“Solidarity does not demand a spectacle;
it requires consistency and gentleness.”
On Roma Genocide Memorial Day, Pavee Point is honoured to publish an article by Dr. Rosaleen McDonagh reflecting on the shift towards ethnic discrimination in Ireland and globally. A previous and valued Board member at Pavee Point, Dr. McDonagh is a playwright, activist, academic, and author. She is widely known for her work exploring the intersections of Traveller identity, disability, feminism, and human rights.
The piece is particularly resonant and timely. For both Roma and Travellers with shared histories of discrimination and systemic racism, the article underscores the urgency of solidarity in the face of growing hostility.
The genocide of Roma and Sinti under the Nazi regime began with subtle discrimination, racial stereotyping, exclusion from schools, anti-Roma laws, and denial of civil rights.
On this day of remembrance, Dr. McDonagh’s words serve not only as a call to acknowledge the horrors of the past but also as a demand to confront racism and hate speech in contemporary Ireland.
Masquerading Myths
By Dr. Rosaleen McDonagh
The marching season in Northern Ireland returns each summer, bringing with it a tense choreography of flags, drums, and contested spaces. This year, however, the familiar rhythms have shifted. The drums now beat not only in loyalist parades but throughout the streets and towns. The slogans, the fury, and the targets—these no longer adhere strictly to sectarian lines. The areas once defined by deep-rooted conflict now witness new eruptions of hate, less burdened by history and more open to projection. While sectarianism once camouflaged its more violent impulses, today’s manifestations of hatred are free of such veils. Instead, the far-right seeks to unite various grievances under the banner of racial exclusion, with immigrants—particularly Roma—becoming the scapegoats.
The shift in Ireland, both North and South, is part of a broader global trend. In recent years, far-right ideologies have risen, and the angry chorus no longer comes from the fringe but from a digitised, algorithmically driven mass, cloaked in the language of “concerned citizens,” “community safety,” and “defending women and children.” Beneath these euphemisms lies the same old logic of hate.
One of the most potent tools for far-right mobilisation has been the portrayal of foreign men and racialised groups as sexual threats. This narrative is not new; however, it is alarmingly effective. It exploits a primal panic that has long been used to justify racism: Philosopher Judith Butler has eloquently captured this phenomenon, noting, “Sex and gender are weaponised in the service of forms of violence, anti-gender mobilisations must be thought of as a racist, antimigrant project.” In this light, migrants are cast as scapegoats, and the ensuing violence is framed as a righteous defense.
We witnessed this dynamic unfold with brutal clarity during the November 2023 riots in Dublin, when Roma women were dragged from buses and assaulted in the name of “protection.” Throughout Ireland, similar patterns have emerged. Towns once divided by national identity now unite in their resentment towards the newest, most visible, and most vulnerable group. The target may have shifted, but the methods have had a lasting impact.
Policies aimed at protecting racialised communities often fall short in both principle and implementation. The Habitual Residence Condition, for example, continues to deny many Roma access to social support, housing, and healthcare. This policy effectively pushes families into cycles of marginalisation, rendering them vulnerable to both poverty and public suspicion. Roma families report delays in police intervention, with safeguarding mechanisms appearing more reactive than preventive. Public condemnations typically arise only after harm has occurred, perpetuating a cycle of violence legitimised by media narratives.
Racism is never accidental. It is intentional, strategic, and premeditated, even when the violence appears to be spontaneous. It thrives in environments marked by economic insecurity, poor integration strategies, and cultural isolation. Solidarity among us is essential—too often, we find ourselves pitted against one another, unable to see the larger picture. We cannot afford to remain silent victims or passive observers of the harm being done. Our cultural heritage and traditions embody a form of dissidence that demands resistance. As those who have shared histories of systemic racism and discrimination, we understand the urgency of collective solidarity.
For Irish Travellers, this reality is all too familiar. We, too, are a people historically pathologised, legislated against, segregated in schools, and scapegoated in the media. Our presence has long been framed as a problem for society, a “threat” to the established order. This legacy, far from being a relic of the past, has been reinvigorated in recent years. The violence that emerged so quickly shows how swiftly old animosities can resurface and manifest in brutal assaults. It’s a clear illustration of how deeply entrenched these divisions remain.
Our community is an indigenous ethnic group of Ireland for centuries; yet, our history remains fraught with exclusion. By contrast, Roma are a transnational community whose journey across Eastern Europe and into Ireland has been marked by pogroms, linguistic exclusion, and systemic racism. The experiences of second- and third-generation Irish Roma living on this island reflect the ongoing violence of dispossession.
Despite these differences, our struggles should unite us. When the far-right targets one of us, it attacks all of us. This shared experience of marginalisation and exclusion calls for unity, not division. As philosopher Martha Nussbaum has wisely noted, “Racism, antisemitism, and sexism have all been driven by popular revulsion”—a visceral disgust masquerading as moral order. To combat these forces, we must unite, not only in moments of fear and terror, but also in times of resistance and resilience.
My refusal to answer for every member of my community was a decision made many years ago—a decision that tested my understanding of anti-racist values. Each of us navigates the world with our own stories, choices, and contradictions. The violence of collective blame is deeply harmful; it is often employed as a method of shaming and silencing, thereby feeding into our individual internalised shame and undermining our moral compass. The collective blame imposed on communities leaves no room for complexity, flattening identity into a single, easily dismissed narrative. Refusing to carry the blame does not imply distancing ourselves from one another; instead, it means reflecting, distinguishing fact from fiction, and resisting groupthink. It requires us to assert our humanity in the face of collective scapegoating. Solidarity is a challenging yet essential form of work. It involves listening across differences, showing up when it is easier to stay silent, and restraining the impulse to distance ourselves.
The far-right seeks to isolate us, to make each of us feel alone in our vulnerability. We are not alone. Quiet resistance is happening across Ireland. Roma mothers continue to take their children to school, not just to survive but to assert their right to be seen, to be safe, to belong. This act is not only one of dignity; it is an act of defiance and resistance.
The far-right thrives on spectacle, seeking riots, panic, fires, and fear. Solidarity does not demand a spectacle; it requires consistency and gentleness. It calls for Travellers to support Roma. It necessitates that Settled white Irish people confront racism not only online but also at their dinner tables, in their workplaces, and in their communities. Solidarity compels state institutions and services to act with courage and care.
The marching may have changed uniforms, but the pattern remains the same. Just as the Nuremberg riots in 1945 targeted Holocaust survivors through mobs unwilling to relinquish their hatred, today’s far-right groups—whether they are masked gangs or international movements like the Proud Boys of Oregon—revive the same choreography of fear. The language may shift, and the scapegoats may rotate, but the spectacle endures: violence dressed as pride, exclusion disguised as protection. What once echoed through the streets of postwar Europe now pulsates through our towns, our screens, and our politics. If we fail to name it, if we pretend it is new or isolated, we risk allowing it to become the norm.