Jennifer Carroll is a 21 year old actor and writer. She first began writing for the Uxbridge Cosmos in 2007 when she had the opportunity to share her experiences as a Canadian ambassador for an international conference for women in Dubai. At the beginning of 2008, she moved to Ireland to pursue a career in theatre and film. Far From Home is her monthly account on living and working in Dublin.
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Never Again
The wet, winter air is cold. The frost creeps over the glistening cobblestones that stretch out before them. The wind bites their ears and chaps their lips. However, it is not the frigid weather that sends a shiver down their spine, but the reason they gather in the darkness. They gather to march upon parliament, to face an issue that can no longer slip past this country, unaddressed.
The catalyst that ignited the crowds is an Indian woman named Savita Halappanavar. Just weeks ago, she was living in Galway with her husband, expecting their first child. One night, experiencing unrelenting back pain, she was taken to hospital where she could not possibly know what was to unfold. She was told, unequivocally, that she would miscarry her unborn child. However, with the fetus' heartbeat still faintly detectable, doctors refused to terminate. She requested termination. Her husband requested termination. The doctors would not comply, for it is against the law in this Republic of Ireland to abort a fetus if there is even the faintest signs of life. The dying, unborn child remained in her for days. She eventually succumbed to septicemia and died on October 28.
As the night darkens, the streets of Dublin light up with glittering Christmas cheer. But the glinting and sparkling lights do not touch the sombre crowd. Together they form a dark mass that moves through city streets ominously. Calm. Quiet. Disturbed. Loud. Angry. Sombre. Outraged. This mass is made up individual minds, individual hearts, ones that cannot endure the injustice of the poor mother-to-be's fate. Their mouths and feet cannot remain dormant. They must walk, they must be heard. For Halappanavar's voice has been forever silenced, and someone must speak.
They begin at the Garden of Remembrance, a memorial park at the top of Dublin city. The shadowy statue of the Children of Lir at its centre makes for a harrowing backdrop. The statue is meant to symbolize resurrection, but I cannot help but shudder when I think of the old Irish tale where the Children of Lir were transformed into swans by a jealous and petty stepmother, silenced for nine hundred years before withering into old men and women with the ending of the curse. The stone children watch the crowd disappear across the river toward parliament. Their voices raise and crack with the rain. Never again. The wind picks up against the heavy footsteps, but heads bend into it, undeterred. Never again. They square up to the bulky façade of their government, and stop for a moment of silence. Candles dot and sparkle through the dark evening air. Never. Again.
They gather for legislation. For change. They began to march two decades ago, and they march tonight. One woman begins the march again, for she was neither Irish nor Catholic, and yet she was held to their aged laws. Voices raise in Dublin and around the country. Never again, we say. Never again.
