The C Word

Disclaimer: *I would like to point out that this is not a “femi-nazi” misandristic attack – it is simply a piece based on my own personal experiences and the experiences of many of my girlfriends. As the majority of my friends are female, it is written from a female perspective. It is not addressing all men, nor all women. I know that there are plenty of lovely men out there and plenty of not so lovely women too!  😉 

Crazy. The one, tiny, five letter word that is so powerful and that speaks volumes. In light of Mental Health Week this week, I am writing to address an issue that has come up time and time again for me and amongst my circle of girlfriends. The fear of being labelled by a man as “a crazy girl”.

There is a shift in Irish society at the moment and the general consensus is that we have come a long way (still a long way to go) in speaking out when it comes to mental health. We even have a week dedicated to it now, which is fantastic and a sign of the times. “It’s good to talk” the slogan says. “There’s no shame in feeling sad” the media tells us. Why is it then that in 2017, that for so many women, that this is still much easier said than done? We are still so anxious that if we do express ourselves openly, we will be branded the dreaded ‘C’ word and once that branding is there, just like the Scarlet A, it is hard to shake-off.

Ladies, take comfort, you are not a psycho nor are you a freak. In today’s dating world, where everyone is so disposable, a swipe left and you’re gone, genuine connections with the opposite sex are difficult to establish. So, when we meet someone we feel an attraction to, it is naturally an exciting time. Yet, we tread so carefully – we don’t want to seem crazy after all.

‘Ghosting’, for those of you unfamiliar with the term, is defined in the dictionary as “the practice of ending a personal relationship with someone by suddenly and without explanation withdrawing from all communication.” It is where someone no longer wants to pursue you and rather than having to deal with any kind of backlash and admit that, they will instead text you less frequently, drag it out or cut contact completely, all in the hope that you will “get the hint”. It can be with someone you went on a date with once or having been seeing for months. It genuinely makes me sad to see some of my friends, all gorgeous, talented women with so much to offer, left utterly confused, hurt and with their confidence in tatters after being a victim of a ghost. Dare to call a man out on it and ask for some clarification and you are “wrecking his head”. You risk being accused of being needy, insecure and yes, crazy.

However, you are not desperate for wanting someone to give you a respectful acknowledgement of whatever you may have had. If you are running around in the nip sticking needles in a voodoo doll’s eyes…….then yes, maybe that would be a cause for concern. Telling someone you like them – someone who’s company you have enjoyed, who you have given your time to, and who you have possibly shared intimate moments with, is not a cray cray move. It is human.

Recently, I had made plans for a date. I was looking forward to it, had put time and effort into it, made reservations etc. The guy showed up a few hours past the scheduled time. Now, in the early stages of dating, it is difficult to know how to play a scenario like this. While I was annoyed at the time, I was afraid to say so to him. I spared his feelings over mine. Why was I afraid? I didn’t want to come across like a nag, a control freak, or well like a bitch, basically.

In hindsight, I should have spoken up in that moment when we did finally meet. By not saying anything and trying to be nice about it, I sent him the message that this was acceptable behaviour. Me saying nothing did not earn his respect. Essentially, my silence told him that my time is not of high value, that he could flake on plans and there would be no repercussions for doing so. How could I expect him to respect my time when I didn’t respect my own time? Obviously, if the reason he was late had been circumstances beyond his control, such as his car breaking down and I had been annoyed with him, this would be considered an overreaction. However, his excuse for being late was that he was on the rip with the lads. Being pissed off  would not have been an overreaction. It is not nuts or controlling to react to inconsiderate behaviour.

Men have their reasons for calling women crazy.

Firstly, it silences us. We will hesitate to speak up again. As the old adage goes, once bitten, twice shy.

Secondly, it dismisses our concerns and invalidates our reactions. Being told to “relax” or “chill out”, automatically fills us with self-doubt and wondering whether we are in fact being hypersensitive.

Finally, it allows men off the hook. Your thoughts are totally discredited once the C word has been put out there. Confrontation of any kind is deemed to be having “a hissy fit.”

In essence, it is a cop out. A go-to word men call women when they say something the man doesn’t want to hear, or is uncomfortable with. It is easier to call someone crazy than recognise a wrongdoing. It is designed to shift any accountability from them and blame on to you for what is actually most likely in reality, a normal reaction. It is the ultimate act of cowardice.

When we know something is not right and we don’t speak up, we become bitter. This bitterness will eventually manifest itself into passive aggressiveness and seep out in other non-desirable ways so feck what they think, say what you feel. Otherwise it will eat away at your self-worth. Put a price on you. It is a cliché but it rings true – you need to love yourself first. You are not unhinged or fragile. You are emotionally intelligent and should not be shamed into hiding it. In actuality, learning to become self-aware is probably the most courageous thing a person can do. Embrace it.

There Are No Winners in The Belfast Rugby Rape Trial

After a seven hour flight, I finally connected to WiFi in Newark airport and the news came in – not guilty, six times over. My chest tightened and I couldn’t stop the tears from falling down my cheek. Tears for her, tears for my friends, tears for a broken system.

Nobody – absolutely nobody – except for the young woman who made the complaint and the four defendants know the full truth of what happened in the early hours of that fateful summer morning almost two years ago. At best we can only speculate from the information in the media and form our own opinion, and when it comes to this trial, everyone seems to have one of those.

What we do know though, is that a girl who left the home of Paddy Jackson left feeling violated, bleeding and by Rory Harrison’s own admission “in hysterics”. We all know the rest. We know she was treated appallingly. We all know about the messages exchanged among the defendants the next day. We all know the vile chauvinist tones that reverberated throughout their content. Some may argue that the messages were normal lads banter, that similar content can be found in every WhatsApp group up and down the country, that they’ve “seen worse”. Maybe that is true and if it is – well, therein lies the problem.

What frustrated me most about the case was the age-old stereotypes, misinformation and myths surrounding rape and quite frankly, the gross lack of knowledge the general public seem to possess concerning rape, sexual violence and the court system. The ignorance surrounding such a sensitive and significant topic is actually frightening. I’d like to address some of the questions and misconceptions that I came across time and time again from friends, family and the occasional randomer:

 

• She did it for the money 

This was suggested as a motive for her coming forward more times than I care to mention. There is no monetary gain from a criminal trial.

• False Allegations

Repeatedly, on social media platforms and even in the local pub, people stated that false allegations happen “all the time” and women “regularly cry rape” when they have actually engaged in sex they regret, are out for revenge, acting out of malice or just creating a fantasy. This is simply not true. Fabricated assaults and rapes account for 2% – 8% of all allegations – this varies slightly from country to country obviously but almost always within those figures. This figure is no higher than false allegations for other crimes such as burglary or theft yet victims of the latter are not treated with the same suspicion as someone coming forward to report a sexual assault. In 2017, 12,388 calls were made to the Rape Crisis Centre in Dublin alone.

In addition, most people who make false claims do not name a perpetrator. The majority of the time people who do make false claims tend to give an ambiguous description of events about a stranger. False allegations are also normally unveiled early on in the reporting process, often by confession of the person making the accusation. So YES,  false allegations certainly do happen and have serious repercussions for the person who is wronged. But please remember they are extremely rare and disproportionately reported in the media.

• How the court process works for victims:

“For the most part in rape cases, the complainant is sitting there really on their own. The prosecution have a job of work to do,” explains Noelene Blackwell, CEO of Dublin Rape Crisis Centre.

In a rape trial, the prosecution, who act on behalf of the State, call on the complainant as a witness only. The prosecution cannot be seen to be coaching the complainant in any way or favouring him/her in case this is seen to obstruct the defendant’s right to a fair trial. On the contrary, the accused is usually represented by an entire legal team, made up of very skilled, experienced barristers.

There is certainly room for improvement from a victim’s perspective here – a complainant should be entitled to their own legal representation.

• Anonymity 

The issue of anonymity is a tricky one. Scores of people on social media expressed concern as to why the defendants in the Belfast rape trial were named,  while the complainant’s identity is kept “secret” and also, following the acquittal of the four men, why her right to anonymity remains in place.

Well here’s how it works (in very simple terms):

In the Republic of Ireland, both the complainant and defendant are entitled to anonymity.

Irish law states that those accused of rape can only be identified publicly if convicted and then only if the victim waives their right to anonymity and the trial Judge consents.

In Northern Ireland, where the case took place, once charged, the defendants can be named in the media while the complainant, regardless of the verdict of the trial, is entitled to lifelong anonymity. This may seem unjust but there are valid reasons behind this.

There are strong arguments for and against the right to anonymity for defendants in rape cases. If the defendants are acquitted of the crime or falsely accused, they have still been “tarnished”and no doubt suffered grievously throughout the trial process, even if found not guilty.

In the case against anonymity, one could argue that it is in the interest of the public to know the name of the defendants/suspects once they have been officially charged and the decision has been made to prosecute. This is complex – on one hand, it may seem unfair that someone can be named and be dragged publicly through a trial before any verdict has been reached.

On the other hand, naming a defendant can encourage other victims of serial offenders to come forward (think Jimmy Saville, Rolf Harris, Bill Cosby) and also, if the accused remained anonymous, and did re-offend while awaiting trial or out on bail, there would also be a backlash from the public as to why the offenders identity was not known if he/she was a danger to society in the interim before trial.

In this particular case, the anonymity that the complainant would have been assured she would receive proved void. Unlike the Republic where trials surrounding sexual crimes are closed off to the public, in the North, anyone can sit in to the public gallery and watch court proceedings.

According to an article written by Irish Independent reporter Nicola Anderson who attended the trial, the decorum of some attendees sitting in the public gallery was quite distasteful, particularly over the eight days the young woman was giving her evidence :

“At several points of her testimony, there were jeers and scoffs from family members of the accused. “Choking on her lies,” said an older woman amid satisfaction at one stage.”   

Several more people sitting in the public gallery were “day-trippers” to the courtroom – one couple had been visiting the Titanic museum and decided to drop in on the case to see for themselves, as if it were a sporting event. Another man applauded when Arthur Harvey QC, defending Blane McIlroy, finished his closing speech, as if he were performing a recital.

The complainant was deemed a ‘vulnerable witness’, meaning she was entitled to have a curtain pulled around her when giving her evidence and only the judge, the jury and the legal teams would have been in her direct vision.

However, there was a live stream from the witness box which projected her face on to a television screen that everyone who was in the courtroom could see. As members of the public could come and sit in the gallery, see her face and hear her name being spoken throughout the trial, it was not long before her identity was known across Belfast – it’s a small world after all.

The woman may not be named in the newspapers, but her name spread like fire through social media sites, online forums such as Reddit and WhatsApp groups everywhere. She is known to those who matter to her, to her circles. I myself was sent photos of at least three different girls, with each sender firmly claiming it was 100% the complainant.

If you want to talk about false claims, talk about the rumours and toxic lies about her father’s occupation and her own private past that unfolded in the cesspit that is the internet. People grasping desperately for anything to discredit her.

It should be noted it is illegal to name a complainant on social media and anyone who does so, or who calls for her to be named should be ashamed of themselves. Naming people who have made a complaint will only deter any victims of sexual violence from coming forward if they think there is a risk their identity will be revealed. While it is debatable whether or not a defendant’s name should be publicised prior to a verdict being reached, it is imperative that a complainant’s right to anonymity always remains intact.

• Stereotypes Concerning Victims and Perpetrators 

Society tends to think of rapists as big bad men hiding behind bushes and dark alleys and jumping out on vulnerable prey. Violent sexual attacks by strangers do happen but they still remain the vast minority. A 2013 study from the National Rape Crisis Statistics Report showed that 91% of perpetrators of rape were known to the victim. I will write that again –  91% of perpetrators of rape were known to the victim. This means that the perpetrator is likely to be a friend, partner, lover, acquaintance or family member. This is the reality of rape – not always some “boogy man” waiting for an opportunity.

I understand that due to the high stakes and the seriousness of the allegations against the four defendants, in particular Jackson and Olding, that a thorough cross-examination of the complainant was necessary. After all, their liberty was on the line. In saying that, I took huge issue at the line of questioning of the complainant. It was misogynistic, archaic and basically what every woman fears would happen to her in court should she find herself as the complainant in a rape trial. The defence barristers re-instilled typecasts of how women “should” behave and rape victims “should” react.

Such questions posed by the defence barristers that were undoubtedly damaging to victims of sexual violence included:

Why was the girl at the party in the first place, supposedly uninvited and in the bedroom of Mr. Jackson, if she didn’t want to have sex? 

Really? Who gives a shit why she was there? Even if she was a jersey puller, even if she shared a consensual kiss with him, even if she did go to his bedroom – this does not warrant consent for sexual relations. I have seen some abhorrent comments online such as “what does she expect when she wagged her tail in front of them?” The girl was clearly welcome at the party – nobody seemed to have a problem with her sharing the taxi with them or being in the house at all. She was 19 years old at the time and was celebrating the results of her exams. It is not uncommon for students or drunk people to end up at random house parties – it literally happens all. the. time.

None of the above are crimes. Rape is a crime. Sexual assault is a crime. Exposure is a crime. Withholding evidence to protect your friends is a crime. Rapists are the cause of rape – end of story.

When questioned by police, Harrison  said he “guessed” rape was the reason they were being questioned. According to him, false accusations against high~profile sports stars are common. Why then was the question not asked of Jackson – why did he allow four drunk strangers (the girls) into his home? Shouldn’t he have known better than to invite two girls he just met into his bedroom? Was he not “asking for it”?

Because the rules are different for the men, that’s why. Once again, the responsibility is on us women to be careful – why did the four men have the luxury of not having to be as cautious? Women should not have to live in fear that going back to an after party will lead to something sinister.

“Why did she open her mouth – why didn’t she keep her mouth closed? Why didn’t she scream – the house was occupied. There were a lot of middle-class girls downstairs – they weren’t going to tolerate a rape or anything like that.”

This statement by Stuart Olding’s barrister Frank O’Donoghue QC in his closing speech was particularly atrocious.

During the trial, a forensic medical witness for the defence who works with victims of sexual assault was asked under cross-examination:

“Do most victims of sexual assault resist it or allow it to happen?”

She replied: “I think the evidence shows overwhelmingly that it is allowed to happen.”

The most common response to being assaulted or raped is not to fight back physically but to freeze or comply. Submission and compliance do not equal consent. It is a result of fear and a survival response by the victim to get through the ordeal. This point is vital as many victims later blame themselves for not fighting back or for not saying no. This point was highlighted by the judge, the PSNI and the medical experts in the trial. Yet, it was ignored by the defence barristers during their closing statements.

O’Donoghue’s reference to the other girls who attended the party was offensive and implied that women of a “lesser” social status do tolerate rape. A person’s background, be it rags or riches, does not mean they are exempt from being a victim of sexual violence or that they are not capable of committing a sex crime.

(Of Paddy Jackson) “Is he the type you might have had in your mind before we engaged on this eight-week programme?” 

This plants the idea that there is a “type” who rapes. There is no type. Even those who like to rap, draw pictures of superheroes, do charity work and spend time with their family are capable of committing a sexual offence. Brendan Kelly QC who defended Jackson put it to the complainant that she ran with the lie of the “classic rape victim” because she got the morning-after pill the next day. What the f*** is a classic rape victim?

Judge Patricia Smyth who presided over the Belfast trial directed the jury then when considering their deliberations to remember “There is no stereotype for a rape, or a rapist or a victim of rape or how people behave after they have been raped.”

Nobody can predict how someone will react after an attack. Rape survivors do not necessarily show their emotions outwardly. Some may appear calm and blasé about the assault. Others may be hysterical. Victims of sexual assault often make statements that are incomplete, inconsistent, or even untrue out of trauma and disorientation. Trauma decreases our ability to recall events properly. These are facts.

 

• The Verdict

A not guilty verdict does not equate to innocence. In a criminal trial, the burden of proof lies solely with the prosecution, in this case the CPS (Crown Prosecution Service) of Northern Ireland. The onus is on the prosecution to prove “beyond reasonable doubt” that the defendants are guilty of the charges against them and a jury are normally directed by the judge that they must reach a unanimous verdict. Not guilty does not mean a complainant is lying. 

Due to the nature of  sex crimes, in that they most often take place behind closed doors and come down to a he said/she said argument, it is a notoriously difficult crime to convict upon. If there is any element of doubt in the complainant’s side, the jury have a legal obligation to acquit.

In fact, it is so difficult to prove that of the approximately 8% – 10% of sexual offences that are reported in the Republic of Ireland, the DPP  (Director of Public Prosecutions) rejects 70%-80% of allegations. The evidential bar for a case to go to trial is that high. Of the small percentage that do end up in court, about 40% end in acquittal. In other words, 1%-2% incidents of sexual violence that occur in this country end in the perpetrator being convicted. While the Belfast Rape Trial took place in the jurisdiction in Northern Ireland, the stats are very similar to that of the Republic. Statistics do vary depending on which sources you research, but you can take it the conviction rate is low.

• The Aftermath

Immediately following the verdict, Jackson walked out the doors of the Laganside Courts in Belfast a free man. His solicitor Joe McVeigh of KWR Law in Belfast read out a statement on Jackson’s behalf. In my opinion, the statement was incredibly arrogant and self-righteous – a chance to take a swipe at the complainant at her lowest ebb, a dig at the PSNI and an attempt to silence those who believed her version of events. Legally, Jackson has every right to defend himself having cleared his name in Courtroom 12. Nontheless, he forgot about the Court of Public Opinion and as he soon found out, when you’re an international rugby player, public opinion matters a great deal.

The tone of Olding’s handwritten statement when he left the courts was in stark contrast to Jackson’s. Olding at least had the integrity to “acknowledge the complainant came to court and gave evidence about her perception of those events“ and that he was “sorry for the hurt that was caused to the complainant.”

KRW Law threatened anyone who used the #ibelieveher hashtag would be at risk of being sued for defamation of their client, Mr. Patrick Jackson. Ugh. The #ibelieveher and #suemepaddy hashtags and protests that swept across Ireland, both North and South of the border, in Irish communities in London, New York and Brussels, were not the result of a “lynch-mob” hell bent on overturning the verdict of this trial.These rallies are so much bigger than Jackson, Olding, McIlroy and Harrison. This is about challenging a system, not a verdict. People are angry and rightly so. People are tired of immediate doubt being cast on victims when they are brave enough to speak out. People are sick of the question not being is he guilty? But instead, is she lying?

This is years and years of built-up rage at a so-called “justice” system that has failed victims over and over again. This is not a gender war. This should not be a battle of the sexes. Women are not “hysterical feminazis” out to get men. 98% of sexual assaults to both men and women are committed by men . So if men feel targeted, it’s because they’re the target audience. We know it’s #notallmen. We know it’s not even most men. But we know it’s men.

Defendants, as a human right, are entitled to a fair trial – but victims should get a fair trial too. When asked under oath why she would not go to the police if she were raped, a friend of the complainant replied:

“Because of what’s happening in this room. It’s daunting. It’s quite horrible and you get blamed.” Preach.

Since the verdict was announced two weeks ago, social media has been a hotbed of viscous commentary, each side adamant they are correct in their beliefs and their assertions. There’s no in between – you either believe them, or you believe her. Women are sluts, men are bastards. I’m right, you’re wrong.

Many commentators on Twitter and Facebook seem to think that the four defendants being declared not guilty means this is a hard-earned “victory” for “their side”. But there are no winners here. Nobody has walked away from this unscathed. All four men and their families have paid a hefty price for their callous actions and treatment of the girl. They have felt the full wrath of an outraged public. They may be free men in the eyes of the law but they will never be free from this case. Whether you believe that the complainant consented to sexual activity or not, nobody can deny the men behaved shamefully.

The Irish Rugby Football Union (IRFU) and Ulster Rugby face a tough challenge now –  should they reinstate Olding and Jackson?  Damned if they do and damned if they don’t. Even if we don’t like it, we must accept that the pair were not on trial for their morals or their derogatory view of women. They were on trial for rape charges and they have been acquitted on those charges. Still though, this cannot be played down as “silly mistakes” or “drunken banter” – we will not forgive and forget that easily.

Jackson has since made another statement. This second statement echoed the sentiments of Olding’s – regret for the events of that morning, regret that the woman left his home distressed. Nine days after his original statement, it remains to be seen whether or not this follow-up apology may be too little too late and have fallen upon deaf ears. Did this statement come from genuine remorse or from self interest? I don’t know.

Would vying for their blood forever more make anyone feel better? Would it make her feel better? Would it mean justice has been served if they don’t play rugby again? What is to be accomplished by subjecting them to a barrage of online abuse?  These are the questions we need to ask ourselves.

If Olding and Jackson are to be afforded the privilege of donning the jerseys of their country and province again, then I can only hope that they will set a precedent for young men – dire actions result in dire consequences. That they will stand shoulder to shoulder as a reminder to men to speak up when they hear their peers talking little of women. As a reminder that the only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for a few good men to do nothing. That they will learn from this.

The woman, no doubt, has endured an unbearable ordeal for a long time. I’m sure she will find it very difficult to resume to what once was normal life for her. She has been branded. In the morning after the night before, she wrote her friend about reporting the rape – “it will serve no purpose for me but be embarrassing.”

Girl, it did serve a purpose. Glimmers of hope have stemmed from this harrowing affair and it is only the beginning. She may have lost a decision in court but her courage has exposed these men to all. She has awoken a nation. She has prompted a long overdue discussion and review of both consent and our justice system – we all owe her our gratitude.

On her first day giving evidence, the woman testified that going to the police was “the best decision she has made.” Despite the outcome of the trial, the woman, although upset by the verdict, told the investigating PSNI officer that she did not regret coming forward. She was given a voice. She told her story. She was listened to. She is believed.

I believe her. 

Dublin Rape Crisis Centre: For support and information related to rape and sexual violence, please ring our National 24-Hour Helpline: 1 800 778 888

 

 

 

Ode to Dolores

Blue Monday. The third Monday of January – supposedly the most depressing day of the year. Christmas a distant memory, failed New Year’s resolutions are now apparent and the credit card bills from the festive indulgence are rolling in. But in the great scheme of things, these things are small. This year, Blue Monday was truly blue – we lost the legend that was Dolores O’Riordan.

I was probably 9 years old when I first heard of The Cranberries. A girl called Sylvie Redmond from my hometown of Gorey, Co. Wexford was an absolute fanatic, a Dolores worshipper. Sylvie was a teenager suffering from Cystic Fibrosis and I have a very clear recollection of her appearing on Kenny Live in an appeal to find a suitable heart and lung donor, which sadly, she never did. Sylvie spoke about how much she adored Dolores and how Dolores, upon hearing that Sylvie was ill, flew her to the US and the pair performed a duet on stage together. What a beautiful thing to do.

During the nineties, The Cranberries music went over my head; I was too young to recognise what Dolores represented or to appreciate the poignancy of her lyrics. With her short hair and a choker necklace, here she was, a waif-like girl from Ballybricken, County Limerick leading an otherwise male rock band and gaining international stardom while she did so. Far ahead of her time for early 90’s Ireland, that’s for sure.

Fast forward a few years to when I was 18, the same age Dolores was when she wrote Linger. At the end of my first year in college, I went to Edinburgh to work for the summer. Two months away from home seems like no time looking back now, but back then I had never been away from Ireland, short holidays excluded. Before I left, a friend gave me an old-school mp3 player, pre-loaded with a max of about forty songs. Of those, I’d say five or six were by The Cranberries. I hadn’t ever really listened to their music before, not properly. Dolores’s delicate distinctive voice became good company on my daily walk to work. It was eerily soul-stirring and would trigger a pang of nostalgia in me. Her Limerick accent ever present, it served as a little familiar link to my homeland and during that period, The Cranberries gained a new fan. I returned home in September and I took her with me.

When The Great Recession came, I packed my bags again. Living in St.Kilda in Melbourne, there was a strong Irish presence. On Sunday evenings at a small hotel on the corner called the Barkly, we would gather for the weekly karaoke session. Australians and Irish didn’t tend to mingle all that much in the bar – nothing personal, we just tended to do the Irish thing and “stick to our own”. But with the help of some Dutch courage, my friends and I would take the stage and the group dynamics would shift a bit. The go-to song to sing would always be Zombie. It was the safe choice, the crowd-pleaser. Everyone would unite for that chorus – what’s in your heeeead, in your heeaaaad. Irish, Aussie, British, German, Green, Orange – it didn’t matter, we all knew the words.

A song that, to me, beautifully captured the anguish of those who suffered losses during The Troubles in Northern Ireland. Losses from both sides. Harrowing video, harrowing meaning, harrowing voice.

Later, while I was working in a tiny outback bar somewhere in Queensland, I broke up with my first boyfriend. I was…or so I thought at 22…completely heartbroken. In the weeks after, I would go to the veranda of the pub after locking up with my co-workers, fellow backpackers. We would sit talking and drinking beers and chain-smoking until the small hours. I would force them to listen to Cranberries on repeat. Can’t Be With You. When You’re Gone. Linger. Dreams. Over and over again. Dolores too knew the sting of unrequited love and once again, just like it had in Scotland, her voice brought me comfort.

Last year, the news came to say that the Cranberries were playing Dublin in May. We got the tickets. Row B – this was going to be special. And it was. It really was. Dolores epitomised sophistication. She was just so suave, so cool. Her ability to captivate an audience with her presence was as strong then as it was 20 years ago. I feel privileged to have witnessed her final gig* on these shores. A true artist. The Queen of Limerick. Behind that coy smile she flashed on stage, there was a pain deeper than she showed or we knew. Perhaps fame is, in her own words, impossible to ignore. Thank you for the music Dolores. Go n~eirí an bóthar leat.

Abhaile Arís

 

“The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one’s own country as a foreign land.”

Sitting in JFK airport, awaiting the last leg of my flight home to Ireland, a knot formed in my stomach. Christmas songs filled the air and I was a mere flight away from the loved ones who’d be waiting for me on the other side. After anticipating this moment for so long, suddenly I felt nothing but dread. Thinking I had been so ready to come home before, I now stepped aboard the plane with waves of anxiety washing over me. What would Ireland have in store for me? Would everything look strange? Would I ever fit in there again?

It’s an odd thing. I had assumed that in my absence, everything would have changed. Well, nothing really has. Everything looks the same, smells the same. The buildings are still small and the roads seem smaller still. Back to square one. Sure, people have new jobs, gotten engaged and babies have been born. The idle chit chat down the shops or in the local pub has shifted from the recession to the water charges. Yet daily life remains constant.  It is my perception of the life that I’d left behind that has changed.

Reverse culture shock is the part of living abroad that you’re not warned about. For over four years, my life has been a whirlwind of Oriental adventures  and experiencing new pastures. Naively, visions of myself regaling my friends and family with tales of all the amazing things I had seen and done were racing through my mind. Nobody was that interested. When asked how my time away was, how can I possibly sum up four years of my life in a few minutes worth of conversation? Certainly, I am not the only returning expat that feels this way. Unless they have lived abroad for an extended time, it is quite the challenge to convey to someone all that goes with being an expatriate. Despite spending the majority of my twenties so far on foreign soil, it feels pretentious to say “well, one time in Vietnam…”. Once the initial excitement of encountering your old friends and family has subsided, reality sets in. Inevitably, as feared and predicted, the questions began – “What’s the plan?” “Have you a job yet?” “Are you going to settle down?”

Like I said, I am looking at Ireland through new lenses. Strolling along the cobbled roads of Temple Bar in late December, I realised I’d never before heeded the sights and smells of the Dublin food markets, the Celtic sounds of the buskers, nor had I ever appreciated the casual banter of passers by. I took delight in seeing “Nollaig Shona Duit” written in neon lights. Previously mundane outings such as grocery shopping or taking the bus have now become somewhat of a novelty. Ordering food is no longer a chore. Being understood everywhere I go is refreshing. Ireland has just as much to see and do as anywhere else.

Befriending people from various backgrounds and witnessing life around the world is enlightening and an education in itself. Reverting back to old friends who’ve known you for years, listening to the lilt of the Irish accent and visiting familiar places you don’t get lost in can be equally satisfying.

Only time will tell if I have made the right choice in coming back to Ireland. There is a palpable sense of uncertainty in the air. I suppose, whatever the decision, be it to go again in the future or to stay and settle, there’s a price to pay for each. For now though, Ireland, you’ll suit me grand.

The Tragedy of Cambodia

An Irish Girl In Cambodia – December 2014

 

Sunrise at Angkor Wat

 

I can’t deny Cambodia is a beautiful country with an ugly reality. It will pull at your heart strings just as quickly as it will enchant you and cast you under its spell. The country’s beauty is immediately evident through the breathtaking temples of Angkor Wat, the tranquility of the islands, the lush jungles and the enthralling chaos of the capital city of Phnom Penh. The people ooze warmth and charm. This is why it is difficult to comprehend the horror of what the Khmers have suffered in their tragic recent history – the effects of which are still obvious today. Scratch a little under the surface though, and the undertone of poverty and devastation is prevalent. It cannot, and should not, be ignored.

 

 

In the 1970’s, the Khmer Rouge (the red Khmers), a communist guerrilla group came into power . Led by a man called Pol Pot, their aim was to create a classless society and thrust Cambodia back to “year zero”.  Their campaign resulted in the total demolition of money, schooling, private property and traditional Khmer culture. Literacy, music, art and religion were abolished. Educated people were specifically targeted and terminated instantly, resulting in an unskilled workforce. It also led to the genocide of an estimated 3 million people – a quarter of the population – were subjected to death, often by unimaginable torture. Starvation, disease, beatings, and rape were all common practice. Women, children, the disabled, the elderly – nobody was spared. This was life for the Khmer people for four awful years until the Vietnamese finally intervened in 1979. If you visit the Killing Fields or the S-21 prison in Phnom Penh, you can get a taste of the atrocities that have occurred. Bone fragments and teeth are still littered on the ground and sorrow lingers in the air. Yet, one does not need to visit these places to see the pain their internal conflict has inflicted on the country – you can see it all around you in everyday life.

 

Children play in the water at Silk Island

 

 

Although it is true that the serene countryside along with the crystal clear waters of Koh Rong will be etched in my memory, these are not the only images that will remain with me when I return home. Seeing dire poverty on television commercials and on the news is one thing – witnessing it first hand is quite another.  The pleading cries from child beggars can be heard on every corner of Phnom Penh. No school for these children – education is for the privileged. Often parents simply cannot afford to not have their offspring begging along the streets.  You don’t have to venture very far to find someone maimed by one of the millions of landmines that are still a problem in Cambodia today. I witnessed one man, who had lost both his legs; drag himself along the ground using just his bare hands. Take a stroll along Street 51 of the capital city and it is not unusual to see teenagers high on crystal meth or openly injecting themselves with heroin. Human trafficking and child prostitution is a rampant and prosperous industry which continues to grow. There is a notable absence of an older generation. People drive however and wherever they please.  More than a third of the population lives on less than $1 dollar a day. The old aphorism of the “poor are getting poorer and the rich are getting richer” is reflected throughout their society. Such is life. Corruption is widespread and it feels almost like a lawless country. Utter mayhem. The legacy of the Khmer Rouge has truly left its mark and it will take a long time for this land to fully heal.

 

The Killing Tree where members of the Khmer Rouge beat children to death

 

 

I cannot ‘fix’ Cambodia, but I do believe people need to be aware of what has happened here. Although this might all seem so far away from the Western world we live in, it is the reality of 80% of the world living on less than $10 every day. This Christmas, as we in Ireland snuggle up against the fire, exchanging gifts with loved ones and tucking into our turkey, I hope we can reflect on everything we have, not on what we don’t have. We are blessed and sometimes it takes a little reminder to realize just how lucky we are. Just something to think about.

 

 

 

Poverty is rife

 

 

 

 

Céad Míle Fáilte; A Hundred Thousand Welcomes

 

 

Student Selfie!

 

“You get a strange feeling when you’re about to leave a place, I told him, like you’ll not only miss the people you love but you’ll miss the person you are now at this time and this place, because you’ll never be this way ever again.”

 

I read this quote some time ago, acknowledged it and tossed it to the back of my mind without another moment’s thought. Only now, as my time here in South Korea is drawing to an end, has its real meaning become apparent to me.

 

Almost four years ago, I left the isle of saints and scholars with a heavy heart. Having just arrived back from 2 years in Australia, I embraced all the best that Ireland has to offer – the aspects of our culture that I had yearned for during my stint down under. I spent a wonderful summer partaking in the camaraderie and banter of the Galway Races, reuniting with old friends, cruising along the majestic coast of Antrim and belting ballads over a fire in a teeny tiny pub in Dooneen. Alas, opportunity knocked and my summer fling was over. I was off again, this time for South Korea.

 

One giant step for man….one small step for giant…

 

Prior to my arrival in Korea, my knowledge of one of Asia’s most affluent nations was limited to Seoul and the summer hit “Gangnam Style.” I was no stranger to living in a foreign land but this was sure to be a dramatic life alteration. However, the promise of secure employment and a decent wage was enough to lure me to this oriental wonderland.

 

At that time, there was no way I could have predicted that Korea, the land of the morning calm, would have become such a cradle for me. My previous experience of Asia was non-existent. The metropolis of Daegu, where I presently reside, is viewed as one of the most conservative cities in Korea. The culture shock, as I had anticipated, was indeed intense. Both mentally and physically, I was dazzled by the blinding neon signs, the vast crowds scurrying in organised chaos and the constant awareness and reminders of being an outsider. Admittedly, it took a while to adjust to their way of life. Yet soon, it became “my” way of life.

 

With that, I heeded some good advice – live where you are living. Welcome the new change and get over your xenophobia. I learned Hangeul (the Korean language), attempted some martial arts, knocked back the soju and stuffed myself with kimchi, the national dish. My advice to anyone coming here is that a positive attitude accompanied by an open mind is the key to your happiness. Enjoy the comical sides of Korea. In some of the schools, the parents choose English names for their children to use during role play.  It’s not often you are afforded the opportunity to teach children that have been “christened” Fried Chicken, Angry Bird or Iron Man. I currently have the entire cast of Frozen in my classroom. Try and assimilate your new surroundings.

 

My kindergarten class engrossed by the lovely Elsa

 

 

Despite the obvious cultural gaps between here and Ireland, there are also some striking resemblances too. Koreans are often called the Irish of Asia, and I believe that there’s more to this than their fondness of the drink (which to be fair, could rival Ireland’s). The country’s history echoes that of Ireland’s melancholic past. For so long, they too were seen to be inferior to their powerful neighbouring lands. They too are a country that has been segregated by civil war.

 

However, the real similarities between South Korea and the Emerald Isle are also evident in my everyday life. There is a recognizable sense of pride instilled within them.  Much like the Irish, the Koreans possess a certain quality of warmth and affection. You can bear witness to this in the local grocery store or your favourite coffee shop. The friendly raillery I am exposed to on a daily basis, is akin to the conduct in the local Centra in rural Ireland.

 

Often in the summer time, during one of their spontaneous torrential rain showers, I have forgotten to bring an umbrella with me. On such occasion, more often than not, a Korean has approached me and with nothing more than a smile, placed their umbrella over my head to shield from the raindrops. There’s nothing lost in translation. This simple act is typical of Korea. I am in awe of their notable respect and solicitude for one another. My landlady regularly leaves fruit at my doorstep, for no other reason other than she “thought of me”. In times of illness, my co-workers have told me they have gone to a church and prayed for my recovery, much like a neighbour in the village would light a candle for you at home.  Every other Sunday, the larger supermarkets close to boost business for the traditional markets. The latter gesture is a perfect example of Korea’s social consciousness.

 

In a society that is ultimately consumed with modernity, innovation and the latest technological development, it is exhilarating to see social obligations remain a priority and that such duties are being fulfilled. If there is one thing that I will take home with me to Ireland, this admirable quality I see in so many Koreans will be it.

 

With just six weeks left here, mixed emotions are inevitable. Preparing yourself to become an expatriate is one thing; doing the reverse is quite another. The feeling of sadness that Korea will soon be but a memory is palpable. In some ways, it feels as though time has stood still during my stay here. I have been in limbo, in a bubble. There is an almost timeless element when living abroad; so when exactly is it time to leave?

I always knew I would eventually go back home. So, I want to do it now, before I’ll have been away too long and Ireland, not Korea, will soon be but a memory. The euphoria I feel about my looming repatriation is equally tangible. It seems everyone I know is getting hitched, having babies and building houses and all I have are some great memories. I have yet to plant any real roots and going back to Ireland to try to pursue this is daunting. I will be starting from scratch and that is a terrifying yet exciting prospect.

 

Furthermore, based on my past visits home, emigrants are often greeted with an apathetic attitude with regards to their lives abroad. This is understandable, as it can be difficult for those who have never left to comprehend exactly what emigration entails. How can you possibly relate your life away to their life at home? I am a different person now than when I left, and I’d like to think for the better. I have different opinions, beliefs and goals. Travel truly does broaden one’s mind.

Essentially I am leading a double life. I have my Irish life and my Korean life. I have two sets of friends; the friends I have met along the way and those friends who have always known me. How lucky I am. The transformation home is going to be challenging but I will welcome it.

Korea will always be a part of me, but home is where the heart is and my heart is in Ireland. Let the job hunt, the house hunt and the boyfriend hunt commence…….

Korea, you have been fantastic.

Ireland, I can’t wait to see you!

 

 

 

Níl Aon Tintéan Mar Do Thintéan Féin

Recently my native county of Wexford enjoyed some overdue victories in the GAA’s Senior Hurling Championship. I phoned home match day. My father was preparing to hit the road to Nowlan Park in Kilkenny to watch Wexford take on the Deise in an eagerly awaited clash of the ash. I boasted to him about my impending trip to Japan. He simply replied  “But Kate, where else in the world would you want to be today but here?” He was right. I would have swapped my airplane ticket to Japan for a ticket to that game in a heartbeat. It got me thinking.

 

 

I am currently in my fourth year living away from Ireland. The first two I spent in Australia, and I am now residing in South Korea. I work here as a TEFL teacher. South Korea is a country that has seen a huge rise in the number of Irish citizens coming to teach here in recent years. Some for travelling/experience opportunities but the dominating reason being “there’s nothing back home”. Well, that’s not entirely true for me. For me, my life is back home.

 

Don’t get me wrong. I love Korea. It is, simply put, a great place to live. I like my job, I like eating out every night of the week, paying 2% tax, free trips to the doctor and dentist, I like the fantastic public transport and, I like embracing another culture so different to my own.

 

I am based in Daegu, approximately two hours south-west of Seoul. Although it is a relatively unknown city to the western world, there is a prominent Irish community. Sometimes I feel Korea can be overlooked as an expat destination in comparison to Australia or Canada, but we are here. This helps me along on a day to day basis. We have our own Gaelic football team, Daegu na Fianna, and there is a tournament every summer with other GAA teams from Seoul and Busan. In July, Seoul hosted a Gaelic tournament that saw teams from nearby Japan and China come to Korea. To witness the mix of Irish diasporas gathered together in their numbers, celebrating our most ancient sport, was something special. What followed was an evening of ‘craic agus ceoil’ complete with a traditional Irish session and more than one rendition of ‘Spancil Hill’.

In October of last year, the bustling city of Busan hosted its 18^th International Film Festival. On this particular occasion, the focus was on the Irish film industry; “Rogues, Rebels and Romantics: A season of Irish Cinema.” My friends and I made the short journey down to the seaside metropolis. We settled in our seats and watched as Jim Sheridan’s “In The Name of the Father” and Neil Jordan’s “Michael Collins” played out on the screen before us. I had goose bumps watching as the heart-breaking story of Gerry Conlon and the heroic, rebellious antics of Collins were unveiled to people from across the globe. It felt as though the world had been let in to a secret that had previously been just kept among us. Later that evening, we had the pleasure of meeting Jim Sheridan and Neil Jordan, both of whom expressed disbelief at the large number of Irish expats in attendance.

 

The Irish community is viewed favorably in South Korea. In some ways, we have a similar history. They too were (and still are) a country divided by civil war and they too suffered at the hands of their neighboring country. Many Koreans I speak with are aware on some level of Ireland’s melancholic past. Many feel that they can identify with it. Furthermore, we are viewed as hard workers by the schools and universities. This tends to bode well for us in terms of employment, as South Korea is known to have one of the strongest work ethics in the world. 

Indeed this is the happier side of the expatriate life. This is the side that we see splashed across Facebook and Twitter. This is the “living the dream” aspect that is reflected in the statuses that fill up our news feed everyday.

 

That’s a huge problem with social media. It is designed so you can create the life you want others to think you have; not necessarily the one you do have. It doesn’t always convey the reality. There is a dark side in being an expat too but who wants to publicly admit, that sometimes their lives are a bit shit? I feel the Irish like to save face a lot of the time especially when it comes to emigration. Whatever they’re doing, it is better than home. All of us twenty-somethings have sacrificed so much to live the lives we do abroad. I’ve missed my sister’s wedding, funerals, hen parties, Christmases and loved ones getting engaged. Happy moments that I would loved to have been a part of and some sad ones I ought to have shared. I haven’t seen my best friend in over two years and due to her residing in Australia and me residing here, we won’t meet again until at least Christmas 2015.

 

When your circle of friends are each experiencing their own new unique adventures in Hong Kong, Sydney, London and Toronto, it can be a challenge to find common ground. Our chats are no longer about our plans to do things together but memories of the past that we share. Being an Irish expat is now the theme that unites us.

 

The toughest challenge for me is the instability of one’s friendship circle. Sure, it is easy to find a dozen people to party it up with you at the weekend; it is not so easy to find someone you could call at 2am if you needed help. Friendships seem flimsy at times and almost temporary. Everyone has an expiration date be it because of visas, contracts, adventure seeking in other countries or duties back home.

 

I am not trying to slander living abroad. I definitely am not.  Perhaps I felt it important to write this to those in Ireland who haven’t left. The people you see who comment “I am sooooo jealous” under the Facebook photos of somebody climbing Sydney’s Harbour Bridge or diving the Barrier Reef. Sometimes, we are sooooo jealous of you too. The classic case of the grass is always greener on the other side.
Those who have left have not turned their backs on Ireland. In the end, Bondi Beach is not Salthill, The Statue of Liberty is not the Spike and Wimbledon isn’t Croke Park. Níl aon tinteán mar do thinteàn féin.

 

Pre-game rituals = tea, Tayto and sandwiches 🙂