My relationship with Ireland has always been a tumultuous one. I grew up in London to Irish parents in a quintessentially immigrant upbringing. We spent summers, long weekends and several Christmases in Ireland surrounded by family.
So when I was 14 and my parents took the decision to return “home”, I was delighted. But I’ve always had this lingering suspicion that Ireland disdainfully regards me as non-Irish, casting disapproving eyes upon me as the offspring of traitorous defectors of the nation.
So after 13 slightly confused years in Ireland, pining for London, never quite feeling settled, I returned to the city I had been certain was truly mine. I find myself back here, amongst the throngs of strangers, battling for my piece of this city.
And I miss Ireland: that tiny island where I often felt like just a privileged guest, it houses my entire family, my closest friends and a lifetime of memories. Can I be happy far away from everyone I love?
While I lived in Ireland there were those charlatan accusations about my part in the savage ravaging of a beautiful country by “my” British ancestors, which brought up new confusions about my identity. When in England I’d always been considered Irish, while in Ireland I was English. But am I? What does nationality even mean? Am I really Irish?
There are a myriad of interpretations and various complex stages of Irishness entirely based on individual perception. For one person’s satisfaction at my wielding an Irish passport, there was another’s displeasure that despite the passport, the generations of Irish heritage and the occasional colloquial drop of the word “grand”, I hadn’t been born here. Therefore, my Irish identity was non-existent.
I suppose none of it really matters when the grandmother you love so dearly dusts off ancestral tales of triumph in the darkest patches of Irish history for her grandchildren. And it’s really those recounted stories that encapsulates the true heart of the country.
Selfishly I left to pursue opportunities Ireland couldn’t offer. But I also desperately wanted to get out of a country that had forgotten itself; that neglected the defiant soul pivotal to its history. I wanted to get away from the miserable transmutation of a place where white-collar criminals, partially responsible for the country’s destruction, walk free. I needed to escape a country that let its governmental head rule its heart and spirit.
And I left because, unlike so many others, I still had the freedom to. Over the past month it’s been inspiring to watch those who stayed behind peacefully protest to their mistreatment. To me they signify a revival of the lost heart of Ireland.
