No identity crisis

By Ruxandra Obreja of the BBC Romanian Service

To be or not to be and if you are who should you be, this encapsulates my thoughts and my dilemmas after having come to live in Britain.

But to understand that, I will have to tell you that the days before I left my native Romania are forever indented in my mind as the time when I, the anonymous citizen, had to get a massive dose of frightening Kafakaesque bureaucracy.

Before being allowed to leave, in exchange for the most coveted of documents, the passport, I had to relinquish my identity card, the only piece of evidence in the eyes of the authorities that I existed. Handing over the I.D. card was like stepping into a new world already, as life without an I.D. card was unthinkable in Causescu's Romania. Even the quarterly ration of sugar and oil could only be redeemed against this famous grey card.

So imagine my utter amazement at the way in which my identity, so carefully recorded in countless, and by now useless documents and illegible copies, was treated in Britain. A stateless person, an alien with a card to prove it, I discovered that in this country without I.D. cards, my word was often stronger than any legalised document.

Back in Romania I had had a fairly common name, but this proved almost unpronounceable to my new British friends and colleagues. So I shortened and anglicised it, I became Sandra And my first bank account was opened under my new name. It seemed incredible, it was so easy!

Later when I reverted to my old purely Romanian name and merged two of my accounts, the bank clerk listened calmly to my rather childish explanations, and the change happened almost at once. I soon discovered that my innumerable examination certificates were not of much use either. When I said I could speak German I was seriously tested, nobody even casting a glance at my outlandish Romanian diploma. Typing was presumably another of my qualifications. So I had to sit a test at one of the recruitment agencies. The result was miserable and the pile of typed documents proving my ability has gathered dust ever since.

When more serious applications were registered, I had to prove my identity and a signature from my doctor and my lawyer on the back of two hilarious photos seemed enough. My driving licence is a carefully folded A4 page with my name, signature and address on it. It does not bear a picture and unless I change my address or my name, again, I can use it until I am 70.

But recently all newly qualified drivers in the UK have started getting the new EU plastic driving card with a photo on it. So Britain will slowly adopt the European standard too.

UK photo licences were introduced at the end of July

But as long as your intentions are honourable, your identity is free to use, to change or to hide. How come? The British by and large seem to be private people, trusting and ready to give you the benefit of the doubt, to consider you innocent before proven otherwise. More than anything though, it seems that "civil liberties" is more than an empty phrase.

Not that this liberal country I am depicting is not changing rapidly. Data stored on the computers of banks and various other government departments, or comemrcial companies make you more visible than you think.

Still the idea of the I.D. cards, so many times debated, especially in connection with the violent acts of some British football fans throughout the eighties is only timidly being scribbled now on the political agenda. It is presented as a possible way of improving public services: a sort of mother of all identity cards allowing citizens to claim benefits, get access to medical records or deal with their tax affairs.

But nothing much has happened yet and the civil liberties lobby is watching "the introduction of the I.D. card by the back door" with more persistence than a CCTV camera.

A few days back I was recently looking through some drawers and finally discovered my long lost birth certificate. As to the marriage one, no one has ever asked for it here in Britain. Just as well as it seems to be lost forever. I am not going to tell my husband, though. He will have to take my word for it.