The woman they couldn’t silence – remembering Veronica Guerin

Veronica Guerin was a reporter who refused to stay with a safe, sanitized story. She did not seek out danger but when it was present, she faced it with her notebook in hand. She was brave in the face of brutality and if she was warned to stay away from a story, she dug in even more. But on this day in 1996, that ever present danger caught her. She was 36 years old, a mother, and one of the most captivating investigative journalists in Ireland when a motorcycle pulled up alongside her car while she was stopped at a light. She probably didn’t even take notice of them until they smashed her window and fired several shots directly into her vehicle before they fled the scene. Veronica died before the ambulance arrived. It took less than a minute to kill her body but decades later, her spirit lives on. 

In the early 1990s, Dublin was in the grip of a heroin epidemic that was quietly destroying working-class communities while the powerful looked the other way. Guerin, a reporter for the Sunday Independent, decided that looking away was not an option. She reported on the criminal gangs controlling Ireland’s drug trade at a time when most journalists treated those stories as too dangerous, too murky, or simply too unglamorous to pursue. She knocked on the doors of drug lords. She sat across from men who had ordered destruction and murder and asked them, politely and precisely, to explain themselves. This was not recklessness. It was a considered, principled commitment to the idea that journalism exists to serve the people. She was also, by all accounts, genuinely charming in a way that seemed to disarm people who had every reason to be guarded and hostile toward her and her work. She made this gift work for her most of the time, but ultimately it failed to protect her in the end.

What makes Guerin’s murder even worse is how predictable and preventable it was. She had been warned. She had even been wounded before, when a gunman showed up at her house after she began investigating organized crime and drug dealing in south Dublin. Her home and family were often threatened. She reported all of it and named names to her editors, the Gardaí, her readers, and anyone else who would listen. To their credit, the paper installed a security system and the Gardaí assigned officers to her after she was shot the first time, but she did not agree to these efforts because they hampered her ability to pursue leads and report the stories she was compelled to share. Eventually, the surveillance diminished and everyone began ignoring these threats or even worse, they told her to back off and shut her mouth, repeatedly. This was not something she was willing to do. Veronica was not naive about the risks but she believed her stories were worth it. In interviews just before her death, she acknowledged the threats with a matter-of-factness that reads now as both brave and tragic. She believed the people of Dublin’s devastated communities deserved someone who would speak for them and when no one else would, she raised her own voice.

Veronica Guerin’s assassination sent a shock through Ireland and had lasting consequences that are difficult to overstate. The country had seen plenty of violence but this was different. This was a journalist, a woman, and a mother, who was shot dead in broad daylight on a busy road simply because she had done her job too well. The public response was immediate and furious. Within weeks, the Irish government passed some of the most significant criminal justice legislation in the country’s history, including two acts which gave authorities new powers to seize the assets of criminal organizations. The Criminal Assets Bureau went on to dismantle a lot of the drug empire that ultimately killed Guerin when she refused to stay quiet about it. Ireland did not become a perfect, drug and criminal free country after her death, but it did become a different one, thanks in no small part to Veronica Guerin. 

Guerin’s name is now attached to journalism awards, university programs, and both feature and documentary films. That is right and fitting but legacy has a way of softening the sharp edges of a life, and it would be a disservice to her to let that happen here. The structural conditions that made her vulnerable have not disappeared in the decades since her assassination. Women journalists around the world continue to face targeted harassment, threats, and violence at rates that far exceed their male counterparts, according to UNESCO research published in recent years. Online abuse, coordinated intimidation campaigns, gender-based insults, chauvinistic dismissals, and the slow erosion of institutional support for investigative reporting are on the rise. Journalists face daily threats of harm, similar to the threats that Guerin faced years ago. What she bravely showed us was that we can refuse to accept that the powerful get to define the terms of their own accountability. She reported on people who believed they were untouchable and she made them vulnerable in print with evidence, publicly. That act, repeated by journalists around the world every day, is one of the few genuine checks we have left on the powerful, and those who undertake this mission need to be protected as the rare jewels they are. 

Today marks another anniversary of her death. In Dublin, people who remember her death may pause for a few thoughts or words about her. People who are too young to remember may encounter her name here and there throughout the day and if they are curious, they may find one of her powerful stories or some information about why she’s still relevant and important. She possessed a focus and determination that her colleagues still struggle to describe without a catch in their voices and a tear in their eyes. Veronica Guerin was a hero and a woman who decided that the truth mattered more than her comfort and safety. She paid the highest possible price for that decision but she was not wrong when she made it. The truth is important and independent media and investigative reporting continue to provide it on every continent, every single day. It may get overshadowed by hateful pundits and manufactured outrage but it still exists. Expect more from your news sources and seek out this type of reporting to drown out the noise of partisan headlines. When you support journalists and investigative reporting,  you honor Veronica Guerin and those like her. That’s critically important in this day and age, especially today.

The Peace Flame

Glass enclosed sculpture on black pillar that says the words Peace Flame

Derry is a city that knows what it means to burn.

In August 1969, the Battle of the Bogside transformed the city’s streets into a war zone. Petrol bombs flew through the air. CS gas filled the alleyways. Those three days of violence marked the beginning of a conflict that would claim over 3,500 lives across the North of Ireland. Over the next few years, civil rights activists began a long campaign against the gerrymandering in the region and the discrimination against Catholics. Organizers looked across the ocean for inspiration. They saw the marches in Selma in the United States. They heard Martin Luther King Jr. speak of justice and nonviolent resistance. The movement in Derry borrowed that language deliberately, because it fit. Derry’s Catholics faced discrimination in housing, employment, and voting rights, similar to what African Americans were facing in the US. The parallels were not metaphorical. They were structural and intentional.

On Jan. 30th, 1972 a large civil rights march made its way through Derry. English soldiers opened fire on the unarmed protestors, killing 14 innocent people and injuring many more. The Crown defended the killings adding to the injustice and radicalization of the city. Calls for both violence and peace rose, each shouting louder than the one before. Derry was an open wound, full of trauma, anger, and fear for decades to come.

That history is embedded in the city to this day. It lives in the murals of the Bogside, in the names on memorials and walls, on the gravestones of the city cemetery, and in the hearts of all who call it home. This is why a symbol of peace in the town carries such weight. The Peace Flame is in the center of a purpose-made tiny garden next to the Guildhall. It is housed in a glass enclosure, sheltered from the wind but visible to anyone who passes. A pillar bears the words plainly: Peace Flame. No ambiguity or abstraction, just the thing itself, named loudly and ever present.

It was unveiled on this day in 2013 as part of a five day peace conference. The keynote speaker was Martin Luther King III, the son of the man whose own civil rights movement had inspired Derry activists for nearly fifty years. His presence was not just ceremonial, it was also a full circle moment. The thread that ran from the U.S. civil rights movement to the Bogside in Derry was being acknowledged openly, by someone who carried that legacy in his blood.

The ceremonial lighting featured children from both sides of the divided town. That choice was poignant. While the adults in the crowd carried the memories and the scars, the children could carry the hope for a peaceful future. They will decide the future of the north of Ireland so it was fitting that they were involved in the town’s efforts to promote both the city and the flame as a beacon of peace.

This was the first peace flame in Ireland. It has had to deal with technical issues and multiple vandalism incidents that affect the flame but whether it happens to be lit or not when you walk through the garden, it’s hard to ignore the symbol. Seeing it in the heart of Derry is both heavy and optimistic, much like the town itself.

It also seems like a light that is holding steady even when the future is uncertain and the past refuses to stay quiet. Installing the peace flame did not fix or erase what happened here; instead it shone a light on all the tragedies and pierced through the darkness of the past, lighting the way to a better and shared future in the region. May it shine bright in the hearts of all who pass it by.

The Poet of the Fenians

The remarkably short life of John Keegan Casey was full of lyrical rebellion and inspiring, seditious poetry. His pen was at least as dangerous as the sword, if not more so and it made him a warrior and a target at a remarkably young age. His best known work is “The Rising of the Moon“, which he reportedly penned at the tender age of just fifteen and it is still in heavy rotation to this day.

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Dolores O’Riordan

She could sing like no other. She wrote hushed hymns and wailing battle cries. She hiccuped her way into the hearts of music lovers world-wide and turned a defiant protest song about her homeland into an international hit. Dolores O’Riordan was a force to be reckoned with and one of the most well known voices of Irish music for more than twenty-five years.

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Dan Breen

Dan Breen was an integral and powerful man in Ireland’s long fight for independence. He was a husband and father, a gangster, a politician, a speakeasy operator, and an author, but first and foremost he was a self-described soldier who was dedicated to freedom.

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Political snowballs

Politics in the north of Ireland are a tricky thing. For generations words, weapons, petrol bombs and more have been tossed from one side of the divide (and the border) to the other in an ongoing struggle for power. On this day in 1967 a different sort of projectile was thrown into the mix (ahem) when Rev. Ian Paisley launched snowballs at Jack Lynch, the Taoiseach of Ireland.

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Greysteel Devil’s Night Massacre

The conflict known as the Troubles was a long war on many fronts. There were some people fighting against those they saw as invaders and oppressors and others fighting to show how loyal they were to the country they felt part of. There was also a propaganda war being fought as various groups tried to reach sympathetic audiences (and large pocketbooks) around the world. The third battleground was the deadliest of all and it was comprised of all the tit-for-tat, mostly Sectarian killings between various paramilitary groups. This last front resulted in the vast majority of civilian deaths throughout the region and it was the hardest to prepare for or justify. It includes the Devil’s Night massacre at the Rising Sun bar in Greysteel, which happened on this day in 1993.

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Oscar Wilde is born

On this day in 1854, a young baby by the name of Oscar Fingel O’Flahertie Wills Wilde was born in Dublin. Given the length of the name it is no wonder why it was eventually shortened to the simple (and now famous) Oscar Wilde.

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A Tale of Two Fenians

Stephen O’Donohoe was a poor law clerk in Dublin. He was a family man with four children who struggled to get ahead but only barely managed to scrape by. Like many, he blamed the English rule in Ireland for his woes. He was one of thousands of men who joined the Fenian Brotherhood, a group dedicated to overthrowing the government and getting the English out of his country.

Thomas Farrell was from Williamstown and was a confectioner by trade. He joined the Fenian Brotherhood as well, and while it’s not clear if these two men knew each other, what is certain is that they are now tied together for all of eternity.

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The unsinkable Katie Gilnagh

Many of Ireland’s brave sons and daughters had to leave Ireland for one reason or another. One of those daughters was Katherine “Katie” Gilnagh who was just seventeen years old when her sister sent for her to come to the United States. She caused a bit  of a stir before she left home by having her palm read. The astute (or gifted) fortune-teller told Katie that she’d be crossing water soon and that there’d be a lot of danger, but that no lasting harm would come to her. Soon after the reading, Miss Gilnagh left her family in Cloonnee, Co. Longford and boarded the RMS Titanic as a third-class passenger, bound for America.

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