I am a Dubliner by birth, the son of an Anglican father from Tyrone, who spent his entire working life as an academic at Trinity College Dublin and who always regarded himself as British. And then there was my Catholic mother, also from Dublin, who was unequivocally Irish.
With my parents marrying in 1949, two very different worlds intersected. To add a further layer of heritage, my paternal grandmother, a Glaswegian Presbyterian, was descended from a lineage of Free Church of Scotland ministers. And going even further back, a member of the family was convicted of treason in the lead-up to the Battle of the Boyne. A mixum gatherum inheritance, eh?
As a result, I’ve spent a greater part of my life straddling various real and imagined boundaries of religion, nationality and culture. From the early 1960s growing up in Dublin, I got to grips with navigating these distinct social spheres, adopting accent, vocabulary and social references to suit the occasion. It became second nature, but I did falter at times. It was bizarre living in Dublin through those formative years, feeling both at home and out of place in the very country that was nurturing me.
This dichotomy of existence on various levels, with tension injected into the mix from time to time, struck at the core of my personal identity and there were times when I pondered: am I Irish, British, or both? Or none of the above – adrift in a universe bereft of identity?
But it took a journey to southeast Turkey – northern Mesopotamia of old – in 2019 armed with my dog-eared notebook, entitled Some Sh*t To Remember, and accompanied by my dear wife and two close friends, to reveal to me who I really was. Five years later, my book, An Irishman In Northern Mesopotamia, was published.
On the face of it, this is about a journey where I explore the enduring wonder of northern Mesopotamia – the cradle of civilisation, a captivating region embraced by the legendary Euphrates and Tigris rivers – from an Irish perspective. Despite its brevity, the journey proved life-changing. But on another level, my book is an attempt to explore that mystifying trinity of factors determining our existence: heritage, language and identity.
Let’s start out on that journey, not in southeast Turkey of recent years, but way back in Ireland in the 1960s when I’d sit spellbound as a child listening to my father weave tales of the ancient world. Places with incredible-sounding names such as Babylon, Mesopotamia, the Fertile Crescent and Assyria formed a glorious part of his telling of these sagas as did the deeds of larger-than-life figures in myth and in history.
There were so many: Zeus, king of the gods who resided on Mount Olympus, hurling thunderclaps through the heavens; Diana, the goddess of hunting and the moon; the exploits of the legendary Mesopotamian hero, Gilgamesh; and Xerxes of Babylon with its hanging gardens, one of the Seven Wonders of the World.
There wasn’t much money in the family then, but we did possess loads of books at home. In time, I developed the art of browsing in bookshops for ages undetected, and many chilly winter evenings were spent in Pearse Street public library.
The freedom to read – what an uplifting mantra that was in my early years. Travel was limited to my imagination, but a fire had been lit deep inside. One day, I vowed I would explore these distant horizons for myself. Besides, I’d become aware there was something embedded in the national consciousness which acted as a siren call to journey overseas.
A colonial past dating back centuries had contributed to Ireland’s big export: people. Emigration had become an established pattern, and my upbringing encouraged me to develop a perspective that looked beyond Ireland’s shores. This was the genesis of a deep personal wanderlust. But I had to be patient until my seventh decade before I was able to cast eyes on northern Mesopotamia.
During the 1960s and 1970s, the Troubles of Northern Ireland acted as a backdrop of hell during my coming-of-age years. The shock of it was when it happened on your doorstep. On May 17th, 1974, the bloody bedlam of the North was visited on Dublin. I was a Trinity student at the time and witness to the immediate aftermath of a bomb blast on South Leinster Street. I happened to be nearby and had my camera with me. I was on the street moments after the explosion, and I remember feeling overwhelmed. Broken bits of everything everywhere. I took photos. It is a day I can never forget.
Meanwhile, as a student of the natural sciences, geography and geology were my favourite subjects, and I treasured every minute of it where the practice of “making you think” was the norm. This paved the way for an invigorating time at university and within a wide latitude of reasonableness, there were no limits to what was open for discussion.
And the craic was grand. Being an undergraduate one was learning lots of new stuff and among these novel experiences, I came to hear of another practice called “ the stations of the cross”. No religious connotation but it had something to do with frequenting 12 pubs in the vicinity of the university and mandatory partaking of libations at each watering hole.
An integral component of our geology and geography coursework were field trips around Ireland. The weather was invariably damp and chilly and we always seemed to be slogging through mud or clambering up and down hills, a mountain on one occasion – Mangerton in Kerry – in search of something on the to-do list of the eager beaver academic in charge of our open-air adventure of enlightenment. But there were compensations to be had despite the inclement weather and unforgiving terrain. After a day’s hike, we’d end up in a bar and hot toddies – infused with good Irish whiskey – would be a favourite pick-me-up.
Reflecting on my undergrad field trips 50 years ago, I’m grateful for the hands-on experience they provided. Exploring all manner of fossils, rocks, tectonics and landscapes across the country brought my natural sciences studies to life – fuelling my lifelong desire to understand how “all this sh*t fits together”.
During the 1970s, visits to Northern Ireland meant navigating the Troubles – conversations often began with questions about my religious background. On a student fencing trip to Queen’s University Belfast, our car was stopped by Ulster Defence Regiment soldiers. Asked what was in the boot, a friend quipped “Just our weapons”, meaning our fencing gear. Guns were immediately trained on us. Ordered out, we stood frozen, hearing what might have been safety catches clicking off. Thankfully, no one was hurt but it was terrifying.
Several student summer vacations were spent in London where I worked as a bus conductor (my favourite route: No 217 going from the urban melee of Turnpike Lane to the rural calm of Upshire via Waltham Abbey); and as a hospital porter. Because of my Irishness, I experienced a variety of responses on a spectrum ranging from playful leg-pulling to the random cold brush-off. I learned to take it in my stride but the worst hostility concerning my Irishness (or perceived lack thereof) I had to contend with was reserved for my native city in 1979.
As the water rushed by, I could feel the lifelong anguish of identity just fade away from me
After graduating from Trinity, I joined RTÉ as a production assistant trainee. I then got a job in Salonica in northern Greece, staying for two years teaching English there and learning Greek. Smote with the idea of becoming a film director following my RTÉ experience, I completed a short celluloid effort (in Greek), exhausting my meagre savings, intended for the Thessaloniki Film Festival.
In 1982, newly married, my wife and I decided to take up nursing and teaching positions respectively in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. Meanwhile, I managed to secure a part-time post with the English service of Radio Jeddah as a presenter. My producer was Yusuf, a Palestinian. He had a PhD in Anglo-Irish literature and you can imagine the conversations we had where I was wowed by his fluency in Wilde, Yeats, Joyce and Beckett.
This amazing Palestinian compared Ireland’s Troubles to his own experiences. He shared how his grandfather kept the keys to their seized home in Palestine – as an Irishman, I understood this anguish of occupation. Decades later, heartbreakingly, the Middle East still shows no signs of reconciliation.
Over the following decades, life carried on: two sons were born, and I worked in computing, aviation and business while maintaining my links with the media – for a time I was computer editor at the Arab News – and the art world – two photographs of mine were exhibited at the Royal Academy, London, in 2010 and 2011.
Fast forward to 2019, and my wife, two close friends and I embarked on a memorable journey tracing ancient footsteps through the streets of historic Antakya (formerly Antioch), Dara, Harran, Mardin and Diyarbakir. I cruised along the Euphrates and strolled beside the Tigris. I marvelled at the remarkable engineering feat of the Titus Caves near Samandağ. Scaling the summit of Mount Nemrut, I encountered an astonishing display of larger-than-life sculpted heads.
The harmonious beauty of sacred sites like Mor Gabriel Monastery and the Kasimia Madrasa deeply moved me, and I stood in awe before the 11,600-year-old megaliths of Göbeklitepe adorned with carvings of various creatures. These archaeological landmarks may come to reshape our understanding of the past as they challenge established notions of the origins of civilisation.
I discovered an endless array of wonders, each layer of civilisation built upon the previous, spanning countless ages in this mesmerising region. Throughout this odyssey, my mind leapt back to the sense of amazement I had felt as a young boy in Ireland when reading about Mesopotamia but now I was seeing the place for real. I was enchanted again.
An arc of seeking enlightenment spanning a lifetime was somehow coming together but I also recalled those people I had known over the years, no longer around, who were unable to share this experience. This adventure stirred something deep within which released a dam-burst of energy, helping me expand my horizons of understanding a little further. In truth, I was inspired to learn more about the past and to think anew about so much.
This journey through southeast Turkey did more than reveal history – it helped to reconcile my own. On the final day of the trip, while standing on the Mervani Bridge watching the river Tigris flow through the 10 arches of this majestic crossing point which has stood for nearly a thousand years, I reflected on my life and the tension associated with being Anglo-Irish.
As the water rushed by, I could feel the lifelong anguish of identity just fade away from me. At long last, inner peace reigns as I’m happy in my own skin and feel equally comfortable with both traditions. My pilgrimage in search of identity was at an end thanks to this visit to northern Mesopotamia.
An Irishman In Northern Mesopotamia is published by Unicorn
