Rundale

Donnah Vuma

Good morning everyone.

It is so good to be back here with all of you, in this place that asks something honest of us every time we come.

Driving down to Louisburgh yesterday evening, I found myself thinking about fear. Not the fear I carry today, but the fear I felt when I first arrived in Ireland all those years ago.

Back then, I was afraid of everything. Afraid of starting over, of being alone, of having made the wrong decision for myself and my children with no way to undo it. I was even afraid of getting lost. Today I can drive the length of this country to stand here and speak to hundreds of you, but when I first arrived, I would think twice about going anywhere new because I was not sure I would find my way back.

And so often, I was the only Black person in the room. When you are the only one, you carry a particular kind of awareness with you everywhere you go. You wonder if people really see you, if you belong, or whether they have already decided who you are before you have said a single word.

But that fear faded, slowly and then surely.

Ireland became home. I built a life here. My children grew up here. I found friendship, community, purpose and, most importantly, belonging.

And that is why the fear I carry today cuts so deeply, because it is a different fear entirely.

I felt it yesterday, driving through the small towns on my way here.

Today I am afraid of walking down a street and being told to go back to where I came from. I am afraid for my children and for the kind of Ireland taking shape around them.

It took me more than ten years to build my sense of belonging in this country. More than ten years to be able to say, with my whole heart, that this is home.

And what I have learned is how fragile belonging can be.

Ten years to build it. And a single One incident, one comment, one act of hatred to make it tremble.

When I first arrived in 2014, to seek asylum, an immigration officer slammed our passports down on the desk and said, “not you people again.” I have never forgotten the shame of it. The weight of being made to feel like a problem before I had even crossed the threshold.

And I carry a version of that shame still. I carry an Irish passport. I have carried it through airports all over the world with much pride. Yet it is only here, in Ireland, that I sometimes hesitate to hold it up where people can see.

Bracing for the look.

For the unspoken question behind it.

How did she get that?

Is it really hers?

There is a particular loneliness in being made to feel like a stranger in the one place that is supposed to be home. And yet, sometimes, at that same border, an officer glances at my passport, smiles, and says, “welcome home, Donnah.” And I cannot tell you what that does to me. After everything, to be welcomed home, by name. Whatever I was carrying lifts. My spirit comes back. Suddenly I am alive again.

That is the distance a person can travel in this country. The same border. The same passport. But somewhere in between, I stopped being “you people” and became Donnah, who belongs here. If it can happen at a passport desk, it can happen anywhere. That is what I hold on to.

Perhaps that is why this gathering feels so important. Because at its heart, Doolough is also about belonging. It is about what happens when people are forgotten. When people become invisible. When suffering is ignored. When some lives are valued less than others.

Every year we gather to remember those who walked this road during one of the darkest periods in Irish history. People who were hungry. People who were desperate. People who were seeking relief. People who had names, families, and loved ones. And people whose humanity was not recognised by those who had the power to help.

This place carries that memory. There is something extraordinary about Doolough. I have always said that if there is a place where you could reach out and touch the hand of God, it might be here. There is a stillness here. A presence. A power. Whether you are a person of faith or not, there is something about this landscape that invites reflection. It invites healing. It invites honesty.

The last time I stood here, I carried a prayer in my heart. I prayed for the right to work for people seeking asylum in Ireland. Not long afterwards, following a landmark Supreme Court case, that right was won. Looking back, I probably should have asked for world peace while I was at it.

But perhaps that is what places like Doolough do. They remind us to hope. They remind us that change is possible. And they remind us that ordinary people can make extraordinary things happen. At a time when the world feels increasingly divided, we need those reminders.

Over recent years, and especially in recent weeks, we have witnessed a growing hostility towards migrants and people seeking protection. We have seen fear spread faster than facts. We have seen entire communities blamed for the actions of individuals. We have seen isolated incidents weaponised to justify hatred.

And we have seen where it can end. George Nkencho. Yves Sakila. Two Black men, in this country, dead after force was used against them that many of us do not believe would ever have been used in the same way against a white man. I am careful with my words, because investigations are still ongoing and families are still waiting for answers. But I will not be careful about this: their colour is not incidental to what happened to them. Whether it is the hatred of one person or the bias built quietly into a system, it is racism, and we have to be willing to call it by its name. Because the moment we cannot say the word, we lose the ability to confront the thing.

And today, of all days, we have seen a new law come into force in this country, the International Protection Act, that speeds people through the asylum system, widens the use of detention, and strips away protections from some of the most vulnerable people who come to our door. It is part of a wider hardening across this continent, a Fortress Europe that decides, in advance, that some lives are worth less than others, and builds walls and laws to keep them out. We have walked this road before. We know where it leads when a society decides that some people do not count.

And over the last few days, we have watched disturbing scenes unfold in Belfast. Families burned out of their homes in the night. Children carried out into the street. People who had built a life there, made to feel they had no place in it at all.

When I see those scenes, what troubles me most is not simply the anger. It is the loss of empathy. It is how quickly people can stop seeing the humanity of those standing in front of them. How quickly neighbours become strangers. And how quickly strangers become threats.

The danger is not only in the violence.

It begins much earlier.

It begins with language. when we stop seeing people as people. When we reduce human beings to labels, categories and headlines. When we stop being curious about one another’s stories.

Increasingly, people seeking safety are spoken about not as human beings with rights and dignity, but as problems to be managed, pressures to be contained, numbers to be reduced.

One of the things I have learned through my work is that dehumanisation does not always announce itself loudly.

That shift may seem subtle.

But it has consequences.

Because once a person becomes a problem, it becomes easier to ignore their story, dismiss their humanity and forget their name.

Another thing I have learned through my work is that nobody leaves home lightly.

People leave homes, families, languages, friendships, favourite places, and the graves of loved ones.

They leave entire worlds behind.

Nobody leaves without losing something.

Yet we often speak about migrants as though they arrive carrying no history, no grief, or no story of their own. The reality is that most people seeking safety are carrying far more than we can ever see.

 There is one phrase that I hear again and again in my work,

“I tried. They didn’t believe me.”

Every time I hear those words, something inside me breaks.

Not because people are asking for special treatment or sympathy.

They are asking for something much simpler.

To be heard, be believed, to be treated with dignity. To be seen as human.

Yet there is something hopeful that I have witnessed time and again. When people sit together, listen and hear somebody’s story, everything changes.

Fear begins to fade.

Assumptions begin to crumble.

People begin to recognise themselves in one another. That reminds me of a philosophy from Southern Africa called Ubuntu. Many people will know the phrase. Ubuntu means: I am because we are. But it means much more than that. It teaches that our humanity is connected. That my dignity is tied to yours. That my wellbeing is tied to yours. That none of us becomes fully human alone.

I often think that Ubuntu and Doolough are teaching us the same lesson. Both remind us that we belong to one another. Both remind us that suffering anywhere matters everywhere. And both remind us what happens when we forget that truth.

This year, I have also been reminded of something else. A month ago I lost my brother Ashley. In recent years, I have lost all of the men who anchored my family. I was fortunate enough to be with Ashley until the very end. Not that it made it easier. Perhaps, in some ways, it made it harder. But grief has taught me something profound. Every life leaves a space behind. Every life matters deeply to someone. Every life changes the world around it.

That is why this year’s theme resonates so deeply with me. They All Had Names. The people who walked this road had names. The people seeking safety today have names. The people sleeping in emergency accommodation have names. The people we disagree with have names. The people we fear have names. The people we have never met have names. And every one of those lives matters.

As we prepare to walk today, I want to leave you with one final thought. Every single person here had a choice this morning. You could have stayed at home. You could have spent this day doing any number of other things. Instead, you chose to be here. You chose to stand in solidarity with people you never knew. You chose to remember. You chose to care. You chose empathy.

And in a world that increasingly encourages us to look away, that choice matters. More than ever, it matters. Because empathy begins by showing up. Kindness begins by showing up. Solidarity begins by showing up. And perhaps if enough of us keep showing up for one another, in our communities, our schools, our workplaces, and our politics, we can build something better. A society where kindness is contagious. A society where everyone belongs. A society where dignity belongs to everyone. And a society that never forgets that they all had names.

Thank you.