THE STRANGER IN MY HOME
  • Home
  • Vignettes
    • Encounters
    • Events
    • Experiences
    • Epiphanies
  • Stories
  • Fables
  • Translations
  • Miscellany
  • Now/Then

now  /  then

blogs and blends

The Price to be Free

5/25/2020

0 Comments

 
I first saw the Kilmainham jail in the U2 video song, A Celebration, and in Jim Sheridan’s famous film about an Irish rebel, In the Name of the Father. Now I was seeing the jail in person.
 
Last year I visited Dublin and, after visiting museums of George Bernard Shaw and William Butler Yeats, I went to see the Kilmainham jail. The British rulers built it at the start of the eighteenth century, to replace the filthy dungeon that acted as a prison earlier. It was an inhuman hellhole too, with five prisoners stuffed into a small room, irrespective of age or gender. Men slept on iron beds, women and children, often as young as seven, jailed for nothing more than stealing bread, on the floor, in straw. Inmates were hanged in public for general amusement; later a site was built for the purpose inside the jail. But Kilmainham is mainly known for the freedom fighters who were incarcerated and executed there.
Picture
​Standing there, on the threshold of the jail, my hair stood on end. I had grown up in British India and known well the humiliation of being the denizen of a subject nation. You could give a speech and be in jail. You could write a book or sing a song and be in jail. You could be hauled up for anything trivial the British rulers deemed a treason and be in jail. They had enacted laws that, if you did anything that encouraged “disaffection” of Her Majesty’s government, you could be charged and put in prison. They had shamelessly hanged a 18 year old boy who had tried to harm a British official. I had visited an Indian jail where the British had herded freedom fighters and now I was seeing another place where they had done the same thing.
 
Exactly like the Indians, the Irish had long appealed to the good sense of the British to let them have autonomy and finally realized the colonial masters had no intention to change. There were rebellions in 1798, 1803, 1848 and 1867 and then came the Easter Rising of 1916. On 24 April, 1200 armed volunteers took over key sites in capital city of Dublin, including the city hall, telegraph and telephone offices, and started setting up barricades. Unprepared, the British authorities responded with a show of strength, sending in huge reinforcements along with gunboats and artillery. In the ensuing skirmishes, 500 people died, half of them civilians. By Easter Sunday, five days later, the rebels surrendered.
 
The aftermath was pitiless. The British rounded up 3500 people including 80 women. In an illicit court-martial, that was secret, based on scant evidence and permitted no defense pleas, 90 people were sentenced to death. This was followed by other brutalities, such as the mass killing of 15 people and the shooting of a boy and a journalist on the mere suspicion of being rebels. If the Irish people had not fully warmed initially to the idea of an armed revolt, the British atrocities aroused them to a fiery demand for freedom.
 
I slowly walked through the east and west wings of the jail and finally stood in the open courtyard of the prison. It was a bright but cool autumn day and there was a gentle breeze. On one side stood a small, dark wooden cross. This is where the British army had dragged the condemned freedom fighters one by one and had them shot by a firing squad. Nineteen of them, including all the seven leaders of the rebellion.
 
The guide pointed to a corner, “Here fell Joseph Plunkett.” Born in a cultivated family, Joseph was a brilliant poet and journalist, who had become an Arabic scholar during his time in Algiers. In the few hours left to him, he married in the prison chapel, Grace Evelyn Gifford, who was also a poet and activist. The squad then shot him.
 
The guide was now pointing to the other side. “James Connelly,” he whispered. James was from a poor worker family and fought all his life for laborers’ rights. He became a rebel leader and was wounded during the Easter Rising. He could not stand for his execution. The squad tied him mercilessly to a chair and then shot him a volley.
 
I thanked the guide and walked out of the prison. Opposite to the Kilmainham jail, is a small café. I sat down and asked for a cup of coffee.
 
I needed a moment to ponder. I came from a country where too the same aliens came in ships and brutally exploited the land and its people for two centuries. Whoever protested they shot, hanged or put behind bars. The young, now free and fearless, barely remember those who suffered and rebelled, fought and died – brought them their freedom.
 
Kilmainham is no longer a jail. Ireland became a free republic in 1937 and the jail was turned into a museum. So that the Irish occasionally remember the people who paid the price of their freedom.
 
U2’s song keeps ringing in my ears:
 
I believe in a celebration, I believe you set me free
I believe you can lose these chains, I believe you can dance with me.

 
0 Comments



Leave a Reply.

    Manish Nandy

    Writer, Speaker, Consultant
    Earlier: Diplomat, Executive


    Archives

    January 2022
    December 2021
    October 2021
    September 2021
    August 2021
    July 2021
    January 2021
    December 2020
    November 2020
    October 2020
    September 2020
    August 2020
    July 2020
    June 2020
    May 2020
    April 2020
    March 2020
    February 2020
    January 2020
    December 2019
    November 2019
    October 2019
    September 2019
    August 2019
    July 2019
    June 2019
    May 2019
    April 2019
    March 2019
    February 2019
    January 2019
    December 2018
    November 2018
    October 2018
    September 2018
    August 2018
    July 2018
    June 2018
    May 2018
    April 2018
    March 2018
    February 2018
    January 2018
    December 2017
    November 2017
    October 2017
    September 2017
    August 2017
    July 2017
    June 2017
    May 2017
    April 2017
    March 2017
    February 2017
    January 2017
    December 2016
    November 2016
    October 2016
    September 2016
    August 2016
    July 2016
    June 2016
    May 2016
    April 2016
    March 2016
    February 2016
    January 2016
    December 2015
    November 2015
    October 2015
    September 2015
    August 2015
    July 2015
    June 2015

    RSS Feed


    Categories

    All

Proudly powered by Weebly
© Manish Nandy 2015  The Stranger in My Home