I moved to Prague in 2001, long before Brexit, and several years before the Czech Republic was even part of the European Union. Back then, I was 26, disillusioned with teaching in UK secondary schools and searching for something new. After a summer gig in Denmark, a few friends and I ended up in Prague. The pound was strong, the social life was vibrant, and I quickly found enough teaching work to stay afloat. Life was good.
The Czech Republic wasn’t part of the EU when I arrived, which meant bureaucracy was a way of life. Bank accounts? Complicated. Work permits? Even more so. I was a third-country national, navigating the endless hurdles that came with it. But when the Czech Republic joined the EU in 2004, everything changed - no more visas, no more jumping through hoops to get a simple bank account. I was finally on an even playing field, able to work freely, get my trade licence (živnostenský list), and truly settle down. It felt like a liberation. I became a freelance teacher, translator, copywriter, and musician. I married a beautiful Czech woman, we had an amazing son, and I was fully immersed in life here. I never questioned my place in Prague - until Brexit.
Feeling of betrayal
When the referendum was announced, no one seemed to take it seriously. It was a promise David Cameron had thrown into the mix, assuming it would never materialise. And then it happened - June 2016 rolled around and 51.89% of the people voted to leave the Union. A country that had always prided itself on pragmatism made a choice that felt utterly irrational. My British friends in Prague were stunned. What on earth were we thinking? Giving up our place at the table, our influence, and the freedom to live, work, and trade seamlessly across the continent? Personally, I felt betrayed - by my country, by my government, and even by some of my close family, who had voted for Brexit. It felt personal. I knew my life here was about to get a lot more complicated once again after 12 years.
End of unified Europe
As a British expat living in Prague, I was suddenly forced to apply for permanent residence. All the freedoms were gone in an instant. Ordering anything from the UK? Forget about it - customs duties doubled the price of everything. British staples like Marks & Spencer’s food section shrank, and Iceland (a British supermarket chain) disappeared from the Czech market altogether. No more English sausages or pork pies. It may sound trivial, but when you’ve lived abroad for so long, these small comforts matter. The main thing was the uncertainty. There was no guarantee I’d be granted permanent residence. What if I was rejected: Would I have to leave the Czech Republic? What about my Czech family - would they be able to come with me? These were the questions swirling in my mind. I never thought I’d have to plan for a life without the EU’s safety net. And then, when I travelled back to the UK, my Czech wife and son faced heightened scrutiny at the border, as though they, my family, were illegal aliens trying to enter the place I had once called home. Suddenly, we weren’t part of the same Europe anymore.
Loss of identity
What Brexit took from me wasn’t just the logistical ease of living in Europe. It robbed me of my European identity. I had always felt like a European, not just a Brit living abroad. Now, I was just British - and with that came a feeling of disconnection, even rejection. I used to move freely between countries, but now, with my newly issued blue British passport, I felt like an outsider. This loss of freedom isn’t just personal. As someone who’s worked in the arts, I’ve seen how it’s disrupted the lives of creatives who relied on Europe’s open borders to tour, collaborate, and share their work. For musicians, artists, and freelancers, the ease of travelling for performances or projects has been replaced by complex visa applications and prohibitive costs. Cultural exchange, once effortless, was suddenly buried under layers of bureaucracy.
Anger and pain
I’m angry, still, years later. Angry at the politicians who peddled lies. Angry at the media who failed to effectively challenge those lies. Angry at the family members who voted Leave, not realising the impact it would have on people like me. yes, I’ve secured permanent residence here in the Czech Republic, but I know plenty of others who weren’t so lucky. Some have had to return to the UK because they couldn’t prove their residency. Others, those lucky enough to have Irish grandparents, were able to escape this mess with Irish passports. But the younger generation? They’ve lost the freedom to experience Europe in the way I did. They can’t just pack a bag and go on a European adventure, find work in a café in Berlin or Barcelona, and discover the world and themselves. Now, they’re bound by bureaucracy, just as I was when I first arrived here. And that’s heartbreaking.
Goodbye, Britain
I never planned on becoming a Czech citizen, but now I will. I want my European identity back. Britain feels like a confused, elderly relative-clinging to a past that no longer exists, stuck in nostalgia for the days when the Empire still meant something, occasionally muttering something a bit racist under its breath. Today, in broken Britain, we make nothing, own nothing, and blame everything on immigration. It’s a country divided, where cultural diversity is under attack, and where the gap between rich and poor is wider than ever. I used to think I might live there again in my old age. The truth is, I feel abandoned by my own country, but at least I’ve found my home in Prague.
The author is an English tutor in Prague
