Just over a year ago, a statue of Edward Colston, a 17th-century slave trader, was toppled and dumped into Bristol Harbour. Around the same time a likeness of King Leopold III was burned in Belgium, in recompense for his brutal crimes in the Congo. And that same summer, Confederate figures were torn down across the United States.
Given this nerve-wracking time for statues, we must applaud the bravery and assuredness of Dún Laoghaire-Rathdown County Council for its recent installation: a statue of Irish republican Roger Casement looming over Dublin Bay. Not because Casement is the moral equivalent of any of the aforementioned men, far from it. But because statues have newly fallen to the mercy of baying crowds, and reappraisals of towering figures of history are in vogue. Few men – least of all ones as complex as Casement – are safe.
The committee behind the decision to memorialise Casement must feel confident that he will survive any of the morality tests he will be submitted to, both today and long in the future. Not least because of this statue’s placement so close to the sea: ideal terrain for toppling, as we learned from Colston’s fate.
Of course, Casement was not perfect and, like many of his Easter Rising colleagues, he was full of complexity and contradiction. As UCD historian and Irish Times columnist Diarmaid Ferriter pointed out, Casement was celebrated in his lifetime thanks to his exposé of the treatment of those in the Congo and South America at the hands of imperialism's worst instincts (a worthy subject for commemoration by any standards, but especially now thanks to the particular tenor of current public discourse).
Casement was not perfect and, like many of his Easter Rising colleagues, he was full of complexity and contradiction
But, as Ferriter elaborates, “Casement has been described as both a predatory sex tourist and pederast who exploited teenage boys”, although “those contentions have been disputed”. Hung in Pentonville Prison in London thanks to his role in the Rising, Casement ultimately died a martyr. And so far – Ferriter concludes – has weathered this era’s unique fervour for cancellation.
Complex reputation
But the moral characters of historical figures are subject to reinterpretation all the time. He may be thought of well for his pivotal role in securing more arms for the Rising, but maybe none of the 1916 leaders are totally beyond rebuke, no matter how noble their cause. And the release of his diaries, featuring details of his homosexuality, were enough to once jeopardise his legacy in a country that was not yet (and is still only recently) comfortable with such a thing.
Perhaps, then, there is no greater reminder of how swiftly our views change than with Casement’s reputation itself: once esteemed, thrust into disarray and since redeemed. It is because of, not in spite of, these complexities that Casement is worth such a tribute.
Winston Churchill has been a constant favourite for this mode of historical vigilantism – that seeks, often fairly and often not, to recast figures of yore in a contemporary light. Last summer, his statue in London was vandalised, triggering another episode of debating whether Churchill was a great man or in fact an embittered racist. Disappointingly few landed on the most obviously correct answer, which is “almost certainly he can be both”.
In Parliament Square, a few hundred metres from Churchill stand Gandhi and Oliver Cromwell too. Both considered by many to be more than deserving of having their likeness cast in bronze, but both with their fair share of reasonably minded critics who see such representation as utterly unpalatable.
In a bid to avoid these testy debates about who to memorialise and who to tear down, Gary Younge posited a neat idea in the Guardian. Although who we are changes with time, statues remain constant, “indifferent to the play of events, impervious to the tides of thought that might wash over them”. Because of this, Younge reckons we should not tussle over who is an appropriate subject for a statue, but rather we should eschew the practice altogether.
Beyond masonry
We should have no statues, he says, not of slaveowners, colonialists and racists of course, but also not of “trade unionists, human rights champions and revolutionaries”. We needn’t waste our time mulling over the acceptability of tearing down Colston or vandalising Churchill – after all “statues are not history” – when we can just relocate all historical arguments elsewhere, beyond the realms of masonry.
Statues tell us far more about the values of the time they were made than they do about the person they represent
I do not think he is right. Statues tell us far more about the values of the time they were made than they do about the person they represent. They are timestamps of how we once understood the world, and what we once prioritised. Against which we can understand ourselves better now. The fact that we opted to commemorate Casement – a gay, anti-imperialist republican – speaks volumes to who we are in 2021. And in 50 years, it may tell us even more.
Far from being ahistorical accounts of the past that memorialise figures who do not deserve memorialising, statues are monuments to the practice of history, reminders of our fluctuating morals and priorities, and embedded in our public spaces.
The figures of Casement, and of Parnell, and of Churchill and Cromwell in London, and even of Rhodes in Oxford are not just monuments to any one of their achievements, but reminders of their failings too. And Casement stands with his back to Dublin Bay as a perfect tribute to the complexity of the world.