On the Problem of Being a “Citizen of the World”

Growing up in Poland, I was exposed very early to a recurring narrative that appeared in many forms and contexts: something is good because it is ours. Our food, our culture, our artists, our authorities. It was often said with pride, sometimes with nostalgia, sometimes with a subtle hostility toward anything coming from outside. And although I tried for years to somehow accept this way of thinking, it never felt logical to me. Something didn’t become good simply because it was local, just as something flawed didn’t become better through the mere fact of belonging. There was always something in that shortcut that irritated me, even when I couldn’t yet articulate why.

Only much later did this begin to make sense — not in the sense of agreement, but in the sense of understanding its function. What I once experienced as intellectual dishonesty or tribal sentimentality wasn’t really an argument at all. It was a regulatory mechanism. People weren’t saying “this is good because it’s ours” in order to win a debate about quality. They were saying it to preserve meaning in a place that had been losing resources, people, and future for a long time. Local loyalty wasn’t an ideology; it was a stabilization strategy under conditions of constant extraction.

When “ours” becomes a substitute for stability

Peripheries always operate differently than centers. Not because they are less capable, but because they occupy a different structural position. Capital, talent, and attention tend to flow in one direction, not both. Those who stay do not stay out of aesthetic preference or romantic attachment to place. They stay because not everyone can leave. Under such conditions, every attempt, every project, every form of activity takes on a protective value. The fact that something exists “here” begins to matter more than what it actually is.

In this sense, “good because it’s ours” stops functioning as a judgment of quality and begins to operate as a regulatory illusion — a minimal psychological act of defense against disappearance.

It is against this backdrop that a figure emerges who almost always generates tension: the citizen of the world. Someone mobile, linguistically flexible, not permanently rooted. Someone who can arrive, do something, gather experience, and then move on. And the problem with this figure is not cultural otherness. It is asymmetry of risk. The citizen of the world has no children “here,” no long-term obligations “here,” no irreversible consequences tied to one place. Even when physically present, they remain symbolically outside the system. Like a lover who arrives intensely but never commits. One may admire them, even enjoy their presence, but trusting them structurally is difficult.

This asymmetry produces reactions that are easy to misread from the outside as small-mindedness or hostility. Indifference, distance, lack of curiosity, sometimes even rejection. But again — these are not moral reactions. They are regulatory ones. A local system protects itself from a figure who does not share the same stakes. Someone who can always leave destabilizes those who cannot — despite the fact that, historically, it has often been precisely those who did not fully belong — those slightly out of place — who introduced new ideas, new rhythms, and new possibilities into otherwise closed cultural systems.

The quiet threat of someone who can always leave

There is another layer to this tension: autonomy. High autonomy often means a lack of need for local hierarchies — not because they are bad, but because they are no longer necessary. Someone who learns independently, moves between systems, works in a different language and symbolic economy does not seek local authorities, certifications, or validation. And this is particularly destabilizing for structures built on recognition and continuity. Autonomy cannot be easily integrated into hierarchy. It cannot be rewarded in ways that ensure control. It cannot be disciplined without escalating conflict. The simplest response becomes minimization or silence.

At this point, there is a strong temptation to moralize the entire phenomenon. Some frame the citizen of the world as more conscious, more evolved, more “free.” Others frame them as disloyal, irresponsible, detached — sometimes even narcissistic, projecting moral failure onto what is often simply structural distance. Both readings miss the point, because both attempt to translate a structural mismatch into a character judgment. This is not a conflict of values. It is a mismatch of regulatory systems. Some depend on stability and predictability. Others operate through movement and adaptability. Trying to live between them will always produce friction, regardless of intention.

This is why so many attempts at “explaining oneself” locally end in silence. Not because the other side is ignorant or closed, but because explanation does not resolve structural misalignment. One can be present, engaged, and well-intentioned, and still remain symbolically outside the system. And this does not have to mean failure. Sometimes it simply means that the game is being played according to different rules.

When autonomy refuses local permission structures

From this perspective, the question of whether being a citizen of the world is “good” or “bad” becomes irrelevant. Not everyone must be one. Not everyone can be one. And not everyone who is one should attempt full local integration. Sometimes the most honest posture is to live as if leaving were always possible — without aggressively proving one’s freedom and without contempt for those who do not have it. Not forced integration, not retreat into superiority, but lightness of movement within structures that were never designed for this form of life to begin with.

“Good because it’s ours” does not suddenly become logical. But it does become understandable. The citizen of the world is not the future of everyone, nor a model to be universalized. It is a product of specific conditions — and it will always appear suspicious where those conditions do not exist.