​Historian Fearghal McGarry has written that many of the rebels in 1916 fought not for a republic, but for the cause of Irish freedom. When talking about 1916, I therefore find it integral to first identify the meaning of Irish freedom. I think it's a useful exercise to look at how the art of the revolution influenced this definition, for better or for worse.  Looking at some of the famous poems and songs associated with the 1916 Easter Rising, I'll present some of the interpretations of Irish republicanism. But it's up to the reader to draw her/his own conclusions. Moreover, the text of the 1916 Proclamation is revolutionary in itself and merits discussion - and more importantly, analysis - in Ireland today.

Presumably, the dream of Irish freedom relied on a version of self-governance whereby the Irish were governed of the Irish, by the Irish, for the Irish (to paraphrase US President Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address of 19 November 1863). But who exactly were “the Irish”? Which citizens would this new definition of “the Irish” comprise? Whose interests would be served?

At the Sinn Féin conference of 1917, Éamon de Valera apparently justified the adoption of a commitment to the Republic as “a monument to the brave dead”, according to McGarry. So was de Valera’s Republic the very same republic that the brave dead died for? This is unlikely. These deaths – the martyrs – were appropriated by de Valera and by a new political elite upon the foundation of the brand-new Irish state in 1922. Patrick Pearse’s “blood sacrifice” was a strong rallying call in the years leading to the War of Independence. Subsequently, of course, this same sentiment was invoked by thousands of Irish citizens as justification for decades of conflict in Northern Ireland between 1969 and 1998.

As is well-known, support for militant Irish republicanism in 1916 was not widespread.
Interestingly, republicanism had been regarded as out-of-fashion: “every sizeable town possessed a tiny sprinkling of diehard separatists… they were respected as idealists, living in a world and an age to which they did not belong” [Bureau of Military History witness statement 1770 (Kevin O’Shiel)]. Further, “a republic did not appeal to the masses, as they considered its attainment impossible… Outside the IRB, there were few republicans… we were mere propagandists and we realised it.” [Bureau of Military History witness statement 99 (Patrick McCartan)].

Indeed, McGarry posits that “cultural nationalism, Catholicism and militarism were more influential than republican ideology”. In 2016, we should ask whether any of these elements is a strong enough banner under which to unite as a democratic state. Cultural nationalism, as defined by a 19th century Gaelic Revivalist will be very different to the conception of Irishness of a pro-EU student living in the technological, internet hub that is Dublin today. Many young Irish citizens might very well identify with US culture more than with traditional modes of Irish life. This is not a facetious point and shouldn’t be dismissed in any discussion of Irish folk culture.

According to Michael Wheatley, the prevailing discourse of the Irish nationalism during the second decade of the 20th century was one of “Catholicity, sense of victimhood, glorification of struggle, identification of enemies, and antipathy to England.” McGarry argues that “the patriarchal, clericalist and conservative state that emerged from Ireland’s revolution was perhaps less a betrayal of the Proclamation than a consequence of the fact that its ideals were never deeply rooted within the nationalist movement that won independence.” Its legacy, however, is indistinguishable from independent Irish statehood. This can be seen in the momentous heritage of the MacBridge/Gonn family.

John MacBride (married to the infamous Maud Gonne) was executed by British soldiers in Kilmainham jail on 5 May 1916 for his part in the Easter Rising as second-in-command at the Jacob’s biscuit factory. His son, Seán MacBride, became an international advocate for human rights throughout the 20th century in a remarkable and fascinating career. He acted as Chief of Staff of the IRA (1936), but was called to the Irish Bar a year later and soon resigned from the IRA. He went on to chair the Amnesty International Executive from 1961-75 and chaired the Special Committee of International NGOs on Human Rights (Geneva) from 1968-74. In 1974, MacBride won the Nobel Peace Prize, won the Lenin Peace Prize in 1976 and was awarded the UNESCO Silver Medal for Service in 1980. I recommend Elizabeth Keane's fantastic biography of Seán MacBridge if you're even slightly interested in this towering figure of foundational Irish statehood.

This single life brings many of the contradictions of the modern Irish nation to bear. As Halbwachs has said: “Commemoration, after all, is shaped by how those in the present choose to remember their history rather than the atavistic passions of the past.”

​This participation in power comes from community organisation. Alinsky himself argued that so-called "middle-class hygiene" had made terms like ‘conflict’ and ‘controversy’ dirty words. However, in a healthy democracy, it is broadly supported that conflict, dialogue and debate are tolerable and should be promoted to sustain political and cultural exchange between communities.

The influence of art on society can be seen if we use the 1916 Rising as an example, given largely to the fact that the volunteers were perceived to be ‘poets and idealists’. This seems to have been an extra weapon in the fight against British imperialism - certainly in hindsight! It's valuable to witness the greater Irish public’s appropriation of literature and music in the century since the Rising. It has become a form of participation in Irish society; so-called Irish rebel songs became an uncompromising show of national identity on both sides of the border. The poetry and songs surrounding Easter 1916 have influenced Irish republicanism over the past 100 years.

A.C. Bradley's quotation refers to Shakespeare but it could be applied to any process of tragic martyrdom. As Fearghal McGarry says, “the Rising became burdened by the weight of its own myth.” By analysing some of the lore connected to the Rising, we can see how the fighter’s sacrifice was considered in retrospect to be something almost inevitable, almost divine. The use of poetry to explain and define what happened during the Rising lifts it above mere reportage and manages to create something aesthetically beautiful. To this dead, the importance of poetry and song to Irish republicanism cannot be understated.
 
“‘mid the leaden rain, seven tongues of flame did shine o’er the lines of steel [guns]…
Their names we’d keep where the Fenians sleep, ‘neath the shroud of the Foggy Dew”

• Foggy Dew, Rev P. O’Neill (Rostrevor, Co. Down, 1918)

 
“In prison ground they’ve laid him, far from his native land /
Now the wild waves sing his Requiem on lonely Banna Strand”

• Banna Strand (anon.)

 
" The night was dark, and the fight was ended,
The moon shone down O’Connell Street,
I stood alone, where brave men perished
Those men have gone, their God to meet.”

• The Dying Rebel, Seamus Kavanagh

 
The imagery of these songs conjures pictures deliberately timeless. References to the natural world alongside catholic sentiment tailors it particularly to a 20th century Irish establishment audience, so accustomed to natural references in ancient and traditional (particularly Irish language) texts.
 
‘Tis fifty long years since I saw the moon beaming
on strong manly forms and on eyes with hope gleaming,
I see them again, sure, through all my day deaming,
Glory o’, glory o’, to the bold Fenian men!

• Down by the Glenside, Peadar Kearney

Apparently, the old woman in Kearney's song is a representation of Ireland who longs for renewed efforts in the search for Irish self-governance. It is basically a call to arms. The melody of Down by the Glenside is particularly strong, and I have to admit it is probably my favourite of the melodies associated with 1916. Peadar Kearney was well aware that a strong message coupled with a strong melody could stand the test of time, even where some in the audience might oppose the its message.
 
Now as the dawn is breaking, my heart is breaking too
On this May morn as I walk out, my thoughts will be of you.
And I’ll write some words upon the wall so everyone will know
I loved so much that I could see his blood upon the rose.

• Grace, Frank and Seán O’Meara

 
The poignancy of this story, relating to the execution of Joseph Plunkett on 4 May 1916, is more powerful than any historical statistic fact about the revolution. The emotional narrative – a universal bond of love and the tragedy of an ill-fated marriage – is so cleverly devised in its lyrical form that it's sure to last for years. 
 
“out of the depths of misery,
we march with hearts aflame,
with wrath against the ruler’s false,
who wreck our manhood’s name”

• A Rebel Song, James Connolly

 
This masculine, military language seems typical of its time. Ideas of flawless manhood and courage might pall with some of us a century on. Connolly’s own daughter recalled on national television in 1966 how he had told his wife not to cry at his hospital bed for fear that she would  “unman” him before his imminent execution. This sentiment can be seen also in Pearse’s poem, “The Mother”, which excuses what his family went through by usurping his own mother’s voice: “I do not grudge them, Lord... My sons were faithful, and they fought.”

This culture of stoicism surrounding the 1916 Rising is perhaps one of the things that may jar with today’s citizens. 20th century film and photography has surely dispelled the romantic mythology of war and conflict, where bravery is rewarded neatly with martyrdom. To forbid family members from grieving publicly at the imminent loss of a loved one might seem, for families in 2016, more of a restraint on their freedom than something worth celebrating. Sean O'Casey devastatingly portrayed this facet of the female experience of the Rising in "The Plough and the Stars", when Nora Clitheroe is treated with disdain for her public reaction to her husband's part in the conflict.

In the military psyche, this may well be a usual tactic in order to reduce the appearance of weakness. Of course, this stoicism can’t but resonate in our recollections of the 1981 IRA hunger strike, when some pleading mothers were coerced into silence in the cause of Irish freedom.
 
We must also consult the Proclamation itself to understand with more clarity the mythology of the Rising:

Bibliography

Fearghal McGarry, “1916 and Irish Republicanism: between Myth and History" in John Horne and Edward Madigan (eds) Towards Commmemoration: Ireland in War and Revolution, 1912-23 (Dublin: Royal Irish Academy, 2013)

Michael Wheatley, Nationalism and the Irish Party: provincial Ireland 1910-1916 (Oxford, 2005), p. 266

Maurice Halbwachs, “On collective memory” (Chicago, 1992)

Miller, Mike (2010), "Alinsky for the Left: The Politics of Community Organizing. Dissent. Winter, 57, 1, Research Library, p. 45. Read the full article.

​Ganz, Marshall (2004). "Organizing." In George R. Goethals, Georgia J. Sorenson, and James MacGregor Burns, eds. Encyclopedia of Leadership. Vol. 3. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.

​A.C. Bradley, Shakespearian tragedy [1904] (New York, 1968, p. 28-29

Keane, Elizabeth (2006). An Irish Statesman and Revolutionary: The Nationalist and Internationalist Politics of Seán MacBride. Tauris

Written as part of course study in Music and Social Action (Yale/Coursera).
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Speaking at Amherst College in 1961, US President John F Kennedy said: “The artist, however faithful to his personal vision of reality, becomes the last champion of the individual mind and sensibility against an intrusive society and an officious state. The great artist is thus a solitary figure. He has, as Frost said, a lover’s quarrel with the world, in pursuing his perceptions of reality, he must often sail against the currents of his time.”

He was continuing the American discussion of a “cultural democracy”, a concept dating at least to the New Deal era. In the 1960s, the tensions of the Cold War were deepening.

I am not an Americanophile (why isn’t there a better word for that?) by any means, but this Yale course is presenting US ideas on the arts alongside an American interpretation of democratic values. They're worth the analysis, particularly for how we comprehend the social role or artists.

Philosopher and aestheticist Maxine Greene remarks on Dr Martin Luther King Jr’s (MLK) “I have a dream” speech. She says he was opening possibilities for the audience. MLK's words didn’t guarantee anything but drew attention to the suffering of the characters he invoked. The speech made visible an abstraction (rather than a reality), but also made visible the faces of particular people in the minds of the listener.
​
Greene believes that artists can provide the imagination to move beyond the actuality/reality, taking us to a point where we feel better equipped to act. An artist’s vision can provide us with evidence, or language, or belief that had not yet existed. With this new resource, we are better positioned to do something. In MLK’s example, Americans in the 1963 could listen to the conviction behind MLK’s words, his utter faith, and believe that this new reality might indeed be possible.

​Art may also have a role in criticising institutions. In these lessons, I’ve found myself considering the critical role played by journalism in upholding democratic values such as transparency, accountability, etc. It’s certainly important to distinguish the functions of art (aesthetics) and journalism (reportage).

Journalism employs evidence to construct arguments about a given situation. Whether as an editorial, a comment piece, or investigative reporting, journalism is vital to our knowledge base. Bias is, therefore, an even more important concept to understand in all its complexity. We only see what we are shown.

According to this course, the artistic process has a public role while also being intensely personal. I think it's the capacity for abstraction that grants art its power; we can learn about something by experiencing something else. We can learn about the natural world by looking at a painting. We can learn about the gods by listening to a violin.

The artist cannot necessarily impact on people’s behaviour. The artist can only influence the minds of those who engage with the artwork. Art doesn’t have a concrete effect on how you view the world. There's no tangible way to quantify its effect. Do I walk out of a concert more able to view my state as corrupt? Or my romantic relationship as unique?

Rather, art encourages creative thinking; about beauty, about love, about religion, about governance, etc. It's often a personal experience, a private reflection. Maybe an artwork invites you into a community with others?

On this point, I recently read an article about the phenomenon of the silent disco. There were commentators bemoaning the breakdown of social relations, especially via the arts – dancing to music alone. Not merely alone, but deliberately shut off from a communal experience by wearing earphones. The horror!

But isn’t this missing the point? The communal experience is relative to that community, and the audience is always evolving. Technology dictates the possibilities of the day, and silent discos are still a novelty for many of us. So why shouldn’t we share in this unusual communal experience?

Another commentator remarked that record players, and the subsequent culture of solitary listening, could be seen as a negative indictment of the communal function of music. However, bringing songs into the home means that thousands, millions can share in the same experience of a commercial recording. I can listen to a song anywhere in the world and know for a fact that someone on the other side of the world is doing the same thing – for precisely the same length of time, sharing a moment. Isn’t that a feat of communal experience?
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Especially if we engage with the song. Regardless of where in the world I may listen to a song or watch a YouTube ballet clip, I can be challenged by the work in the same way as an old woman in Japan. This sense of shared openness is intangible and immeasurable, but it serves to bond an audience into a community.

​We can be bold in the way we perceive the future, but we must accept that it’s going to take generations to evolve that vision. Community is a constant process of ‘becoming’; constant challenging, constant striving, never-ending. It’s a community-in-the-making. So the question for us is: what can a community of creative citizens achieve together?

​I am doing a good bit of research these days into the connections between folklore and community identity. This has involved a long hard look into folk songs and traditional song, in particular. I’ve been reading a short book I found in a charity shop called Ireland: Towards a Sense of Place. It’s interesting because it was published in 1985, though many of its ideas have yet to bear fruit in Ireland today.

A lot of Irish lore delves into life on this island – as well as life off this island. Emigration is a major theme in the songs and stories because it seems we are never done leaving. I don’t think there’s anything particularly Irish about emigration, or indeed about any of the recurring themes in our local stories. The reason they are popular is that they are universal, human themes: love, loss, death, revelry, magic, etc. Irish folk culture has been influenced by other western European cultures for as long as we can tell.
 
In the category of the so-called emigrant’s farewell, we can understand the sense of place that has become so important in Irish culture. With a diaspora spanning continents and millions of people who feel Irish, this sense of place is a fascinating one 100 years since the foundation of an independent Irish state. Although a very young political entity, Ireland’s sense of history seems timeless.

If this sleep were on you in Cill na Dromad or some grave in the West,
It would ease my sorrow, though great the affliction and I’d not complain.

- Ó Tuama and Kinsella, An Duanaire, Poems of the Dispossessed, No. 68
​
In this poem, it scarcely matters where Cill na Dromad actually is. It could even be fictional, for all that it matters. The point is, as Seán Ó Tuama reminds us, we all know what Cill na Dromad is: “the centre of one’s universe, the beloved home-place”.

It is possible to share these past experiences through the songs and music of the past. We can use these memories to help us define ourselves. Only with an appreciation of what's gone before can we cast judgement on our own past and our own identity. If we can't engage with our own community, we're left alone to forge meaning and identity through other sources; like American media.

Who we are is much more complex than our family history. Likewise, where we're from is much more complex than the physical space in which we find ourselves. Like a map, a physical location is “static” and “does not capture the rounded sense of place as experienced by the insider”:

It's these 'memory-moments' that make us who we are. They grant us our cultural references. I believe that culture is behaviour; we are what we do. Smyth said in 1985 that, "To know who you are as a people is vital to the balance of all our lives." We have to be careful to stave off the gradual dissolution of local memory and therefore local identity. This could easily happen if we don't remember the things that brought us to where we are. It has happened before. Indeed, it's already happened in large parts of western Ireland where songs, stories, language has been lost. Looking at Dublin in 2016, is the cult of progress is "eliminating part of our memory, part of our identity, part of our future"?