OF ALL the peoples in all the member-states of the European Union, why did it have to be us? asks Frank McNally.
Why were we granted the exclusive franchise to decide the merits of the Lisbon Treaty on a yes-or-no basis? What did we ever do to deserve this?
It's not as if we're qualified. This is a country, after all, where straight answers are normally avoided like the plague. As exhibit A, I give you the Mahon Tribunal.
In fact, our preferred method of dealing with any question is to ask another one. So even our less complex referendums are likely to be traumatic. But the EU (and Raymond Crotty) devised a particularly exquisite torture in demanding from us a black-or-white response to a treaty that is simultaneously unreadable and, it seems, open to more interpretations that the prophecies of Nostradamus.
Ours is a society built on the twin pillars of nuance and prevarication. The single transferable vote system suits us perfectly, allowing the people to speak on general election day while retaining the right afterwards to deny having said anything of the kind. With the crude instrument that is a referendum, however, no such subtlety is possible.
Giving a simple yes or no to almost anything is foreign to us. True, most of us were brought up always to say no whenever offered hospitality. But this is rarely a literal no. More often it is just a polite opening position, subject to negotiation. It may even be intended to test the sincerity of the offer.
Anyone who grew up in the country, in particular, will be familiar with the ancient Irish tea ceremony (which like the Japanese one, should be recognised as a cultural treasure and performed in formal settings for tourists).
It began, typically, with the visit of a neighbour who would stop just inside the door and say, "No, I'm not coming in", when offered a chair. Some time later he might advance as far as the kitchen range, still refusing a seat. Finally, he would relent and sit down, but often only after moving the chair nearer the door, to show that he had not abandoned his original plan.
At this point, the host or hostess would say: "You'll have a cup of tea?" The appropriate response to which was: "No, I'm only up from the table." And so it would begin again. The ceremony might end with the guest having a slap-up meal. But this would never start within 15 minutes of him entering the house, and he would continue protesting reluctance till the end.
THE HOLLOWNESS of the traditional Irish "no" is exposed in situations where we suspect that our hosts might take it literally. In restaurants, when asked, "Is everything all right?", we are suddenly very reluctant to respond in the negative. Mere disappointment with a meal or service will not usually be enough. We need something particularly offensive to make us complain.
Not that we like saying yes either - especially in the life-affirming way that, say, Americans do. Positivity is just as alien to our natures - which is why, even at our happiest, we describe ourselves with an expression that, while indicating contentment, also maintains a note of reserve.
It hints that our contentment may be short-lived; or that we're only content because our expectations were so humble to start with; or that maybe we're just pretending to be happy because it's none of your damn business anyway. The expression is: "Grand, thanks". (It's what we say in restaurants, too.)
Even for those of us who can say yes or no readily, the other embarrassing thing about referendums is the way they make bedfellows of people who wouldn't usually share air space.
Remember the 2002 abortion vote? Probably not. But the victorious No camp included the more committed wings of both the "pro-life" and "pro-choice" movements, whose dislike for each other made for strained celebrations. At the count declaration, they were like strangers who had woken up in bed together, to their mutual horror, both pretending to be asleep and hoping the other would leave first.
The brutalism of the referendum system helps explain the typically low turnout. This is usually blamed on apathy. But I suspect many caring voters are just put off by the crassness of being asked for a monosyllabic response to a complex question, and the unwelcome company their choice may put them in.
Which is why I suggest a minor reform of the system. Namely, that in future referendums, we should flesh out the ballot papers a little and allow voters at least some self-expression. Votes would still be yes or no, fundamentally, and counted as such. But there would be a range of options under each umbrella, which could also be totted up separately, to give a fuller picture.
The opposing campaigns would be asked to submit suggestions about a week before polling day, after the debate had acquired definitive shape. Then the Referendum Commission would pick what it considered the most representative samples of each and put them on the ballot papers.
Instead of just saying "no", therefore, voters could choose from such options as: "Never!"; "No (but not for the same reasons as Joe Higgins)"; and "We're grand, thanks." Similarly, the Yes choices could include "No problem!"; "Oh, all right"; and "Go ahead if you must, but don't come crying to me when it all goes pear-shaped". It's a crazy idea, maybe, but it just might work.