Three years ago, when the marriage equality referendum went through, I was delighted for my LGBTI friends and in particular for my much-loved brother Seán who had campaigned so tirelessly so he and my brother-in-law could be treated as equal citizens in the State they had chosen to live their lives in.
But I was sad too. In that summer of 2015 it felt as if the rights of half my country’s citizens would never be honoured. Because we were women we were less than. Second-class citizens with second-class rights. Penalised for all those things women can’t help having: a vagina. A uterus. Periods. The ability to reproduce.
There used to be an old, misogynistic joke about never trusting someone who could bleed out for six days and still survive. Systemic misogyny thrives on that notion, unspoken often, but none the less deadly for it.
I remember remarking to my brother that there should be a referendum on the Eighth next, but that it would be a very hard thing to sell, in comparison with the positive associations Ireland has with weddings.
There is a loneliness, too, in knowing that there is nothing you can do to make your country, your tribe, accept you for who you are.
What I couldn’t see then is that the strength of this campaign was in something that we Irish excel at: the telling of stories. We tell stories through our legends, and we tell stories through our songs.
From my home in London, over the last few months I’ve read hundreds of stories heart-breaking, searingly honest, raw, painful - but each one beautiful because they were part of some human’s truth, and that truth had lain buried deep within our country’s psyche for so long.
Those who spoke about the journeys where they relied on the compassion of strangers in strange countries for a medical procedure. Those who could not afford to make a trip and instead waited for the post to do it themselves. Then there were the stories from men who had lost their beloveds through this amendment. The parents who had lost daughters. The deep unspoken pain of it all.
I know it’s been hard. I know there have been uncomfortable, horrible conversations had. Doors slammed, being spat at. I’m so grateful to everyone who has campaigned. I’ve been incredibly moved by the fair-minded and just men who’ve spoken out. I’ve been buoyed up by some of the groups I’m in, especially Abroad for Yes.
The sheer determination of men and women who wanted to get home to vote, and for those who couldn’t vote, enabling others to get home to vote, has been nothing short of inspirational. The camaraderie and excitement about the vote, and the mutual love and support has been palpable and heart-warming.
The irony of leaving Ireland is that in spite of the emigrant’s pain of disconnection, we love our country. We see what Ireland hasn’t been and what it could be. What it will be.
The seismic result of this referendum affirms this love. There has been something primal about it too - the tribe protecting and supporting its own.
This is not a triumphalist victory - how can it be, with generations of Irish women traumatised by their unnecessarily hard experiences at the hand of the State?
I was nervous about the vote, because I understood that if it all went horribly wrong, and a No vote prevailed, the feeling of tribal rejection would be intense.
I have three nieces who are Irish citizens, and two nephews; and I desperately wanted a Yes because I wanted my nieces to have bodily autonomy. They have that now. They won’t end up a Miss X, a Miss Y, a Miss P, or a Savita. They won’t have to take to the streets, as I did, as thousands of Irish women, generation upon generation, did, to fight their country for the most basic of human rights. As someone who marched on the X case protests in the 90s, but couldn’t vote in this referendum, there is a sweet circularity in recognising that X marked the spot for the Yes votes.
Of course, there will be obstacles along the way as this is ratified into law. No one can look at the bitter, divisive campaign fought in this campaign, and at the war against women that has been waged since the inception of the Free State and be naïve enough to think it will all run smoothly.
No one can look at the desperate tactics of the old, pious guard since the referendum results and imagine that they will go quietly into that good night. But their day is over. That is indeed something.
This is not a triumphalist victory - how can it be, with generations of Irish women traumatised by their unnecessarily hard experiences at the hand of the State? And with those who have died as a direct result of our laws? There are those who must silently, until the amendment is overturned, make that lonely journey across the Irish Sea.
This is a blot of shame on our nation It is also a mark of the kindness and compassion of our once bitter enemies that they have indulged this Irish solution to an Irish problem for so long.
This dark part of our history cannot be undone. However, we can heal by acknowledging the pain caused and ensuring that those institutions and people responsible for it never get the lion’s share of seats at the table of political law-making again. In 1916, our ancestors envisioned a state where Irishmen and Irishwomen would be equal. In 2018, we release ourselves from a tyranny of our own making and walk assuredly towards the light of their vision.
Tháinig ár lá because tháinig ár mná. This has been a revelation of what Ireland can be - in our new Hibernia, it’s a new dawn, it’s a new day - and it’s feelin’ damn good.
Gráinne Gillis is an opera singer, voiceover artist, actress and writer based in London. She writes on feminism and politics on her blog, The Political Diva, and writes regularly for Medium and The Huffington Post UK.
