The distance between how nations see each other

There’s a strange kind of clarity that comes from having two homes. Not two houses, but two countries. Two sets of holidays, two very different senses of humour, a lot of unspoken rules which often don’t translate. You learn early that what’s considered polite in one place can be borderline rude in another. And somewhere between those two worlds, you start to realise that neither of them truly understands the other.

It starts small. A British TV show claiming every Italian household “has an espresso station in the kitchen” (not quite). An Italian commentator portraying Brits as cold and joyless. You shrug at first. Harmless clichés, you tell yourself. But after a while, it grates. You realise the way each country speaks about the other isn’t just a little off, it’s fundamentally skewed.

Once you notice it, you can’t unsee it. The mistakes run deeper than stereotypes; they’re baked into how news is framed, what gets covered, and what doesn’t.

In Italy, a protest in London becomes a story of chaos. In the UK, a strike in Rome becomes one of inefficiency. The same event, two entirely different moral lessons. It’s rarely malicious—it’s just that every culture filters the world through its own story.

Media outlets don’t wake up in the morning thinking “let’s distort the truth”. But editors know what resonates with their readers. So they choose the angles that fit domestic narratives. It’s a kind of national self-soothing. Every headline, every photo, every expert quote says “See? We’re still the sensible ones”.

When you belong to both sides, this double vision becomes exhausting. You start predicting the spin before it happens. You read an article about your adopted country and already know which clichés will appear in paragraph three.

It’s not just about accuracy, it’s about empathy. The jokes that once made you laugh now feel loaded. When a British comedian mocks “Mediterranean chaos” you see the centuries of history behind that punchline. When an Italian commentator describes “British arrogance” you hear echoes of old resentments.

And you start to wonder, if this much gets lost between two friendly, relatively similar nations, what happens when the subject is further away? How does Italian TV frame China? How does British media cover South America? If they both get each other wrong, how could they possibly get everyone else right?

Living between cultures is like standing between two mirrors—each reflecting the other, but never quite aligning. It can mess with your sense of truth. You find yourself explaining your one country to people from the other, endlessly translating intentions.

Sometimes, you feel proud of being able to bridge that gap. Other times, it feels like being stretched thin.

Friends back home ask “so what do they think of us?”, and you have to pause, wondering whether to give the honest answer or the polite one. Because the honest one is complicated: they think they understand you, but they don’t. They’ve built a version of you that fits neatly into their story, and you’re partly guilty too, because you’ve probably done the same in reverse.

This isn’t just about media literacy. It’s about realising that objectivity, as we like to imagine it, doesn’t exist in the wild. Every country has its blind spots, its taboos, its favourite myths.

When I lived in Italy, I thought British papers were models of fairness—measured, restrained, properly sourced. When I moved to the UK, I thought Italian journalism was less stiff. And then, gradually, I realised both were right and missing something crucial.

Emotion can tell the truth that data can’t. Facts can protect you from manipulation. The danger comes when either side forgets it needs the other.

Cynicism is easy. You can shrug and say “everyone’s biased”, but that’s lazy. The harder, more interesting response is curiosity. If you speak two languages, use both. Read the same story in two different outlets and watch how the tone shifts. Follow independent journalists, local photographers, or academics who don’t fit neatly into national narratives.

And when you find contradictions—which you will—don’t rush to reconcile them. Sit with the discomfort. That tension is where real understanding begins.

Because maybe the goal isn’t to find one “true” version of reality. Maybe it’s to collect enough partial truths that, together, they start resembling something whole.

Holding two countries inside you is messy. And maybe that’s the gift of living between worlds: you love both, critique both, never feel entirely at home, but you see through illusions others can’t.