By Chris Brauer
This past year I’ve been writing a book about my travels in Ireland, and lately I’ve been researching life on the Blasket Islands (off the coast of County Kerry). Though the islands were inhabited at various times over hundreds of years, it was in the 1910s that a group of anthropologists, linguists, musicologists and writers came to the islands to study and record a culture that was largely untouched by the modern world. They came to see the disappearing village life and they came to hear a form of Irish Gaelic not heard elsewhere for centuries. They understood the importance of the micro-culture that existed there, and they encouraged the islanders to write down their own stories. In the 1920s and 1930s, the Blasket Island people produced books that are now deemed classics in the world of literature. They wrote of living on the very edge of Europe, and brought to life the hard times on the far reaches of civilization.
Island life was a constant hardship and struggle. The land was poor and sandy, and garden plots were scattered. Some had a cow or two, but a year’s supply of manure would not go far on the smallest holdings, and the dung had to be supplemented by material from the beach: mussel shells and seaweed, and even the soot from the chimney was spread as fertilizer. Islanders had to cross an often-perilous five-kilometer crossing to the mainland, followed by a seven-kilometer walk to the nearest priest or a fifteen-kilometer walk to reach a doctor. In the 19th century, the islanders ate only two meals a day. Both meals consisted of potatoes and fish, with a bowl of sour milk if they were lucky. It was only after a tea chest washed ashore after a shipwreck did tea become a drink of choice.
While some the islanders often entertained guests during the summer months, their lives would change dramatically when the last of the visitors left at the end of summer and the long dark nights set in. Life closed around them and from then on it was a dreary, depressing time. Spinning, knitting and patching were the main nighttime occupations for most women. At its peak in 1911, the village was home to approximately 160 people. But in the years after WWI, emigration of the youth, the decline of the fishing industry, and insufficient communication and transport to the mainland created vulnerability for the small community. The number of residents steadily declined, resulting in a largely aging population exposed to the extreme conditions on the islands. Driven by increasing hardships and struggling to survive, the islanders began to lobby the government to be relocated to homes on the mainland in the late 1940s. The eventual evacuation finally came in 1953. Today, all that remains are the drystone walls of village homes in various degrees of decay. The crumbling roads and pathways speak to the rhythms of a community and a way of life that has disappeared from this beautiful place. The more I delved into my research and the more early photographs and film reels I discovered, the more I thought about the strong sense of community on the Blaskets. Though life was incredibly difficult, the islanders were strongly connected to each other. They relied on each other to fend off hunger and loneliness and, in doing so, they must have also felt that they belonged and mattered and that their needs would be met through their commitment to each other. In that way, they probably felt more like an extended family than merely an island of nameless neighbours.
Villages and towns in Ireland (and across the Western world) are far different today. Communities have been replaced with networks in which we keep in touch with only our closest friends and family. At a time when we can swipe a touchscreen to connect with products, people and information from anywhere in the world, we are in danger of disconnecting from our own communities. With the world at our fingertips, we are losing sight of what is outside the four walls of our homes.
When I was in Vancouver, visiting my brother, I became disorientated after a full day of exploring the busy city and forgot which apartment on the sixteenth floor was his. As I was attempting to unlock the wrong door, a woman came out of the elevator and asked who I was looking for. As there are only six apartments to choose from, I assumed she would know my brother and point me in the right direction. But she had no idea who he was, and it was only when I realized I should have turned right instead of left did I find the right door.
When I was growing up, we knew most of our neighbours and I played with several of the children while my parents would socialize with the other adults. We would look out for each other’s homes or pick up the mail if anyone went on vacation. We would welcome new neighbours with cookies and we would borrow a cup of sugar when we ran out. That doesn’t seem to be the case anymore.
I decided that life in a small town must be different than life in downtown Vancouver but, when I returned home, I realized that I only know two or three of my neighbours. The sense of community is not what it once was, even twenty years ago. The adage, ‘it takes a village to raise a child’ still rings true, but I wonder about what happened to that village. It’s an important part of human life to feel we belong to a certain group of people, especially at a young age, but with the development of technology people tend to transfer their lives into virtual worlds.
As much as I enjoy scrolling through Facebook and Instagram, and marvel at how much information is available at the click of a button, I am disgusted by how much time most of us spend on a screen. I am troubled by groups of teenagers that sit around and stare at their phones, or entire families in restaurants playing idiotic games before their meals arrive. We need to encourage young people to establish social connections in the real world and help rebuild a real sense of community.
I don’t want to romanticize life on the Blasket Islands. I have no desire to eke out a living from the anemic soil or row across the tumultuous sea in a traditional rowboat. I am happy to have running water, central heating, and a coffee shop up the street. But I do appreciate the islanders’ sense of community – the music and stories and sense of belonging. Perhaps, if we begin to question the rapid advancement of technology, we will find a balance and establish strong community connections once again. Or perhaps we will fall further down the rabbit hole and exist each as our own island, entire of itself.