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Irish Examiner
4 days ago
- Entertainment
- Irish Examiner
New Irish writer getting rave reviews — but nobody knows who they are
What's in a pen name? Irish writer Liadan Ní Chuinn's debut short story collection, Every One Still Here, is receiving rave reviews and rapturous praise, but hardly anyone seems to know who they are. A cursory Google turns up no photos or biographical information. All we know is that the writer is Northern Irish and was born in 1998, the year of the Good Friday agreement. A statement from Irish publisher The Stinging Fly reads: 'The Stinging Fly has been working with Liadan on these stories for the past four years. From early on in the process, they expressed a desire to publish their work under a pseudonym and to protect their privacy throughout the publication process. No photographs of the author are available and Liadan will not be participating in any in-person interviews or public events.' Writing anonymously or under a pseudonym is a long-established custom in publishing. Jane Austen's novels were attributed to 'a Lady', Mary Ann Evans went by George Eliot, and the Brontë sisters were Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell. Although women no longer need to disguise themselves as men, and 'the low trade of writing novels' is less stigmatised, the tradition of the pen name has continued throughout the 20th century into the present day: John Le Carré was really David Cornwell; Eric Blair became George Orwell; and no one has heard of Erika Leonard, but everyone has heard of EL James. When questions regarding the veracity of nature memoir The Salt Path caused outrage among the nation's book groups, the fact that the author had changed her and her husband's names was the least remarkable revelation. If anything, it can feel more unusual to meet an author whose books have the name they were born with on the cover. In the modern publishing world, the spectrum encompasses everything from 'uses a pen name but has an author photo and gives interviews' to 'has an opposite gender or gender-neutral author persona'; 'uses different pseudonyms for different genres'; 'uses a different name for political reasons, eg to escape persecution in their home country, or personal or professional reasons'; and even 'secret anonymity' (is anonymous but tries to make it so that no one actually knows they are). Every One Still Here by Liadan Ní Chuinn Nepotist offspring will often use a less famous parent's surname to stave off accusations that they owe their success to their connections or, as in the case of AS Byatt, an author may use their married name to distance themselves from a novelist sibling (Margaret Drabble). Total anonymity, however, is a different business. The most famous modern example we have is of course Elena Ferrante (or it was, until she was possibly and, to my mind, very rudely unmasked by an Italian journalist). Yet even Ferrante did some press through correspondence, including writing for The Guardian. To not give interviews at all, especially as a young debut author, is unusual indeed, particularly in a publishing landscape where 'personal brand' is key, and short stories remain such a hard sell. You could say that Liadan Ní Chuinn's collection being published at all is something of a miracle. Literary quality is not always prioritised above profile. I cannot tell you how many proofs I am sent by writers who are big on Instagram but can't string a grammatical sentence together. With publicity budgets not what they used to be and many authors needing to do much of the work themselves, a debut writer who won't give interviews or attend events represents a challenge to any acquiring publishing house and their publicity department. I admire Ní Chuinn. As an author myself — in the next six months I have two books coming out — I know that the stress of exposure and the risk of burnout can be very real. Ní Chuinn could be forgiven for looking at Sally Rooney, another writer in the same literary ecosystem who started young, and thinking that level of exposure looks unappealing. The way a young woman — because it's usually a young woman — who creates something great becomes a sort of shorthand for everything that is wrong/right about her chosen art form is hardly an incentive to put yourself out there. Rooney's writing shows a deep ambivalence about fame, and her decision to now largely only put herself forward in the media when it serves her impassioned political beliefs is to be admired. Yet newspapers are still terribly prone to what I call 'Rooney-itis'. Look, I'm doing it now. When you're an author, public exposure doesn't just affect you, but the people in your life whose stories often overlap with yours. When you are writing about sensitive topics that have a lasting, painful legacy on real people's lives — as Ní Chuinn does in their excavation of the murderous legacy of English colonialism in Ireland — it can be an act of care and protection to remove yourself from the spotlight. Most of all, it makes the interaction between author and reader purely about the quality of the work. For a publisher to agree to publish an anonymous author, as so many did Ferrante, and publishers in Ireland, Britain, and the US have Ní Chuinn, that writer has to be extraordinary. And Ní Chuinn is. It should give any avid reader of fiction — and any author who cares about sentences but is rubbish at TikTok — hope. The work can still be the thing, at least sometimes. — The Guardian
Irish Examiner
03-06-2025
- General
- Irish Examiner
Northern Ireland journalists face attacks and death threats, says Amnesty report
Journalists in Northern Ireland routinely face attacks and death threats from paramilitary and organised crime groups that act with impunity, according to Amnesty International. Reporters have been physically assaulted and told they will be shot, stabbed, raped or blown up, making Northern Ireland the most dangerous place in the UK for journalism, a report said on Tuesday. It documented more than 70 attacks and threats since 2019 but found there were no prosecutions for threats from paramilitary groups, the most significant source of the intimidation. 'Journalists in Northern Ireland are facing a sustained campaign of threats, intimidation and violence from armed groups, which makes it the most dangerous place in the UK to be a reporter,' said Patrick Corrigan, Amnesty International UK's Northern Ireland director. 'They are being threatened, attacked and even killed for shining a light on paramilitary groups and others who seek to exert control through violence. This creates a climate of fear that many assumed was consigned to history when the Good Friday agreement was signed.' The lack of prosecutions has emboldened paramilitaries – loyalist and republican – and fostered a sense of impunity, Corrigan said. 'When journalists are under attack, press freedom is under attack. The state must create a safe environment where journalists can work freely and report without fear of reprisals. It is currently failing to do so.' Journalists' cars have been damaged – in some cases battered with poles laced with nails – and some reporters have been given ultimatums to leave Northern Ireland. Two journalists have been killed, Lyra McKee in 2019 and Martin O'Hagan in 2001. Some of those interviewed for the 96-page report, titled Occupational Hazard? Threats and Violence Against Journalists in Northern Ireland said they had protected their homes with bulletproof windows and doors and alarms linked to police stations. Police visited Allison Morris, the Belfast Telegraph's crime correspondent, nine times between December 2023 and October 2024 to warn about threats from paramilitary or criminal groups. 'I'm convinced someone's going to kill me at some point,' said Morris. 'I always think I'll never die of natural causes. Most of the time, I pretend that the threats don't annoy me, but clearly, they do. This is not a normal way to live.' The report urged the Stormont administration to establish a media safety group, comprising police, prosecutors and journalists and urged the police to review the procedural response to threats and to pursue investigations that lead to successful prosecutions. Ch Supt Sam Donaldson said the Police Service of Northern Ireland took journalism safety seriously and would consider the report and its recommendations. In recent years the PSNI has developed a joint strategy with local editors and the National Union of Journalists, said Donaldson. 'Journalists do not have to tolerate threats and crimes as part of their role. That has been our recent, consistent message.' Seamus Dooley, the NUJ's assistant general secretary, said it was not normal that journalists lived in fear decades after the Troubles, adding: 'That really is not the sign of a normal functioning democracy.' - The Guardian Read More Income gap widened significantly under previous Government, new report finds
The Guardian
19-03-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
Flame-haired defiance by a Belfast mural: Hannah Starkey's best photograph
I loved growing up in Belfast because it was wild. You're not supposed to say that, but even though I was working class and we were in the thick of it, I didn't experience any violence directly. I experienced the warmth of working-class communities on both sides, Catholic and Protestant, and the power of community in the fight for things like justice, fairness and equality. I learned about those principles mostly through women. Belfast was a very patriarchal place, but women always seemed to be the ones making the most sense. If you look at UN statistics for when women are at negotiating tables, the chances of reaching peace agreements are much higher. Then, if they stay at the table, the peace agreement lasts longer. In different parts of the world that I've been commissioned to shoot, like Sudan or Beirut, I've met many different women but they all have the same ability to cut through the shit, yet they're not given any power. This was taken in 2023 when I was back in Belfast working on a show of 21 portraits for Ulster museum called Principled and Revolutionary: Northern Irish Peace Women. It was to commemorate the 25th anniversary of the Good Friday agreement. I wanted to capture the often untold stories of the women who were influential to peace-building in Northern Ireland, to pay tribute to their work. While I was there, in my head I was carrying this image with a mural that I kept suppressing, because it's a tourist image in a way. My process is that if I have an idea for a particular female protagonist, I will go into the world and hope our paths will cross. I was in a vintage shop and this girl walked in looking exactly as she looks in the picture. She seemed so strong, so forceful to be going through Belfast dressed like this, and probably putting up with a lot of shit from the street because of it. I thought: 'You're amazing.' Projecting this hyper-feminised character, she was a real 'Fuck you' to the male violence and oppression. I gave her my card, told her how much she'd get paid, what the picture would be about, and to go home and look me up and think about it. But she said yes right away. The next day, we walked around Belfast and talked about her life, and she was everything that I was projecting on to her. She wasn't afraid of authority, like me when I was young. I think that might be quite a Belfast, Northern-Irish thing. Eventually, I decided I needed a mural, because the image I wanted to create was about male aggression and control. We went to an area called Sandy Row, which used to be a very Protestant area. The mural was on the wrong side of the street, because I knew I had to point the camera in the direction of those dark skies, with the sunlight and then the seagulls coming from the port that, for me, is Belfast. I knew this was a lucky picture. When you're making a picture, you're hoping the gods of photography are with you. There's a transcendence that happens. I chose the frame that seemed most strident – and then, in Photoshop, I lifted the mural from one side of the street and put it on to the other. I'm not a documentary photographer. I am interested in cinema and how you elicit emotion. I've always constructed images, to extend the narrative of the picture and remind the viewer that photography is a constructed medium. These pictures are exhibited large on a gallery wall. You can stand and look at all the details, and think about how you have derived meaning from these clues – and see how photography manipulates us. After the End of History: British Working Class Photography 1989 – 2024 is at Stills Gallery, Edinburgh from 21 March until 28 June Born: Belfast, 1971Trained: Edinburgh Napier University Edinburgh, Royal College of Art 'Women and photography.'High point: 'There have been many. It's always thrilling to see where a photograph can land in the world.'Low point: 'None. There have been no low points as everything connected to photography always has a silver lining.'Top tip: 'You really need to fall in love with photography. Not just use it for fame and fortune. It is a beautiful relationship that needs absolute trust and respect. Then you will find your voice.'
The Guardian
19-02-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
Afflicted with liberal angst in the age of Trump? Take a leaf from Bridget Jones's diary
When future generations study creative works that capture the unsettled spirit of our age, they might easily neglect Bridget Jones 4: Mad About the Boy. The movie isn't about the historical inflection point that coincides with its release. It doesn't feature Donald Trump, his vandalism of US democracy or his dissolution of the transatlantic alliance. Such things are not the stuff of romantic comedy. Also, they hadn't yet happened in 2013, when Helen Fielding wrote the book on which the film is based. But the lack of intentional allegory doesn't prevent us projecting one on to the story. Or maybe it was just me, experiencing a sentimental hallucination induced by events outside the cinema. Indulge me a moment (and forgive any plot spoilers), as I explain. The first three volumes of the Jones diaries are picaresque chronicles of professional and sexual misadventure that resolve themselves in the reassuring arms of Mark Darcy, a human rights barrister: stolid, emotionally reticent, honourable and kind. That on-and-off romance sweeps Bridget from twentysomething anxiety to thirtysomething neurosis; from post-adolescent insecurity to early midlife crisis, unplanned pregnancy and, in the happy ending, marriage. Allowing for some chronological elasticity (with lags between books being written and adapted for cinema), Jones's relationship with Darcy unfolds against a political and economic backdrop that hindsight reveals to be exceptionally benign. It is that period sometimes called the Great Moderation: roughly from the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989 to the global financial crisis in 2007-09. Democracy sprawled eastwards across Europe. Captive peoples were liberated from communist dictatorship. The dissolution of the Soviet threat generated a 'peace dividend' for western governments, permitting a diversion of budget resources from defence to social spending. There was a viable Middle East peace process. In 1993, Yitzhak Rabin and Yasser Arafat shook hands over the Oslo accords on the White House lawn. Apartheid was dismantled in South Africa, which held its first free, multiracial elections in 1994. The Good Friday agreement brought peace to Northern Ireland in 1998. The UK was then well into an economic boom that had another nine years still to run. London was basking in its status as capital of 'Cool Britannia' – a powerhouse of art, music and self-congratulation. This was the context in which Bridget Jones's diary first appeared as a weekly newspaper column in 1995. Her avid readership was the same generation that hit their young adult stride in that bright springtime of liberal metropolitan complacency. Jones was not very political, which made her an eloquent exponent of the zeitgeist. 'It is perfectly obvious that Labour stands for sharing, kindness, gays, single mothers and Nelson Mandela,' she wrote on the eve of Tony Blair's 1997 landslide election victory. The Tories were 'braying bossy men having affairs with everyone shag shag shag left right and centre and going to the Ritz in Paris then telling all the presenters off on the Today programme.' We know also from a one-off column published in 2019 that Jones was a remainer in the Brexit culture wars. To break the legislative deadlock in parliament, she proposed that Queen Elizabeth, David Attenborough and Joanna Lumley join forces, urging the nation to reconsider the referendum question. It makes perfect sense that the love of Bridget's life should be a distinguished lawyer who battles global injustice. It was a match made in the late 20th century, when human rights were a byword for all that was virtuous in western democracy. A career dedicated to their defence was the obvious device for a comic novelist wanting to signal intimidating levels of moral uprightness in a character. (It is often said that Darcy was modelled on a younger Keir Starmer. Fielding acknowledges uncanny likenesses in profession and manner, while insisting they are coincidental.) In the opening minutes of Mad About the Boy, we learn that Darcy is dead. He was killed in the line of duty, of course, on a humanitarian mission overseas. His widow is struggling to restart her life and raise two children alone. If, like me, you succumb easily to cinematic schmaltz, this is already an affecting scenario. What I found unexpectedly poignant was the thought that Darcy's untimely death also functions as a metaphor for the demise of political certainties that defined the world in which Bridget Jones's generation came of age. Her heartbreak is a parable of political bereavement, describing liberal angst at the sudden unravelling of institutional and legal norms underpinning European security. (Plus sex and jokes.) In the week that the movie was released, the US president reached over the heads of his country's former Nato allies to embrace Vladimir Putin. He sketched the outline of a deal to end the war in Ukraine that was part territorial capitulation to the aggressor, part gangster extortion – offering Kyiv protection in exchange for mineral wealth. Vice-president JD Vance gave an ominously unhinged speech at the Munich security conference. He claimed that freedom is more imperilled by imaginary culture-war spectres haunting European democracies than it is by a Russian dictator whose tanks are churning up the sovereignty of a neighbouring state. In case of any lingering doubt that the Trump regime has authoritarian ambitions, the president also asserted on social media last week that 'he who saves his country does not violate any law'. It is a signal that judges, courts and constitution should all be subordinate to a leader whose personal preference is synonymous with the national interest. Coming from the man who fomented insurrection to overturn the 2020 election, Trump's aphorism should be read as a hint that the spirit of Maga patriotism is vested in thugs and militias, not statutes. This was the advertised programme. None of it should surprise the US's allies. But it was easier to hope there might be momentum in the old order than to work out how to live in the new one. Now European leaders are scrambling to convene summits, scraping the sides of their depleted defence budgets, flexing atrophied military muscle in panicky gestures of continental solidarity. There is no going back to Darcy's world. The idea that human rights are universal and the principle that no one is above the law are losing ground to older axioms – big nations extract tribute from smaller ones; a strongman ruler makes the rules. Pained by these existential challenges, it is hard not to reach for the anaesthetic balm of nostalgia, mythologising the late 90s and early 21st century as a golden age of liberal democratic primacy. In reality, that was a cosy bubble around one generation in one corner of the world: a historical fluke. To move on, we have to get through denial, anger and the other stages of grief to acceptance. We need to recognise that we live for the foreseeable future in a world without a friend in the White House, and that this points to a destiny for Britain much closer to Europe. And we need politicians who will dare to say as much aloud. This, too, is something that occurred to me as I left the cinema last weekend. Maybe if we had leaders capable of expressing the magnitude of the crisis, and rising to the challenge, I wouldn't have to look for messages of solace between the lines of Bridget Jones's diary. Rafael Behr is a Guardian columnist
The Guardian
28-01-2025
- Politics
- The Guardian
The Omagh bombing inquiry: one father's 26-year fight for the truth
The Omagh bombing was the single worst atrocity of the Troubles. As the journalist Shane Harrison explains, it was carried out when hopes were high in Northern Ireland that the country would never experience such violence again – four months after the signing of the Good Friday agreement in April 1998. The car bomb on 15 August killed 29 people, including Aiden Gallagher, a 21-year-old mechanic. Hannah Moore hears from his father, Michael Gallagher, about that day, and about his two-decade legal struggle since: to bring the perpetrators of the attack to justice, and to persuade the government to launch a public inquiry into whether anything could have been done to prevent it. There have been years of investigations and allegations about what the authorities knew beforehand – for example that the police ignored crucial tip-offs that something was imminent in Omagh. The Real IRA, a dissident Republican group, claimed responsibility for the bombing, but no one has ever been convicted for it. The campaign for an inquiry has, however, finally, borne fruit. More than 26 years after the attack, a public inquiry will begin on Tuesday to hear from bereaved families and survivors about those, like Michael's son Aiden, who they lost.
