Civil War Politics: A Modern American Crisis
(Originally published in the Western People on 2024-09-03)
ABC News - On Jan. 6, 2021, pro-Trump rioters broke into the U.S. Capitol. The attack resulted in deaths, injuries, more than 700 arrests and former President Donald Trump's second impeachment.
As I crossed the pedestrian walkway, a flatbed truck driver leaned out his window and unleashed a barrage of angry words at me. The wind swallowed most of his rant, but the essence was clear: he was furious, and his fury was aimed at “Democrats”, “budgets”, and “billions of dollars”. My puzzled expression likely only heightened the veins bulging in his neck. With a final, dismissive curse, he sped away, his old truck groaning under the strain, but not before glaring at me through his rear-view mirror. The faded U.S. flag sticker on his window was a faint clue to his political leanings, though I was more perplexed by why he assumed I was a Democrat. Was it my outdated 1990s attire—jeans, shirt, and blazer combo—that my wife swears she will leave me if I wear again? Or perhaps the large folder tucked under my arm, meant for a business meeting nearby? Or maybe, just maybe, I exuded some distinctive Democrat aura as I walked in front of him? (“The gimp of me!” as my friend Joe Greaney might say’). Regardless, this encounter underscored that even in Armenian-dominated Glendale, political tensions can flare up unexpectedly, often leaving one party oblivious to how they provoked the other.
For some time now, extreme voices on both the Right and the Left have been suggesting that a new American civil war is inevitable. Former President Donald Trump himself bluntly warned of "bedlam in the country" if he isn't re-elected—a chilling statement from the man congress holds responsible for inciting the January 6th Capitol attack. And yet, despite his bombastic claims, including the weird notion that he's more attractive than Vice-President Kamala Harris, the increasing polarization of political discourse and the intensifying culture wars have fuelled a growing sense of impending violence. The Department of Homeland Security has even warned that the 2024 election cycle could be a "key event for possible violence." In a nation as polarized as the United States, where private gun ownership is not just a right but a deeply ingrained part of the culture—leading to the highest per capita civilian-held firearms in the world—it's not hard to imagine a slow slide into escalation. The recent film "Civil War" has captured this unsettling zeitgeist, reflecting a moment where half the population sees the government not just as dangerous but as illegitimate and deserving of overthrow.
I recently found myself in a conversation with a fellow ex-pat who used the Irish Civil War as a lens to view the current political climate in the United States. He argued that in the decades following 1923, Irish politics essentially revolved around two parties: Fianna Fáil and Fine Gael, with the Labour Party relegated to the margins. This era, known as "Civil War politics," saw these two monolithic blocs bitterly opposed, not over policy but over deep-seated generational allegiances formed during the Civil War. Much like modern America, he insisted, the real issue wasn't the rhetoric but the mutual loathing each side had for the other, based solely on who they were, not how they voted. He optimistically concluded that, just as time had eventually healed these divisions in Ireland, so too would Republicans and Democrats find common ground in the future.
However, this simplistic comparison overlooks some crucial differences. In Ireland, the political divide followed a Civil War, with much of the bitterness stemming from events that transpired during the conflict. Additionally, the poor, homogenous, Catholic Ireland of the twentieth century is worlds apart from today's diverse, multicultural United States, the largest economy in the world. Besides, the modern civil war some extreme Americans are willing into existence has yet to happen.
In Ireland, there was a gradual, albeit slow, post-war impulse towards convergence that eventually drew both political factions together. Take my native Moygownagh, for example, where the Civil War had left deep scars. It seems the bishop appointed the unflappable Fr. Martin Hegarty as parish priest in May 1923 to quell the deep animosity. Canon Hegarty, a staunch Free State advocate, was known for his fierce opposition to Republicans. At a large Blueshirt meeting after Mass on March 4, 1934, he famously warned the crowd on how to deal with would-be Republican disrupters: "If anyone came here today to act the blackguard, sock him and sock him in style." Yet, he also sought to unite the community, particularly through his campaigns against poteen-making. Canon Hegarty wielded the unchallenged power of the pulpit, bringing political enemies together for community endeavours. Such universally respected authorities are sorely lacking in the U.S. today, where trust in institutions, including organised religion, is at an all-time low.[1]
Moreover, the American public square is fractured into silos of partisan interest, further exacerbated by online forums and social media. Each side has its preferred flavour of news— versions of New York Post vs. New York Times—where adherents rarely engage with opposing views in a constructive manner. If anything, there's an impulse toward further divergence, inciting increased cultural, social, and political rhetoric.
In Moygownagh, people had no choice but to live together, and so both sides mostly kept their political animosity in the background during the everyday communal life of farming, church ceremonies, GAA football matches, and school activities. Everyone sought the least abrasive way to share their lives, and much like post-Franco Spain, they didn't talk about the Civil War or pass on their experiences to their children. This unspoken agreement by a traumatized post-war society aimed to remove this emotional burden from their children's lives. In the U.S., however, the opposite is happening. Instead of burying the hatchet, old wounds are being reopened, and new ones are being inflicted. Left-leaning advocates are seeking new historical interpretations which undermines the conventional ‘American civilisation’ model. Meanwhile right-wing proponents weaponize differences and revive dangerous tropes.
But just as a subterranean river must surface somewhere, so too did the pent-up generational emotion in Ireland find release during elections. These moments became almost ritualistic performances, where political fervour was unleashed in a controlled, modern-day ‘faction fight’ of words (but rarely actions). Sean and Judy Mitchell, owners of the village pub, became experts in diplomacy, skilfully managing both political factions during post-election drinking sessions—ushering one inebriated side out the back door to avoid clashes with their thirsty incoming opponents. Their deftness and diplomacy, akin to that of UN peacekeepers, ensured that flashpoints were rare in their establishment. This is worlds away from the MAGA rioters who attacked the Capitol building on 6 January 2021 and are now being spoken by Trump and his supporters as ‘martyrs’ and ‘political prisoners’.
In contrast to the post-Irish Civil War generation's effective "omerta" or vow of silence, the American Left and Right today are intent on seeking out and illuminating partisan history to justify new cultural trends or defend old ones, to enact new laws or resurrect discarded legislation. While Ireland chose not to speak of its Civil War, the United States, it seems, can't stop talking its own modern one up — even though it hasn't happened yet. Maybe that is what the flat-bed truck driver was trying to say to me.
[1] https://news.gallup.com/poll/508169/historically-low-faith-institutions-continues.aspx