What strikes many newcomers, myself included, is how natural and unselfconscious this relationship with the flag feels. It is woven into ordinary life, and its presence suggests warmth and shared identity rather than nationalism. In Denmark, to put out a flag is to say, “something happy is happening here.” It signals inclusion, not exclusion.
When I first moved here, I found this remarkable. In Britain, the sight of a flag was already beginning to feel complicated and this summer it has exploded onto the scene is a very negative way. The Union Jack has had its own baggage ever since Brexit and even the Scottish Independence Referendum, but it is the flag of St George, the red cross on white, that has become particularly charged in recent times. For many English people, I imagine it no longer feels like an innocent symbol of celebration or identity. It has been taken up by those who see it as a marker of belonging that excludes rather than welcomes. In the current political climate, it has become linked to anger, division, and the language of the far right.
It feels to me like people in England now hesitate to display their own flag at all. It feels risky. What should be a gesture of belonging has become a potential political statement. A person who hangs a St George’s Cross from their window is often assumed to be making a declaration about race, immigration, or politics, even if all they want to do is support their national football team.
This uneasy relationship with national symbols says a great deal about the state of English identity. There is a defensiveness at its heart, a sense of being under threat or misunderstood. In that atmosphere, the flag becomes a weapon as much as a symbol, a way to draw a line between “us” and “them.”
That is what makes the Danish example so interesting. The Dannebrog is not used as a weapon. It feels light, friendly, and open. It can appear at a birthday party, on a Xmas tree, a shop opening, or a small village celebration without anyone worrying about what message it sends. It is simply part of the shared fabric of life. Even foreigners living in Denmark adopt it, placing small paper flags on their children’s birthday cakes or using it to decorate a new home. It becomes part of belonging rather than a test of loyalty.
What fascinates me is how fragile that can be. A flag’s meaning is not fixed; it depends entirely on how people use it and what they allow it to represent. The same piece of cloth can mean celebration or hostility, depending on the context. It can invite or reject. In one country, a flag above the door might say, “welcome, come in.” In another, it might say, “you do not belong here.”
In that sense, flags are a mirror. They reflect not only national identity but also national mood. When a society is confident, comfortable, and outward-looking, its symbols tend to be gentle and inclusive. When a society is anxious or divided, its symbols grow sharper edges. They become rallying points for those who feel threatened, and they begin to exclude as much as they unite.
The question that lingers for me is whether Denmark’s inclusive flag culture can stay that way. As global politics becomes more polarised, and as debates about immigration, identity, and belonging grow louder, will even the Dannebrog begin to carry heavier meanings? Will the far right attempt to claim it, as they have done with the St George’s Cross in England? Or will the deep-rooted Danish habit of using it to celebrate life’s ordinary joys keep it safe from that kind of capture? I suspect the latter will be true.
Perhaps the best defence against the politicisation of a symbol is simply to keep using it for the reasons it was loved in the first place. The more people continue to raise the flag for birthdays, family reunions, and weddings, the harder it is for anyone to twist it into something ugly. The ordinary, joyful use of national symbols may be the strongest possible protection against those who would use them to divide.
Whenever you fly into Denmark you will come through the arrivals door to grannies and grandpas waving tiny Danish flags in anticipation of the arrival of their family members returning from some faraway place. I can't see a future where it means anything other than joy, than welcome.
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