My wife and I visited Ireland in August of 1998. It was a sentimental journey for me even though the last McCormick in my family, my great-great grandfather, emigrated from Dublin in 1764. Nevertheless, I bear an Irish surname and Ireland will always be, in my heart at least, my ancestral home. A kaleidoscope of sights and sounds has been pressed into my mind. Beautiful faces, green countryside, lilting music, breathtaking Irish dancing, all conspire to haunt memories of a lovely and gracious land. Ireland is in the midst of an unprecedented economic boom since joining the European Union. The west of Ireland , traditionally the poorest sector, is dotted with ranch-style houses with new Audis and Fiats parked out in front. In true Irish tradition these new houses are often built next to the stone crofter’s shack where the family once lived. The Irish seem to want to remember where they came from. Beneath the warmth and hospitality (the Irish genuinely love Americans) lies a melancholy and sadness. They are a people with a tragic history of struggle against those who would attempt to subjugate them. From the Vikings to the Normans to the British, this struggle has been going on for over a thousand years. Ireland is filled with ruins and monuments, testimonials to its triumphs and defeats; mostly the latter. The Irish never forget. Because of this trait, they rarely forgive. One of the great unheralded events of history was what has come to be known as the Irish Potato Famine. It was a holocaust of monumental proportions. During a period of three years, 1845-1848, half the population of Ireland , some two million people, either died of starvation forced upon them by the British government or were compelled to emigrate primarily to the United States , Canada , and Australia . While in Dublin , we stayed at a hotel near the old docks district. On the main street leading to the piers, a route taken by thousands of the destitute and starving, a group of about a dozen life-size bronze figures has been placed along the side of the road. They seem to shuffle along clutching their meager possessions on the way to the ships. One figure is carrying what appears to be a dead or dying child on his shoulders. The post office on O’Connell Street in Dublin , the scene of the Easter Rising, still bears a pock-marked façade from the guns of the British Army. It was never repaired. So much blood spilled, so many dead, so much to remember. Now times are good and the Irish are basking in their good fortune. While enjoying the good times, the Irish remember the bad. Remembering is something they are particularly good at. Reply, Reply All or Forward | More
Posted on: Sat, 29 Nov 2014 14:28:12 +0000
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