Rishi Sunak and Suella Braverman have both written recently about whether they consider themselves English. Sunak does; Braverman does not, though she is proud to be British. Both have contributed greatly to British public life, and each has every right to describe themselves as they choose.

Their disagreement made me think less about which of them is right than about the question itself. If someone asks me whether I am British or English, I can give an answer. But I also wonder what they hope to learn from it. What would my answer prove?

My parents came to Britain from India in the 1960s. I was born here, moved to India with them when I was eight and returned age 24, after qualifying as a doctor.  I have lived here since, raised a family here and worked as a GP in the same community for 27 years.

I am British by birth and citizenship. My ancestry is Indian. Both are simple facts. When it comes to being English, I understand why people might answer differently. Ancestry matters to some; others think of the place where they grew up and made a home. Our relationship with a country is personal, shaped by our lives and experiences, perhaps rather like our relationship with faith deeply felt, hard to explain to anyone who does not share it, and not something another person can grant or withdraw.

I know how I feel about this country. I love it. The years, the family and the work I have described are simply my life. I will not set them out as evidence in a case for my loyalty. I will not try to prove that I care enough. Why should I?

That is where the question begins to trouble me. I am interested in a serious discussion about what Englishness means. I can listen to Braverman’s account of her ancestry and understand why she does not use the word for herself. I can listen to Sunak and understand why he does. Neither has asked me personally to justify my place here.

But when Englishness is defined purely as an ethnicity, and that definition is applied not to oneself but to others, a discussion of identity becomes a test of belonging. I know that being told I am not ethnically English is not the same as being told I am not British. Yet when Englishness is discussed as something people born and living here cannot share, it is reasonable to ask what it is meant to convey.

If I say that my ancestry is Indian, does someone conclude that I am, at some level, an outsider? That I could not love or care for this country as much as someone whose ancestors lived here? I would like to know what those who doubt our belonging think follows from that distinction.

In my own life, I have not generally felt excluded. That makes it even more striking that this debate can stir a little sadness. People can spend their lives in a place, share in its institutions and care deeply about its future, yet find themselves wondering whether any of it counts in the eyes of those who question their place. I do not claim to speak for everyone with a similar background. I know only what the question raises for me.

Britain faces enormous challenges. We should be able to argue openly about immigration, integration and the obligations that come with citizenship. I do. Those are important political questions. Whether a fellow citizen’s ancestry makes her love for the country somehow lesser, is a different proposition, and one I reject.

So, my answer remains simple. I am British, with Indian ancestry. England is where I live, where I raised my family, where I have cared for patients and where I belong. Others may understand their own Englishness differently. They are free to do so. I do not need to prove my love for this country to call it home.