The practice of compassion, part 1

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The hotel where we stayed in Dublin stands on a crossroads. Facing it are:

• The Patriots Inn
• The Richmond Tower, gateway to the Irish Museum of Modern Art (IMMA)
• the Kilmainham Gaol.

The Richmond Tower

We arrived on foot from our house in England, aided by 2 buses and a plane across the Irish Sea. Hunger and thirst took priority over shelter so we went straight to the Patriots, a fine old pub well-named and well-placed. Another day the thirst for culture took us to the IMMA and the life-changing perspectives offered in an exhibition of work by the Brazilian artist Oiticica, which I’m not up to writing about, nor would photographs capture the experience of immersion in his work. He teaches you how to be enwrapped in the world, absorbing it sensually and in mysterious other ways. I best liked his cubicle structures (Penetrables) which you can go in, except for the parts you cannot go in, which remain an enticing mystery. Modern art never reached me so wholly before.

It wasn't till our last morning, after checking out from the hotel and leaving our bags there, that we crossed the road in a neat manoeuvre to take in the Gaol’s guided tour. This too was an immersion, such that a retelling cannot provide the intensity of impact. But in history if not art, stories are told which imagination makes vivid, just as actually standing where history happened was vivid for us. Ireland as you may know was a British “possession”, a colony, populated by rulers and ruled, landlords and tenant farmers. From 1845-49 there was a potato famine, caused by a blight which caused the tubers to rot in the soil. It caused starvation but the landlords insisted on rent as normal. Empathy and compassion were scarce, but the high-minded British had built the jail with rehabilitation in mind. Each prisoner would have his or her own cell, apart from children who slept in dormitories. A great skylight allowed ingress of the sun’s rays, which were thought to be conducive to godliness. The idea of solitary cells was originally to give prisoners space to repent and reform.

The Patriots Inn, Kilmainham

So it was a pretty fine jail and the Protestant Ascendancy (see Wikipedia) were pleased with itself, inviting fine ladies to visit and see how humane it all was. Most of what I’ve said refers to the Victorian extension, rather than the buildings erected in 1796.

Starving people have been known to steal. Men, women and even small children were therefore jailed, until, during the Famine, the rule of one prisoner per cell could no longer be applied. Women were accommodated in the corridors, on bare floor, the windows above them having no glass. A man in a cell had one blanket. Food was meticulously measured out, for the avoidance of gluttony.

Petty thieves arrested in possession of a loaf or a turnip from a field received short sentences, as it became clear that many saw an advantage in being caught red-handed, as they would get shelter and food for a week or a month, and it might be a respite from trying to survive outside. Beggars too were rounded up, so ragged and dirty as to be a public scandal on the streets, a disgusting sight for the law-abiding gentry who passed by. The homelessness was due to the peasants’ eviction from their land, when unable to pay the rent.

These things don’t get forgotten, and around the turn of the century there occurred a Celtic Revival, claiming pride in Ireland’s language and legends, its artists and poets. A Home Rule movement gathered momentum with much debate, but the paternalistic British Government didn’t think the Irish were ready for that, not to mention certain vested interests. On Easter Monday, 1916, a poster was put up all over Dublin, proclaiming a republic. A copy of this was the first thing I saw when I entered the jail. I asked what happened to its signatories, and later found out, in precise detail. Note especially the two names at the bottom of the poster.

Joseph Plunkett was in no doubt of being rewarded with martyrdom. After surrender to overwhelming force he was immediately tried by court-martial and jailed. His request for compassionate leave to marry his fiancée was compassionately granted by the British Government. The ceremony was performed in the prison chapel with only guards as witnesses. The couple were granted ten minutes of married life together, counted out by a guard who remained present. They had so much to say to one another that they couldn’t even start, so they remained silent. Then Joseph was taken back to his cell. Next day at dawn he was taken to the walled courtyard—I was shown the exact spot—and executed by firing squad.

At first the common sentiment was against the rebels, stirring up trouble, disturbing a status quo which wasn’t so bad. Then the people were cowed by the influx of British troops. Finally their mood changed to one of revulsion against their paternalistic colonizers, now revealed as shamelessly brutal.

Outside Joseph Plunkett’s widow’s cell (she was also jailed here, in 1923)

What swung the balance and united the doubters was the treatment of James Connolly (Séamas Ó Conghaile). He had been badly injured in the fighting between rebels & British army. Doctors doubted whether he could survive another day. He was brought to the jail by ambulance, then carried to the courtyard on a stretcher. He was unable to stand up for the firing squad, so they put him on a chair, but in his terminal weakness he slid off. They roped him to the chair and shot him.

There are many other shameful things in British history. I don’t see any smouldering resentment in the Irish against us, for they have their own republic and a special sense of identity. In addition to the Celtic script, ancient language and legends, they proudly show themselves, and us, how to have everything worth having and still not be British. Smaller but in many ways better. Especially when it comes to empathy, compassion and helping out in the world where few dare go. That’s long been my impression, and furthermore, they don’t seem as bullied by Catholicism as they once were, but that’s probably recent and ongoing. I think of those I’ve known brought up by the Christian brothers, and the film Philomena.

Now there is a move in Scotland to assert its independence from the UK: a different history, no need for martyrs, a bloodless referendum will decide. Me, I’m ambiguous about being English. When cornered I might plead that I was dragged here against my will from Australia. I admit to having found pleasure in bigoted views against certain foreigners, the European Union, the BBC, Socialism, The Guardian and all it stands for, especially political correctness but I’ve tried to keep my prejudices out of this blog, present a face which belongs to Vincent, and not the other fellow who lives in the same body. But then Karen Armstrong comes to the rescue with a message of compassion, not just to me but the whole world. See this series of comments appended to previous post. I hope to develop the theme in part 2.