Ireland’s prime minister gave condolences for Hitler’s death — here’s why that’s a contemporary problem

The story of Irish Jews begins with journeys across the sea — from Kovno (modern-day Kaunas, Lithuania) to Cork City, where Ireland’s first modern Jewish community settled. While this community once thrived, its legacy now echoes in unexpected places — like in Cork City Council’s recent debate over the infamous condolences then-Prime Minister Éamon de Valera issued to Germany after Adolf Hitler’s death. Ireland was the only democracy in the world to offer condolences.

De Valera’s May 2, 1945 visit to Eduard Hempel, the German envoy in Ireland, after Hitler’s suicide at the end of the Battle of Berlin was made as part of Ireland’s strict policy of neutrality during World War II. But it has always been seen as a stain on both de Valera’s legacy, and Ireland’s historical approach to antisemitism.

Almost 80 years later, in January of this year, Cork City Council voted to write to the present Taoiseach, or Prime Minister, Micheál Martin, to ask for him to “recant” de Valera’s condolences. Given de Valera’s preeminent role in contemporary Irish politics — he’s seen as of of modern Ireland’s “founding fathers,” and was a key figure in the struggle for independence — the Council’s motion is not merely a question of historical record. For those of us with Jewish heritage in Ireland, it touches on deeply personal questions about identity and the lasting shadows of antisemitism.

Like most people from a Jewish background the world over, I was raised with a heightened awareness about antisemitism. When I was five years old, my mother told me, I asked whether “this was where the people who Hitler killed were buried” as we walked by a pet cemetery in Glendalough, in County Wicklow, about an hour from where I was raised.

Even more embarrassing, to my mother: We were accompanied on the walk by a German student then staying with us.

But my identity as an Irish Jew brought with it specific complexities. Ireland’s history with its Jewish community is one of respect and dignity on the surface, yet marked by episodes of prejudice.

In 1846, the Irish historical hero Daniel O’Connell, who was the political leader of Ireland’s Catholic majority in the early 19th century, said of Jews that “Ireland has claims on your ancient race, it is the only country that I know of unsullied by any one act of persecution of the Jews.”

But then came the Limerick Pogrom in 1904, in which the Catholic priest Father John Creagh led a boycott of the Jewish community, which ended with almost the entire Jewish population leaving the city.

De Valera’s condolences for Hitler, and his stance in World War II — during which Ireland refused to take in Jewish refugees — might suggest that he harbored some antisemitic inclinations. But one of his closest friends and allies was Bob Briscoe, Ireland’s first Jewish parliamentarian, with Briscoe describing his friend as having “the moral grandeur of the Prophet Elijah.”

That’s Ireland and Jews for you: It’s always a mixed relationship. Ireland has long been seen as antagonistic to Israel — a stance that came under fresh scrutiny after the Irish rap group Kneecap used profanity to decry Israel during a recent set at the Coachella music festival — but even that connection is more complicated than a first glimpse might make it appear.

While Ireland certainly has a strong solidarity with Palestinians — in December 2024, Israeli Foreign Minister Gideon Sa’ar announced the closure of Israel’s embassy in Dublin, accusing the then-Taoiseach Simon Harris of antisemitism over his reaction to the war in Gaza — there is also a large amount of support for Israel, including the interparliamentary Oireachtas Friends of Israel, which consists of members from various political parties. The Ireland-Israel Friendship League was formed in 1967, and continues to promote mutual understanding and cooperation between Ireland and Israel.

Being an Irish Jew means living as something of a paradox. One of Ireland’s most famous writers, David Marcus, spoke of his “ongoing trauma” of “balancing his “hyphenated heritage of being a Jew in Ireland.”

I am no different. And when, in January, I learned of the motion put forward to Cork City Council to request a formal recanting of de Valera’s condolences — a proposal that was sent to An Tánaiste and Minister for Foreign Affairs, Micheál Martin, a member of the de Valera-founded party Fianna Fáil — my first instinct wasn’t to celebrate the proposal passing. It was to wonder why anyone voted against it.

Kieran McCarthy, an independent councillor, said he could not support the motion, saying, “This is just trying to rewrite history.” A Fianna Fáil councillor, Fergal Dennehy, called the motion “nonsensical” and questioned its purpose as an “issue that doesn’t exist.”

Was their opposition rooted in antisemitism? Or did it just come from ignorance about what the knowledge of de Valera’s condolences still means, today, to Irish Jews?

Even the councillors that abstained fell into my conspiracy of hurt feelings. I even considered sending emails to them to clarify their positions on their feelings about Jewish people.

But really, my distress wasn’t about them, specifically. It was about how the debate in Cork mirrors global conversations about addressing historical wrongs.

How do we confront these legacies without erasing the figures who committed them, or without, as McCarthy said, rewriting history?

In the United States, some schools have removed the names of founding fathers Thomas Jefferson and George Washington because they were slave owners. In the arts, some of books by Dr. Seuss have been removed from publication due to racist imagery.

Opponents to these moves suggest that we cannot judge historical figures according to the acceptable standards of today and that by removing marks of their legacy from the public square, we remove important parts of history.

Would recanting de Valera’s condolences mean that his error would be forgotten, as if it never happened? At least in official records, that would very well be the case. But would it be better for the event to be left as an unaltered part of history, however shameful it is?

I don’t know if I can answer these questions. They are as complex as the mixed identity of being Irish and Jewish. What I do know is that, as an Irish Jew, I am proud of both parts of my identity, even when they seem to conflict. Whether the effort to retract de Valera’s shameful move of 80 years ago moves forward or fades into history, it is a reminder that grappling with the past is an endeavor full of paradox and complications. But it is through these debates that we define who we are, and move forward.

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