Hat's Off: The True Meaning of Christmas

Image c/o FunnyChill.com

DURING CHRISTMAS certain things are, unfortunately, inevitable. You know that you will eat too much, drink too much, spend too much and ultimately vomit at some point. Or - as we call it in Sligo - Tuesday night.

With all of this going on, it's virtually impossible to focus on the real meaning of the most festive of all seasons. It's hard to decipher what exactly that is but, being so knowledgeable and all, I've got some inside information. I don't like to brag but I saw a television once. *Gasps of excitement* Now that you've regrouped, I'm going to drop some wisdom grenades. This particular incident of TV voyeurism just so happened to take place in mid-August so, naturally, there was a Christmas advertisement being shown. From what I gather, 25 December has something to do with a bearded fat man and a donkey - I think it originally represented the national holiday for petting zoos. That, or Rolf Harris' birthday. I was never much good at reading in between the lines.

It could be argued that contemporary Christmas is little more than an extensive marketing ploy that leads you to eat too much, drink too much, spend too much and ultimately vomit at some point. Can you see a pattern forming? I wasn't always this bitter, though. I suppose my untainted Christmas joy began to fade when I was about eight years old and a certain member of third class decided to inform her less street-smart peers of a few Santa-related home truths. It was one of the first "Oh God, life is actually a big ball of crap" moments I've ever experienced. Did this mean there was no God, and, more importantly, who the hell kept putting money under my pillow when my teeth fell out?  Existence as I knew it was forever altered. I don't think I've ever looked at my parents quite the same way again.

Some time has passed since then (I'm now ten) and, thanks to extensive therapy sessions, I have partially moved on with my life. I'm making such great progress that I can now reminisce about Christmases of old. Don't worry, I'm not going to go all Christmas Carol on your ass and start discussing ghosts. I used to have ghosts of Christmas past, present and future but government funding cuts meant my organisation had to scale back on paying superfluous or "dead" members of staff. God damn bureaucracy.

Before I reached double digits, December was my absolute favourite time of the year. The sheer, unadulterated excitement a child experiences in the immediate run up to Christmas morning is arguably the greatest feeling in the world. I remember the joy I felt at receiving my Forever Friends play house when I was four. I believe epic is the word. It was orange (when I was four, everything had to be orange). I essentially lived there for about a week until the novelty wore off and one of the load-bearing plastic poles gave way. Good times. I still intend to use its layout as a blueprint for building my own house when I reach the age where I think it's fun to build houses. I reckon I'll be able to realise this particular dream when I'm in or around 72 years old.

When I was seven, I accumulated one of my most successful Christmas collections: a Father Ted box set, a bright blue Adidas shell suit (with the obligatory three stripes down the side) and the most amazing purple bike you've ever seen. I was one cool kid. I briefly queried how good old Saint Nick managed to successfully manoeuvre our modest chimney with four bikes for myself and my sisters but didn't feel the need to dwell on this. Santa is magic and that's all I needed to know.

In contrast, recent Christmas days seem somewhat dull. I no longer want to get up at five o'clock in the morning to inspect my presents as an annual pyjama haul pales in comparison to the heady youthful days of the 1990s. Money seems to be the default gift now. Don't get wrong, cash is useful - I buy things like stickers and cheese all the time. One thing's for sure, though: building a house out of bank notes is neither easy nor wise. If only the government had come to me for advice before the property boom - I'd have set them straight: plastic toy houses are where it's at.
   
In an attempt to bridge the gap between Christmases old and new, this year I plan to spend the day itself eating a selection box for breakfast, watching The Santa Clause trilogy in one sitting and pumping out the Cliff Richard. And remember, if you find yourself at a loss of what to do this festive season: eat too much, drink too much, spend too much and ultimately vomit at some point.


This article was also published on the Irish Independent website and Campus.ie and in Student Independent News, NUI Galway's student newspaper.

Clientelist Culture - Holding Back Ireland's Political Policies?

Image c/o Broadsheet.ie

THE IRISH political system is littered with oddities - before one even begins to discuss individuals. Some of these anomalies have led to the culture of clientelism that exists in our country. TDs have two roles - firstly that of legislator and, secondly, local dignitary and promoter. In Irish eyes, the latter is usually deemed more important.

Political parties often choose to contest an election on local issues¹, to the detriment of policy formation and legislation. And who could blame them? From 1922-1997, 34 per cent of TDs who lost their seats did so to a running mate. Our electoral system - Proportional Representation by means of a Single Transferable Vote in a Multi-Seat Constituency (PR-STV) - pits members of the same party against each other. Given the fact they cannot differentiate themselves from their peers on ideological issues, they must do so in terms of constituency work. In the 2002 General Election, the 14 Independent seats went to candidates who argued that their constituencies were not receiving enough government funding, particularly in terms of the ever-emotive area of health services.²

Clientelism exists for a number of reasons. Ireland's colonial background has created a history of alienation from central government, stemming back to British Rule. The urban-rural divide or 'us and them' mentality is also a factor in this regard. In the 1960s Basil Chubb, one of the first political commentators of the modern era, stated: "For generations, Irish people saw that, to get the benefits the public authorities bestow, the help of a man with connections and influence was necessary. All that democracy has meant is that such a man has been laid on officially, as it were, and is now no longer a master but a servant."³

Article 16.2.6 of the 1937 Irish Constitution states that a TD can represent a maximum of 30,000 citizens. One might assume that this relatively small ratio would enable politicians to spend the majority of their time focusing on their primary role of legislator. This, however, is not the case. The scale of society means that TDs can hold up to four 'clinics' a week, where they listen to the grievances of their constituents and, essentially, are asked for favours.

Many people still hold the opinion that one must know someone with "pull" in order to receive the State benefits they are entitled to. However, politicians often access facilities rather than provide them. They have experience of dealing with our particular brand of bureaucracy and know how to navigate the often complex maze that is Irish red tape. Meticulous applications for planning permission and social welfare benefits could well be as effective, if not more so, than supposed political intervention. Whether or not TDs actually exercise any influence on a decision that affects their constituency, or a member of it, is much debated. It has been claimed that they rarely objectively impact such decisions but merely create imaginary patronage through an "illusion of assistance" aided by advance knowledge of the outcome.³

This type of activity is systemic and cabinet ministers are seemingly as prone to engage in the process of brokerage as their lesser-known peers. The resignation of the Junior Minister for Health, Labour's Róisín Shortall, in September - over what she labelled "stroke politics" by Minister for Health James Reilly - highlighted this fact. Two locations in his north Dublin constituency were added to a list of places chosen for primary care centres on the evening before they were announced by the Government. The HSE and Ms Shortall had drawn up a priority list of locations in terms of need for the service. On it, Balbriggan ranked 44th and Swords was placed in 130th position. There were 36 locations on the final list. Despite near constant allegations, Mr Reilly has repeatedly denied localism played a part in the last minute additions. Last week's austere budget has deflected some attention from this particular issue but the argument still rumbles on.

Clientelism keeps politicians in touch with local issues but, unfortunately, its negative consequences far outweigh the positive ones. Clientelism disorganises the poor and vulnerable in society as it prevents them from grouping together and attempting to bring about real social and political change.³ It increases resentment and a feeling of exclusion for those who disagree with or do not engage in the practice.³ It also makes it extremely difficult for new politicians to break through and pump much needed fresh blood into the body of the Irish government.³

President Michael D Higgins previously stated that clientelism "seriously sells us short and distracts attention from the real basis of economic exploitation, political domination and ideological manipulation in Irish society".³ It seems that the process, like many contentious Irish political issues, isn't going away any time soon. Perhaps if our elected representatives spent more time dealing with their primary role of policy making, better decisions - both in terms of investment and cutbacks - might be made.


References:

¹ Adshead, M and Tonge, J (2009) Politics in Ireland, Palgrave Macmillan
² Gallagher, M; Marsh, M and Mitchell, P (2003) How Ireland Voted 2002, Palgrave Macmillan
³ Higgins, MD (2008) Causes for Concern: Irish Politics, Culture and Society, Liberties Press

We Need To Talk About Death

Image c/o The Irish Hospice Foundation

A SINGLE DEATH is said to directly affect an average of ten people. With this in mind, there are some 290,000 people grieving in Ireland each year. Death is the only inevitable aspect of any life and yet we feel hugely uncomfortable discussing it. Why can't we talk about this particular elephant in the room until we need a coffin for it? Quite simply, because it hurts. When it's someone close to you, it hurts like hell.

'Death anxiety' is a huge, often hidden, problem. Susan Delaney, Bereavement Services Manager at the Irish Hospice Foundation (IHF), maintains that "no one wants to think about [death] before they have to". Even after-the-fact, letting your mind become acquainted with thoughts of quietus can be extremely difficult. Ms Delaney acknowledges that people are often surprised by the impact of grief and find themselves poorly equipped to deal with it. She says: "It happens to us all but it can still be an ambush."

Essentially my family was given just shy of three days to come to terms with the fact that our husband and father would die. Up until that point, hope was ever-present. It could have been due to the fact we simply refused to let ourselves accept the inevitable, heartbreaking truth. It might have been that the medical team treating him tried to sugar-coat the real prognosis. In truth, it was probably a combination of both. Envisaging a world without dad was unfathomable. The sun was removed from our universe and we were expected to somehow survive. He was the strongest, most significant male presence in each of our lives and his passing has left a mammoth void.

He did not smoke, he barely drank, he was active; he was diagnosed with a type and level of cancer that is extremely aggressive and most common amongst overweight people who smoke and drink regularly. Various types of treatment ensued - some worked briefly, others not at all. Seven months later he was gone. None of this made sense - it all seemed surreal and, for the most part, we let it. The sheer strangeness of it all dulled the pain and made it easier to pretend none of the nightmare was actually happening. It sometimes still does. Watching someone you love die is, obviously, beyond horrendous. By the end, you will them to go. You want them to be free and feel no pain. Admitting defeat is the only option left on the table.

Our three day countdown was an odd period. It was full of emotion - we cried, we laughed, we talked. As dad himself pointed out, if he had been hit by a car and died instantly we would have never had the chance to say how much we loved each other. Nothing was left unsaid and he died happy. Amongst the sheer agony of loss, that is something that provided a gargantuan sense of relief and gratitude for us all.

The five 'stages' of grief are supposedly denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. I've definitely experienced all of these during the eight months since my father's passing. For me, they were not mutually exclusive entities. Grief is like a river: it ebbs and flows. One moment everything is calm and manageable, the next you're hurtling headfirst down a waterfall. To be perfectly honest, I'm still in a period of denial. I get by because I refuse to dwell on the truth. In those moments when it hits me that he's gone, I find it hard to breath.

I'm aware that my experience is not unique. Bereavement does not come with a guide book and approximately ten per cent of those dealing with it require extra support in the form of therapy. Although the IHF does not provide counselling itself, it acts act an information hub for the many people who contact the organisation when attempting to come to terms with their grief. The charity runs a number of bereavement-related courses. 

Ms Delaney says people are "very hungry for training" - a fact supported by the waiting lists that exist for certain training initiatives. The IHF has twice held a Bereavement Care Liaison Project in conjunction with the HSE in the midlands. Although there are currently no plans for similar projects elsewhere, the body is striving to help provide equal access to bereavement help nationwide. Financial donations by the public are imperative to the charity as they receive no official funding. Ms Delaney notes that there are many misconceptions regarding bereavement but believes that each person will respond and recover in a way that is natural to them. "People are resilient," she says.

While it can be difficult for adults to express grief, it can be even more of a challenge for children and young people to articulate the pain inflicted by the loss of a loved one. Barnardos' Bereavement Counselling for Children (BBCC) Helpline receives approximately four hundred calls annually from parents, carers, social workers, GPs and Gardaí who are looking to support children following a death in the family. In 2011, the charity provided bereavement counselling for 396 children and families. While the Helpline is a national service, the organisation's counselling department operates from Dublin and Cork. These venues were selected based on population size and need. Unfortunately, resources do not permit the expansion of the service at this point.

The Family Support Agency (FSA) provides about fifty per cent of their finance and the remainder comes from voluntary funds such as public donations. The FSA grant received by Barnardos will be almost halved from 2011 - 2014. Valerie Kelly, BBCC's Head of Service, admits that it will not be possible to provide the present level of service from 2013 onwards. This year, the Commission for the Support of Victims of Crime donated €23,500 to help the association's work with families of homicide victims, while Electric Ireland pledged €15,000 towards aiding their work with those bereaved through suicide. The BBCC is the only dedicated children’s bereavement counselling service in the Republic.

Understanding grief will only ever become more achievable through open and frank discussions on the subject. Even then, it will more than likely remain an enigma. Nevertheless, by taking the time to talk about life ending we might well come that little bit closer to understanding life itself and the grief we will all have to face at some point. Those grieving, and the organisations that aid them, need support. 

For further information on the IHF's bereavement services, visit their website or phone (01) 6793188. The BBCC can be contacted via (01) 473 2110 or online.