In 1988, the people of Dublin were given special milk bottles to mark the city’s millennium. Designed to lift spirits at a difficult moment, it was a small gesture, but d’aluminium – as Dubs called it – had a big impact on some people. I know this because I was one of them. The millennium introduced me to the idea of civic pride. I was 16 years old, and properly sick of nationalism. The timing could not have been better.
Throughout the 1980s, the television news was a grim parade of atrocities, often committed in the name of the Irish people. By the end of the decade I was probably yearning for an identity that was uncontroversial. Positive. Proud. It was the late Frank Feely’s wheeze to celebrate Dublin’s 1,000th birthday that gave me a sense of belonging. Suddenly I was not just Irish, with all its complications. I was from a city with a rich history, and the modern-day home of Bob Geldof, U2 and lord mayor Carmencita Hederman.
The same city has given me a career, and 36 years later, I am a professional Dubliner, as well as the author of many essays about civic pride: how important it is, and what we can do to generate it. I think of civic pride as the amount of affection that a place has for itself. There is evidence that communities with high levels of attachment bounce back from recessions quicker than communities with low levels of attachment. Indeed, there is a strong economic case for investing in social cohesion. But this argument has had little or no influence on policymakers, and sometimes I have felt like a lone voice.
Until, that is, November 23rd, 2023.
Watching the riots, people realised that social cohesion is quite important. As Abraham Lincoln put it, “a house divided against itself cannot stand”. Dubliners did not need to be reminded about the importance of civic pride any more, because they saw the Luas tram burning on O’Connell Street. They saw what a city looks like when an angry, disaffected mob tries to tear things down.
The November riots were a shocking reminder of what can happen when the glue that holds a society together fails to work – or, to be precise, when there isn’t enough glue. In the absence of a shared vision of the good life, and a realistic chance of attaining one, people can turn against their rulers, particularly when cynical figures emerge to exploit their grievances. (Paul Lynch’s 2023 Booker Prize-winning novel, Prophet Song, is a frightening story about such a scenario. It is set in an eerily familiar Dublin.)
Civic pride has real power. It can inspire people to get behind a place. I know this because of my own experience. But here’s the catch: I grew up in a nice part of town. In less fortunate circumstances, I may well have turned against this city. I probably would have left for good, and I certainly would have seen those gimmicky milk bottles for what they were.
One problem with civic pride is that initiatives to promote it can smack of window dressing. Another is that many citizens recognise its importance too late. A high-order need, it sounds nice but somewhat fuzzy; at best, an optional extra in the government toolkit. It’s only when society comes apart at the seams that pride of place comes to seem essential.
There are, of course, many reasons to recommend life in Dublin. A small, handsome city, with world-class theatres, art galleries, restaurants and pubs, it’s a friendly place with a rich history and a high quality of life. On a good day, the conversation is unforgettable. But listen to me – busy selling Dublin. The Irish capital is also one of the most expensive cities in Europe. And many people cannot find anywhere to live. The housing crisis is not merely a drag. In the words of the President, it is “our great failure”.
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I still believe that civic pride is important, but we don’t need another birthday party to bring citizens together. Rather, we need substantive change. Until we create a society that privileges fairness, there is no point pretending that Dublin is one of the great small cities of the world. And let’s not pretend, either, that the problems of the State are entirely the fault of our talk-left, walk-right government. We are the people who put them into power.
If we have a toxic political order that generates vast quantities of human suffering, perhaps we need to ask hard questions about the mood that overtakes a lot of voters when they see a ballot box. The cruelty at the heart of consumer capitalism suggests that it is not just a gigantic distraction machine: it is pulling societies apart.
The impact of social exclusion is clear. If you doubt this claim, try walking down O’Connell Street this weekend. It’s the grandest street in the capital of one of the world’s richest states. Look at the faces of the bedraggled – people, that is, with addiction and mental health problems – and ask yourself what our society thinks of people on its margins. Do we care about them? And if so, why have we abdicated responsibility for helping them to the criminal justice system? On that same walk, you could also take in the colourful tents of Mount Street, and reflect on the meaning of our national holiday, which celebrates the life of a mysterious foreigner who had a profound and lasting influence on this country.
This St Patrick’s Day, remember that Dublin can be heaven, but only if we have the courage to construct a society that reflects the compassion of the Irish people at their very best.
Trevor White is the founder of the Little Museum of Dublin
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