ST PATRICK'S DAY

The feast of St Patrick has today become a world-wide celebration.

In the busy streets of Mumbai and Kolkatta, where Irish missionaries influenced the native Indians to the point of giving them their peculiar English accent, in the church-aisles of the devout who remember the saint, and in the oducedAmerican city streets of Baltimore, Boston and New York where thousands upon thousands of Irish ascendants proudly parade their colours of emerald, orange and white.

It it also celebrated in Cape Town, South Africa. This year we celebrated the day at the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront, where hundreds of fellow-Capetonians and some visitors pounded the dock-side to catch a glimpse of Irish culture and a heritage which stretches back hundreds of years.

It was ironic, though.

Victoria and Alfred, two British subjects who were collectively responsible for the persecution of the Irish, and many of our Cape ancestors, were honoured when the Waterfront first came to prominence. It is, today, an attraction for many visitors from around the world who make a point of visiting our colourful quay-side.

A fellow writer remarked at how pretentious many of us are, to claim the Irish heritage as our own, when many of us know little to nothing about the small nation and its history. She had a point, as many sought yet another opportunity to celebrate a day meaninglessly with wine and malt at the expensively assembled Waterfront shebeens.

There are hundreds more shebeens spread across the Cape Flats and in and around the Cape Winelands where many of its inhabitants spend their time, having what we here call a 'dop'. It is said that it was deviously introduced by our Dutch and British colonisers to intoxicate us into submission. I am also told that the Irish have perfected the art of drinking. We have been stereotyped, unfortunately.


But, to her, I say, I am very proud of my Irish roots, and remain mystified by the alleged mythology of St Patrick who is said to have landed on the snake-infested Island, centuries ago, to colonise the land and convert the pagans to Christianity. It is said that he cast his staff over the land to drive the serpents into the sea, like Moses parting the waves to make a path for the Israelites during their flight from Egypt.

Many of us today still believe that this is why there are no snakes on the Emerald Isle. My mother and father have travelled to the Isle at least twice in their lives, and I do not ever recall them ever saying that they had seen any snakes.

When I greeted my brothers yesterday, one of them exclaimed familiarly, " Snakes alive! ".

A few days ago he peremptorily, but kindly, reminded me to write about what I know. It is not an easy accomplishment, since I know little of anything.

For those that are familiar with the Irish, they may recognise that we have inherited a penchant for creatively and with great talent, telling stories, some of them untrue, and made-up, to endear, inspire and entertain. The more outgoing, as my brother is, are prone to acting out their stories, whether true or not.

I have resolved to write introspectively on Ireland, its culture, heritage and history. That will feature initially in a forthcoming blog. And, yes, much reading and research will be required, since I know so little. I will, in the future, like my parents, visit the land of green meadows, soft rain and ancient ruins of worship.

It is important for us to know where we come from and, when we become aware of our ancestors' achievements, however modest they may seem to others, to be immensely proud of them.

In a brief, but lighthearted exchange, my second brother and I made reference to the toilet. I plunged into my limited reservoir of words and remarked that the Irish translation would be ' bog '. I checked, and yes, it is indeed a Gaelic word for the pot on which many of us sit for a few moments to reflect and contemplate while cleansing ourselves of waste. More closely, it simply means ' wet, spongy ground '. This is reminiscent of much of the green landscape of Ireland, even in the twenty-first century, and in a much warmer climate. I am told that it still rains for most of the year over there.

I spent St Patrick's Day quite pleasantly with my mother and father, just walking about mostly.

My father is named after the patron saint.

I am reminded of how the great Irish writer, James Joyce, wrote caringly, deeply and knowledgeably about the Irish condition. Many have followed in his footsteps.

May we do so too.