To all the thoughtful, wonderful humans who have either posted messages on social media or reached out to me to pass messages on to Cara, thank you. Thank you for thinking of her & remembering her loss, so acutely felt today. Words cannot convey how much your kindness means to her đđ
My heart & thoughts are with mothers in Gaza today, & everyday
This video is from last year. It's still true, only worse. We are livestreaming a genocide, normalising the dehumanising of human beings, mostly children. Targeting, starving, tormenting them. The media's complicitous role in normalising this grotesque cruelty is undermining our humanity. RTE, BBC & all media outlets: Language matters, speak this by its name. #Mothersagainstgenocide
To mark the 5 year anniversary of the ongoing pandemic, I've been posting my lockdown diaries.
My grandparents used to buy the Connacht Tribune every week to read about the cattle marts, who was fined for not contributing to the "voluntary" collections at mass, who was shortlisted for the Rose of Tralee at the ballroom of (no)romance. And the death notices.
As a child, I read the letters section (granny didn't have a tele). I was fascinated by the things that made ordinary people, mostly men, mostly farmers, so impassioned to come in after milking the cows, between the angelus & the boiled bacon & cabbage & take pen to paper. It started my love affair with words & helped me appreciate that the most interesting stories are told by authentic voices. In sentences constructed to fit their words & meaning, Zero rules. Zero fecks given.
When SARS-CoV-2 struck, I was ensconced in a little cottage by the sea in Galway & began writing lockdown chronicles for the Tribune. A satirical column intended to give light relief during that early, terrifying lockdown phase (all of 6 weeks). It was a great privilege & career highlight. Sad that my mam & dad weren't alive to read the column which I secretly dedicated to them & my grandparents. I hope I did them proud. Ar dheis dé go raibh a n-anamacha.
Coronavirus has seen a rise of insomnia and lockdown dreams â ironically in equal measure. This week TESSâFINCH-LEES wrestles with those existential questions of the night.
As a parent, thereâs always something to keep you awake at night; the existential questions, such as âWhat if my child falls in with the wrong crowd and becomes a serial killer?â
There was a time, when he was six, that I worried about his moral compass. We had a stand-off outside a food bank which had been brewing since before we left home. He was having second thoughts about âdonatingâ some of his toys, which were thrown in (by me) to make the box of food look less meagre.
In child development terms, he was still at the âidâ stage (world revolves around them) meaning guilt trips are futile. Nonetheless, I gave it a go.
âThink of all those children whose parents canât afford to buy them toys. Donât you want them to have a toy to cuddle when they lie hungry and cold in bed?â
âAndâ, holding up exhibit A, âYouâve never even played with this oneâ.
He thought for a moment and replied: âYes, I want them to have toys to cuddle but not mine and I did play with that toy (exhibit A) once when I was five AND you said Santa brings presents to ALL children so it doesnât matter if their parents canât afford to buy them any, does it?â.
In that moment, I thought, heâll either grow up to be a prosecution lawyer or a serial killer.
During lockdown, he has gathered kindling, bought Easter eggs with his pocket money and made cards, all for cocooning neighbours.
He also has a proclivity for harvesting mint from the garden to make tea with tepid tap water and because Iâm his mother, I drink it. Not the modus operandi of a serial killer â and yet sleep, like the ability to crochet, escapes me.
Coronavirus has seen the rise of insomnia and âlockdown dreamsâ. My problem is the recurring Google-induced face visor nightmares. I never share my real personal data when solicited in order to access apps. I input something different every time.
As a consequence, I get ads targeted at a 19 to 70 year old, which can be anything from denim hot pants to dentures.
Since the pandemic, Iâve been aggressively targeted by a face shield advert that follows me as I scroll down the screen and is so ubiquitous it has become the stuff of nightmares.
The other night, I dreamt of being chased by a visor-clad Simon (âI made an awful boo-booâ) Harris, mummified in Lidl toilet rolls and rapping: âStay at home, read a book â get wiser. Donât bulk-buy the aulâ hand sani-tiserâ.
Our immune systems depend on sleep so that became this weekâs mission. As someone who only has to sniff alcohol fumes to be inebriated and knowing that itâs a depressant and therefore not helpful dealing with insomnia, I went for the toddler cure instead â tire yourself out during the day and wind down before bedtime.
My YouTube workout in the garden had to be aborted having been sabotaged by my son mimicking the American instructors: âGo Barbaraâ!â and âGimme five more of your best Betsyâ, resulting in me arm wrestling said child to the ground with an attack of the giggles.
Next was a family ball game of HORSE (what bright spark changed the name from DONKEY)? When himself and son with English accents shout: âYouâre a âHORâ at an Irish woman, it didnât go down well with the older neighbours who were walking past.
âShe dropped the ball â three timesâ the lads explain in unison, but the neighbours only ever played DONKEY so they walk away mumbling, âThatâs no reason to call her a whore, likeâ.
The thing my son misses most about school is his friends, who are particularly important if youâre newly arrived from England and your Irish accent needs breaking in before secondary school.
He had just nailed, âCawldâ and âIâm the fineishtâ, before tutorials were cut short.
When he first started school he thought his teacher was picking on someone. He didnât know who it was, just that she kept shouting âWrong OâShea!â
I explained that she was saying, âRang a SĂ©, which is Gaelic for Sixth Classâ!
In the evening, I did a few laps of the garden before practicing meditation, then, noticing the clear night sky, I woke my son and, lying barefoot and in pyjamas, wrapped in a blanket looking up at the Milky Way, I thanked my lucky stars for these stolen magic moments of childhood.
That night, safe in the knowledge that I hadnât spawned a serial killer, I slipped into sleep like a stockinged foot into a silken slipper.
â Tess Finch-Lees is an international human rights journalist, who writes for the Guardian and other outlets. She is also a therapist and lecturer in ethics and discrimination. Having spent her childhood between Dublin, Galway and Mayo, she recently returned home to live in her motherâs native Galway.
Today, Saturday 22nd March, to protest the failure of the Irish government to hold Israel accountable, the Ireland-Palestine Solidarity Campaign, supported by more than 150 Irish civil society groups, is holding a National Demonstration for Palestine â to send a message to the government that the Irish public want sanctions on the racist, apartheid, genocidal Israeli regime NOW! The march will call for an end to Israelâs continued genocidal attacks on Palestinian in Gaza and the the West Bank, for states to stop arming Israel, an end to the use of Irish airspace for transporting weapons, for an end the to the Central Bank of Ireland's role in funding genocide, and for the Irish government to take action to hold Israel accountable.
It will be the fourteenth such national mobilisation since October 2023 - all of which have seen tens of thousands flood Dublin's streets in opposition to Israel's slaughter in Gaza that has seen at least 47,000 people killed, as well as more than 800 in the West Bank.
Protestors will assemble at 1pm at the Garden of Remembrance on Parnell Square, and will march from there to Leinster House for a rally outside the DĂĄil.
Speakers at the rally will include BDS Movement Co-Founder Omar Barghouti, renowned Palestinian writer and intellectual Ghada Karmi, Gaza genocide survivor Shahd Almodallal, Mahmoud an engineer from Gaza, and IPSC Chairperson Zoë Lawlor.
The rally will be MCed by Palestinian doctor Abdallah Al-Bayyari, and there will be musical performances by Abdallah alongside duo Leen & Latif, and violinist Aoife Kelly.
Speaking ahead of the protest, IPSC Chairperson Zoë Lawlor said, "A few days ago, Apartheid Israel horrifically broke the Gaza ceasefire and has now murdered almost 600 more people, 70% of the victims women and children. It has re-invaded Gaza, and its war criminal leaders, backed by the Trump regime, are intent on ethnic cleansing both the Strip and the West Bank.
"UN Special Rapporteur on Palestine, Francesca Albanese, this week stated that 'Israelâs conduct aiming to ethnically cleanse the land between the river to the sea, amounts to a genocidal campaign to erase Palestinians as a people,' and that the 'international community must uphold its obligation to protect Palestinians from annihilation.'
"Instead, earlier this month MicheĂĄl Martin laughed along with the repulsive Trump as the Taoiseach praised his "unrelenting focus on peace". The same Trump that has spoken of his desire to see Gaza ethnically cleansed of Indigenous Palestinians and who, mere days later, greenlit Apartheid Israel's renewed genocidal assault on the people of Gaza. This was a truly cowardly performance, the vassal kneeling before the lord - and the Irish government would have us all bow meekly before Trump.
"But we will not be bowed! This Saturday we'll be back on the streets in even greater numbers to tell this craven government that instead of betrayals, backsliding and cowardice in the face of the US empire's threats, we want the Occupied Territories Bill, the Illegal Israeli Settlements Divestment Bill, and the Arms Embargo Bill passed, we want the Central Bank to Stop funding genocide, an end to the use of Irish airports and airspace to transfer weapons, we want Israel kicked out of the EU-Israel Association Agreement, and we want to ditch the anti-Palestinian IHRA-WDA.
"In short, WE WANT SANCTIONS NOW!"
Raised a glass to my foremothers & fathers who taught me that knowledge is power & truth is my anchor.
Paddy's day classic, Alan Partridge sketch. If you've ever been to a pub anywhere in rural Ireland, you will have met a Martin Brennan. Some of them are my unclesđ âđ
I posted this little vid last year & am posting again because it warms my heart to hear the story of St Patrick told by a Dublin child (Mary) in her own magical words - in the 1960sđ
Paddy's day shindig with our dear friends. Craic agus ceol in abundance with & the odd jig or two â. Paddy's day points were awarded for the person wearing the most green. I wonđđ
To mark the 5 year anniversary of the ongoing pandemic, I've been posting my lockdown diaries.
My grandparents used to buy the Connacht Tribune every week to read about the cattle marts, who was fined for not contributing to the "voluntary" collections at mass, who was shortlisted for the Rose of Tralee at the ballroom of (no)romance. And the death notices.
As a child, I read the letters section (granny didn't have a tele). I was fascinated by the things that made ordinary people, mostly men, mostly farmers, so impassioned to come in after milking the cows, between the angelus & the boiled bacon & cabbage & take pen to paper. It started my love affair with words & helped me appreciate that the most interesting stories are told by authentic voices. In sentences constructed to fit their words & meaning, Zero rules. Zero fecks given.
When SARS-CoV-2 struck, I was ensconced in a little cottage by the sea in Galway & began writing lockdown chronicles for the Tribune. A satirical column intended to give light relief during that early, terrifying lockdown phase (all of 6 weeks). It was a great privilege & career highlight. Sad that my mam & dad weren't alive to read the column which I secretly dedicated to them & my grandparents. I hope I did them proud. Ar dheis dé go raibh a n-anamacha.
Protective parenting can morph into borderline paranoia in the midst of pandemic â as TESS FINCH-LEES admits in this weekâs chronicle of life under lockdown.
With each passing day in lockdown, I find myself morphing into Aunt Josephine in Lemony Snicketâs âA Series of Unfortunate Eventsâ.
âCome quicklyâ (beckoning the orphaned children into the house), âNot that quickly! You might trip over the welcome mat and decapitate yourselvesâ.
Iâve banned activities that carry even a remote risk of ending up in A&E until this health emergency has passed. Yesterday, I scolded my son for climbing a tree âin well-ing-tons! Do you have an actual death wish?!â
He attempted to take the Beano from the shopping bag last week. âDonât touch it!â I yelled, like a demented banshee. âIt has go in the oven at 100°C for five minutes!â
Child: âI want to read it, not eat it?â Me: âIt has to be sterilised at high heat to kill the virusâ (donât try this at home, itâs not scientifically endorsed)!
Himself says he and child are camping in the garden tonight (I suspect itâs to get away from me, but I canât be sure).
Me: âHave you done a risk assessment? If you catch pneumonia, donât expect to be given a ventilatorâ
With another three weeks of lockdown to go, I decided to give meditation (as opposed to medication) a go.
A local practitioner generously provides free livestreamed sessions. Iâm sitting cross legged on the floor, trying, and failing miserably, to focus on my breathing.
âItâs OK if your thoughts wanderâ, he says, in mellifluous tones, âBut bring them gently back to your breathingâ.
I managed five breaths before my mind ventured into perilous terrain, my parenting skills. Iâm not Cruella de Vil but Iâm no Mary Poppins either.
Iâve faced many challenges in my professional life, such as being locked in a room with the Yorkshire Ripper, having a fatwa issued against me by a genocidal despot and a feckwa from Bob Geldof â but, by far the hardest thing Iâve ever done, is parenthood.
When my son was four, he lassoed a toddler with his Bob the Builder belt in the middle of the spirits aisle at Aldi.
I had an overwhelming urge to pretend he wasnât mine whilst making a frenzied beeline for the nearest exit with a bottle of Paddy in one hand and an own brand chocolate gateaux in the other. The thought alone, racked me with guilt. What kind of a mother would think that?
I donât even drink whiskey.
At moments like that, I draw on Dr Winnicottâs âgood enoughâ parenting. I filed it away when I studied child psychology, knowing Iâd need it if I became a mother. Basically, thereâs no such thing as the perfect parent. We strive to be the best we can and most of the time weâll get it right(ish), but sometimes, weâll get it wrong and thatâs OK.
Coronavirus has placed a huge burden on parents to keep our children safe. Measures that were previously considered neurotic are the new normal. But, children also need fun, physical activity and, now more than ever, lots of cuddles, in order to thrive. For that, we have to nurture ourselves too and practice self-forgiveness.
Children, although resilient, will probably be feeling varying degrees of anxiety now, or picking up on ours.
Being emotionally available and spending time with them, whether itâs digging for worms in the garden (if youâre lucky enough to have a garden), or baking cakes and making jigsaw puzzles, means prioritising our sanity.
There are only so many stand offs Iâm prepared to have over mental maths or unmade beds. There are times in life, and this is one, when survival and self-preservation are the bigger battles to be won.
Whenever I feel the urge to scream because Iâve tripped over my sonâs shoes which arenât in their proper place, I think of the Seamus OâNeill poem.
âBhĂ subh milis, Ar bhaschrann an dorais, Ach mhĂșch mĂ© an corraĂ, Ionam dâĂ©irigh, Mar smaoinigh mĂ© ar an lĂĄ, A bheas an baschrann glan, Agus an lĂĄimh bheag, Ar iarraidh.â
[âThere was jam on the door handle, but I suppressed the anger that rose up in me, because I thought of the day that the door handle would be clean, and the little hand would be gone.â]
Then, I go outside, with a bottle of Paddy in one hand and an own brand chocolate gateaux in the other, and, ensuring Iâm a safe distance from overhanging branches, breathe deeply, and scream.
â Tess Finch-Lees is an international human rights journalist, who writes for the Guardian, UK Independent and many other outlets. She is also a lecturer, specialising in ethics and discrimination. She recently returned home and lives with her family in Gort, back where she spent her summers in her motherâs native place.
Press Release, Ireland-Palestine Solidarity Campaign, Monday 10th March
A protest, organised by the Ireland-Palestine Solidarity Campaign (IPSC), will take place outside the Meeting of the Central Bank Commission at the Central Bank of Ireland on North Wall Quay, TOMORROW Tuesday 11th March between 12.30pm and 2pm to demand an immediate end to the regulation of Israel Bonds. The protest follows this afternoon's occupation of the Central Bank by Palestine solidarity activists, and will be addressed by Marie Sherlock TD (Labour), Ruth Coppinger TD (Solidarity), and Cllr Darragh Adelaide (PBP), with more to be confirmed.
Why? Israel Bonds fund genocide. In September 2024, nearly a year into the genocide in Gaza, the CBI renewed its regulation of the bonds on basis that: The net proceeds from the issue of the Bonds are intended to be used for the general financing purposes of the Issuer which explicitly includes military action, which resulted in drafting more than 300,000 reservists, launching the war in Gaza with the aim of negating Hamasâ political and military capabilities in Gaza and releasing all hostages.
Israel is at War â Stand with Israel is the slogan use to sell the bonds. On the website which markets the bonds, Israeli President Isaac Herzog lauds âthe crucial role of Israel Bonds during this time of conflict and warâ and advocates âunwavering support" for the nuclear-armed genocidal apartheid state.
By regulating Israel Bonds and thereby acting as the lynchpin for their sale in Europe, the CBI is violating the violating the Genocide Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide which is encoded in Irish law in the Genocide Act 1973. Complicity in genocide is specifically named in the Act as a crime, (schedule, article III). Article IV states Persons committing genocide or any other act enumerated in Article III shall be punished, whether they are constitutionally responsible rulers, public officials or private individuals.
IPSC Chairperson ZoĂ« Lawlor said: "The IPSC believes that the Central Bank must stop funding apartheid Israelâs ongoing slaughter of civilians in Gaza, the West Bank, Lebanon and elsewhere. Not only is there a moral obligation, but there is also a legal obligation under the Genocide Convention not to be complicit in genocide. Regulation of Israel Bonds places the Central Bank of Ireland at the heart of Israelâs fund-raising for genocide, apartheid and the illegal settlements. The CBI is the lynchpin for the sale of the bonds in Europe and this is shameful complicity in genocide.
"While a fragile ceasefire currently holds in Gaza, all aid has been blocked by Israel from entering Gaza. The people of Gaza, over 1.9 million of whom are displace and living in catastrophic conditions, are being subjected to a renewed threat of starvation. At the same time, Israel is intensifying its assault on the West Bank where Israeli forces have destroyed scores of homes and critical infrastructure. The Jenin, Nur Shams, and Tulkarem refugee camps have been subjected to weeks of sustained violence and destruction."
Ms. Lawlor concluded: "We call on the Central Bank Commission which is meeting today to seriously consider its obligations under the Genocide Convention and to withdraw the right of Israel Bonds to trade under the authority of the Central Bank of Ireland. Regulation must be ended immediately. The Central Bank must stop facilitating the sale of apartheid Israelâs war bonds which directly fund its crimes against the Palestinian people. If the CBI does not end regulation of Israel bonds, then the government must act. Ireland is a signatory to the Genocide Convention, so the government is obliged to make sure that our state institutions do not facilitate genocide."
Ken Powell, of the IPSC Dublin branch said: "Across the world the campaign against Israel Bonds is growing, with massive divestment from these bonds in the past year.
"In February 2024, Norwayâs oil fund divested $500m dollars from Israel Bonds. In July, the American Federation of Teachers announced full divestment from Israel Bonds. In August, the UKâs largest private-sector pension fund, the Universities Superannuation Scheme, divested ÂŁ80m from Israeli assets including Israel Bonds, following sustained pressure from the pension fundâs members, represented by the University and College Union (UCU). In October 2024, the Northern Ireland Local Government Officersâ Superannuation Committee, one of the largest pension schemes in Northern Ireland, announced its divestment from Israel Bonds. Two of the largest US churches, the United Methodist Church and the Presbyterian Church USA, also voted to divest from Israel Bonds in May and July respectively.
"We demand that the Central Bank of Ireland stop facilitating the sale of Israel bonds â bonds that fund genocide and crimes against the Palestinian people â immediately."
Happy International Women'sđ
By way of sharing the love, please read my radical feminist manifesto written some years ago. No drink had been taken.
My grandparents used to buy the Connacht Tribune every week to read about the cattle marts, who was fined for not contributing to the "voluntary" collections at mass, who was shortlisted for the Rose of Tralee at the ballroom of (no)romance. And the death notices.
As a child, I used to read the letters section (granny didn't have a tele). I was fascinated by the things that made ordinary people, mostly men, mostly farmers, so impassioned to come in after milking the cows, between the angelus & the boiled bacon & cabbage & take pen to paper. It started my love affair with words & helped me appreciate that the most interesting stories are told by authentic voices. In sentences constructed to fit their words & meaning, Zero rules. Zero fecks given.
When SARS-CoV-2 struck, I was ensconced in a little cottage by the sea in Galway & began writing lockdown chronicles for the Tribune. A satirical column intended to give light relief during that early, terrifying lockdown phase (all of 6 weeks). It was a great privilege & career highlight. Sad that my mam & dad weren't alive to read the column which I secretly dedicated to them & my grandparents. I hope I did them proud. Ar dheis dé go raibh a n-anamacha.
Putting things off can be foolhardy at the best of times â but, as journalist TESS FINCH-LEES discovered in Gort, it was the cause of a whole different kind of meltdown in a pandemic.
âNever put off till tomorrow what can be done todayâ. That was one of my motherâs many mantras. One day into lockdown, I realised the wisdom of those words.
When my son looks back on the photos, heâll never forgive me for missing his barberâs appointment. He already looks like a cross between Terry Wogan and Che Guevara â and heâs only twelve.
Bad hair is one thing, but running out of medication is another. The prescription that could have been renewed anytime in the last six months, was about to expire.
Given that Iâd rather poke my eye out with a sausage than cross the threshold of a pharmacy in the midst of a global pandemic, the oversight unhinged me.
We parked in front of the chemist, which was opposite the bank. As I alighted the car, donning dark glasses, a snood pulled over my face and a hat bearing unfortunate similarities to a balaclava, I shouted at my husband: âKeep the engine running. Itâll need to be a quick get away!â (We had a click and collect slot booked in Eurospar afterwards).
There I was, in the middle of Gort, looking for all the world like a drug-addled bank robber on the verge of a panic attack, wondering why people were staring at me.
I had emailed the prescription in advance and explained that I didnât want to go inside, so the pharmacist kindly arranged to meet me at the door when she opened after lunch, at precisely 2pm.
For the deal to be done as precipitously as possible, I just had to keep a cool head and have the exact money ready.
Grappling with coins in gloved hands is a bit like Carlowâs quest for the Liam McCarthy; if you stick at it long enough it might happen, but the odds arenât great.
Research indicated that Covid-19 can last on surfaces for several days, touching the coins was not an option.
At 1.55pm, I upturned my purse on the pavement and got down on my hands and knees to count out âŹ7.30. Onlookers werenât sure whether to call the guards (the balaclava) or the men in white coats (all of the above).
By 1.57pm, I was upright again and, although I thought I had clawed back a semblance of composure, people were still staring and Iâm pretty sure I caught my child exchange a conspiratorial eye roll with a passer-by, as if to say: âWhoâs yer wan?â.
I wasnât always embarrassing. There was a time, pre Covid-19 (and motherhood), that I was borderline cool.
I once blagged a meeting with the British mediaâs equivalent of the Dali-Lama, by telling his PA that I was a Colombian drugs mule. Like all white lies, there was an element of truth to the story.
I did live in Colombia, where I had ridden a mule and, on my return, I was stopped by security at Gatwick for acting suspiciously.
I was wearing dodgy dark glasses and surreptitiously sniffing suspected narcotics in the baggage area. Fortunately, Vickâs Nasal Spray is not deemed a Class A drug in Britain (though that could change after Brexit), so I was released without charge.
At 2pm sharp, the pharmacist gingerly made her way to the door and the deal was done.
Inexplicably unable to move, I stood there, unravelling like my grannyâs woollen shawl, when a middle-aged woman smiled from afar and said: âYouâll be grand, loveâ.
That was another of my motherâs mantras and I realised that, in the panic of lockdown, I had forgotten the anniversary of her death.
That gnawing, barbed wire feeling in my belly was unadulterated grief, which, buried under and exacerbated by Coronavirus, was debilitating.
I can bribe my family for hugs, so Iâll be grand â but what about friends, neighbours, homeless and those in direct provision, who are alone?
The world is in lockdown but isolation, though crucial, amplifies loneliness, which presents the humanitarian challenge of finding new ways to reach out to the vulnerable in our communities.
Be it a smile, a phone call, a kind word or deed.
âThereâ, as my mother would say, âbut for the grace of god, go I.â
Footnote:âHuge thanks to Orna in Gilmartinâs Pharmacy, Gort, for going above and beyond the call of duty and to all our essential workers who do that everyday. Youâre heroes one and all!
â Tess Finch-Lees is an international human rights journalist, who writes for the Guardian, UK Independent and many other outlets. She is also a lecturer, specialising in ethics and discrimination. She recently returned home to Ireland and is living in Gort, her motherâs native place.
