefore our – top job by bloodline. The role is reserved for the members of a single white Protestant family. You can’t “modernise” your way out of that ancient fact, one that contradicts everything we tell ourselves about our society. We like to speak of inclusivity, but forget that the role of head of state is determined by genetic exclusivity.
Meghan could have represented an answer of sorts to that, bringing some diversity to the family. Instead, republicans can feel relieved that the monarchy had a chance to deepen its support among black and mixed-race Britons – and blew it. What’s more, the palace cannot comfort itself that this week was a one-off: the Sussex bombardment might well continue, with Netflix as the launching platform.
Relevant too is the fact that the monarchy’s prize asset is a single, mortal individual. Malcolm Turnbull, the former Australian prime minister who led the unsuccessful 1999 referendum campaign to remove the Queen as that country’s head of state, told me this week of “the huge reservoir of respect and affection” that exists for the monarch and which has long blocked the path to change. That’s truer still in the UK, where Elizabeth serves as the last symbolic link to what is the foundational event of modern Britain – 1940, our finest hour – and meets a deep need for constancy and continuity, connecting the present to an almost unrecognisable past.
But the Queen will be 95 next month; the second Elizabethan era will one day draw to a close. Her success has been predicated on a fastidious neutrality and the mystique of silence, two qualities that her eldest son will not be able to replicate: we know where he stands because he’s talked a lot.
All of which allows republicans to expect a shift. And yet, even though I share their conviction that in a democracy we should elect our head of state, I’m not hopeful that a breakthrough is imminent. First, there’s the history. The Windsors have survived much greater challenges than an Oprah interview: Edward VIII abdicated and Diana ended up dead, the latter generating a wave of fury that engulfed the streets rather than Twitter. For the Mirror to call this week’s events the “worst royal crisis in 85 years” shows nothing so much as forgetfulness.
Second, revelations of family dysfunction don’t undermine the monarchy so much as explain its enduring appeal. One of royalty’s advantages over electing an aged eminence as president, Ireland-style, is that it provides a rolling soap opera, a perpetual source of gossip, human drama and distraction. “It’s reality TV,” says Turnbull. The dysfunction is part of its function. Royal rifts and scandal are not a bug; they’re a feature.
Which means republicans don’t win when they rest the case against monarchy on the flaws of those who currently inhabit it. Far better to make the case in principle. In Australia, that’s easy because the principle is so simple: Australia’s head of state should be Australian. The case here – that Britain can never be democratic or equal when the top rung of our national ladder is in the permanent grip of a single family – is also strong, but it can rapidly sound abstract or dry, lost in the arid wastelands of “constitutional reform”. This is the republican paradox: the exciting arguments don’t work, the powerful ones are boring.
Some reformers believe their moment will come when the Queen’s reign ends. Once it’s no longer about her, people will be receptive to the republican argument. That forgets, though, that the system allows no such interval for debate on the merits of Charles III. It will be: “The Queen is dead, long live the King”.
There’s a reason the monarchy has stood as long as it has. For all the Windsors’ glaring deficiencies, the odds remain stacked in their favour. Republicanism is a just cause – but, for now at least, it seems a lost one.
Jonathan Freedland is a Guardian columnist
you. Also, you’ll never guess what I did on the way home.”
He seems to be wearing A Distinctive Jacket, which is pointless, since I’m not going to be troubling the police with this. You can’t, can you? Where would you start. Where would you stop. Hopefully he’ll stop. On the back of the jacket – thank God, I’m seeing the back of his jacket now, which means he’s passed me by again – it says “The Wonderers”. They sound nice. I wonder what he’s wondering about. Why I’m some fucking lesbian whore is what he’s saying. But I wonder what he’s really wondering about. If this is the bit he’s saying out loud, I wonder about the inner monologue.
Oh dear. Now I’m seeing the front of his jacket again, and he’s coming back towards me. Can’t he see there are now people around, because I’ve reached the square? But he’s one of the ones that doesn’t mind an audience. What do people who can now see us think is happening, I wonder crossly. Crossly enough to find my voice and say: Stay away from me. I say it loudly and clearly, so the two guys working on the road about 15 metres away will hear. They look up, and I look right at them, quickly because I daren’t take my eyes off The Wonderer. But then they carry on with their work. Come on guys – don’t you read the internet? Hashtag be an ally!
Given I’m still learning what a fucking bitch I am, and at quite some volume, I say it again. STAY AWAY FROM ME. I can see I’m holding my hand out in a stop sign. Who am I – the street harassment Gandalf? My hand seems a little shaky. Let’s be real. If he wants to, this street harasser shall pass.
He hangs around even as I pick up my son, so we get a great send-off as we hurry away. I used to think holding the hands of children, tightly, would exempt you from the consideration of street abusers, but I’ve long noticed that for some guys, it simply makes it more special. “Why was he doing it if you didn’t say anything to him?” wonders my son. I know! It does seem very irrational, doesn’t it. What a silly man. “He’s like The Angry Man,” notes my son, which is what my children called some other guy who followed us down our own road screaming about something to do with their bikes. Exactly, I say.
“Why are they so angry?” Oh wow … I don’t know. I mean, there are … a lot of theories. Anyway, how was school? “Fine. Why are we going home this way?” Because this is the way we go now. We’re probably going to go a few different ways for a bit. So this is one of the ways we go now. Let’s just get home. I mean, nothing really happened.
Still, good question, all things considered. Why are they so angry? It does feel like way, way, way past time we found out.
Marina Hyde is a Guardian columnist