Involution Labs

Category: Culture & Society

  • If You Want to Understand Russian Culture, Start with the Food

    When we think about Russia, food is rarely the first thing that comes to mind.

    More often, it’s politics, history, stereotypes—vodka, potatoes, cold winters. But if you really want to understand a culture, food is one of the most honest places to start.

    Russian food is not just “Russian.”

    It has been shaped by many cultures—French, German, Scandinavian, Caucasian. It borrows, adapts, absorbs. What ends up on the table is a mixture of influences that, over time, becomes something distinct.

    And yet, because Western culture dominates how we define “good food,” Russian cuisine is often overlooked or misunderstood.

    We recognise dishes like borshch or beef Stroganoff, but beyond that, many dismiss it without really engaging with it. And when we dismiss the food, we are often dismissing the culture with it.

    Food is never just food.

    It carries memory, history, survival.

    Russia has experienced periods of abundance, but also repeated famine and scarcity. That leaves a mark. Food becomes more than nourishment—it becomes something to hold onto, something to protect, something to share.

    That’s why hospitality matters so much.

    Tables are full. Guests are fed generously. Bread and salt are offered as a sign of welcome and respect. Even strangers can be invited to eat.

    There is a sense that food is not just for the body, but for connection.

    There is also something deeply seasonal and grounded about it.

    Russians eat what is available—grains, root vegetables, cabbage, mushrooms, berries. Food is preserved, pickled, dried, stored for winter. Foraging is still part of life for many, a quiet activity that feels almost meditative.

    It’s a way of being connected to the land.

    At the same time, Russian food is rich, colourful, and layered.

    Tables filled with small dishes—zakuski—served before the main meal. Soups, fish, meat, breads. Sour cream in everything. Sweet pastries, pancakes, cakes.

    It’s abundant, even when it comes from a history of scarcity.

    And that’s where something interesting happens.

    Because food reflects how people have lived.

    If you look at Russian cuisine closely, you see:

    • survival and celebration
    • hardship and generosity
    • borrowing and belonging

    We often approach other cultures through our own lens.

    We compare.
    We judge.
    We say “I like this” or “I don’t like that.”

    But food asks something different of us.

    It asks us to sit at the table.

    To taste without immediately deciding.

    To be open to something that doesn’t come from our own experience.

    There are no language barriers when eating.

    You don’t need to speak Russian to understand something about Russian life when you share a meal.

    Russia is vast, complex, and often misunderstood.

    But if you want to understand even a small part of it, don’t start with explanations.

    Start with the food.

    Sit down.

    Taste it.

    And pay attention to what it tells you.

  • When Help Doesn’t Feel Like Help

    What happens when someone asks for help and leaves feeling worse?

    It’s not always obvious. No raised voices. No clear mistake. And yet something shifts. The person who came to be heard walks away feeling misunderstood, reduced, or dismissed. This happens more often than we like to admit. Systems of care are built with good intentions. Mental health professionals are trained to support, diagnose, and guide. People enter these spaces expecting help.

    But sometimes the experience doesn’t match the intention.

    There is often a quiet pressure in these systems to know.

    To identify the issue.
    To name it.
    To move towards a solution.

    Uncertainty is uncomfortable. It slows things down. So instead of sitting with not knowing, we move quickly toward interpretation.

    The person becomes something to be understood from the outside.

    Authority plays a role too.

    The professional holds knowledge and structure. The person seeking help, especially a young person, comes in vulnerable, often unsure of how to express what they’re feeling.

    This imbalance shapes everything.

    What gets said.
    What gets heard.
    What gets taken seriously.

    Sometimes the problem isn’t what is said, but how quickly we move past it.

    Advice comes before understanding. Reassurance replaces curiosity. Language is used to contain something that hasn’t yet been fully expressed.

    Nothing intentionally harmful. And yet the result can be the same: The person doesn’t feel heard.

    Many people have had the experience of leaving a session feeling worse than when they went in.

    Not because no one cared. But because something didn’t land. Because the response didn’t match the experience.

    This is about recognising a pattern, not blaming professionals.

    Systems that prioritise efficiency, outcomes, and clarity can unintentionally make deep listening harder. Even the most well-meaning professional is working within constraints. And those constraints shape how care is delivered. For young people, this matters even more.

    If the first attempt to speak is met with misunderstanding or judgement, the next attempt becomes harder. Trust weakens. Silence feels safer.  Not because there is nothing to say.
    But because it feels like it won’t be heard.

    So, the question is simple, but not easy:

    What would it mean to truly listen? Not to fix. Not to interpret too quickly. Not to guide the conversation toward a known outcome. But to stay with the person long enough for something real to emerge.

    Sometimes help doesn’t feel like help. Noticing that is a starting point, not failure.

  • We Are What We Surf

    We often hear the saying “we are what we eat.” Others say we become what we think. But in the digital age, another question arises: do we also become what we surf?

    The internet has become the most addictive tool in modern life. We use it daily for information, communication, entertainment and work. Its benefits are obvious, but its long-term effects on how we think and behave are still unclear.

    The internet has changed our relationship with knowledge and communication.

    We read less in the traditional sense, yet we write more than ever before. Millions of people produce texts every day through messages, posts and comments.

    We connect with more people across the world, yet those connections can sometimes be more superficial than the relationships we form offline.

    Online we construct versions of ourselves—digital personas that may not always align with who we are in real life.

    At the same time, the internet allows unprecedented collaboration. People exchange ideas across cultures and disciplines, build communities and challenge traditional sources of authority.

    In many ways we have become our own publishers, researchers and commentators. When we seek expertise, we no longer rely solely on traditional institutions; we search for it ourselves.

    Just as food shapes the body and thoughts shape the mind, the information environments we inhabit may also shape who we become.

    Perhaps in the digital age we are not only what we eat or what we think.

    Perhaps we are also what we surf.

  • Education and the Fear of Thinking

    Education is often described as the foundation of a healthy society. Politicians praise it, parents worry about it, and schools are expected to shape the next generation into capable adults. Yet the question we rarely ask is a simple one:

    Does our education system actually encourage thinking?

    In many ways, modern schooling rewards the opposite.

    Education as a system of obedience

    In Ireland, the Leaving Certificate and the CAO system determine much of a student’s future. A single set of exams decides which university course a student can enter and often what career path becomes possible. The result is predictable: students learn how to play the exam game.

    Instead of exploring ideas, questioning assumptions, or making intellectual mistakes, students become experts at recognising patterns in past papers and reproducing expected answers. Success is measured not by curiosity or creativity, but by how well someone can memorise and perform under pressure.

    The system produces excellent test-takers. It does not necessarily produce independent thinkers.

    Other countries have taken a different approach. Finland, for example, emphasises creativity, collaboration, and flexible educational pathways. Students are encouraged to experiment, question, and even fail. In such systems, mistakes are treated as part of learning rather than evidence of failure.

    The contrast reveals something deeper than educational policy. It reveals different attitudes toward risk and authority.

    Fear as a motivational tool

    Schools often rely on fear to maintain discipline and motivate students. Children are told that if they do not work hard enough, they will fail in life. Sometimes the warnings are even more dramatic: that they will end up unemployed, addicted to drugs or living under a bridge.

    Many teachers believe they are motivating students. But fear is a dangerous tool. Some children respond with compliance, but others respond with anxiety, perfectionism or despair.

    A child who is constantly worried about failure does not learn freely. Instead, they learn to avoid mistakes at all costs.

    When fear becomes the underlying emotional atmosphere of education, curiosity slowly disappears.

    The forgotten students: those who feel deeply

    Schools are designed around averages. They assume that children learn in similar ways, at similar speeds, and respond to pressure in similar ways.

    But children are not a homogeneous group.

    Some children are particularly sensitive to their surroundings. They process information deeply, ask difficult questions, and respond strongly to injustice or hypocrisy. These children are often curious and imaginative, but they can also struggle in rigid environments where conformity is rewarded.

    In such systems, sensitivity is often treated as weakness. A child who feels deeply may be told not to be so emotional, not to overthink, not to ask too many questions.

    Over time, many of these children learn a painful lesson: school is a place where they do not fit.

    The myth of “teaching critical thinking”

    Educators frequently claim that schools teach students to think critically. Yet critical thinking cannot simply be taught as a technical skill.

    True criticism requires something deeper: a critical spirit. It requires teachers and students who are willing to question assumptions, debate ideas openly, and tolerate uncertainty.

    In many classrooms, however, students are encouraged to repeat approved perspectives rather than challenge them. Discussions that appear critical sometimes function more like intellectual exercises in conformity.

    When questioning becomes selective, education begins to resemble indoctrination rather than inquiry.

    Education and the courage to think

    A healthy education system should cultivate something far more valuable than exam scores: intellectual courage.

    Students should be encouraged to explore ideas, challenge authorities, and pursue their own interests. They should learn that knowledge is not a set of fixed answers but a continuous process of discovery.

    Most importantly, they should feel safe enough to think freely.

    Education should not train students to memorise the correct answers. It should prepare them to ask better questions.

    Because in a rapidly changing world, the ability to question, adapt, and think independently will always matter more than the ability to pass a test.

  • Digital Natives and Digital Immigrants: Rethinking Age and Technology

    I wrote this piece six years ago, but reading it now, the core questions about digital inclusion and ageing still feel unresolved.

    Ageing in a Digital Society: Bridging the Digital Generational Divide

    Who is the first person you think of when you hear the term digital native?
    Most people imagine a young person who grew up in the digital age, someone for whom technology is a natural part of everyday life. Rarely do we picture an older adult who grew up in a world shaped by analogue media rather than digital information networks.

    Older adults are often described as digital immigrants, but is a simple age comparison enough to tell us anything meaningful about their relationship with technology? Not really. Age offers only a superficial explanation and often leads to the assumption that older adults resist technological change.

    The reality is more complex. Experience with technology and how it is used tell us far more about the digital divide than age alone. Older people are not necessarily resisting change. They are navigating a rapidly evolving technological landscape and making sense of it in their own way. Digital natives should invite digital immigrants into this world rather than assuming they will learn everything by themselves. Helping older adults participate in digital life benefits everyone.

    Surveys about technology use frequently group everyone over the age of 55 into a single category. This approach overlooks the diversity within older populations and reduces complex experiences to a single number.

    Finland and Ireland

    Ireland is often described as a young country in demographic terms, with around 13.4% of the population aged 65 and over. Finland, by contrast, is one of the oldest populations in Europe, with the fastest-growing age group being those aged 85 and over.

    Interestingly, Finland is also a leading country in the implementation of digital technologies in public services. Ireland, despite its younger population, has historically been less digitally integrated in many areas of public life.

    This suggests that digital inclusion is not simply about age, but about how societies approach technology. When older adults are treated as outsiders to technological change, they are more likely to be excluded from the systems being built around them. Too often, support takes the form of doing things for people rather than with them, which can reduce independence.

    Older adults who cannot use digital technologies may feel alienated from the society they helped build.

    In Finland, around 80% of senior citizens use the internet daily, while in Ireland the figure has been significantly lower. As more social and administrative activities move online, people who rarely use the internet risk becoming increasingly excluded from everyday life.

    Digitalisation and the Ageing Process

    Digitalisation has the potential to make ageing easier, not harder. Online services can simplify tasks such as banking, communication, healthcare access, and everyday administration. Yet older adults are often treated as an afterthought in the design of these systems.

    Older adults have different expectations and needs, but they still want to live independently and participate fully in society. Many are willing to learn new technologies, yet the devices and interfaces they encounter are rarely designed with their experiences in mind.

    Younger users often type quickly using both hands on small touchscreens. For older adults, small text, sensitive touchscreens, and complex menus can make even simple tasks frustrating. Constantly correcting errors or navigating unclear interfaces can quickly discourage use.

    Digitalisation has transformed almost every aspect of modern life, yet the ageing process is rarely considered during technology development. In the tech industry, people sometimes joke that you are considered “old” at forty. It is not surprising that the needs of older adults are often overlooked in design.

    Understanding the Digital World

    For many older adults, learning to use technology is not just about operating a device. They want to understand the broader changes happening around them.

    Keeping up with every development can be difficult, but building a basic understanding helps people feel more confident. What older adults often want is clear explanation without condescension.

    No one enjoys being treated as though they are back in school.

    Older adults want to accomplish tasks independently. They want to understand concepts such as the difference between computer memory and cloud storage in straightforward language. Technology should simplify life, not make it more confusing.

    Designing a More Inclusive Digital Society

    Digital services must be designed so that everyone can use them. This means access to support, opportunities to develop digital skills, and systems that take diverse needs into account.

    Digital inclusion is not just about access to devices. It also involves affordability, design, training, and support.

    Older adults often express concerns about privacy and sharing personal information online. While these concerns are understandable, fear-based messaging can discourage participation. Balanced education about digital safety is more helpful than alarmist warnings.

    Access also has a financial dimension. Many older people cannot afford the devices or internet connections required to participate fully in digital life. Without careful policy design, digitalisation risks widening inequalities.

    When designing digital systems, several factors should be considered:

    • training and support that help older adults maintain independence
    • affordable access to devices and internet services
    • recognition of diversity within older populations
    • age-friendly design, including readable text and accessible interfaces
    • clear instructions written in simple language
    • intuitive software that reduces unnecessary complexity
    • transition periods that allow time to adapt

    Older adults’ physical, social, and cognitive abilities must be taken into account when designing technology and the services built around it.

    A Society for All Ages

    The global population is ageing, and technology has the potential to support people in staying connected, active, and engaged throughout their lives. Digital tools can help people remain independent, access healthcare more easily, and continue working longer if they wish.

    However, digitalisation must be implemented carefully. If systems are designed without considering older adults, technology risks reinforcing ageism and inequality rather than reducing them.

    Inclusive design benefits everyone. When digital systems are built with a wide range of users in mind, they become easier and more effective for all.

    A truly digital society should not leave anyone behind.

  • What Was the Renaissance?

    The Renaissance was not a place. Although it began in Italy, it was primarily a change in mindset.

    After centuries of war, plague, and rigid religious authority, Europeans began to rediscover ancient Greek and Roman ideas about knowledge, human potential, and critical thinking. Scholars fleeing the Byzantine Empire brought classical manuscripts to Italy, where they were studied and copied.

    But the true engine of the Renaissance was not only the rediscovery of ancient texts. It was the printing press.

    Printing allowed knowledge to spread rapidly. Books that had once taken months or years to copy by hand could now be reproduced quickly and in large numbers. For the first time, ideas could circulate widely, allowing people to compare arguments, question authority, and think independently.

    The printing press created an information revolution.

    This shift transformed education, religion, science, and politics. It encouraged doubt, debate, and the belief that individuals could discover truth through reason rather than simply accepting inherited authority.

    In many ways, the Renaissance marked the beginning of the modern world.

    Today we may be living through something similar.

    Just as printing once transformed Europe, the internet is transforming the world. Knowledge is no longer controlled by scribes, priests, or universities. Anyone with access to the internet can publish ideas, share information, and participate in global conversations.

    In the Renaissance, humanists and scholars were the main producers of books. Today, anyone with a keyboard can become a writer.

    Both periods share a common feature: the rapid spread of knowledge.

    Yet the lesson of the Renaissance may also be a warning. The printing press spread both truth and error. New ideas flourished, but so did misinformation and ideological conflict.

    The same is true today.

    Just as Renaissance thinkers learned to question authority and evaluate sources critically, we must apply the same habits of logic, doubt, and reason in the digital age.

    The Renaissance was not only a rebirth of ancient learning. It was an awakening of human curiosity and critical thought.

    Perhaps our own time is experiencing a similar awakening.

  • Literature and Journalism: Where Do They Meet?

    What is the difference between literature and journalism? Are they two completely separate forms of writing, or are they simply different ways of telling the truth?

    Literature refers to written works, especially books and other printed texts. It can include fiction and non-fiction, prose and poetry, and many different forms such as novels, short stories, and drama. Literature uses language to create worlds, characters, and situations that may be fictional but still reflect real human experience.

    Storytelling is ancient. Long before printing presses and newspapers existed, people told stories orally. When writing systems developed in places like Mesopotamia and later in the Americas, stories began to be recorded. The invention of alphabets in the Middle East and Greece, papermaking in China, and later printing technologies transformed how stories were preserved and shared.

    Literature shaped human understanding of the world for thousands of years. Our sense of history, culture, and identity would be unimaginable without it.

    Journalism developed much later but shares some of the same roots. Journalism focuses on gathering, assessing, and presenting information about real events. The earliest journalistic records can be traced back to ancient Rome, where daily news was carved on stone and displayed in public places. In China, government bulletins also recorded events to keep officials informed.

    Modern newspapers began to appear in Europe in the early seventeenth century. The first regular German newspaper appeared in 1609, and English-language newspapers followed soon after. Over time, journalism became an organised profession with its own standards and practices.

    While literature explores truth through imagination, journalism aims to report facts about current events. Journalists traditionally focus on answering five key questions: who, what, where, when, and why. Their work is expected to be informative, accurate, and accessible to a broad audience.

    Today the internet has transformed both literature and journalism. Blogs, social media, and online publications have changed how stories are written, distributed, and consumed. At the same time, the boundary between professional journalism and citizen reporting has become less clear.

    The relationship between literature and journalism is often summarised in a famous phrase: journalism is literature in a hurry. Journalists must publish quickly, while writers of literature may spend years refining a single work.

    Yet both forms of writing attempt to capture truth. Literature turns truth into art and allows readers to imagine other perspectives. Journalism attempts to reveal what is happening in the world right now.

    Perhaps they are not opposites after all, but two different ways of helping us understand reality.

  • Where Do Fact and Fiction Begin and End?

    Is there really a clear line between fact and fiction?

    When we think about fantasy, it is easy to assume it is entirely invented. Yet imaginative writing often requires deep research. In some ways, fiction can be a way of searching for truth.

    Does it matter whether something really happened? Are works of non-fiction always completely truthful? And would non-fiction even be as interesting without a flicker of imagination?

    Sometimes fiction can contain more truth than factual writing. Non-fiction may also include narrative shaping, interpretation, or omissions. This is especially true in journalism, where reporters must interpret events based on incomplete information and sources that may disagree.

    Historians face the same challenge. History is not simply a collection of facts; it is an interpretation of events layered with perspective. Even if we had witnessed an event ourselves, we would never see all its layers. A historical novel therefore becomes a mixture of fact and fiction by necessity.

    Perhaps the most useful approach is to keep an open mind. When we read fiction, we can assume there may be truth hidden inside it. When we read non-fiction, we can assume that interpretation and bias may also be present.

    After all, stories marketed as “based on a true story” often attract us more strongly. They seem to carry greater value, even if the boundary between truth and invention is unclear.

    Today it may not be literature that shapes our sense of reality, but the stories we share online. Viral stories often gain trust simply because they are popular.

    So, do we prefer fiction, or at least a mixture of fact and fiction? And is that why people are often more interested in the stories behind the news than the news itself?

    Perhaps fiction is not the opposite of truth, but simply another way of approaching it.

  • The Introvert in the Corporate Classroom: Navigating an Extroverted Workplace

    In many large corporations, the workplace resembles a school environment—one where systems reward compliance and punish deviation. Performance reviews, bonuses, and penalties function like grades and detentions, shaping how employees navigate their roles. The corporate classroom, much like the school or university classroom, is built for those who thrive on visibility, conformity, and constant performance. For those who prefer quiet reflection and work best in small, intentional collaborations, it feels less like a workplace and more like a grind.

    This environment is particularly unforgiving for people whose strengths are depth, discernment, and independent thinking. The system does not merely overlook these traits—it actively misreads them.

    The Classroom Dynamic

    Modern corporate environments often operate like a perpetual classroom. Employees are continuously assessed, compared, and ranked using metrics that rarely capture the full scope of their contribution. The emphasis is not on understanding how work is done, but on whether it is seen being done.

    From day one, employees are evaluated on how quickly they absorb company culture and mirror expected behaviours. The onboarding process floods new hires with policies, acronyms, and frameworks, creating not just information overload but cognitive dissonance. Rules are presented as fixed, yet applied inconsistently. Seeking clarity can feel risky. Asking the “wrong” question, or asking it in the “wrong” forum, can quietly mark someone as difficult or slow.

    In this corporate classroom, confusion is framed as personal failure rather than a structural flaw. The result is an atmosphere where people feel constantly observed but rarely supported.

    Reward, Punishment, and the Cost of Visibility

    Performance reviews function as report cards, but the grading criteria are opaque. Praise is often tied less to the quality of work and more to how seamlessly someone conforms to expectations—communication style, responsiveness, enthusiasm, and deference.

    Punishment rarely arrives dramatically. It begins subtly: lukewarm feedback, contradictory expectations, or criticism framed as “developmental” but aimed squarely at personality or working style. An employee might be told they should have followed a stricter chain of command, while previously being encouraged to show initiative. Seeking clarity outside one’s immediate team can later be framed as overstepping.

    Over time, these mixed signals erode confidence. Small mistakes are magnified, while systemic inefficiencies remain unaddressed. For those who are less performative—who focus on the work rather than on being seen working—the message becomes clear: visibility matters more than substance.

    Age, Experience and Managed Infantilisation

    For older or more experienced employees, adapting to this corporate classroom can be especially disorienting. Professionals who once operated with autonomy find themselves micromanaged, reassigned without consultation, or required to “demonstrate flexibility” in ways that feel less like growth and more like compliance.

    The expectation to constantly adapt—to new tools, new terminology, unspoken communication norms—creates an exhausting baseline. Experience is not leveraged; it is often treated as resistance. Critical thinking is tolerated only when it doesn’t slow momentum. The implicit instruction is simple: fit in quickly, keep quiet, and perform as instructed, regardless of the personal cost.

    The Misnomer of Leadership

    In many corporate environments, “team leader” is a generous title. “Team manager” would be more accurate. Leadership, in the sense of fostering trust, protecting dissent, and developing people, is rare. What dominates instead is control: metrics, micromanagement, and rigid oversight of repetitive, unglamorous work.

    As in classrooms, managers have favourites. Those who perform enthusiasm, mirror opinions, and intuit unspoken expectations are given the benefit of the doubt. Their mistakes are contextualised, their potential highlighted, their loyalty rewarded with opportunities.

    Meanwhile, employees who focus on substance rather than social positioning—who ask difficult questions or point out inefficiencies—receive a different kind of attention. Their work may be solid or even exceptional, but because they do not engage in performative alignment, they are met with muted recognition at best and persistent criticism at worst.

    Performance evaluations become exercises in perception management. Just as in school, the quiet high-performer is eclipsed by the visible conformist. Leadership, in practice, becomes less about nurturing talent and more about reinforcing hierarchy.

    Not Everyone Thrives—and That’s Structural, Not Personal

    Corporate rhetoric often claims to encourage authenticity, but this is usually conditional. Creativity is welcome only when it aligns neatly with existing frameworks. Questioning the system itself is treated as disruption rather than engagement.

    Some employees thrive in this structure, just as some students thrive in rigid academic environments. Others—those who challenge assumptions, propose alternative approaches, or resist constant acceleration—wither. Over time, they are marginalised, managed out, or quietly let go. The irony is sharp in organisations that publicly celebrate innovation while privately punishing deviation.

    Morale Management: Cupcakes and Clichés

    The most telling feature of the corporate classroom is how morale is managed. The language alone gives it away: “Thank God it’s Friday,” “over the hump Wednesday,” “nearly there.” These phrases don’t energise work; they acknowledge its monotony. The shared goal becomes endurance, not engagement.

    On particularly difficult days, morale is boosted with cupcakes, ice cream, or a pick-and-mix stand. The gesture is familiar—school rewards repackaged for adults. Sugar replaces structural change. A brief lift is offered instead of meaningful reflection on why the work feels so draining in the first place.

    The message is subtle but clear: the grind is normal, dissatisfaction is expected, and small treats should be enough to keep people going.

    The Illusion—and the Exit

    Like universities, large corporations maintain a façade of excitement and possibility. Rebranding, new titles, and team restructures create the appearance of progress while leaving the underlying work unchanged. The pace is framed as “dynamic,” though it serves efficiency more than fulfilment.

    Eventually, some people leave. Not because they failed, but because they refused to be mismeasured. Walking away is often framed as weakness or lack of resilience, but in reality it can be an act of clarity. It is a refusal to stay in an environment that equates worth with visibility, obedience, and endurance.

    Those who exit are not giving up. They are choosing alignment—seeking spaces where depth is valued, autonomy is trusted, and contribution is measured by substance rather than performance. Leaving the corporate classroom is not an escape from work; it is a rejection of a system that mistakes conformity for competence.

  • Ireland Is Indigenous: A Truth Declared

    I was not born Irish. I was born Swedish Karelian. Ireland did not choose me — I chose it. And I choose it still. I am Irish-ish, not because Irishness is a cloak to wear, but because it is a heritage I have taken on with responsibility.

    Ireland is indigenous.
    Not partially. Not metaphorically. Fully.

    The Irish carry a handed-down culture:

    • A language born of this land, carved into ogham stones.
    • A law, the Brehon law, older than English common law.
    • A memory of colonisation, dispossession, famine, and survival.
    • An identity carried in families, music, and names.

    I carry a learned culture:

    • I was not born into Gaeilge, but I can support it.
    • I did not inherit Irish history, but I can stand with it.
    • I was not shaped by this soil from birth, but I can root myself in it.

    Handed-down culture is inescapable. An Irish person cannot shrug it off, even if they try. Learned culture is chosen. I could turn away — but I don’t. Because to be Irish-ish is to commit. To carry the flame, not wear the cloak.

    I cannot speak Gaeilge. But I support it fully. My daughter must pass a Gaeilge test to qualify for a Masters in teaching, because she wants to be a primary school teacher. And she is one of the good ones — born between cultures, yet carrying Irish identity forward.

    She shows what I mean by Irish-ish. She is differently Irish, and in that difference she understands empathy. She knows that Irishness is not a cloak of purity, but a heritage that can be lived, learned, and handed on.

    And so am I. I am differently Irish. I am Irish-ish.
    That means I honour Ireland’s indigeneity, but I do not take on every cause the Irish take on.
    Irish-ish is not mimicry. It is commitment with independence.
    I stand with Ireland’s survival, its language, its culture — but I choose my own battles.
    That is the difference between handed-down culture and learned culture: one is inherited, the other is chosen.

    Ireland is for the Irish.
    And Irishness is not something borrowed, not a fashion, not a joke. It is survival. It is memory. It is a people who refused erasure.

    To be Irish-ish is to join that survival. To learn what others inherited. To protect what others preserved. To take responsibility for a culture that is fragile and precious, and in that responsibility, to become kin.

    I stand with all indigenous peoples who fight for survival, culture, and sovereignty.
    But I will not misuse that word. Not everyone who claims indigeneity is indigenous.
    Indigeneity is continuity with land, language, and culture through history.
    It is not a slogan to be borrowed, or a mask for imperialism.

    And my solidarity goes further: I do not stand with Islamism. I do not stand with the Far Left. Not because I oppose Muslims as people, or ordinary Left-leaning folk — but because Islamism is an ideology of domination, and the Far Left is an ideology of erasure.

    I am against Islamic imperialism, just as I am against every form of empire that seeks to erase peoples and cultures. Ireland knows too well what imperialism does: it steals land, outlaws language, mocks tradition, and scatters communities. To resist it abroad is to honour the fight we carried at home.

    I know what cultural erasure looks like — I see it in Ireland’s story. The outlawing of Irish, the mockery of Irish identity, the scattering of Irish people. That is why I cannot ignore the same threats when they are aimed at Jews and Israelis.

    My stance is simple: I am against Islamic imperialism. I am against the Far Left’s excuses for it. Erasure is erasure, no matter who does it, no matter who suffers it. If I stand with Ireland’s survival, I must also stand against the call to erase another people.

    I was born on the Left. I believed in justice, fairness, and dignity. But the Left I knew is gone. Today the Left has become the new Right — rigid, censorious, hostile to dissent. If I were American, I would be a Republican. Not because the Right is flawless, but because there, I still see speech defended, culture preserved, freedom named as truth.

    Even those called hateful can show respect. When Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg died, Donald Trump — her fiercest opponent — called her remarkable. He honoured her life. He showed dignity. And yet he is still painted only as hate. Tribalism blinds us. It blinds the Left most of all.

    This is what I admire about America: its openness to invent a new nationality, to make belonging something chosen. To live together, to work together, across difference. But America also shows us the cost: there are always two sides. Openness does not end conflict — it begins coexistence. That is the true test of belonging.

    And here I stand.
    Not an influencer. Not a leader with millions of followers. In the world’s eyes, I am nobody. But I am still somebody — with a voice, with convictions, with a duty to speak.

    Charlie Kirk inspired me to do this. He was important; I am not. But he proved that even the small can stand for something larger. To be Irish-ish is to carry a flame, even when you are the smallest spark.

    Freedom lives in words.
    That is why they outlast bullets.

    We are not post-colonial. We are still decolonising.
    And we declare it again and again:

    Ireland is indigenous. Always was. Always will be.