The Colony, Audrey Magee’s second novel (2022), was warmly received by both professional critics and everyday readers of fiction. Writing for The Observer, Jonathan Myerson praised its style, describing it as “always luminous, lyrical and pungent” (2022); according to the New York Times critic Kathryn Hughes, Magee “builds her world with a rich particularity that never defaults to the off-the-peg lyricism that often marks novels about rural Ireland” (2022). There are also accounts of genuine delight expressed in numerous blogs, YouTube channels, Amazon reviews, and elsewhere. Moreover, the novel was longlisted for the Booker Prize in 2022. However, The Colony has received little scholarly attention so far, despite its merits.[1] This article seeks to rectify this oversight by examining the novel’s depiction of various forms of violence through the lenses of postcolonialism and neocolonialism.

Whether the epistemic framework of postcolonialism is relevant to Irish history remains a fiercely contested question. Some argue that, despite various idiosyncrasies of its history, Ireland was subjected to colonial rule and all of its deleterious effects; others assert that Ireland’s has been an exceptional (his)story that bears little resemblance to that of other former colonies. According to Gerry Smyth, “a colonial relationship obtained between Ireland and England since the twelfth century […] and modern Irish political and cultural activity may as a consequence most usefully be understood in terms of a model of decolonization” (1998: 9). In his introduction to a collection of three essays by Terry Eagleton, Fredric Jameson, and Edward Said titled Nationalism, Colonialism, and Literature, Seamus Deane contends that “Ireland is the only Western European country that has had both an early and a late colonial experience” (1990: 3). David Lloyd cautions that denying “Ireland’s colonial history” (1999: 58) is likely to distort our perception of the true nature the of Irish past.

Conversely, historians who primarily focus on material evidence tend to regard the application of postcolonial theory to Ireland as unsubstantiated. Liam Kennedy, for instance, first deprecatingly notes that “[e]xponents of the neo-colonial notion are not always noted for their analytical rigour” (1992: 113), to conclude that “[w]hen independence was achieved by what might be loosely termed Catholic nationalist Ireland, this was no war of liberation, in a classic Third World sense. […] What happened was secession” (116). According to Lauren A. Scanlon and M. Satish Kumar, “the Irish colonial and postcolonial situation blurs lines” (2019: 2), an assessment that combines prudent objectivity with academic frustration. Stephen Howe, in turn, is alert to a troubling contradiction within the term “postcolonial”, which “is used in two almost opposed senses, depending on whether the emphasis is placed on the ‘post’ or on the ‘colonial’ – on the break from colonialism or on its continuing influence” (2000: 146). To avoid any taxonomical confusion, this article will employ the category “postcolonial” to denote an analytic effort to examine the legacy of colonialism, and “neocolonial” to refer to any lingering traces of old colonial patterns of behaviour that persist in new forms, exemplified in the novel through specific actions and attitudes of two foreign visitors to the island, which is the setting of the story (vide infra).

While scholars continue to debate whether the terminology of postcolonial studies is appropriate in the context of Irish studies, Magee is convinced that Ireland continues to suffer many harmful effects of colonial violence; her novel’s title itself is an unambiguous declaration of her position. In an interview with Nina MacLaughlin (2024), she admitted that “violence is the spine of the novel” and that “the novel grew out of violence”.[2] Therefore, I argue that by depicting diverse forms of violence, the author indicates that many issues within the deictic “now” of the novel are a regrettable legacy of colonialism, which always involves some form of violence, whether openly visible as physical coercion, used as a potential punitive measure, or latent in the seemingly benign actions of the metropolis. Political violence during the Troubles will be the first form of brutality to be examined. The main narrative is counterpointed by brief reports of recent atrocities in the North; in this way, Magee suggests a connection between the ongoing sectarian conflict in Ulster and the region’s colonial history.[3] The second is linguistic violence; by featuring a linguist as a main character, Magee seeks to highlight the linguistic damage caused by colonial subjugation. Lastly, the book explores a complex relationship between colonialism and violence against women, where the term colonialism comes to represent what Magee refers to as “Vatican colonisation”. She believes that although certain forms of violence disappeared when Ireland gained independence, others insinuated themselves into the politics of the new state, which became a theocracy in all but name.

Violence is broadly defined here as any form of oppression, discrimination, coercion, or exploitation that causes harm, whether physical or psychological, individual or collective. As outlined above, the first two types – political and linguistic – are undisputable examples of Ireland enduring the long-term effects of colonial violence, while discrimination against women is shaped by multiple forces, with English colonialism only marginally responsible for the “subaltern” status of Irish women in the Republic. Conversely, the violence exerted by the two foreign visitors does not cause any physical harm or material damage; one might even question whether the term is apposite at all. I will attempt to demonstrate that within their neocolonial attitude, the term “violence” undergoes semantic attenuation, signifying a Weltanschauung characterised by a sense of entitlement that usurps the right to violate customary norms of behaviour with impunity. It manifests through acts of peremptory dismissal of native preference, condescending advice, cultural and conceptual appropriation, unreflective disregard for the later ramifications of one’s actions, and other instances of indifference to local rules of conduct, rather than the far more damaging neocolonial rapacity of multinational corporations or the more recent reviviscence of old imperialist attitudes under the guise of “spheres of influence”. To quote the interview once more: “An English person comes to Ireland with a certain kind of latent behaviours that have been passed on from one generation to another, and Irish people respond to the presence of an English person in a way that has also been inherited and also carries all these latencies” (Magee and MacLaughlin 2024). How such latencies are embodied in specific situations will be discussed in the following sections of the article.[4]

Unlike The Undertaking (2014), her debut novel, The Colony is set in Magee’s native Ireland.[5] The story begins with a struggling English artist, Mr Lloyd (whose Christian name remains undisclosed), arriving on an otherwise unspecified island off Ireland’s west coast in the summer of 1979. The reader quickly realises that, in many ways, the island serves as a metonymic representation of the entire country. Although Mr Lloyd could choose a more comfortable mode of transport, he opts to travel in a currach, a small wooden boat. This perilous crossing is meant to initiate him into a life of austere authenticity (and authentic austerity). The dangers of travelling in the currach, steered by two surly islanders, aim to help Mr Lloyd shed his ties to a comfortable urban existence and adapt to the island’s primaeval rhythms. However, as the story unfolds, it becomes clear that his underlying neocolonial worldview, of which he is largely unaware, remains unchanged. It manifests in various ways, for instance, when – prompted by a vaguely remembered stereotype of how rowing rustic folk are supposed to behave – he demands they sing a song for him because he once “read in a book that you people always sing while rowing” (2022: 18). In response, instead of breaking into song, the disgruntled boatmen tell him to get “a better book” (18).

On the island itself, many things provoke his displeasure, as he unceremoniously orders the islanders about (“And did you see the way he clicked his fingers at me? said Bean Uí Néill” [2022: 28]). Although he is entranced by the island’s splendour, his stay is mainly for practical reasons. He plans to paint its towering cliffs, return to London, organise a successful exhibition, and regain his wife’s love and respect. To his irritation, another man from a former colonial power, Jean-Pierre Masson, soon arrives on the island; he is a French linguist and frequent visitor, researching the local Gaelic dialect for a doctoral dissertation. Neither man makes any effort to hide their mutual displeasure at the other’s presence, and they remain at odds throughout the story. Masson has been investigating the dialect’s attrition as successive generations shift away from their vernacular Irish towards bilingualism, with English becoming dominant. The French scholar fears that the presence of an English native speaker will accelerate the dialect’s atrophy and undermine his research. A frustrated Mr Lloyd, in turn, retreats to a secluded hut atop the cliffs, dedicating himself solely to his artistic pursuits. Later, a relaxed camaraderie develops between him and James, a fourteen-year-old island resident. James admires Mr Lloyd’s creative talent and aspires to learn painting, as he shows a natural aptitude for art. Encouraged by the prospect of travelling to London, James persuades the painter to organise a joint exhibition. However, on the day of his departure, Mr Lloyd refuses to take James with him. To mitigate his disappointment, the English artist promises to include some of the boy’s paintings in the exhibition. Nevertheless, upon entering the cottage formerly rented by Mr Lloyd, James finds all of them standing by the door.

The subsequent sections examine the three categories of violence previously identified. The initial category is political violence, exemplified by the sectarian conflict during the Troubles, whose pervasive and malevolent influence continues to impact daily life across the island.

Political Violence

The most apparent form of violence depicted in the novel is the seemingly interminable cycle of sectarian murders in Ulster. Each chapter of the “insular” narrative alternates with a brief report of recent atrocities in Ulster. These bulletin-style accounts can be quite shocking in their dispassionate factuality:

Henry Corbett is twenty-seven years of age and is at home with his wife in their small terraced house in North Belfast. It is midnight on Monday, September 3rd. Four gunmen from the Ulster Defence Association burst into the house. He runs from them, but they open fire, shooting the Catholic man nineteen times. He dies in his house. (2022: 317)

The island itself may initially seem shielded from the tragic events, but they gradually begin to seep into everyday conversation. It could be argued that the country’s political divide is mirrored in the narrative’s structural organisation. This division is also reflected in the increasing splits within the community itself. Most islanders are horrified by the killings and condemn them as morally indefensible, but at least one fiercely nationalistic individual insists they can be justified as the only form of resistance available to the colonised people:

aaaaaaIt’s been awful up there since, said Bean Uí Néill. That poor man stacking vegetables.

aaaaaaCollateral damage, said Francis.

aaaaaaThat’s all. What about the children, Francis?

aaaaaaWhat about them, Mairéad?

aaaaaaThe two children killed on the boat.

aaaaaaAs I said, collateral damage.

aaaaaaOne of them was Irish, Francis. The same age as James.

aaaaaaA true Irish boy wouldn’t work on the boat of a British lord.

aaaaaaHe was a child, Francis. With a summer job.

Francis shrugged.

aaaaaaHe should have thought more carefully about the source of his employment.

aaaaaaJesus, Francis. That’s sick.

He shrugged again.

aaaaaaThat’s the way of it, Mairéad.

aaaaaaOf what, Francis? What is it?

aaaaaaWar, Mairéad. The way of war.

aaaaaaAgainst old women and children on a day trip on a boat?

Francis emptied his cup.

aaaaaaThe boat of a colonial warlord, he said. (2022: 318-19)

The infamous murder of Lord Mountbatten, alluded to in the exchange quoted above, remains the most shocking example of political violence. An interesting detail to observe is that, unlike the narrative of the events on the island, reports of the crimes are all in the present tense; this aims to suggest that the legacy of terror is almost impossible to erase. The traumatic shadow of the past continues to haunt both the collective Irish memory and those directly affected. In Magee’s words, “I write them in the present tense because they are still with us” (2024). One could interpret the pronoun “they” as referring both to the victims, who live on in memory, and to the events themselves, the indelible marks of violence.

The reports of the killings do not explain the aetiology behind them; Magee depends on the reader’s familiarity with the province’s tragic history to link the terror of the 1970s to the roots of later divisions. As noted earlier, this is arguably the clearest example of the lasting impacts of colonial rule, as a more or less direct connection must be made from the Troubles back to the ruthless expropriation of Irish land in the 17th century, and the subsequent discrimination against native inhabitants under the Penal Laws, leading to all the later permutations of sectarian fighting. According to M. L. R. Smith, “The notion of colonial subjugation is the strongest theme in Irish republican nationalism […] (it) forms the central hypothesis of republican political analysis” (1995:7). Declan Kiberd comments on how Irish people living in the Republic reacted to the resurgence of ancient hostilities: “Many citizens were baffled by a northern community whose members seemed to live more in the aftermath of the 1690s than of the 1960s” (2018: 126). Marcus Tanner highlights the pernicious contemporaneity of the past in Ulster, where old divisions and historical grievances never truly fade away: “The triumphal arch in Ballywalter, decorated with the picture of the Protestant British King, is not a quaint historic relic […]. It is a reminder to everyone entering the town that the great issues at stake in 1690 remain unresolved 300 years later” (2002: 123). In Howe’s typology of different positions on Ulster, he mentions a bellicose nationalist perspective insisting that “British imperialism has played an unbroken, direct and consistent role in modern Ireland, deliberately ‘dividing and ruling’ through Partition, which split Ireland between a dependent pseudo-sovereign neocolony in the south and a classic colonial enclave in the north” (2000:7).

On the island, the tension caused by the presence of the two foreign adversaries can be seen as a grotesque imitation of the colonial rivalry between their mother countries during the height of imperialism. The islanders themselves are bemused by their constant bickering:

I had to split the pile in half. One side for JP, the other for the Sasanach. Imagine that, said Mairéad. A Frenchman and an Englishman squabbling over our turf. They’ve been squabbling over our turf for centuries, said Francis. (2022: 87)

Neither of the two men has the temerity to frame the conflict in these terms, yet it is evident that each views the island as his own and resents the other’s similar ambitions. Moreover, both are aware of their own countries’ colonial histories, but neither seems particularly troubled by them. Mr Lloyd dismisses the horrors of the past when he describes the inadequate response of the English to the famine of 1845 as not being “very nice” (2022: 364). For him, the past is a nebulous collection of unpleasant incidents best left ignored. At the same time, both men are quick to accuse each other of colonial evils.[6] Just as their own countries once sought to weaken their mutual colonial ambitions, they see the other as a brazen usurper. Sometimes, they engage in an absurd tu quoque kind of argument:

aaaaaaIt’s theirs to kill, said Lloyd. Not yours.

Masson shook his head.

aaaaaaYou can’t speak on this. You have spent centuries trying to annihilate this language, aaaaaathis culture.

Lloyd stuck his fork into his tart. He ate two pieces and drank some tea.

aaaaaaFrance is no better, said Lloyd. Look at Algeria. At Cameroon. At the Pacific aaaaaaIslands. (2022: 96-97)

The inheritors of imperial attitudes are depicted as faintly preposterous copies (sometimes verging on parody) of the ruthless colonisers of the past. However, unlike them, they make no effort to seize territory, exploit resources, or oppress the natives. Their neocolonial stance displays itself differently. They assume that the island, with its stunning vistas and unique dialect, exists for their exploitation – whether artistic or academic – and can then be abandoned to its fate. They behave as if treating the islanders, their culture, and environment as mere objects of curiosity is their inherent right. The Englishman’s neocolonial attitude also appears when he lies to the islanders, promising not to paint them, then dismisses their complaints, claiming he forgot their request. In a spirit of neocolonial entitlement, he arrogates to himself the right to use their images as he wishes. The Frenchman, in turn, presumes to lecture the natives on the significance of their own vernacular. These arrogant attitudes may reflect the flawed natures of the two men, but Magee suggests they also arise from the neocolonial mindset lingering in the subconscious of individuals from former colonial powers.

Interestingly, aside from the title itself, the word “colony” appears only seven times throughout the text, with two instances referring to a puffin colony. At one point, James urges Mr Lloyd to accompany him to visit such a place, even though the painter is reluctant to tear himself away from his work. When they reach the colony, he objects to James dragging the young chickens from their nests:

They walked on, James scanning the ground. He hunkered down.

aaaaaaThere’s a colony beneath your feet, Mr Lloyd. Moving underneath without your even knowing. James stuck his hand into a hole and pulled out a puffin, the bird’s head and beak of cadmium orange spinning in protest, its feet stamping at the air. […] He held the mother in one hand, the chick in the other, laughing as the mother lashed at him with her claws and beak, as she buckled and twisted, fighting to reach her chick. The chick was motionless, its eyes fixed on its mother.

aaaaaaWe should put them back, James. […] They’ve had enough, James. (2022: 197)

Whether Magee deliberately explores the semantic ambiguity of the term “colony” to suggest that a colony of puffins could serve as a metaphor for Ireland’s neocolonial condition is challenging to determine. Still, James becomes an unwitting coloniser of sorts, wielding arbitrary power over the helpless creatures at his mercy. The ironic undertow of the boy’s remark (“There’s a colony beneath your feet, Mr Lloyd. Moving underneath without your even knowing”) is striking as the biological terminology assumes political undertones and is made to carry an accusatory weight. At the risk of drawing a somewhat far-fetched parallel, one might argue that over centuries of Hiberno-English history, Britain’s deliberate cruelty and casual malice towards the Irish were not unlike the boy’s unreflectively callous treatment of the birds.

With the benefit of hindsight, the reader today might view the political violence in Ulster with a sense of hope, as if the conflict’s peaceful resolution had a certain historic inevitability. For the characters themselves, however, the idea of a relatively harmonious coexistence between Catholics and Protestants is hardly conceivable, and there is no narrative vantage transcendent of the immediate events that might suggest the possibility of future reconciliation.

Linguistic Violence

The second form of violence to be analysed pertains to the linguistic impact of colonialism. According to Magee, the novel also functions as an “exploration of what colonialism does to language” (2024). Historically, colonisers rarely aimed to eradicate indigenous languages; instead, they relegated them to a position of inferiority and irrelevance. Consequently, the language of the metropolis became the language of law, governance, education, commerce, and art, while native tongues were pushed to the margins, often confined to domestic conversation. Furthermore, the imposed language became the basis of sophisticated literature, whereas lesser genres were written in local vernaculars or preserved only through oral transmission.

In Irish history, the native language was often viewed as an instrument of resistance against the cultural and political dominance of the oppressors. Roy Foster notes that in early 17th-century Ireland after the Battle of Kinsale, Catholicism and the Irish language began to emerge as native defences: “Religion would thus become one conduit of anti-English feeling, and eventually of national identity. The Irish language was in a similar position” (1989: 30). Later, although the language held political importance as a potential emblem of national unity, it started to decline when challenged by the dominance of English in the public sphere. Inevitably, practical needs overtook the lofty notions of selfless patriotism. Declan Kiberd attributes the gradual etiolation of Irish to the dictates of practicality: “Meanwhile, in the cities, parts of the bourgeoisie, which had once found in Irish the basis for the claim to a separatist nationhood, began to lose interest. Many parents felt that their children would be better served learning a continental European language” (2018: 288).

In the novel, an entire chapter, part of Masson’s doctoral dissertation, is dedicated to this issue. As previously noted, Masson fears that a native English speaker on the island might corrupt the purity of the dialect and hasten its demise. As a scholar, he recognises that his research should be purely descriptive and non-interventionist, yet he repeatedly urges the islanders to speak their vernacular, even when they would naturally switch to English. There is no doubt of his genuine affection for the islanders’ idiom, but he is also driven by an ulterior motive. Despite his grandiloquent speechifying on the importance of preserving endangered tongues, his research is ultimately a means to an end; his real goal is academic recognition and national fame. As he admits, he would not mind turning the entire island into a sort of linguistic museum, allowing him to study the dialect without interruption. In a revealing internal monologue, he indulges in exaggerated fantasies of future glory, as if the whole world eagerly awaited his research results:

He lifted her hands and kissed them, for I will invite French journalists to meet you, Bean Uí Fhloinn, the last of the pure Irish speakers […]. And after they have spoken to you, recorded you, photographed you, filmed you, they will turn to me, the French linguist who found you and captured the last moments of this ancient language, the great French linguist who […] should be honoured, dear readers, dear listeners, dear viewers, by the President with the Légion d’honneur for services to culture, for his commitment to this dying language, this ancient beauty. (2022: 227-28)

Masson’s neocolonial arrogance also shows in his protracted contretemps with James/Seamus. The Frenchman inconsiderately insists on using the Irish version of the boy’s name, despite knowing that he resents it. Apparently, here the subaltern is permitted to speak, but his linguistic choices are dismissed as immaterial. Interestingly, Seamus’s defiance mirrors Masson’s own stubborn refusal to use his mother’s native Arabic during his childhood in Algeria. Although Magee’s narrative mainly focuses on the enduring effects of colonialism rather than the psychological complexities of individual characters, it is implied that Masson’s efforts to preserve the obscure dialect of a small Irish community could be construed as a belated act of atonement for having rejected his mother’s culture.

Some islanders recognise the political significance of linguistic choices, seeing speech as an ideological statement rather than merely a way of communicating:

.What do you think, Micheál? said Masson. Are you less Irish when you speak English? I .don’t talk politics, Masson. You know that. We’re talking about language, Micheál. Same thing. (2022: 187-88).

Their general attitude towards language, however, could be described as unsentimental utilitarianism. Some may quietly regret the attrition of their mother tongue, but for most, language holds relatively little inherent value as a cultural heritage worth cherishing. If the language of the former oppressor happens to serve as a more efficient means of communication, it would be unwise not to use it. The novel insists that colonialism is responsible for the suppression of Irish, but whether the islanders’ regrettable indifference to its fate is also a result of colonial oppression remains less clear. It seems that their language is being eroded by the stealthy violence of modern capitalism, the blind vectors of the market economy, and the impersonal imperatives of relevance, rather than by the nefarious machinations of linguistic chauvinists. What they most resent is foreigners telling them what language to speak, and they are annoyed that Masson dares to pontificate about their own vernacular. In a way, the Frenchman’s approach is a kind of linguistic colonialism à rebours; instead of trying to erase the native tongue or push it into obsolescence, he encourages its speakers to preserve it for his own benefit. This may seem the opposite of typical colonial prejudice, but what reveals a neocolonial perspective behind it is that the choice is taken away from the native speakers, and their (linguistic) autonomy is undermined.

Unsurprisingly, Lloyd and Masson end up blaming each other for the suppression of local languages in the other’s former colonies, while downplaying their own nation’s responsibility for the plight of indigenous idioms:

aaaaaaaaYou’ve always hated the language, said Masson. Been threatened by it. Your people treated this language brutally. Savagely.

Lloyd crossed his arms, stretched out his legs.

aaaaaaaaYes, of course, I forgot. The French adored the languages of Algeria, nurtured and nourished the languages of the Berber and Arabs.

aaaaaaaaYou’re being facetious, Lloyd.

aaaaaaaaAm I?

aaaaaaaaYes, you are.

aaaaaaaaWhy aren’t you in Algeria unpicking the damage caused by French? Why come here giving out to the English for all their awfulness when you have done exactly the same. (2022: 184)[7]

Once again, they share notable similarities; for both, the island is merely a repository of valuable material (whether visual or linguistic) to be examined and, in a sense, exploited. To be fair, no material harm is inflicted in the process, but the point remains that for both, the (broadly defined) local is something to be appropriated, exploited and then discarded. No theft of property as such occurs; yet, in a distinctly neocolonial manner, when Mr Lloyd realises that James’s work has a kind of innocent immediacy, he does not scruple to steal from the boy, mollifying him with pretentious platitudes about true artists naturally influencing each other’s work. The two foreigners are not guilty of epistemic violence in attempting to eradicate indigenous culture, but they are culpable of neocolonial condescension in dismissing the natives’ choices regarding their own situation.

The last form to be investigated is violence against women, understood both as political discrimination, social marginalisation, and physical coercion.

Violence Against Women

Postcolonial studies have frequently focused on the issue of women’s emancipation in former colonies; uncovering pervasive structures of patriarchal oppression and revealing hidden ones have been key aspects of the postcolonial effort. Much of the suffering endured by women in colonies was directly caused by the imposition of rigidly prudish standards of European morality, since “[c]olonial rule enforced European 19th-century sexual mores on societies where gender roles and practices of sexuality were often more fluid and less restricted – indeed that was the attraction for some Europeans who went out to the colonies” (Young 2020: 104). However, postcolonialism also aims to free women from the burdens of local traditions. What complicates the temptingly straightforward image of innocent native women oppressed by callous imperialists is that, on occasion, the intervention of the coloniser actually improved their situation; one example is the abolition of the hideous custom of widow self-immolation on their husband’s funeral pyre in India (so-called sati).

During the period of English colonial rule in Ireland, discrimination against the indigenous population was primarily based on the categories of race and religion rather than gender. Women were oppressed as Irish Catholics rather than as Irish females. Regrettably, within the nationalist movement, the imperatives of political liberation often took precedence over other forms of emancipation. One might argue that from the perspective of Irish feminism, after 1922, colonial subjugation was replaced by a different form of oppression. Irish women faced marginalisation, their subordinate status was legally sanctioned, and they found themselves in a subaltern relation to Irish men.[8] Catholicism, with its ideals of feminine submissiveness, chastity, and modesty – along with its hostility towards female agency, relentless focus on procreation, and confinement of women to the domestic sphere – sustained this unequal division of gender roles. It remains a matter of debate to what extent the epistemic framework of postcolonialism could apply to the experiences of Irish women in the Republic, but Magee herself has no hesitation in discussing “Vatican colonisation, of how to behave, particularly of women” (2024).[9]

It seems that for many commentators today, discussing the seven decades of recent Irish history in terms of “Catholic colonialism” is less an effort to place it within the strict boundaries of scholarly discourse and more a way to express a sense of betrayed trust and moral outrage about the collusion between the Church and the State, the ruthless homogenisation of collective mentality, suspicion of all forms of non-Catholic alterity, stigmatisation of dissenting voices, stifling censorship of culture, and the harrowing record of sexual abuse. Kathleen Costello-Sullivan, for example, in the introduction to Trauma and Recovery in the Twenty-First-Century Irish Novel, recounts the gruesome story of “796 children […] buried in an unmarked grave […] on the property of a former mother-and-baby home run by the Sisters of Bons Secours in Tuam, County Galway” to conclude that “[t]he Irish nation was again asked to confront a painful history of silence, suffering, and abuse – a legacy of its colonial past” (2018: 1). What she means by Ireland’s “colonial past” has little to do with the abuses of English imperialism.

The Colony features few female islanders, with just three women from the same family playing significant roles in the story. The oldest of them is Bean Uí Fhloinn; her daughter, Bean Uí Néill, and her granddaughter, Mairéad, are the other two. Bean Uí Fhloinn distrusts Mr Lloyd and frequently contemplates wounds inflicted by English colonialism:

They take our land, […] starve us and then to alleviate the poverty, to assuage their guilt, they set us up with knitting. Make jumpers this way and sell them, they said. Earn your living that way, they said. Earn your rent that way, they said, though, we liked earning our living the other way, from the land that was our land, the sea that was our sea. (163)

Of the three, only Bean Uí Néill is deeply religious, while Mairéad quietly resents the restrictive influence of Catholic priests on her son (“Ready in time for school, James. If you ever go back. Back to those priests and their ways. […] Their quietening of you, James. Their stilling of you” [2022: 164]). Mairéad’s faith seems to be a spontaneous immersion in the splendour of nature, a form of trusting pantheism, which her mother regards as blasphemous:

They sat and watched the sun sinking into the sea, a blaze of pinks and reds.

aaaaaaaaThis is better than Mass, said Mairéad.

aaaaaaaaThat’s a terrible thing to say, said Bean Uí Néill.

aaaaaaaaIs it?

aaaaaaaaIt is, Mairéad. Terrible.

aaaaaaaaThe monstrance is shaped like the sun, Mam.

aaaaaaaaAnd?

aaaaaaaaMen in dresses hold it up in the air as though it was the sun.

aaaaaaaaThat’s terrible, Mairéad.

aaaaaaaaThey worship it. We’re supposed to worship it.

aaaaaaaaI do, Mairéad.

aaaaaaaaBut here it is, in front of us, Mam. The sun. Not a priest in sight. (2022: 190)

Little is mentioned about the religious beliefs of other islanders. It is suggested that they are typical Catholics who attend Mass on Sunday and probably follow Catholic customs. Notably, the word “Catholic” appears far more frequently in the sections about murders in Ulster, where it is a key indicator of tribal affiliation.

At the same time, the oppressiveness of Irish Catholicism is demonstrated through Mairead’s mother, who holds strict views on female sexuality. When Bean Uí Néill and Mairéad’s boorish suitor, Francis, find out that the young woman secretly agreed to pose nude for Mr Lloyd, they are stunned and horrified. Francis threatens to punish her for what he sees as a blatant breach of morality, and her mother sides with the accuser (“We won’t have it, Mairéad. […] You. Like this. It’s too much, Mairéad” [2022: 370]). The outcome remains uncertain, but a severe reckoning seems imminent. Interestingly, the islanders chose to overlook her illicit affair with the Frenchman, the immorality of which was downplayed by the phrase “a bit of widow fun”, yet when she agreed to pose for the Englishman, conservative norms of behaviour reasserted control.

The community displays peculiar standards of tolerance, distinguishing what is acceptable from what must be punished. This raises the vexed question of who wields authority over the female body. Evidently, the islanders view casual fornication with a Frenchman as more forgivable than artistic collaboration with an Englishman. Consequently, Mairéad finds herself caught between hostile forces: rigid Catholic teachings on female sexuality, nationalist prejudice against everything English, and male insecurity, represented by Francis as a spurned lover. All these factors, rather than colonial history alone, are the direct causes of her likely future ostracism.

The other form of violence against women is more openly brutal. When Masson recalls his childhood in Algeria and his later life in France, a particularly traumatic memory flashes through his mind. It is of his father savagely assaulting his mother for her attempts to teach Masson Arabic and her failure to become more French:

The belt rose, the belt fell, my mother a tightened ball, hands and arms over her face, over her head. I should have married a Frenchwoman. None of this Arabic crap. The belt on her back. My son will speak French. On her legs. Read French. On her back again. Lashing her. Legs. Hip. Back. Buttocks. Shoulder. My. Son. Will. Be. French. (2022: 329).

Such brutality seems to originate from both Masson’s father’s imperialist belief in French superiority and a cruel streak in his personality; here, toxic masculinity and thuggish jingoism reinforce each other.

Conclusion

The Colony exposes a complex network of various types of violence affecting both the insular community and the whole country. Its most horrifying form is the terror raging in Ulster, portrayed in the brief chapters that punctuate the main narrative. Additionally, the precarious linguistic situation of the diglossic community can be linked to the colonial history. Conversely, the involvement of colonialism in the discrimination against Irish women is less straightforward, as Magee implies that it is Irish Catholicism that should be held responsible. Magee considers Ireland to have been substantially impacted by colonialism, but avoids the trap of monocausal explanations that attribute all violence on the island (both as the immediate setting and as a metonym for all of Ireland) solely to England. She recognises that framing the English as a collective scapegoat would be historically inaccurate, as it would obscure the violence rooted in native prejudices, traditionalist attitudes, internal divisions, and other indigenous factors. Simultaneously, she highlights that the island remains susceptible to other forms of violence driven by residual colonial patterns of behaviour persisting in the present. The novel suggests that the patronising attitude of the British painter and the overbearing stance of the French linguist originate from their neocolonial perspectives rather than personal flaws.

Notes

[1] One of the few academic articles on The Colony is an essay by Polish scholar Julia Dynkowska, titled “In Search of an Authentic Ireland: On Landscapes in the Novel The Colony by Audrey Magee”, which explores the novel’s visual elements.

[2] All the following quotations of Magee’s words are taken from the same interview.

[3] According to Fiona McCann, literature is a “privileged area for tentatively or controversially exploring legacies of violence and for finding adequate modes of expression to deal with both the well-known and the untold stories of the Troubles and their rhizomatic consequences” (2014: 3).

[4] As Stacey Peebles notes in the introduction to a collection of essays on violence in literature, the representations of violence “almost always give us individuals to consider. This person, that wound, this act of aggression, that resistance. We encounter other people in situations that must be considered on a case-by-case basis, and yet […] those situations are never just about the individual” (2014: xiv).

[5] Due to space constraints, the article will not address any formal aspects of the novel, such as its use of interior monologue, penchant for impressionist interludes, or somewhat awkward application of analepsis.

[6] As Danine Farquharson and Sean Farrell point out in the introduction to the collection of essays Shadows of the Gunmen: Violence and Culture in Modern Ireland, “violence is a complex and ever-shifting phenomenon, in which different players attempt to write narratives of violence that support their own agendas and purposes” (2008: 2).

[7] It is revealing that the phrasal verb “to give out to someone” in the sense of rebuking somebody shows that, through linguistic osmosis, Mr Lloyd’s lexicon has incorporated local inflexions of English.

[8] As Colin Graham observes, “the liberative doctrine of nationalism became the nation-state’s constitutional discrimination and where, in the Republic, the woman as revolutionary transmuted into what Eamon de Valera sanctified in his St Patrick’s Day broadcast of 1943 as the ‘laughter of comely maidens’, an image ironically appropriate for its linguistically silenced subject. Nationalism (or the nation-state), in this configuration, is complicit in assuming and enforcing the subaltern status of women and other marginalised groups” (2001: 107).

[9] In Edna Longley’s somewhat caustic commentary, “Feminists question any exploitation of the female body for symbolic or abstract purposes. So perhaps Anorexia should, rather, personify Irish women themselves: starved and repressed by patriarchies like Unionism, Catholicism, Protestantism, Nationalism” (1994: 173).