Mitchell Scholar Blogs

Classes at Trinity begin this week, but my first semester technically hasn’t ended yet: we’re still finishing papers and preparing for final exams. Between assignments, applying for conferences, and other work, I’ve spent a lot of time on campus, writing about experiences and research projects preceding my arrival to Ireland, which has kept me focused more on the past than the present. Once these tasks are out of the way, I am excited to explore much more of Ireland than I did last semester; the few day-trips I’ve managed to take already were a great preview of what is to come.

In October, Chris and I went to Sligo. It was a short but incredible trip, which started with heavy fog and rain that filled my supposedly waterproof boots. As the clouds began to clear at Carrowmore, we began a four-mile walk to Knocknarea, stopping at stables and Queen Medb’s Activity Farm to ask for directions. (After making a similar trek with Megan from Wexford’s city center to the Irish National Heritage Park, much of which consists of narrow, winding roads without sidewalks, I think we’ve got the hang of navigating Irish towns without a car.) At that point, Maeve’s cairn was still invisible, as the top of Knocknarea faded into the mist. The weather didn’t look too promising.

The fog remained just long enough to provide us with a dramatic approach to the cairn before dissipating and unveiling the Atlantic. A description can’t do justice to the view, so I included some photos below. I was happy to cross “megalithic tombs” and “flocks of sheep” off of my sightseeing to-do list, but luckily there will be much more of that in the coming months. Within the Republic, trips on my list include Tara, Kells, Clonmacnoise, and the Aran Islands. The best part will be sharing these journeys with friends and family, especially those who don’t know much about Ireland beyond its capital city.

I’m also looking forward to our trip to Belfast, where I’m eager to see the city’s murals and peace walls. In 2015 I curated a photography exhibit on Belfast with the organization ART WORKS Projects, with work by sociologist David Schalliol, and I can’t wait to walk the streets I’ve seen in photos.

Though I’ll have fewer classes this semester, which will allow more time for travel and my internship with Art for Amnesty, I’m also excited for my classes and dissertation work. My MPhil cohort is a small group of American and Irish students, researching everything from Norse mythology to Sicilian architecture. With our Latin and paleography classes, I can now (kind of) read the Book of Kells, which has made my frequent trips to see it a bit more purposeful and academic — for those outside Dublin, you can enjoy the digitized version here! I’ve now visited most of the major manuscript collections in the city, spending hours poring over parchment, and look forward to doing more of that. I’ll conclude with a scene from class in the Chester Beatty reading room:

Close up of the #WakingTheFeminists reunion

They say Ireland is the island of artists, and I do believe it’s true. But as I tenderly balanced a garbage bag above the video camera to ensure it didn’t get damaged from the good Irish rain, I started to wonder how films get made in Ireland.

I was working in Dublin as a production assistant on a feature documentary focusing on gender inequality in Hollywood and the film industry. The Irish-American director, Tom Donohue (Casting By, Thank You For Your Service), had scheduled a week in Dublin to capture interviews with the makers and shakers of #WakingTheFeminists, the legendary gender equality in the arts movement sparked in 2016.

2016 was an important, tumultuous year of remembrance for Ireland as history was reread and rewritten to include women for their integral role in the 1916 Rising. Previous celebrations of the struggle for Irish independence had conveniently written women out of the history of the event, blurring their contributions into the background. 2016 was going to be different, though, until it wasn’t.

The Abbey Theatre is Ireland’s national theatre, and a gem of the arts worldwide. It was founded by W.B. Yeats in 1904, and in 1925 became the first publicly subsidized public theatre. Ireland, from its foundation, has prioritized the arts; as well, the arts have prioritized Ireland. Seven of the main revolutionaries in the 1916 Rising were actors and staff at the Abbey Theatre, including Séan Connolly and Helena Moloney, actors who fought for the Irish Citizen Army.

The Abbey Theatre announced “Waking The Nation,” its program for the 2016 season, but within a few hours, artists around the country noticed something missing: women directors and playwrights. They were counting; it was less than ten per cent. Artists united to start the movement: #WakingTheFeminists would demand greater gender representation – on stage, behind the camera, in written works and in the public eye.

When I was asked if I’d be interested in a production assistant job on a film focusing on gender equality, my answer was an immediate yes. Working with a four-person crew on set meant that I could listen to these inspiring interviews. From Lian Bell, the stage designer and celebrated leader of the #WakingTheFeminists movement to Maeve Stone, the director who coined the very phrase, I was able to listen to their stories of bringing together the intricate, passionate community of Irish artists – women and men – and their reflections on what gender equality looked like one year later.

Working on this film helped me understand how art is integral to our politics, and how artists have a role to play in pushing forward equality of all types. Ireland surely is the island of artists, but especially artists whose works reflect and reject the status quo.

Azza on the microphone for interviewing Lian Bell, founder of #WakingTheFeminists

Since I arrived in August, Humans of Dublin as told by Megan McNulty has been unceasingly growing as a catalogue (mostly in my mind of course) of fascinating characters and touching stories about people – like myself – who are trying to make a living in this weirdly untouched-by-time yet also increasingly cosmopolitan city of Dublin.

The latest addition includes another fortuitous train meeting with a young woman nostalgic of her ‘old life’ back in the country as well as a lovely experience with a Polish taxi driver who confided in me his deepest relationship fears and hopes.

The unstoppable conversationalist that I am has loved meeting the variety of people who call Dublin home, but it has recently occurred to me that many of my impromptu tête-à-têtes – especially the ones I cherish as most stimulating and inspiring – would have never occurred in the United States.

I characterize those conversations, which I will undoubtedly remember forever, as being part of the long-standing Irish tradition of partaking in ‘The Great Debate.’ Though I believe most people here are more outwardly friendly than many Americans (don’t tell Uncle Sam I said this), the Irish are also simultaneously much more likely to broach the tumultuous topics of religion and politics. Whether at a pub several pints deep, on a street corner anticipating a changing light, or even at a fancy restaurant dressed to the nines: one living in Dublin cannot escape the issues which many Americans would not dream of discussing in the public sphere.

It’s not only questions about one’s political party or who was voted for in the last election. These discussions truly leave no issue out of bounds – from the size of government to social welfare policy, to abortion law and even the role of the Catholic Church. Nothing is safe.

Religion!? Politics!? How rude, you may say. Why would the Irish purposely create tension among friends, colleagues, and even strangers, and why would they not just leave their personal opinions to their ballots and pews? These questions are not unlike my initial reaction, but I now believe that foreigners like myself could learn from the Irish tendency to look awkwardness in the eyes and face disagreements head on.

Participating in The Great Debate doesn’t create tension; it undermines it. It doesn’t sustain grudges and hurt feelings but rather incites reconciliation and mutual respect. When I defend a Church program and my counterpart disagrees vehemently, there are no fist fights or exchanges of profanities. We clink glasses, say sláinte, and laugh thunderously. Yes! We accept that we have different opinions and value the opportunity to challenge our preconceived notions.

This tradition of partaking in The Great Debate sets Ireland apart from so many nations. I have seen that it enhances the entire population because people become increasingly open, honest, and politically and socially adept. So although many people think a trip to Ireland will only impart a greater appreciation for whiskey, Guinness, and leprechauns; I have found that there is a much greater reward hidden just beneath the surface of a chat in a pub or an interaction in a shop.

Smiles and laughs after a lengthy talk at my gym’s Christmas party!

And talking with new friends about German and US politics in a classic Irish pub!!

There I was, stuck on a packed tour bus on the westernmost cliff of Ireland, while the sun set over the sea below and Coolio’s 1995 smash hit “Gangsta’s Paradise” played on the speakers. I closed my eyes, smiled, and took a beat to myself before rejoining my fellow busgoers in song. It was one of those rare moments of pure elation, often longed for but experienced so rarely in life. I couldn’t help but laugh and think, “How did I end up here?”

I’d joined four Irish friends at Other Voices, a music festival in early December in Dingle. We’d piled into a car in Dublin on Friday afternoon, forgoing my favorite fast food stop and souvenirs at Moneygall’s Barack Obama Plaza in order to make good time to the west, cruising on the motorways and then on the winding, narrow roads of the Irish countryside. I had been recruited for this trip as soon as I arrived in Ireland in September, and had spent the months leading up to the weekend trying to figure out what Other Voices really was. It seemed a rather under-the-radar, low-key music festival that brought up-and-coming bands from the island and beyond. In recent years, it has grown to become an annual invasion of 10,000+ people into quaint, unassuming Dingle. While there is one centerpiece lineup in the town’s St. James Church each evening, many of the gigs are small, informal affairs in any of a dozen pubs.

We had ended up stuck on Slea Head because we’d been lucky enough to snag tickets on the Music Trail West, a 100-person bus trip around the Dingle peninsula with stops at a gin distillery, a heritage center, and – of course – a few pubs, for private concerts and drinks. Now, as we headed for our last stop, we’d come upon a hairpin turn and found a line of small cars facing us. Because the road was so narrow, each of the two dozen cars heading toward us would have to reverse a few hundred meters and turn off to the side of the road to let our bus through. It was taking quite a while, but none of us minded. In addition to the musical stylings of Coolio, we now had pods of dolphins below jumping around (I can only assume they also felt much nostalgia for “Gangsta’s Paradise).

I have had those “How did I end up here?” moments increasingly frequently the longer I’ve been in Ireland. I have no doubt that this is because of the fine people whom I am lucky to consider my Irish friends. Whether their bringing me all the way to Dingle or just to Sunday roast dinner, they are enriching my year here beyond what I could have anticipated. Don’t worry: I’m sure they’ll give me a hard time once they’ve read this.

Inside Paidi O Se’s on the Music Trail West

Murphy’s Ice Cream – Legendary stuff from Dingle

Trying my hand at the drums between sets at a Dingle pub

Five thousand years ago, Neolithic Irish settlers erected an imposing, circular passage tomb in the hills alongside the River Boyne. And 5000 years later, there it remains: one of the world’s oldest archaeological monuments, just an hour’s bus ride away from the Dublin city center.

The Newgrange monument is a perfect example of a sight I wouldn’t have visited, if not for my fellow Mitchells. I am as indoorsy as they come, and if you find me in the great outdoors chances are I’m only there at the behest of others—in this case, Byron and Megan. But standing in the tomb’s inner chamber, marveling at the ancient engravings and watertight, vaulted ceiling (“Not as drop of rain in 5000 years!” boasted our tour guide) I found myself deeply grateful for having acquiesced to coming along.

The settlers who built Newgrange engineered it not only as a place of burial, but also as a meteorological litmus test, with its precisely situated Roof Box letting light into the chamber only when the sun is at the angle that signals the winter solstice. Our tour guide simulated this effect by switching off the lights (apparently the looseness of the stones from which the tomb is constructed made it easy to install modern lighting), and shining a flashlight along a rectangular path perpendicular to the Roof Box. During the actual winter solstice, spots on the tour are rewarded by lottery. Last year, our tour guide informed us, 32,000 people entered into the drawing for a mere 100 spots.

No photos allowed inside the monument… But check out that exterior!

As soon as I’d entered the chamber, via a cramped passageway that forced even the shortest among us to duck, my emotional state had entered into a tug-of-war between fascination and claustrophobia. Five thousand years of stability notwithstanding, it’s hard to be surrounded on all sides by stone slabs last handled by someone whose birth predated Stonehenge, and not start to fear today will be the day when it all comes crashing down. So, after a couple of minutes of inspecting the interior, Megan and Byron and I exited into the light of day. We spent the rest of our allotted time at the monument strolling alongside its quartz cobblestone exterior—the only part of the monument that is not original, but the result of a reconstructive pioneered by famed archaeologist Michael O’Kelly.

Our journey to the monument had passed quickly, with our tour guide offering historical commentary on the passing landscape, which covered epochs from the Stone Age to the Troubles. Wending our way back toward the city center, the landscape seemed both more vibrant than it had previously—vivified by my new awareness of its history—and quieter in the fading evening light. Hopefully my experience at Newgrange, positive as it was, will push me to be less aggressively indoorsy during the remainder of my time here. As Megan reminded me on the bus, I still haven’t made it to Glendalough!

“Better you than me,” the Tesco customer service agent quipped with a chuckle as she rang up my groceries after asking what I am studying in school.  I laughed and promised that my studies toward a Master’s in philosophy of religion are not that abstract or distant, nor are they something to be dreaded.  But I walked away a bit disappointed in myself, since I knew that I should have had a better sound-bite answer for anyone who happens to ask me what I am doing during my year in Ireland.  I proceeded to consider the various thinkers I had been reading and the range of questions I had explored since the beginning of the semester, trying to conceive of a way to present them simply and accessibly.

And then it hit me.  Of course I know what to say.  Philosophy of religion addresses the ABC’s of life—the most basic questions we can ask about our existence: Does God exist?  What relevance does God have for the human person—might we be made in his image?  Do right and wrong exist?  What is truth?  How much of these things can we know through our natural reason alone?  What is faith, and where does it begin?  And so on.

My sense is that, these days, when many people think of philosophy, they think of names in textbooks, old guys with huge beards, tonsures, or fancy wigs, and abstract, even irrelevant ideas.  Furthermore, many—especially of my generation—believe that the questions listed above simply do not have answers.  At the end of the day, they say, it’s “your truth” or “my truth,” but, sorry, there is no capital-T “Truth.”

Not only does that claim undermine itself (since it claims as objective truth that no objective truth exists), but it also fails to satisfy the deepest longings of the human heart. Far from being abstract and irrelevant, philosophy of religion begins with the questions whose answers matter most in our daily lives and responds directly to those deep longings.  Whenever we make a choice about something in our lives—which happens hundreds of times a day—we implicitly assert a conception of reality and our ultimate destiny that we hold to be true.  “Ideas run the world,” it is said, and the actions they inform have serious consequences for ourselves and others.  So it really matters what we believe to be true—“true with a capital T”—and why.

A Dominican priest once explained to me that philosophy is theory, practice, and therapy.  It is theory because it addresses the meaning of the cosmos, which, in Greek (κόσμος or kosmos), literally translates to the “order of existence.”  Philosophy is practice because, in addressing the order of existence and the meaning of the human person, it helps us to orient our lives in accordance with that order, which in turn helps us to live truthfully, virtuously, and lovingly.  And philosophy is therapy because a life oriented toward the order of reality is a life oriented toward the Orderer of reality—who is God, the Truth itself, and who, having made us in his image, provides us with peace, joy, and rest.

So, what is philosophy of religion?  It explores the ABC’s of life, and its conclusions help us to abide in the Truth, wherein we find the fullness of life.

Moving to a new place to begin a new stage of life is such an interesting experience because it requires asking important fundamental questions about oneself and arriving at practical answers: how am I going to live? What kind of friendships am I going to seek? What will I do in my spare time?

As Aristotle taught in his Nicomachean Ethics, these questions must always be answered in light of the ultimate goal of life, which is to live for the truth. And when we do indeed live for the truth, our lives become integrated: the various things we do fit together almost seamlessly as our work, play, friendship, and prayer complement each other and conduce toward a life of abiding fulfillment.

It is with great gratitude that I can say I have loved my transition to Maynooth, Ireland, over these last two months as I have adjusted to a new country, school, and environment and as my life has developed an integrated, liturgical rhythm in service to the truth. On a typical day, I will rise at 6:30, head across the street to the South Campus of Maynooth, the home of the National Irish Seminary, and join the seminarians for lauds, meditation, and morning Mass. Around 8:30, I then return to my apartment to eat breakfast and to prepare for my classes in philosophy of religion, which has included modules ranging from medieval philosophy to conceptions of the human person from antiquity through the Renaissance to the philosophy of the 20^th-century martyr St. Edith Stein/Teresa Benedicta of the Cross. Later, usually after having gone for a run (the itch of being an alum of Duke’s Cross Country and Track team definitely needs scratching!), I return to the seminary at 6 for vespers and the Rosary and then have dinner with friends or in my apartment before finishing up some reading, reciting compline, and retiring for the night.

On weekends, I have been able to explore other parts of the Emerald Isle. Trips to Dublin—just a stone’s throw away by train or bus (30-40 minutes)—are frequent, whether to visit my fellow Mitchell Scholars (where 8 are studying) or to join in the camaraderie and fraternity of the student brothers at St. Saviour’s priory, the Dominican House of Studies in Ireland. One weekend highlight thus far was a trip with a large group of international students at Maynooth to Limerick to play in a Gaelic football tournament and visit the historic city in the west of Ireland. Gaelic football, sort of a combination of soccer, basketball, football, and rugby, is “good craic,” as they say here (meaning “good fun”). The whole excursion was a blast and a nice way to learn about Irish sport and culture with others who are similarly adjusting to life here. Another highlight was a pilgrimage with the Irish Dominicans to Knock, a boggy village in northwestern Ireland where Mary, Joseph, St. John the Evangelist, and the Eucharistic Lamb of God appeared silently on the gable wall of the town’s parish church to 15 people for about 2 hours on a rainy evening in 1879. It is one of the most famous Marian shrines in the world and a peaceful site of prayer and healing.

One of the Mitchell Scholarship’s fundamental purposes—and thus one of my fundamental purposes for being in Ireland—is to cultivate and establish enduring relationships between Americans and the island of Ireland. As I continue to build, with the help of God, an integrated life here, I find myself more deeply immersed in and connected to the ways of the Irish—between living in a new place, learning its history, settling into the Church, developing deep friendships, and engaging the culture. Each of those has presented its fair share of unique challenges, though always accompanied by an opportunity for growth. With two joyful months down, I am thoroughly excited for what lies ahead. Sláinte!

The South Campus at Maynooth University

The Apparition Chapel at the Knock Shrine

An evening on the River Liffey in Dublin

Walking off the pitch after a game of Gaelic at University of Limerick

A view of Limerick from the top of King John’s Castle

In the Middle Ages, Ireland floated at the periphery of the known world, and the island’s medieval history is occasionally mischaracterized as remote and isolated. I remember a time when I held misconceptions that were similar, in an abstract sense, during my first days exploring Dublin in 2013. I had received several compliments on my English, amused looks at my Irish name, and questions of, “No, where are you really from?” when the United States was not a satisfying answer. It was a reminder that we can sometimes forget strangers will not necessarily match our expectations.

Fortunately, I had arrived for the Undergraduate Awards Global Summit, which quickly corrected these first impressions. I never expected Dublin would provide me with some of the most globally engaged experiences of my life over the next several years. The Undergraduate Awards (UA) recognizes achievement in student research around the world. It culminates in an annual Global Summit in Dublin, which supports and connects undergraduate researchers and bombards them with inspiring conversations and late nights of socializing. As I traveled to Dublin for the Summits of 2013, 2014, and 2015, the attendees became more diverse each year, and these three short trips produced a global network that I’ve reconnected with on visits from Santiago, Chile to Astana, Kazakhstan.

Returning to Dublin with the Mitchell Scholarship helped sustain my connection to this community even though I was no longer eligible to apply to the UA program. Within a week of my arrival, a fellow UA alumnus put me on a discussion panel at the BlueFire Street Fest in Smithfield. The festival was created to celebrate intercultural relations and the diversity of Dublin, with dance from India, music from Nigeria and Brazil, and more. My five fellow twenty-something panelists were each from a different country, but we all shared Dublin as our current home. That evening I went to see Megalomaniac, a play about a Palestinian pharmacist earning Irish citizenship while her family remained stranded in Syria. It was a side of life in Ireland that I had not seen during my short trips in previous years, and I spent my free time trying to learn more and get involved.

Then the election happened. Home felt far away, isolation and remoteness characterized my feelings as I watched from Ireland, and communities seemed more insular than I previously imagined. But just as quickly, I found an unexpected connection to home as a guest at the UA Summit Awards Ceremony in Dublin City Hall. The keynote speaker was a Chicagoan, Dr. Mae Jemison, and with her audience of 152 students from 38 countries, we reflected on how to engage with one another and challenge boundaries and limits rather than respect them. And as Jemison, a former NASA astronaut, encouraged us to see beyond our world both literally and figuratively, Dublin once again played host to formative and invigorating international exchange. It sets a promising tone for the rest of the Mitchell year.