At home in Ireland, there's a habit of avoidance, an ironical

Host: The pub was dimly lit, soaked in amber light and the low hum of conversation that always sounds like the ocean when it rains. Rain, yes — it was always raining here. The windows were streaked with silver, and the air smelled of peat smoke, whiskey, and the kind of melancholy that only Ireland seems to perfect.

A small fire burned in the hearth, throwing shadows across the worn wooden walls, where photographs of long-dead poets and rebels watched from crooked frames. Jack sat at a table in the corner, his grey eyes thoughtful, his hands wrapped around a glass of whiskey he hadn’t yet touched. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her dark hair falling into the glow of the candle between them.

The world outside was washed clean by the storm, but inside, there lingered the dust of history — the kind that never quite settles.

Jeeny: “Seamus Heaney once said, ‘At home in Ireland, there’s a habit of avoidance, an ironical attitude toward the authority figure.’”

Jack: Half-smiling. “Sounds about right. The Irish don’t fight power — they laugh at it. It’s our way of surviving tyranny with dignity.”

Jeeny: “Survival, yes. But doesn’t irony become a prison, too? A way of avoiding truth?”

Jack: “Maybe. But sometimes mockery is all you have left when resistance costs too much. You can’t beat the crown — so you make it the butt of the joke. That’s rebellion, Irish-style.”

Host: A burst of laughter rose from another table — a group of men arguing about football, their voices thick with pride and pint foam. Somewhere, a fiddle began to play faintly, weaving itself into the hum of the night like a heartbeat that refused to fade.

Jeeny: “You make it sound noble. But Heaney was warning us, wasn’t he? That we learned to hide behind irony — even from ourselves.”

Jack: “You think humor hides cowardice?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. It’s easier to be clever than to be brave. Irony lets us criticize power without ever confronting it.”

Jack: Leaning back. “That’s not cowardice. That’s endurance. Every empire that’s ever ruled this island tried to crush our spirit — through famine, language, law. But we laughed. We outlasted them by never taking them seriously. You can’t control a man who refuses to take your authority to heart.”

Jeeny: “But what about when that attitude turns inward? When we start mocking ourselves instead of power? When cynicism becomes culture?”

Host: The flames in the fireplace flickered, casting long, trembling shadows along the walls. Jack’s expression darkened, as though her words had hit too close to home.

Jack: “Cynicism’s just honesty in a darker coat. You live long enough under false crowns, you stop trusting sincerity. We learned to smile instead of scream.”

Jeeny: “But Heaney didn’t want us to just smile — he wanted us to speak. His whole poetry was about breaking that silence — to give voice to the unspoken, even if it trembled.”

Jack: “Aye, and that’s why he was different. He faced what we avoid. But not everyone’s a Heaney. Most people can’t afford to stare authority in the eye — political or personal. It’s safer to shrug, make a joke, and go on living.”

Jeeny: “Safe, yes. But it’s also how you forget who you are. There’s a thin line between endurance and erasure.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, tapping against the windows like fingers impatient for confession. The pub had grown quieter now; even the fiddle had softened, its melody gentler, as if listening.

Jack: “You talk about authority like it’s only politics. But it’s everywhere, isn’t it? The Church, the boss, the father at the dinner table. Ireland didn’t just learn irony — it inherited it.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Irony became a shield against shame. The priest preaches sin, the father drinks to forget, and the son makes a joke to survive them both.”

Jack: “You sound like you’re describing me.”

Jeeny: Softly. “Maybe I am.”

Host: The fire popped, and for a moment, neither spoke. The sound filled the silence like punctuation in a story too honest to continue.

Jack: “When my father died, the priest asked if I wanted to say something. I said no. I told a joke instead. Everyone laughed — even me. But that laugh stuck in my throat for years.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Heaney meant. Avoidance — not because we don’t care, but because feeling too deeply feels dangerous. Humor becomes a mask for pain.”

Jack: “And what do you want us to do? Tear the mask off? Walk around with our hearts bleeding for everyone to see?”

Jeeny: “Not always. But sometimes, yes. Because irony can’t heal. It just hides the wound.”

Host: The storm outside began to ease, its roar softening into a whisper of distant thunder. Jeeny’s eyes caught the candlelight, and her voice dropped, tender and unflinching.

Jeeny: “Heaney wasn’t condemning us — he was reminding us. That laughter without honesty is hollow. That defiance without vulnerability becomes habit, not courage.”

Jack: “And yet, that habit saved us.”

Jeeny: “True. But now it’s time to grow past it. We’ve learned to laugh at power. Maybe now it’s time to speak truth to it.”

Host: The wind outside sighed through the chimney, a long, sorrowful note. The fire dimmed. The faces in the old photographs — poets, revolutionaries, dreamers — seemed to watch with quiet approval, as if this conversation had been waiting centuries to happen.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, you remind me of those poets — the ones who couldn’t leave well enough alone. Always poking wounds just to see if they’d still bleed.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am one of them. Because wounds that don’t bleed — they fester. And Heaney taught us that facing pain is the only way to make art, and maybe even freedom.”

Jack: Smiling faintly. “You sound like Ireland herself.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe Ireland needs to hear her own voice again.”

Host: The rain stopped at last, and for the first time that night, the moon broke through the clouds, spilling its pale light across the wooden floor. The air smelled of salt and smoke and history — of a land that has laughed, cried, and endured.

Jack finally lifted his glass, holding it up between them.

Jack: “To Heaney, then. And to honesty — however uncomfortable it may be.”

Jeeny: “To breaking the habit of avoidance.”

Host: Their glasses clinked, soft and clear — like two truths finally finding harmony.

The firelight caught their faces — one lined with weary humor, the other glowing with fierce conviction — and for a moment, Ireland itself seemed to breathe through them.

Outside, the rain-washed streets glistened like new words written on an old page. And the voice of Seamus Heaney, faint but eternal, seemed to echo in the wind:

“Whatever you say, say nothing —
but one day, say it anyway.”

And in that quiet pub, beneath the ghosts of poets and the scent of peat and memory,
Jack and Jeeny finally did.