Here in Galway, we measure the year in rhythms — not so much by the weather or the ticking of clocks, but by the sequence of festivals and the shifting colour of the streets. July turns, and with it, the city shifts mood. The stretch in the evening begins to draw in. The Galway International Arts Festival takes its final bow, and almost immediately, the echo of hooves rises from Ballybrit. The handover is complete. Art yields to spectacle. The Races are upon us.
This is a pattern we know well — a choreography of the city’s own making. From the dazzle of performance art to the drama of the racetrack, Galway moves not with the calendar, but with its passions. First, the imagination. Then, the tradition.
The 2025 Galway International Arts Festival has been, once again, a triumph. A tapestry of theatre, music, light, and sound; of streets alive with laughter and curiosity. Under the ever-watchful eyes of John Crumlish and Paul Fahy, the festival continues to be one of Galway’s greatest expressions of belief — belief in culture, in community, in the power of art to carry us through. The 50th anniversary is just ahead, and Galway looks ready.
And yet, even in the thick of celebration, something is different this year. Something gnaws at the edges of every joyful moment. Because when the lights go down in the Big Top, and the applause fades in the Black Box, we return to a world where children are starving to death in front of our eyes.
In Gaza, entire families are being denied food as a result of Israel’s blockade. A political choice has created a human catastrophe. People — innocent, ordinary, extraordinary people — are being starved in real time. We see their ribcages. Their sunken eyes. Their mothers' arms wrapped around children with no weight left to hold.
And still, we scroll past. We open another drink. We clap for another encore. The contradiction is not lost on us.
Never before have we witnessed starvation with such intimacy — not through hearsay or historical account, but on our phones, in high definition, every hour of the day. The Squid Game nature of humanity has been laid bare: a world that can beam signals from space cannot stop a child from dying of hunger. What does that say about us?
In two decades’ time, Ireland will mark the 200th anniversary of our own Great Famine. What will we say then, when future generations ask us what we did — really did — while famine unfolded before our eyes? Will we be able to say that we stood up, spoke out, or even simply bore witness with enough honesty to name the crime? Or will we be counted among the silent collaborators — those who chose distraction over action, neutrality over outrage?
Here in Galway, life continues. The festivals remain vital. The Galway Races bring their own kind of poetry — the drama of the turf, the artistry of form and fortune. Suits are pressed, heels clicked, bets placed. The city reconfigures itself again, as it always does. But this year, every celebration feels ever-so-slightly weighted. The joy is real — and yet, so too is the knowing.
This doesn’t mean we should not celebrate. Art and joy are not crimes. But they are not immune to the world around them either. They must respond. They must feel. They must absorb the moral weight of our moment.
Because if they don’t — if we don’t — what are we even celebrating?
There is, in the best of Galway, a deep capacity to hold contradiction. This city has always known how to carry grief and joy in the same hand. It’s what makes us capable of a good time, even in the shadow of sorrow. But perhaps this year, we’re being asked to carry the sorrow more visibly. To let it show.
As we walk the line between canvas and turf, between the applause of artists and the roar of the racetrack, let us not forget the silence of children waiting for food that does not come. Let that silence shape us. Let it interrupt us. Let it make us speak.
Galway continues to pulse with culture, with life. But if we are truly alive to this moment, then we must not look away.
Not now.
Not ever.
