The dead

In the pocket cemetery down the road from my house there is a Celtic cross that honors two men ‘who were executed for their love of country’ in the 1798 rebellion; the cross was put there about ten years ago. RIP, it says; God save Ireland. These kinds of markers are found again and again all over Ireland. They are a way of sanctifying what were claimed at the time as outlaw deaths. In the town square at Kildare there is a marker that honors seven men who were executed in 1922; most of the men are 19. These men fought against British colonialism; most likely they belonged to the IRA. Their violent deaths at the hands of the government prevented them from being buried in consecrated ground; when the battles were won, the families found ways to mark their sons’ passing.

In an eerie parallel, this week the worst road accident in Ireland’s history took place in Donegal. A village on the peninsula lost 8 men. Seven of them were under the age of 22. It’s as if the savage wars of an earlier time have been transposed to the roads here, where every road death is national news. These particular deaths, though, have devastated the nation. The pictures of the young men are on the front page of every newspaper. On the radio each of the 8 funerals is covered, with excerpts from the homily and statements of bereavement by the family. Today the Irish Times has a signed opinion piece on the front page underneath a photo of yet another coffin. The driver of the car with the 7 young men in it is the only survivor; he is intensive care, and no one is speculating about how this accident took place. Grief comes first, then blame. The 8^th man, who was in his sixties and was driving the other car involved in the accident, seems to have had so little presence that even his priest suggested that he was a gentle man, as far as he knew him. A bachelor, the man farmed and played bingo. He was returning from a bingo game the night he was killed. The only thing anyone remembers about him that night was that he won €65, which would have been a big take for him. No one said that he never got to spend it.

In Donegal death is still marked, in the traditional manner, by a wake. The hearse collects the remains from the hospital and takes the body to its home, where people come to pay respects until the hearse again picks the body up and drives it to the church. After the service the body is carried on four men’s shoulders to the cemetery. In this overwhelmingly Catholic country cremation is not an option; the number of cemeteries dotting the landscape can make it seem as if the number of dead is also overwhelming.

One morning walk takes me past Drumcooley cemetery. I’m often with other people on this walk, but last week I was on my own, and decided to stop at the cemetery. The day was overcast—unsettled, they would say here—and the cemetery, on a slight rise, was windy and desolate. Gravestones here quickly give up their markings; the weather creates eventual anonymity, tangible proof that time erases all of our memories. Among these pitted headstones, there was the most poignant grave marking I have ever seen: two sticks forming half a cross, stuck in the ground in a bare space in the cemetery. The letters are painted in white paint except for the day, which is a press-down number 5. Shane, says the crosspiece, painted in white paint. RIP died 5^th Feb, reads the vertical strip. Shane’s name is in parentheses: (Shane). How deep must the mourning be for the person who took the trouble to paint this memorial and plant it in a cemetery. If the body was not on hallowed ground, the marker at least would be.