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LAST UPDATE | 3 Jul
ON SUNDAY, 22 JUNE, I watched with fear as angry crowds marched down O’Connell Street in Dublin amidst a sea of tricolours and intermittent “Jesus is King” flags.
Those marching yelled “get them out” with such rage. I stood among those who gathered to counter their message of hate, alongside fellow Irishmen and women of all backgrounds.
I felt deeply depressed listening to their chants as the rain poured down. I was reminded that those on “the other side” were in the minority – that the majority of Irish people are not racist. Yet our counter demo felt too small. If the majority truly opposed the rising tide of fascist rhetoric taking hold, why were there so many more of them on our streets that Sunday?
Why had their counterparts up North been emboldened to wreak havoc in Ballymena? Why have we not collectively addressed the deeply damaging impact of the Dublin Riots – those November riots that saw our city centre set alight and refugees attacked in our capital city, revealing how fragile our perceived sense of safety is?
I fear I have the answers. Our complacency as a nation has allowed us to sleepwalk to this moment. I could detail the generations of neglect creating inequality that creates a fertile breeding ground for far-right sentiment, or the media ecosystem spreading misinformation and imported hatred.
Instead, this is my personal plea and call to action to my fellow Irish people, before it’s too late. I could try to rationally refute the tropes that Ireland is full and that we need to protect our children from the current day boogeyman – the oh so scary “unvetted male”. This article will do none of those things.
I’m an Irish woman, born and bred, whose mother’s family are as Dublin as they come. But my identity has always been layered and complex. My father is from Pakistan; he emigrated here from Germany when he married my mother in the early 80s.
With both parents practising, I was raised Muslim, and simultaneously felt truly Irish as we spent every Christmas exchanging gifts at our grandparents’ house, and I attended an all-girls’ Catholic school in the 90s.
I inherited something precious from both sides of my heritage – pride in cultures that understood colonisation, displacement and resistance. Both Irish and Pakistani histories knew struggle, injustice and the need to fight back. What I took from Islam, even as my personal faith evolved over the years, eventually leading me away from religious belief entirely, was the fundamental duty to stand with the oppressed and to fight injustice. This commitment became core to who I am.
I believe there was less overt racism during the Celtic Tiger years than today, but it wasn’t non-existent. Racial gaslighting was the norm, with an overarching narrative that “Ireland isn’t racist.” The constant reminders that Ireland is the land of “céad míle fáilte” made me question and silence my own lived experiences.
But my experiences are valid. I recall checking the bus timetable on my way home from school one day and politely asking an elderly woman if she had the time. I can still picture her; grey hair, long fuchsia cashmere coat, pearl necklace – which she figuratively clutched as she looked me up and down, offering her response: “I don’t have anything for the likes of you.”
My jaw dropped. I felt tears well up as I accepted the reality of that interaction. Afraid to let my hurt show, I did what victims of bullies are taught… I walked away. I sped past the Rathmines Garda station towards Rathgar, hopping on a bus at a later stop. When I arrived home, I kept my experience to myself. I didn’t cry until I was alone in my room.
There were other experiences. Standing in Ranelagh after school, two men on a horse and carriage screamed at me to “go back to where you came from and stop taking our jobs.” Did they mean Knocklyon? What job had I taken? I was in third year secondary school, and my parents wouldn’t let me get a job babysitting yet.
I wore a hijab for a decade during the seismic shift of the post-9/11 era. That visible marker shaped not just how the world saw me, but how I navigated every space during my formative years. Those were the years when I learned what it meant to be visibly Muslim in my own city, when the theoretical possibility of racism became a lived, daily experience.
During this time, I found solidarity with activists marching against the Iraq War in 2003, standing alongside fellow Irish people who understood empire and injustice. When other spaces felt hostile, I found community when protesting injustice.
When I stopped wearing hijab years ago, I carried the weight of that choice in silence. I was acutely aware of the weight of that personal choice for my family, community and identity. For a long time, I chose not to speak about that experience, afraid my story might feed the very Islamophobia I had endured. I worried my words might be weaponised against Muslim women who continued to wear the hijab. But even without a hijab, I continue experiencing Islamophobia. My recognisably Muslim name continues to invite assumptions. The discrimination may be less visible now, but it hasn’t disappeared.
Let no Irishman throw a stone at the foreigner; he may hit his own clansman. Let no foreigner revile the Irish; he may be vilifying his own stock.
James Connolly
On the night of the Dublin riots, I feared for friends and family as horrifying calls to attack immigrants appeared online, with reports of attacks against people of colour and women wearing hijab on O’Connell Street. Today, as violent racist attacks escalate and far-right rhetoric finds fertile ground, I realise that voices like mine are more crucial than ever.
What we’re witnessing feels disturbingly familiar to anyone who knows history. Too many good people are doing nothing, much like in the 1930s, when ordinary citizens allowed fascism to take root globally through inaction. Martin Niemöller’s well-known poem, First They Came seems ever too fitting, once again. They are currently coming for primarily non-white immigrants, Muslims and our trans brothers and sisters.
The Irish far-right, in bitter irony, is now marching alongside loyalists in Belfast, waving Israeli flags on Cork’s streets and finding common cause with the very forces our Republican ancestors fought against. They have abandoned the inclusive ideals that built our Republic in favour of imported hatred.
Watching the current genocide in Palestine, I see a continuation of patterns I’ve witnessed since youth — the same cycles of oppression, the same failure to stand with the vulnerable. The inheritance I carry from my Muslim upbringing is this: justice is not negotiable. I have spent decades watching, experiencing and documenting the rise of racism in Ireland. I have lived through the transformation from a country that prided itself on “céad míle fáilte” to one where “Ireland is full” is chanted on our capital’s streets.
If we truly value the principles Irish Republicans fought for, the vision of an Ireland built on equality, justice and solidarity with the oppressed, then we cannot remain silent while racist ideologies poison our communities. The fight against Islamophobia is not just about protecting Muslim communities; it’s about preserving the soul of Irish republicanism itself.
The time for comfortable silence has passed. If the majority of Irish people truly oppose the far-right tide threatening our communities, then that majority must make itself heard. I refuse to let my Ireland be stolen by those who have forgotten, or worse, never cared to learn what Irish resistance really means.
Fatima Ahmed is a mixed-race Irish-Pakistani Dubliner and anti-racism activist. She holds an MSc Violence, Conflict and Development from SOAS University of London and has worked in international development and tech policy.
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