To remain haunted, we only to remain quiet.
I think about that line on St. Patrick’s Day and I recall my trip just over a year ago to Ireland. I wandered the old graveyard of Shanakyle, outside of Kilrush in County Clare, with two historians who were helping me with the research for my most recent book. It follows a family through generations from starving 19th-century Ireland to 21st-century Kingston, Ontario, Canada.
The stone-walled space sat quietly on the edge of town. My guides shared what they knew. “It was something between 2,000 and 10,000 that were buried in the three pits here during the famine,” the first historian noted. The bodies were stacked upon each other. No marker or stone was erected to signify this. After they shared this, and the fact there are many more mass graves like this strewn across Ireland, I became aware that for some time, the only sound was the wind that howled about our heads. For the two historians, steeped in the details of the history, and living just down the road from it, grew as silent as I in facing the force of the desolation.
I think few Irish people, and those of us of Irish descent around the world, don’t know the details of our history: the hundreds of years of rough British colonization that outlawed language, education, employment, and land ownership and culminated in a managed mass starvation where the only crop available to most people was spoiled, and no meaningful relief was offered by the powers that be. We still don’t know how many died. At least a million. And at least that many fled to Canada and other countries.
Irish novelist Paul Murray, recently nominated for the esteemed Booker Prize, told the Guardian, “Ireland is a place where very terrible things have happened, and the way we deal with them is by not addressing them. So I feel like the ghosts are alive, and they’re active.”
The official museum of the famine only opened in Ireland in the mid-90s, and similar projects here and in other countries the Irish found refuge only opened in the last 20 years. So, those ghosts have had free reign to run roughshod for some time now. But where? Well, they’re stomping around in our genes.
Recent research in epigenetics reveals much. Scientists have studied the genetic structures of groups of men who suffered trauma and have seen an epigenetic change to their DNA sequence. Epigenetics tells our bodies how to read our genes and, in response, creates physical changes in our bodies. It’s basically a little switch on our genetic sequence that can turn on certain responses.
The evidence, so far, points to this being passed on through the Y-Chromosome, meaning to the sons through the fraternal line. There were symptoms in descendants that were similar to the first person experiencing the trauma. It’s most likely to manifest as depression, anxiety and guilt. And this has been shown to continue for six generations from the original experience.
It’s hard not to look at the Irish community and see this. Today, Ireland has one of the highest rates of mental illness issues in Europe. And the troubles of the Irish have followed the Irish diaspora around the world. Depression. Schizophrenia. Suicide. And, of course, that old standby, alcoholism, runs rampant in the community. A recent study in Boston shows that rates of depression are highest in Dorchester — a home for many people of Irish descent. The rates of treatment for mental health are lower in the area than elsewhere in Boston. Meaning few are seeking treatment.
It’s hard not to look at the lives and recent deaths of notable Irish artists like Sinead O’Connor, Shane McGowan and Dolores O’Riordan and not comment on the clear inner battles they fought. Often alone.
But there’s good news too. Recent studies have noted that it’s not the fate of any person whose ancestors faced trauma, to have mental health issues. If it’s epigenetic, it’s responsive to the environment. That means negative environmental effects are reversible. With a supportive and consistent environment, people can overcome the adversity they inherited.
And this brings me to Canada. Many know of anti-Irish sentiment that persisted (and still persists in some dusty corners) of the country. There were laws, riots, accepted methods of excluding the Irish from jobs, homes, schools. And in this era of revisiting our history and seeking to make amends for past deeds by those in power, the name George Brown, still raises my ire.
Writing my novel felt like a way to end the power of the ghosts I know. Few of them like the light. The book presents the travails and triumphs of an Irish family on an island near Kingston, Ontario, and it follows their experience as refugees fleeing a brutal colonial system. I have yet to see the community of my home presented often in literature.
The book opens with a few quotes. Including one by Mr George Brown. A man who founded the Globe and Mail and became a member of parliament. And was honoured with a college in his name, a postage stamp, and statues in Queens Park and Ottawa, among other accolades.
I remember him most for this charming quote: “[The Irish are] as great a curse [to Canada]… as were the locusts to the land of Egypt.” He wrote this in response to the waves of Irish refugees washing up on Canadian shores. The Globe and Mail continued this with terrible attacks on the Irish.
His name and honours outshine those of his contemporary, Canada’s first Irish parliamentarian and only assassinated member to date—Thomas D’Arcy McGee. The statue to honour McGee was only unveiled, with no ceremony, nearly eight years after his death. And it stands, shrugging behind parliament beyond the view of most visitors. Quietly.
This year’s Booker Prize-winning novel by Ireland’s Paul Lynch is a haunting tale of life in Ireland during the rise of a totalitarian regime. Many have said that it won the prize because it was a reminder to the Irish and the world that we are now, in the West and the Northern Hemisphere, the recipients of the climate crisis victims and the politically terrorized. And we are facing attacks on our democratic institutions while far-right populism is on the rise.
From my limited experience, the odd thing about facing our darker portions is that in doing so, we’re propelled through them and find ourselves anew in a strange land. And in that place, purpose is waiting and a language for it. If the Irish can speak about mental health issues, we can become happier, of course. Healthier too. Maybe remove some of the stigma. And perhaps provide a better lot to generations that follow us. We can also stand for something in our community. Alongside other communities that have known tyranny and injustice. Perhaps in support of the new refugees and those that will arrive soon enough. We can make use of our pains to work for just, democratic, and humane communities with individuals who are respected, included and invited to be heard.