‘Don’t let our congeniality fool you.’
Dear World, – If you happen to be standing in Gothenburg, Sweden, facing downwards towards Rome, then glance over your right shoulder, strain a bit past England and Scotland, and we are the chinchilla-shaped island with its back to you.
Do you remember that stag weekend where some sadist told you the black stuff was good for you but forgot to specify how much wasn’t, and you ended up face down in the gutter? That’s us. We have cute, unpronounceable names like Niamh, Caoimhe, Aongus and Daithí, which makes us very hard to chat up when you’re three sheets to the wind. We’re grand craic altogether.
But don’t let our congeniality fool you. We’re a tough nation – not scar-over-the- eyebrow, one-handed-push-up, stage-a-revolt tough. But soul tough. Smile-at-a-stranger-in-the-rain tough, give-you-our-seat- on-the-bus tough, Trócaire-box-on-the- mantlepiece-but-no-savings tough.
We’re far from perfect, though. We like to apologise for our existence a little too much, we are a bit too concerned with your superficial opinion of us, and we keep what we really mean to ourselves – especially the men – and that can be deadly.
As you were lying on the cobbled streets of our capital you noticed that we seem incapable of picking up dog poo. But we write mesmerising plays and decent poems. And we produce quality thespians because we are great at living in the moment and spinning a yarn. And, according to empirical research on which good money was spent, we have the sexiest accent in the world.
But we need your help. We have an inordinate fondness for Garth Brooks, and God knows the gene pool needs your looks. We are the fairest people in the world, thin-skinned and prone to outbreaks. We are smart but not confident. We are extraordinary dreamers but useless planners. (Have you seen our roads?)
We have plenty to offer if you'd look at and listen to us. You may even learn something about being soul tough, and we might learn to like ourselves. So come in out of the rain and sit down for a cup of tea and a chat. You never know: we may end up falling in love and having creative, organised babies with unpronounceable names that we can leave out in the sun, whenever it chooses to shine. – Love, Ireland
(By Margaret Rowe, Newbridge, Co Kildare)
‘Being Irish is not just about being Irish’
Dear World, – You want to know what it's like to be Irish? Well I, a 16-year-old living in Clonakilty, a small rural town in the southwest of Ireland, will tell you. I don't see myself as being tied to one country, to one culture. Of course I enjoy our native holidays, like St Patrick's Day, and traditional Irish music (not as much as pop music, though), but I think being Irish is not just about being Irish. I feel it is about embracing other cultures. To me, being Irish is about not only enjoying our own culture but about creating a small spot in our hearts for others. – Love, Ireland.
(By Rebecca Furlong, Clonakilty, Co Cork)
'I would like you to
be a little envious of us
'
Dear World, – I would like you to be a little envious of us here in Ireland. About 85 per cent of us still have a God we believe in and who matters in our lives. We have the kindest, most compassionate nursing staff. I speak from recent personal experience. We have someone who plants carpets of crocus at roundabouts and random white narcissi in small green spaces.
There are lots of things we don’t have, but we still have a high regard for friendship and an ability to share love. – Love, Ireland
(
By Monica Gray, Loughlinstown, Dublin)
‘Strong, passionate and full of divilment’
Dear World, – I have watched and listened to the ebb and flow of my country’s fortunes and misfortunes, scandals, revelations and a popular lament that Ireland is losing its soul. But then I look at my 92-year-old mother, and I see her as an embodiment of an Ireland that can never be crushed, that will meet life’s challenges to the best of her ability and that embodies a fierce love of her Irish heritage.
My mother is strong, passionate, musical, scholarly and full of divilment. Born to parents who were both Murphys, she grew up with five brothers and five sisters who, like her, loved to talk and sing and make music. In her all-Irish school she drank in her beloved native language and loved every other subject of study. Being of diluted Irish genes – my father was half-English – I don’t possess the indefinable depth of Irish spirit to the extent my mother and her family do. However, I can appreciate it, because I see it has sustained her throughout her life.
Having travelled abroad to work in her single days, she was always aware of upholding the good name of her nationality wherever she went. This was shown through diligence in business, respect for herself and courtesy to all. “I would never let Ireland down,” she has often told me with pride.
My mother’s father died too early, at 49 years of age. On the night after her husband’s funeral, my grandmother, holding a baby in her lap, told her children, “I can pull through this provided nobody pulls against me.” They survived on the meagre income she earned from her dressmaking skills, later augmented by the money the older boys and girls contributed from their own jobs. I once saw an old photograph of my Grandma Murphy, with her back to the camera, working away at her sewing machine. She never gave in and she never gave up.
Despite our current difficulties in this new century, I believe that our indomitable Mother Ireland spirit will ultimately enable us to defend, uphold and cherish all that is good and true. – Love, Ireland
(By Nicola Sedgwick, Bray, Co Wicklow)
' Our wonderful system: Slí Na Gael, or Snag '
Dear World, – In these difficult times I thought I’d drop you a line describing a wonderful system used here in Ireland to solve many of our problems. I call it Slí Na Gael, or Snag. Let me give you an example.
A few years ago a question came up: what would we do if we were struck by a nuclear bomb? For you, the question might involve numerous studies, extensive hand-wringing, costly military exercises and drills. Here, no sooner was the question asked than a tablet was sent to every man, woman and child in the country, with instructions to swallow it if the bomb was dropped. That’s Snag. I keep my tablet in the shoe-polish box under the stairs. I can’t tell you what assurance it brings.
Another example. The US government let one of its banks go bust. It couldn’t afford to prop it up. Smaller, less wealthy countries concluded they too might have difficulties and set about investigating the extent of the problem and how they might reassure investors. They’ve been trying to solve the problem ever since with partial assurances and half-baked remedies.
In Ireland we used Snag to solve the problem overnight. Our Government declared all banks here to be solvent no matter what they owed.
Snag can be used to solve seemingly intractable political difficulties. You want a tax regime that is one of the most progressive in Europe but doesn’t distinguish between rich and poor? Introduce a penal tax rate, apply it to almost everyone, but use Snag to call it the low rate and make sure there are enough loopholes to exempt anyone with serious money.
You need to embrace austerity? Make speeches declaring how necessary austerity is for us all, then use Snag to ensure those who can afford extended holidays abroad are allowed to respond “resident abroad for tax purposes” when asked to pay tax.
There was talk here in the past about Boston's way and Labour's way and Frankfurt's way. Things are less confused now. There's only one way: Slí Na Gael. – Love, Ireland
(By John Dunne, Rathfarnham, Dublin)
And the winning entry
. . .
Dear World, – Forget the sharp suits and the Ugg boots. On the road out, ignore the tedious stretches of beige, cavernous warehouses, identikit shopping malls and megabranded discount outlets. Let the irritating accents of repetitive radio ads wash over you as you head inland, anywhere, but away from a city. Bear with what passes for lane discipline on the motorways; bypass the breakfast roll and acidic coffee. Go to where pavements peter out to ditch and mud; where full beams are needed at night.
Push open the double doors, feel the warm fug on your face. Where, a year since you saw him, Tom says, “There you are,” and you fall into easy chat: how storms revealed Neolithic middens and medieval bones on the tidal island; Brian O’Driscoll’s soft hands; how the video of the lifeboat crew saving the lobster fishermen made it to YouTube. Weather the profanity that punctuates the gossip. Laughter comes so easily here. Last call comes too soon.
A curlew’s cry, not a clock, wakes you up. Step over polished stones, over a skeletal cod with its jaws agape, the shredded ends of a nylon rope and a purple dotted jellyfish left by the last Atlantic wave. Pause where Vikings reached their westernmost landing point.
Your perspective, so long hemmed in by towering Shards, Gherkins, Trade Centers, expands to widescreen as you take in the far islands. Your ears attune to the distant putt-putting of a tiny upturned black bracket – a currach making its way from Turbot to the Olympic-ringed fish farm north of Errislannan.
By a memorial plaque on the beach you think about Margaret – born Inishturk, died Bradford – now remembered, facing her island birthplace. How it makes your heart sore to turn around and reverse the journey that will take you back to your Bradford, Boston, Brisbane.
Last call. Boarding gate closing. Heathrow.
Bow doors secured. Holyhead.
World, you don’t know what you’re missing. I do. – Love, Ireland
(By Helen O’Rahilly, London. Emigrated 1988)
