Importance, and being Earnest

Life was much more serious then. We’re younger than that now. Our obsessions included those great passions of idealistic youth - freedom, justice, equality of opportunity for all. Frivolity was suspect. The fanatic heart, our hero. In that era of the mid-70’s, the UCG student body was a highly politicised one. This was born of the clash in our timers of two powerful waves of influence - the vicious warfare that was then taking place in Northern Ireland, and the afterwash of radical student protest which had swept across the western world during the late 60’s and early 70’s and now swept back over us, with the remainder of the work still undone. For anyone with a hint of idealism it was a very exciting time to be a student. And, God help me, I was very idealistic.

The forum for the trenchant debate which was a feature of those days was generally the Literary and Debating Society. Every Thursday night, in either the old Greek or Latin Hall - in the quad - and later in the new complex, as it was then. It was where the most intense discussions took place. The mainstream political parties had but a ghostly presence, ignored by all those of us for whom they represented no more than relics of things past. Only the Labour party seemed to feature at all, and then just its more militant elements. Undoubtedly, the most dominant political force on campus was a very divided republicanism. Our debates were so often little more than bitter exchanges between the more traditionally green variety, and the growing, intellectually more robust red elements.

Many like myself were torn between an emotional identification with the nationalist experience in the North, its often viciously sectarian expression, and a Marxist analysis of the problem which made such sense but which also negated so much of an identity we held dear. Our hearts and our heads were at war. Occasionally one would overwhelm the other. I shall never forget the impact Bloody Sunday had on us. The rage and grief we felt, that innocent people, innocent Irish people peacefully marching for basic civil rights should be gunned down so mercilessly. It was a time when history pumped through our veins and swept aside all calm analysis - that other child of tranquillity.

We marched in our thousands to Eyre Square, cheered to exhaustion speeches of outrage, waved our black flags at a leaden sky, prayed, grieved for our benighted island, and only found relief some days later when the British Embassy was burnt to the ground in Dublin. Then we began to seek our bearings once more, and did so through reflection on our experience, at the Lit & Deb debates. Soon, and as Churchill said of the North, the integrity of our divisions reasserted themselves once more.

Another occasion when rage swept us up in its awkward embrace, was about a year before that. The (Fianna Fáil) government of the day was introducing an amendment to the Offences Against the State Act, whereby a person could be jailed for membership of a subversive organisation on the word of a Garda Superintendent. A group of about 100 students, mainly members of the Republican club in college (composed of socialist republicans, it later evolved into official Sinn Féin/Sinn Féin the Workers Party/the Workers Party/Democratic Left) were picketing the Garda station, then on Eglinton Street. Picketing Garda stations would be outlawed under the proposed amendment too.

They were baton charged by Gardaí. Some were very badly beaten, with two friends of my own among the injured. One, a girl, had a deep gash across her skull, and the skin hung in a fold from a bloody wound on the jaw of a male friend. Three were arrested and held inside the Garda station. Like most of those there it was my first experience of police brutality. It was devastating in its blunt savagery. I could not believe that ordinary men were capable of such violence, and against the defenceless. there had been no provocation, nothing beyond the chanting of political slogans opposed to the Act.

Within minutes word had spread back to the college, and hundreds of students swarmed on Eglinton Street. We sat down and blocked all traffic, and let the gardaí know we were not going until our detained colleagues were released. A stalemate ensued. We sang “We shall not be moved” and we were not. For hours. Then our colleagues were released. We returned to college once more to ruminate on that experience too, and again at the Lit & Deb. That night two bombs went off in Dublin and the amendment, which threatened to split Fine Gael and end Liam Cosgrave’s leadership of that party, was passed. Mr Cosgrave survived to become the next Taoiseach. The influence of those bombs and the savagery of the gardaí earlier, was the source of much dark introspection among those of us who had a more positive view of society. The fact that not a sentence appeared in any newspaper, or on radio, or on TV about the baton charge on Eglinton Street and its consequences, gave us further cause for thought.

Such were some of the events which inspired the most searching debate at the Lit & Deb during those years. It was a forum where we might learn from our experiences, as well as listen to vigorous disagreement on various points of view. As will be gathered, it was very important to us.

From those early years in my own student life, probably the most memorable events at the Lit & Deb included an exchange between the Bishop of Galway, Dr Michael Browne, and the journalist Nell McCafferty. The discussion was about feminism, and the importance of contraception (then still banned in this country) to the liberation of women. The bishop, as usual, was in no mood to be disagreed with, especially when he gathered most of the attendance backed Ms McCafferty. he flew into a temper, muttered a few unintelligible insults, and walked out. We clapped.

Then there was the almost holy silence one evening as the former Minister for Health, Dr Noel Browne, spoke so softly about social inequity, and the occasion a Minister for Finance was barely able to sit on his stool he was so drunk. Initially sympathetic, the audience turned a blind eye, but as the night wore on and incoherent response followed incoherent response, the people became angry. “How dare he come here like this. It’s an insult” (or words to that effect) protested one speaker, to much applause. The Minister withdrew. Or, rather, was withdrawn.

One of the most regular participants in debates at the time was the present Minister for Arts, Culture and the Gaeltacht, Mr Higgins. He was a very popular lecturer in sociology and politics, and politician aspirant. I was among the many students who canvassed for him in Galway during the 1973 general election campaign. Our first encounter however would not have led anyone to believe that would be possible.

Mr Higgins, then as now, had an unparalleled way with language, especially when passion was added. He was a mesmerising speaker. So much so that when he was in full flight, the performance was every bit as exciting as the content. His radical and refreshing ideas were like heaven to many of us in those days, confronted as we felt we were with the dreary pragmatism of southern politics and the intractable nature of things in the North.

He would himself become very excited during debate, whether through anger at injustice, or a misunderstanding perceived. When in the throes of such agitation, he had a mannerism of buttoning and unbuttoning his jacket with extraordinary dexterity and rapidity. It was at once a distraction and an indication both of the depth of his feeling for a subject and the amount of adrenaline pumping through his system. For those of us who admired him it was part of what made him compulsive as a speaker at the Lit & Deb.

Unfortunately, it was just after one such performance when I put my first question to him at a debate. I was a very timorous first year, then unfamiliar with the signals of high adrenaline in the speaker, and I referred to him as Mr O’Higgins. I do not even remember the question, but I do remember his unalloyed rage at being given an ‘O’ to his name. I became so flustered that, in apologising, I repeated the gaffe. He was beside himself, and I…well I dissolved into a little puddle between the benches.

Another member of the present government, Mr Eamon Gilmore, Minister of State for the Marine, was my team-mate on the UCG intervarsity side in 1973/4. He was by far the better speaker, rarely lacking in the conviction that seemed to elude me on most matters. I remember us taking part in one debate at St. Mary’s/St. Joe’s teacher training college on the Falls Road in Belfast. As far as I recall it was the northern finals of the competition. The motion was “that the parliamentary circus is full of white elephants,” and we were arguing for. We won. No doubt it would be even easier for Eamon to put the motion these days.

As we left Belfast the following morning there were two bomb blasts, and we almost ran into one. I wrote a piece later about the visit for ‘Unity’, the student newspaper at UCG, in which I compared Belfast to wartime London. “I didn’t know you were in wartime London, Patsy” remarked a smart-alec friend afterwards. It was a lesson in reporting.

In 1974 Eamon went for the presidency of the Students’ Union at UCG, and I was his campaign manager. He was then non-aligned politically, like myself, but he later joined Sinn Féin the Workers Party. He held the presidency at UCG for two years. On his re-election in 1975 a mutual friend changed the sign on his door, by dropping the ‘P’ in President it became ‘resident.’

In 1974 also I was elected Auditor of the Lit & Deb, and for the following year I did little else apart from organise and publicise the weekly debates, intervarsities, inter-faculty competitions, the final of the Irish Times series which we hosted that year, etc. etc. My committee leant very much to the medical side, with Marie Bambrick as secretary (now a psychiatrist in Oxford) and Pierce Phelan as treasurer (now running a medical practice in Dublin). Then there were also people like Brian Lynch, now a solicitor in Galway, and Martin McHugh, who works in personnel in the city. We certainly worked hard. Some of our more abstract motions included “that moderation breeds contempt” and “that freedom of capitalism denies justice”. But the one I remember getting into most trouble for was “that Little Red Riding Hood was green.” As far as I can recall it was the final of the inter-faculty debates series. Some of our more intense brethren were outraged that I would allow such a trivial motion. It was however one of our most entertaining debates, loved especially by the hecklers.

And we should not forget the hecklers. For every serious moment, and there were many, there was the inevitable well honed dart of ridicule. Usually sitting at the back, they added much needed entertainment to more pedestrian proceedings. in my own era, a favourite was Enya Egan, now a solicitor in Castlebar, and then a scourge of all liberals, reds and all those who occupied illicit beds. We became adept at exchanging crafted insults.

But probably the most contentious phase of that (74/75) year again surrounded local events. The Union of Students of Ireland (USI) were in bitter disagreement with the government on funding for higher education, and organised a nation-wide campaign. However the response of the day from individual colleges was poor, with the exception of UCG. We took to the streets, with the familiarity of ducks to water, and set about a week of disruption in the city. we occupied local authority offices, Bord Fáilte offices, the Tax Offices, any buildings connected to the state which we could find. We stayed in each office until the gardaí came and physically carried us out, only to set off like ants in search of another one. With Michael D. acting always as intermediary between ourselves and the authorities.

Eventually we became an embarrassment to the USI, who instructed our President, Eamon, to stop the protests. We did not want to. He was caught in the middle. It erupted at the Lit & Deb. Some argued that we were simply following union policy; that we were enacting our own student assembly’s decisions; and that if USI was unable to see to it that its policy was carried out in other colleges, that was their problem. My own views were strong but I had to chair the meeting without comment, while a crowded hall aired its many and varied opinions. At the end of it all the protests were called off, followed by resignations.

Perhaps the highlight of that year was in May 1975. Ireland held the EC - as it then was - presidency for the first time, and we had been pressing Dr Garret FitzGerald to take part in a debate for some time. May was the earliest he could make it. hardly the best month, with exams so close, but we were not going to turn down the chance of having ‘the EC Minister for Foreign Affairs’ as a guest.

The motion was “that the EC has failed us miserably,” with Dr FitzGerald opposing. At this distance I forget who the other participants were, but I shall always remember how impressed I was by Garret’s lack of airs, his sincerity, his obvious pleasure in answering questions from the audience, and his disarming frankness about some of the leading personalities in politics at the time. It was also probably our best attended debate, filling to overflowing the largest theatre in the college.

I remember that event for another reason too. The Presidency of UCG had been hotly contested earlier that year. It was won by Dr Colm Ó hEocha. In my innocence I organised a debate among the competing candidates, keenly aware of being seen to be fair to each. Afterwards one candidate attacked me bitterly, saying I had allowed one of his opponents far more time than him. He told me I was not fit to be auditor. After the Garret debate, when the college presidency had long been lost and won, he sidled up to me and said “you’re not a bad little auditor, after all.” However, I felt the sentiment was inspired more by the man’s Fine Gael allegiance than any exceptional conduct on my part.

Looking back from a distance at those tumultuous years at UCG, and in particular the central role Lit & Deb played in them, is something I frequently do. Personally they were deeply important, formative years, to which I owe a tremendous amount. I do not know if I would like to live through them again, but I would certainly love to see the minutes.

Patsy McGarry

Auditor 1974-75