Did I ever tell you about the time I was an Emperor?
Reflections on a micronational youth, and a pseudo-fictional country
It will not surprise you to learn that I was a lonely youth. Whilst I did have friends I spent most of my time in the library reading everything I could get my hands on, serving as head of the student librarians and indulging my nascent love of politics in every newspaper, news site and blog I could find. My love of politics manifested itself in more practical ways too. I wrote articles for a news aggregation website which folded so long ago that I can’t even remember its name. I delved into satire too, with a classic early 2010’s Wordpress blog, the World in News writing pieces about how William Hague’s head caused air accidents, and former Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak’s surprise casting as Eeyore in a live action Winnie the Pooh movie. I never said it was good satire. Perhaps the most curious expression of my interests however came when I declared myself an Emperor. This is the story of that one.
I can’t recall when exactly it started but I know it started online, as so many things did back then. With the wider spreading of the internet, there was a forum for everything, and once you’d found the gateway you strolled merrily on through. This particular forum I was introduced to by my cousin, who had located a forum on which you created your own little country, claimed some digital turf on the Micras website and then acted out all the little dramas incumbent with being a country on internet forums, wikis and communications board. He had one of these countries, and whilst I think I briefly served in some sort of ministerial position in the Kingdom of Oscland, it wasn’t long until my ambitions for rulership were raised higher than mere service in someone else’s endeavour. So I formed my own.
It’s at this point I must start talking confidently about things that are largely lost to the mists of time and the vagaries of half-remembered-things. I know that I formed the first incarnation of my micronation in 2005, and that initially at least it was on the same online basis as I had been introduced to by my cousin. I ruled it for a little bit under my own name (though, in a very early-internet way, also under my forum username of ‘scienceguy’), and I enjoyed the little alternate reality game. There was a great sense of community to it all, especially for an isolated sort of kid like me, even if it was online only. They were perhaps more innocent times. After running it for a while however, reading around the subject, I came across the other form of micronationalism. And this seized my imagination like little had before.
This other form of micronationalism is the real world one. It generally refers to tiny self-declared entities which claim to be sovereign states but lack recognition by any competent authority. They differ from microstates such as the Vatican, Liechtenstein or San Marino, and from secession movements (though there is some degree of intersection with the latter sometimes) because they have little-to-no foundation in law and are usually the product of one person’s efforts. The term arose in the seventies, though the idea of micronations themselves are a little older, with some of the more prominent examples, such as the Principality of Sealand off the coast of Suffolk, and the Principality of Hutt River in Australia.
The general pattern (which was the one I followed in 2005) for the creation of a micronation goes as follows. First, you find yourself a bit of territory. For most, it’s some sort of territory you have ownership rights (or at least a claim to). If you own property, this is an easy one. If you don’t (and as many baby micronationalists are children this happens a lot), then you find an alternate solution. For children, their bedrooms always used to be a popular one (I assume it still is, though I daren’t search to find out). The other popular one is to find one of the very few unclaimed bits of territory on Earth and declare it to be yours. The Bir Tawil triangle between Egypt and Sudan must be by this measure, the most contested piece of land in Earth’s history. As a callow youth of thirteen, I took a midway point between the first and the second and used our back garden. It was bigger than my bedroom, it looked better and I gave it a fancy name (The Marimear), so I’m pretty sure it’s fine and it still counts.
After you’ve got some territory, you need yourself a Government. That’s easy. Most micronations are monarchies, partially no doubt due to the inherently self-aggrandising nature of anyone who seeks to form their own country, partially because monarchies are easy to run with very few people involved (as I would later find out with mine), and partially because plastic crowns and a sash are quite cheap, and with a flattering angle can have a spiffiness that defies their pound-shop nature (I may be overly cynical on this point, I never had a crown). Conventionally, the form of Government will be defined in some form of constitution. At this point, I should probably waggle our constitution around pointedly, except that our original constitution is long lost, as are the second and the third. The fourth, from 2011, I still have a copy of and the fifth (a much more comprehensive and admirable document) from 2012/3, is also still in my library. From the fact that we got through five constitutions in under ten years, you might reasonably assume that most micronations are not that stable.
After that, you need to plead some lawful basis for your assertion of sovereignty. Conventionally this is an appeal to international treaty, specifically the Montevideo Convention on the Creation of States, a 1933 Americas-based codification of the declarative theory of statehood which maintains that to be a state the sole criteria are (a) a defined territory, (b) a permanent population, (c) a government, and (d) capacity to enter into relations with other states. (a) and (c) you will already by this point have established. (b) may come with (a), depending on your particular claim. (d) used to be (and I assume still is) established by writing to the Government of your old state, and then (often), when you receive a pro-forma “thank you for your letter” response, boldly and proudly claiming that this constitutes a diplomatic exchange. The more determined might instead have preferred to write to the UN, and then followed a similar pattern. Look, most of us were kids…
Saying that, we didn’t actually go this route. Instead, we tried to rules-lawyer it. The Convention didn’t require actual relations after all, merely the “capacity to enter into relations”. Essentially, like (b) came with (a), we argued that since we had a government (c) comprised of communicative human beings, we also had the technical definition of (d). We had the capacity, even if we didn’t exercise it with already recognised states. What we did do, as with almost all other micronations (save some of the older ones that took a more aloof approach to rookie micronationalists) claim that our relations with other micronations also helped boost this by demonstrating our capacity.
We were actually something of an outlier on this, in that we demanded signatures on paper for any agreement of recognition or similar to be deemed valid. Most of the communities we moved in were primarily online (we had the occasional meet-up, notably a couple of conferences in London), and most were content to exchange agreements digitally. Not us though, we wanted names on paper. We got a few, enough to reassure our minds that we were adequately fulfilling the criteria at least.
Much of this sort of micronationalism was essentially in the form of political simulation, not that this was always without controversy. Perhaps the most controversial aspect of this were the ‘wars’ that (particularly new) micronations would purport to launch, with no capacity to properly prosecute them. Ignoring the fact that macronations tend to object to people declaring war on each other (I believe the term conventionally used for this tends to be ‘assault and battery’ or ‘murder’, depending on the severity), most of these ‘wars’ were perpetrated in exchanges of rude messages. Some played video games against each other. Very, very occasionally, you might get two kids who met up in a park and fired nerf guns at each other until their parents called them home. Serious stuff.
One can’t help but think that were nations between recognised sovereign states perpetrated on a similar basis, the world might be in a much better place. We were one of the ones who highly disapproved of such claimed conflicts to the degree that we would refuse to recognise or formally associate with those that conducted them. They debased what was to us at the time, a very serious endeavour. Looking back at my records from the time I can see that I made some very earnest, and rather arch, speeches against the practice in my capacity as Emperor. I even went so far as to quote myself in some of them, the last refuge of the rhetorical scoundrel. I’m sure that told them. How noble and patrician I thought I sounded.
In retrospect the whole concept was probably no more absurd than some of the other dramas that were acted out. Our internal politics were a good example of this. Upon our foundation as a primarily digital micronation, and into our first experimental steps with ‘real world’ micronationalism, we were established as a constitutional monarchy of the simplest form. After not quite a year of this as we began gathering more people who claimed citizenship, we undertook a transition into an ‘imperial republic’. Quite why we were “imperial”, I can’t recall. An appeal to our accelerated ‘history’ I suppose. There was no Emperor, the role of head of state and government being replaced by an elected Chancellor (no prizes for guessing who was elected as Chancellor), with a Government comprised of a Senate of eight Senators. The chief achievement here was the establishment of a currency, which was actually used among citizens for small, playground transactions (sweets, stationary etc.).
Whilst it might have created a rudimentary currency, the Imperial Republic certainly didn’t achieve longevity. After (generously) four months, concerned about a lack of activity, we transitioned back to a monarchy, albeit one which retained democratic elements (including being partially elective), and attempted to ensure certain checks and balances. The way it worked was this. At the top, was the Emperor. By the Constitution the Emperor had absolute authority, though with a constitutional expectation to govern in cooperation with the other two branches of the Imperial Government.
The first of these other two branches was the Imperial Parliament, directly elected to ministerial offices under two over-ministries, of Internal and External Affairs. The Minister of Internal Affairs also held the position of First Minister (and Convenor of the Imperial Parliament), a primus inter pares with overall responsibility for the Imperial Parliamentary ministries. Meetings were open to the public, with a 50% quorum for the proposal, debating and passing of legislation. The First Minister would also join the Emperor on the third Government body, the Council of Three, that gave this incarnation of the state (which had previously been the Reylan Empire, and then the Reylan Imperial Republic) its refreshed name: the Reylan Imperial Triumvirate.
The Council of Three was the primary check and balance against abuse of power. In addition to the Emperor (the Imperial Triumvir) and the First Minister (or another nominated Minister) of the Imperial Parliament (the Parliamentary Triumvir), another citizen holding no other office would be elected to the body directly as the Citizens’ Triumvir. Between them, legislation passed up from the Imperial Parliament upon passage there would have to be approved by unanimous consent, being signed by either the Parliamentary Triumvir or the Citizens’ Triumvir before being passed to the Office of the Emperor for final Imperial Assent. The Monarch could only override the Council in the beautifully ill-defined “extraordinary circumstances”.
As you can see, I put a lot of thought into the political system. Nowadays I can see all the gaps, but as an experimental system I am still rather fond of it. The Constitution also outlined a legislative hierarchy, including a system of petitions wherein a citizens petition that gained the support of 25% of the electorate would go straight to Parliament for consideration, one that gained 50% would go to Parliament as an Act of Parliament (or for refinement into an Act of Parliament if it was deemed insufficiently precise) and one that gained 75% would have the same legal force as an Act of Parliament (under the same precision criteria as above). A proper milieu of democratic forms, certainly. Two legislative procedures, the Ordinary and the Extraordinary were outlined. Chief influences seem to have come from my nascent understanding of British Parliamentary procedure, and things like Swiss direct democracy.
Different geographical subdivisions were also outlined, a criminal and justice system (with full court hierarchy), fundamental rights based primarily on the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, state symbols and details of a rudimentary treasury system. As a founding document, I always thought it was a pretty good start, though one which played rather to my own political instincts at the time, and also my slightly strange obsession with intricate systems of rules and interlocking complexity.
I would say that even at our peak, no more than two branches of Government were fully functioning. I believe at one point we did have all three going, however no more than a couple of meetings were held. Emergency legislation was passed, temporarily suspending the Imperial Parliament, with its former First Minister continuing in his position as Parliamentary Triumvir. Like all micronations, we had persistent problems with maintaining an active citizenry. Most fold because of it in their first year, and though we continued far beyond this point, it was a persistent problem, which we handled largely with political sleight-of-hand and states of emergency. Perhaps we weren’t so different from some of the more ropey recognised states. I like to think that I was a benevolent dictator in those times though.
You might reasonably ask what it was that inspired my endeavours in those times, apart from being a lonely, imaginative child and teen desperately kicking out against a world in which it was difficult not to feel both powerless and anxious. I suppose it was really an act of low stakes rebellion. I was never one for kicking out against authority in the way of more open acts of defiance, and a world in which I could call myself an Emperor, and convince myself that I had some measure of power and responsibility derived from a (admittedly spurious) legal basis was a sanctuary of sorts against the world.
I wasn’t the only one either. As a hobby, it tended to attract outsiders, the nerdy kids who other children considered to be weird. I’m sure I don’t know why. We formed our own earnest little community, arming ourselves with grandiose titles and girding ourselves with righteous, holier-than-thou views. If they wouldn’t let us into their communities, we’d form our own. And rather than relying on social exclusion and playground bullying to keep us out, we would make not only social rules, but laws to keep this cosa nostra. It hardly needs to be said that we were convinced of our own superiority. A community of little Napoleons, keeping the barbarians from the door. God I was fond of it, which tells you rather a lot about how I was as a youth.
Creatively speaking the name ‘Reylan’, which was perhaps the most persistent element of my micronation throughout its existence, was clearly a riff on ‘Roman’, an attempt to semi-associate with something with prestige, history and popular recognition. This was a relatively common thing to do for micronationalists, though we never went to the same extents that some others did (attempting to prove direct descent in some form from great historical figures was quite common). The symbols I came up with were relatively standard- phoenixes, barred flags, that sort of thing. Anything you could easily construct on a low-quality computer, which I suspect had more of an impact than anything else.
As for the legal, political and cultural structures of the state, it’s difficult to tell where most of them came from. I’d always been something of a constitutional monarchist, so that must be where that came from. The Senate (in what we might rather pompously call ‘the Republican era’) and the Triumvirate are clear redolences to ancient Rome. Quite how I formulated the form they would eventually settle into is perhaps one for the gods. I’d always been political, but I think at this point I’d become somewhat disenchanted with the British political system, and I was mostly playing around trying to find something better. I still do that, though the form of the experimentation has changed.
The final iteration lasted the longest. In more or less the same form, it would continue on for almost ten years. By the end of my second year at university however I found myself having less and less time to devote to it, and the political and legal realities of it all had been exposed to my eyes. It became less easy to convince myself that the Montevideo Convention alone represented the entirety of the picture (Professor James Crawford’s book “The Creation of States in International Law” contributed much to this). The youthful conviction in a confected reality created as a shield began to fall away. Whilst I never quite graduated to being ashamed of it, it became something I never mentioned, despite the fact that it had played a fairly significant part in my teenage years. I largely dismissed it as a fantastical imagining, that probably should have been put to bed years earlier.
In more recent times however I’ve begun to take a more sanguine view of it. It kept me out of trouble after all. More than that though I came to see it as a combination of an early expression of political idealism and cultural experiment. I have no doubt that it helped to nurture my interest in politics, and my desire to create better societies, and helped lay the foundations for much of what would come afterwards. Somewhat ironically, given the idealistic and faintly ridiculous nature of the thing, I would also credit it as contributing to my realist attitude towards politics and diplomacy today. Having largely got my idealist leanings out the way at an early age, I haven’t been so stricken with them in the years when I could properly and more fully participate in politics.
It also left me with an intense interest in political structures (both traditional and alternate) and alternative polities of all sorts. When I came to write my undergraduate dissertation, I wrote it on interactions between international interventions and administrations and self determination, examining entities such as the post-WWI Free City of Danzig and the UN Transitional Administration in East Timor. I wouldn’t have come to that as a topic without micronationalism. Even my Master’s Degree in Aviation and Space Law and the thesis I produced as a result of that might be attributable to it- my interest in space particularly has been significantly fuelled by the challenges of governing it. Micronationalism, ridiculous and pointless though it might sound, and amusing to read about though it may be, set me on my path. Maybe it was an exercise in prolonged and unhealthy delusion, as some would no doubt have it. But for me, it seems to have largely worked.
I think the final piece of legislation we passed was some time in early 2013, a piece of enabling legislation to allow for the continuation of the micronation without major participation from others. I planned a brief revival in the same year, but it never really got off the ground. By that point however I couldn’t be sad about it. It had been fun throughout, I’d met interesting people and expanded my horizons through it. Despite the fact that it had wound down, and our active citizenry dwindled to the point where it was more or less just me, when I could find a free moment, I still never quite found it in myself to dissolve it formally. I feel like to do so would be to decisively and rudely turn my back on something very formative to who I am today.
So there will be no final formal grand act to bring an end to the Reylan Imperial Triumvirate, no great instrument of dissolution, and I like to imagine (one last residual fantasy) that those who were involved in the project occasionally think of it fondly and remember our stuttering, futile, overly complex attempt to work out a better way of doing things, with childlike innocence and varying degrees of conviction. I will still say that it exists, for any who believed in its ideals and goals, with a smile on my face. And when you next see me, when we go for a drink, or for dinner, or just for a nice walk, please make sure you don’t forget to render unto Caesar.
Stephen Hill (HIM the Reylan Emperor Taeglan I Nihilus, Prince of The Marimear, Imperial Triumvir, Sovereign of the Imperial Order of Reyla, the Order of the Moon, and the Order of the Caduceus)
The Assayer
2nd October 2022
I, too, am a micronationalist, though not open about it here. I should like to render greetings if nothing else.