I am Irish.
As of mid-Monday morning, that is. That's when I joined approximately 480 others of every hue and creed from 68 different countries, in the stall seats of the National Concert Hall in Dublin.
There, in a simple, mandatory, and surprisingly moving ceremony, we had our shiny new citizenship conferred upon us collectively.
I sat up near the front, between a friendly French Moroccan who had taken the day off work, and an ebullient African in a business suit. In front of me was a woman wearing several shades of green, next to an East Asian woman who had carefully written out in block capitals the words of the oath of fidelity we all would say together.
Half an hour earlier, I’d stood outside the concert hall waiting for the doors to open, in a large, bustling international crowd of candidates with their single allowed guest. Almost all came sharply dressed, some in the kaftans, robes, hijabs and crisp white cottons of their national clothing.
Some had children or babies in tow (Ireland being Ireland, they were all allowed in as extra guests, though a few were to cry – clearly, not overwhelmed with the joy of the occasion – during the ministerial speech). Finally, after a wait in the chilly autumn morning, the doors opened.
“Citizenship candidates to the door on the left, guests to the door on the right!” shouted out the organisers, and we sluggishly parted liked the Red (but soon to be Green) Sea.
Irish interlude
I’d certainly waited a long time to stand in the queue to formally tie the knot with the country that has been my predominant home, on and off, for three decades. Not that this was ever the plan. My Irish interlude was supposed to be the equivalent of a quick fling.
I’d originally come over from the US decades ago to do a one-year postgraduate course in Anglo-Irish literature. But, as John Lennon sang, “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”
And here I still am.
It was more than time for me to arduously assemble a citizenship application, which requires pages upon pages of notarised documentation, two passport photos and a large bank draft.
Then, a wait.
Finally came the thrill of receiving that brown be-harped envelope with a letter informing me the Minister for Justice intended to allow me to become an Irish citizen. I told everyone, including the woman running the local bakery (who called out “Fáilte!” as I left with a loaf of bread).
And now here I was, surrounded by others eager to call themselves Irish citizens, in my carefully ironed green silk shirt, wearing the Irish flag pin they gave us at registration. In my citizenship packet was my formal certificate of citizenship, words to the oath of fidelity and to the national anthem we could not pronounce, information on getting a passport, and rather disconcertingly, details about the conditions on which our pending citizenship could be revoked.
The citizenship ceremonies have been a required part of the process since 2011. And yes, I thought it might all be a bit silly. But no: it was surprisingly emotional. I was proud to be in the midst of so many others equally eager for our new Irish identity.
Warm and welcoming
In marched the military colour guard bearing the Irish flag, then the officials. The Minister presiding over the day's ceremony turned out to be none other than Minister for Justice and Equality Charlie Flanagan. He, and retired District Court Judge Paddy McMahon, who would lead us in the oath, each read speeches that were warm, welcoming, and at a moment when the world is too full of officially-mandated exclusion, extraordinarily open and embracing.
“You are about to make solemn pledges to our nation, to its values and to your fellow citizens as you go forward from here today as our newest citizens,” said Flanagan. “In turn by our laws and our traditions we commit to continue to recognise the personal rights of you as individuals in a proud nation which greatly values inclusion, tolerance and diversity.”
They spoke of respecting and welcoming our diversity and traditions. They told us to cherish the cultures we brought to our new country, and share them to broaden everyone’s understanding, and to enrich Ireland’s arts, literature and music.
They each reminded us that now we – or our children – might be tomorrow’s minister for justice, or tomorrow’s taoiseach.
Then we stood to pledge our fidelity. Around me, people rose, attentive with pride, and recited the words after Judge McMahon. We applauded, then happily shook hands in a secular sign of peace.
We stood as the – no, our – national anthem was played.
And then, in a buzz of polyglot chatter, we were bursting out the concert hall doors, into the sunshine.
We, the new Irish.
