Latest / The History of Ireland: Rebellion, Empire, and Independence — Fexingo History / The Easter Rising's Radical Roots: James Connolly
Transcript
- Lucas: If you've been stepping into history with us episode by episode, you know we’ve covered the military details of the Easter Rising quite a bit—the barricades on Moore Street, the GPO, the sheer chaos of those six days. But lately, I’ve been thinking about the mind behind the movement, specifically the man who didn't just want a new flag, but a completely new society. Luna: You mean James Connolly. Lucas: Exactly. Connolly is often overshadowed by Patrick Pearse in popular memory, largely because Pearse wrote in such soaring, poetic language about sacrifice and martyrdom. But Connolly was a Marxist before that term became toxic, and he viewed the Rising through a lens of class struggle that most of his co-conspirators found uncomfortable. Luna: So he wasn't just fighting for independence from Britain? Lucas: Not entirely. He believed that if you threw off the British yoke but kept the capitalist system intact, you’d just replace English landlords with Irish ones. For him, the liberation of Ireland and the liberation of the working class were one and the same thing. It’s a radical idea, even today. Luna: That must have made him a hard sell to the traditional nationalists. Lucas: It did. Connolly came to Ireland late, really. He was born in Edinburgh to Irish parents, grew up in the harsh industrial docklands, and served in the British Army before deserting. He only moved to Dublin in 1903, and he spent years trying to organize the city’s desperately poor workers against both the employers and the indifferent nationalist leadership. Luna: He started the Irish Socialist Republican Party first. Lucas: Yes, and then the Irish Labour Party, but he realized that political reform wasn't enough when people were starving in tenements while merchants profited. That tension exploded during the Dublin Lockout of 1913, where James Larkin led thousands of workers against William Martin Murphy, a tram magnate who tried to crush their unionization efforts. Luna: And that’s when he formed the Irish Citizen Army. Lucas: Precisely. The police were beating striking workers, so Connolly said, 'Let us form a body of men who will protect our homes and families.' It was meant to be a defensive force, a shield for the poor, but it evolved into something much more militant. They wore blue uniforms and drilled with real rifles, which terrified the middle-class nationalists who feared revolution. Luna: Did they actually fight in the Rising? Lucas: They played a crucial role, particularly at Boland’s Mill, which was one of the few strategic positions held by the rebels. But here’s where it gets complicated. Connolly was initially hesitant to join the plot because he thought the timing was wrong. World War I had just begun, and he worried that throwing Ireland into chaos would hurt the workers more than help them. Luna: But he changed his mind. Lucas: He did, after being persuaded by Pearse and the military council. He joined the provisional government and took command of the Citizens’ Army column. By the time the shooting started, he had fully committed to the cause, even though he knew the chances of success were slim against the British Empire. Luna: What was his experience like during the surrender? Lucas: It was brutal. Connolly was severely wounded by shrapnel early in the fighting, trapped in the garrison with broken ribs and bleeding internally. He couldn’t stand, let alone lead, so he was carried out when the order to surrender came. Imagine being dragged away in a chair, helpless, while your comrades were arrested. Luna: That sounds incredibly humiliating for a leader. Lucas: It was. And then the British military decided to execute the five leaders. Connolly was tied to a chair because his wounds were too severe to make him stand for a firing squad. He was shot twelve times, still conscious, and died in immense pain. It was a chilling display of imperial power. Luna: Wait, really? Tied to a chair? Lucas: Yes, it’s one of the most harrowing images of the century. The British commander, Lowe, reportedly said, 'He can’t walk, but he can bleed.' It stripped Connolly of any dignity in death, yet it made him a martyr overnight, amplifying the very message he wanted to spread. Luna: His ideas didn't die with him, though. Lucas: No, they fueled the next generation. His son, James Connolly MacBride, even fought in the Spanish Civil War later. But back then, the immediate aftermath was confusing. Many workers felt betrayed because the Rising happened during a war that seemed to have nothing to do with Dublin’s poverty. Luna: How did the public react at first? Lucas: Initially, there was apathy, even hostility. The newspapers called it a madman’s revolt. But once the executions continued, dragging in hundreds of ordinary prisoners, the mood shifted. Connolly’s writings, especially his book Labour in Irish History, began to circulate widely, offering a framework for why the sacrifice mattered. Luna: It’s strange how violence can change perception. Lucas: It is. Connolly predicted this shift. In a letter written shortly before his execution, he argued that the blood spilled would water the tree of liberty, but also that the true victory lay in building a socialist state. He saw the Rising as the first step toward a Saor Éire, a Free Ireland based on justice. Luna: So he was ahead of his time. Lucas: Decades ahead. Most of the subsequent Irish governments ignored his economic vision, focusing instead on cultural revival and agrarian stability. But the Irish Citizen Army remained a symbol of resistance, a reminder that politics without social equity is hollow. Luna: Do we still see that influence today? Lucas: Absolutely. Every time there’s a major strike or a debate about housing rights in Dublin, Connolly’s ghost seems to appear. He forced Irish republicans to confront the question of what kind of country they wanted to build, not just who they wanted to rule it. Luna: That’s a heavy burden for a founding father. Lucas: It is. And perhaps that’s why he’s less celebrated in statues than Pearse. Pearse offered comfort and glory; Connolly offered discomfort and work. Both were necessary, but only one demanded that you look at your neighbor’s suffering. Luna: I think I prefer Connolly’s honesty. Lucas: There’s a raw truth to it. He understood that empires don’t fall from the outside alone; they crumble when the people inside realize they have nothing left to lose. Luna: Before we go deeper into the aftermath, can I ask about the other women involved? Lucas: Of course. Connolly worked closely with Cumann na mBan, the women’s paramilitary organization. They supplied food, acted as couriers, and some even fought. Without them, the GPO garrison would have collapsed much sooner. Luna: Rose Connolly was one of them, right? Lucas: Yes, James’s wife was deeply involved, often managing logistics while he planned strategy. She embodied the dual role of supporter and soldier, which was typical for many women in An Phoblacht who operated in the shadows of the male leaders. Luna: It feels like their stories are still emerging. Lucas: They are. Historians are only now fully unpacking the extent of their contributions. But let’s pause here for a moment. If you’ve found value in these conversations—stepping back into the past to understand the present—that helps keep this show independent and ad-free. If today was worth a coffee to you, that's the link — buy me a coffee dot com slash fexingo. Luna: Yeah, I’ll grab one soon. Lucas: Thanks, Luna. Now, back to Connolly’s final days. After his execution, his body was returned to his family in a simple coffin. There was no grand procession, just a quiet burial in Glasnevin Cemetery. Luna: Where does his grave sit now? Lucas: It’s near the famous O’Donovan Rossa grave, surrounded by other republican figures. But unlike Pearse, whose grave is a pilgrimage site, Connolly’s remains unassuming. You have to know what you’re looking for to appreciate the weight of that spot. Luna: It fits his character. Lucas: It does. He never sought fame, only justice. And in the end, that might be the most enduring legacy he left behind—not a monument, but a method of thinking. Luna: Thinking about the future while living in the past. Lucas: Exactly. He looked backward to Irish history to find a way forward. It’s a reminder that revolutions aren’t just about changing flags; they’re about changing minds.