I used to include the Famine Memorial on maybe one in every five tours. Depends on the group. If they looked like they could handle something heavier than anecdotes about Joyce and overpriced pubs, we’d head down to Custom House Quay and stop by the statues.
Six figures. Thin, twisted, holding bags or babies or nothing. All walking in the same direction, like they’re being pulled by something invisible. No plinth, no ropes. Just standing there, level with you. You can touch them. Some people do. Others avoid them like they might move.
They’re not subtle. They’re not meant to be.
I once had a woman from Boston burst into tears looking at them. Said her great-great-grandmother came over during the Famine. She’d never thought about it properly until then. I said nothing. Just gave her space. That’s the thing about those sculptures — they don’t need commentary.
But not everyone gets it.
There was one tour I did, few years back, group of Americans, mostly students. Nice enough. Bit loud. One of them kept asking where he could get “real Celtic tattoos,” whatever that means.
We get to the statues and I start the usual bit. Short version of the Famine, what the memorial represents, how it was unveiled in the ’90s, same artist as the ones in Toronto. A few of them nodding along, taking photos.
Then this one guy — baseball cap, cargo shorts, grin like he’s not listening — turns to me and says:
“These guys are amazing. Is this from a zombie film or something?”
I stared at him. Thought he was joking. He wasn’t.
I said, “No. It’s the Famine.”
He said, “Oh, cool. Can I get a photo with one?”
Before I could say anything, he’d thrown his arm around the nearest figure like it was his mate at a barbecue and shouted for his friend to take the shot. The rest of the group looked uncomfortable. One girl muttered something about being respectful. He didn’t hear her.
I didn’t kick off. I should’ve. But I didn’t. Just moved the group along faster than usual. Took a detour through the Docklands and let the wind do the talking for ten minutes.
I think about that a lot. Not because I was offended. I’ve seen worse behaviour in pubs on a Tuesday. But because it said something about how some people look at Dublin. Like it’s a set. A place to pose and collect bits of Irishness before flying home.
The Famine sculptures aren’t for that. You can take a photo, sure. But don’t pose with them like it’s Disneyland. Don’t grin. Don’t throw an arm around someone who’s supposed to be starving to death.
That’s not Irish memory. That’s just tourism with no brakes.
Most people are decent. They read the plaques. They go quiet. They get it, even if only for a minute. That’s enough.
But every now and then someone sees it and still doesn’t see it. They look right through the grief and the history and just think, weird statues, great lighting, gimme a pic.
I used to try and explain it better. Now I just let the cold do the work.
