Anti-immigrant protesters, you think you’re good people, but your racist actions mean you’ve no right to claim that
MANY previously decent people have turned into irrational ranters parroting the lies and disinformation about “Ireland being full” fed to them via WhatsApp memes and hysterical Facebook posts.
The transformation of a sizeable number of citizens into “migrant haters” has happened at lightning speed and should worry every one among us who cares about democracy and truth and what it means to be Irish.
The government’s commendable, if cack-handed, handling of the influx of Ukrainian refugees fleeing war, and other migrants seeking a better life, has been the spark to light the fire in the belly of the economically hard-pressed and poorly-informed.
Incensed by the misperception that the government is placing the needs of refugees ahead of the “needs of the Irish”, they have taken to the streets in large numbers over recent weeks.
They march bearing Irish flags and end up outside hotels housing migrants, shouting “Get them out”.
Sometimes they target journalists or politicians with their vitriol.
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The spectre of violence always hangs heavy in the air. It’s only a matter of time, wait and see.
The protests show no signs of losing momentum. The nefarious individuals and groups orchestrating things behind the scenes are becoming more brazen, more vocal and more dangerous.
Many of those attending the “anti-refugees” marches may consider themselves to be just “concerned citizens” and in no way racist, but by being seen shoulder to shoulder with known Far Right agitators dressed in black and wearing balaclavas, they have forfeited their right to be considered as they would wish. Logic dictates.
The majority watch these marches with a sense of disgust. This is not who we are. Ireland is a nation that for decades emptied itself of its poor, its desperate, its educated and its best because the state didn’t have the wherewithal to serve their needs.
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Famine, the great tragedy of the mid 19th century, is a long way from the minds of those who crow now that “Ireland is full” and “Put the Irish first”.
That traumatic event in our history saw more than one million souls emigrate in the space of just 20 short years, most to the United States, a great many others to Great Britain.
Our population, 8 million before 1840, plunged to less than 4 million by 1880. Those who weren’t fit enough to leave, died, or eked out an existence in the soup kitchen or the workhouse.
What happened when the fleeing Irish arrived in Ellis Island in New York or the docks in Liverpool, in rags, desperate for refuge?
They were placed in quarantine of course, treated as diseased creatures by the struggling American authorities.
As the bedraggled Irish came off the ships, many Americans protested with anti- immigrant insults.
SHARED HISTORY
The same happened to the Irish when they landed in Liverpool. The British authorities feared they were a revolutionary rabble and needed to be contained.
If you were Irish you couldn’t leave Liverpool. That harsh policy lasted for more than a decade, driven by irrational Westminster fears the Irish would lead a revolt, overthrow the state and declare a Republic, with the help of the old enemy, France. God forbid!
Which is why Liverpool to this day is so Irish.
The poverty of the Irish situation continued for more than a century.
The Irish emigrant fought on both sides of the American Civil War, many for no more than three square meals.
In Britain, tens of thousands signed up to fight for King and Country in World War I for the same reason.
In the wake of World War II, the Irish emigrant was at the vanguard in rebuilding Britain.
They toiled for a pittance to build roads, houses and railways in the 1950s and 1960s.
When I was growing up in the 1970s and 1980s, emigration was the leading concern too.
GENERATION OF EMIGRANTS
So many of my generation left Ireland for a better life abroad. I went to Germany, my friends left for America and England. It would be years before we’d return.
The IRA ceasefire in 1997, followed by the Good Friday Agreement in 1998, changed things for ever in Ireland.
The end of conflict brought a sense of self-belief. In the space of a few short years, Ireland’s fortunes were transformed.
Huge inward investment, the vast majority from US multinationals helped fill the bare coffers.
The Irish who left for America in the mid 19th century left imprinted in the DNA of all those Irish Americans who came after them the memory of suffering they endured.
That would never be allowed to happen again. So when peace came, the Irish Americans had our back.
My generation of emigrants raced home, raised families here and helped build the new progressive, outward-looking, generous, hopeful, inspiring, inclusive, diverse and tolerant Ireland I still believe in, despite all the growing pains we are now enduring because of a lack of infrastructure to house and nourish all our citizens and those who come here and want to be Irish like us.
So, to those protesting against the poor unfortunates who’ve come here fleeing war, persecution and famine, remember your ancestors were just like them: Desperate, hungry, traumatised and full of fear too.
Do The Right Thing and be true to your country.
BERTIE'S PEACE IN HISTORY
THE older you get the more mellow you become.
That’s what happens when the road you’ve travelled is longer than the one you have ahead.
Why waste the time you have left sweating the small stuff?
Ten years ago I’d have been spitting feathers at the decision by Fianna Fail to readmit former taoiseach Bertie Ahern to the party (for an annual membership fee of just €20).
Bertie left Fianna Fail, you may remember, in the wake of the Mahon tribunal into planning matters which found he had failed to truthfully account for the source of bank lodgements.
Bertie – who has vehemently denied accepting corrupt payments – reluctantly left after then Fianna Fail leader Micheal Martin (he still is) proposed expelling the man who won THREE elections in a row and led the country towards financial ruin.
And we all thought we’d seen the back of him.
Not so, it seems. The timing of his return to the FF fold is apposite.
This year marks the 25th anniversary of the Good Friday Agreement. Bertie was at the heart of negotiations that led to the deal that brought peace to this island.
We shouldn’t forget that. He deserves perpetual recognition for his role in banging heads when (some) head bangers’ heads needed banging.
In two years time, Michael D Higgins will retire as President, and while he has demured from expressing an interest, a Presidential run by Bertie is now firmly on the cards.
He would be a good President too. My father is turning in his grave.
PUNISH DRONE LOO-SERS
THE French are coming to town in big numbers.
The first of more than 22 charter flights full of supporters of Les Bleus begin to stream into Dublin this morning ahead of France’s Six nations clash with Ireland at Lansdowne Road tomorrow afternoon.
Should be a belter. The victors, you’d feel, will win the Championship.
And for anyone who’s scratching their heads, it’s NOT the Aviva in my book, it’s Lansdowne Road, always was, always will be.
The Aviva is the name of an insurance company (who bought the naming rights to the stadium, bully for them).
Doesn’t mean I, or you, have to call it by that name. Lansdowne Road IS what it IS and AIN’T what it AIN’T.
But I digress. Hopefully, the French fans will be able to land in Dublin airport.
The authorities there are nervous after several flights were disrupted on three days over the Bank Holiday weekend because of a few morons flying drones in the vicinity of runways.
Aiport operator the DAA is spitting feathers.
And rightly so. It wants cops to be given the power to take down the drones. Correct.
It’s a policing matter. And it wants draconian sentences for those found guilty.
Bang on too. Hard labour working cleaning the loos on stag and hen-party packed Ryanair flights. That’d do the trick.
BLAND REOPENING
HARD to think of a more atrocious decision in the history of comedy than the one to resurrect Fawlty Towers.
The original (if you haven't seen it, dig a hole in your back garden, gently lie in it and get a neighbour to bury you alive) comprised of just 12 episodes and was so clevely written and performed there is barely a second where you think it’s under par.
John Cleese as Basil Fawlty was of course the centrifugal force. His wife, Sybil, played by Prunella Scales, drove him round the twist.
Polly (Connie Booth) who was married to Cleese in real life and co-wrote the masterpiece, tried to solve all of Basil’s predicaments.
Manuel, Major, the Irish builder and the Germans made for side-splitting TV.
Its reincarnation will be a damp squib. Touch it with a barge poll if you dare.
WISE UP ON OWLS
TWO years ago, my team, Sheffield Wednesday, were relegated to League One.
A year later, the Owls succumbed to Sunderland in the League One play-offs and I very nearly threw my hat at it.
Another year entertaining teams like Morecambe and Cheltenham would be like waking up with a hangover in a rain-filled tent at Electric Picnic. Not on.
But I persevered, because all true fans do.
And that perseverence looks like paying off now.
Unbeaten in 16 League games and now top of the pile, Wednesday look destined to climb back up to the Championship.
It’s been 23 years since they graced the Premier League.
This time next year, I hope to be dreaming that a return to football’s elite is within grasp.
NO PRICE ON LOVE
DON’T think I’ve ever watched a romantic movie. I haven’t gone on a Valentine’s Day date either.
Well, maybe when I was a lad.
Would have invariably consisted of a bottle of cheap cider, an even cheaper necklace (probably out of a lucky bag), a snog and an innocent fumble in the dark.
Now, the days leading up to February 14 are sodden with sop and pleadings to part with your money for the sake of “love”.
A smile or a hand around the shoulder or a stolen kiss trump expensive presents and rose-laden dinners.
Try telling that to the woman in your life. See how far you get.
But seriously, love is beyond the material, it’s imperceptible. And to borrow from the great Paul McCartney, money can’t buy it either.