Kneecap: On the Myth of Non-Partisanship

We must begin first with the postulation that all language is political. What vocabulary is employed and omitted, what accent, what language is spoken, and who listens are entirely political statements. Beyond even vernacular, what all languages contain inherently is division and consequently politics; all languages include and exclude. When a speaker elects a language, however conscious or unconscious, they elect a group for which the message is comprehensible and therefore relevant, excluding the rest. The choice to speak Serbian in Glina is a political one; the choice to speak Catalan is a political one; the choice to speak English in Belfast is, of course, a political one.

When Margaret Keane’s family selected the Irish phrase “In ár gcroíthe go deo” (In our hearts forever) for her headstone inscription, it was denied by the Church of England on the grounds of being too political. The question, therefore, lies in why certain languages are held to stricter standards of “non-partisanship” when linguistic non-partisanship itself is and never was concrete. 

“Tiocfaidh ár lá” (our day will come) is a prominent slogan of Irish Republicanism; it was popularized during the Troubles by Bobby Sands and the IRA, though “our day will come yet” referring to the same political issue has appeared much earlier (1916) in Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. When Belfast hip-hop trio Kneecap chanted this phrase mid-gig at University College Dublin, they were promptly taken off-stage. Besides the obvious concerns over freedom of expression—especially in anti-colonial sentiments against imperialist or otherwise stagnant authorities, this incident speaks most to a paranoia of sectarianism that bleeds over into language. 

Modern Irish language revival efforts, especially in the North of Ireland (judicially Northern Ireland) are compelled to adhere to this mandate of apoliticism, one that is so contradictory that it’s no difficulty ascertaining why Irish remains still so unpopular. For Irish to ever claw itself back to a level alongside and hopefully one day surpassing English, it must be political. Apoliticism creates the most hypocritical, neo-colonial, and unequal playing field for language perpetuation. The very act of English being spoken is a political act, every one of its non-indigenous speakers in colonial states is a political statement more than 1 billion strong. English’ politicism seems only subtle in the face of its dominance; it’s this contextualization that creates the unsavory optics all indigenous languages unfairly carry. All languages are inherently and naturally political—English’ linguistic colonialism is what criminalizes all other languages’ resistance and their politics. 

If Irish must be shrunken to its one-dimensional, incomplete, docile, and nonpartisan facet when English continues to remain political through its very continued existence in Ireland, Irish cannot ever achieve a status close to other thriving languages or even the cultural perforation of an official language despite what legislation apparently affirms. The difference is that one language is able to encompass what all languages are—it’s able to communicate without censorship and without confines, while the other must remain an archetype—archaic, sterile, and stagnant. Irish in mainstream consciousness is most of all redolent of museum artifacts; it’s something generally recognized as important and worthy of conservation, but unlike vases and arrowheads, language is something that requires other life to live. 

In the acclaimed semi-autobiographical film, Kneecap (Ireland’s submission to the Academy)—depicting again the eponymous band—the eventual members discuss this smashing of exhibition glass during the inciting incident. To paraphrase the conversation, if the Irish language is the extinct dodo bird, then what better way to free the dodo from passive observation towards revival than with modernisation through music and explicit politicisation? 

Kneecap has certainly shattered the glass. English colonialism and the slow death of the Irish language predate the development and popularisation of rap and hip-hop by centuries. Though they may not be the first to speak Irish or the first to rap, Kneecap may just be the first collective to create hip-hop and rap in the Irish language. Rap and hip-hop are unequivocal testaments to Black artistry, excellence, and resilience. It’s often been the platform of disadvantaged and marginalised communities; it’s often been a gateway to social commentary and political action; it’s often been the voice for the youth. Thus, it’s no surprise that Kneecap feels any affinity towards this form of expression (watchers of The Commitments would be immediately thinking about a particular comment Jimmy Rabitte made about the Irish in Europe).

The significance of this decision is not one to be understated, however. To bring a language to a genre it has never seen before is one of the most effective ways to modernisation and therefore revitalisation. One can invoke Canto-pop as an example; bands like Beyond and even Faye Wong to a certain extent brought Cantonese to the consciousness of non-Cantonese speaking audiences. While Cantonese is similar to Irish in many ways, namely its struggle against a state obsessed with homogenization, the relative popularity of Cantonese to Irish can be easily attributed to its constant modernisation. Whether in culture or politics, Cantonese functions identical to any thriving language. Canto-rap is no longer a new phenomenon; Wong Kar Wai has proved the success of new wave cinema to the Cantonese audience, protests are held freely in Cantonese with minimal quals about abstract political connotations, certainly not to the scale of Irish. 

The greatest asset from this consistent modernisation is a construction of relevancy; Cantonese is always relevant—the youth have a reason to continue learning and speaking Cantonese. Kneecap’s step is unquestionably one in the right direction; by using Irish in modern contexts, Kneecap not only proves the modern possibility of the language, but they encourage others to do so as well. Imagine how many teenagers now look forward to their Irish lessons a little bit more; imagine how many Irish speakers now have something exciting to show to non-Irish speakers; imagine how many people feel less alone with their native language.

To the controversy, Kneecap’s politicisation is evidently much more divisive than their modernisation. Despite how contradictory it sounds, Kneecap’s unsubtly partisan lyrics may somewhat serve to destigmatize the perceived ‘violence’ of the Irish language rather than the expected. Take their single, Get Your Brits Out; beyond its immediately provocative title, Kneecap derides major politicians by name (“Arlene’s throwing shapes off a yoke nearly killed her, Jeffrey Donaldson’s lost all his filters”), and stands as explicitly political (“Guess who’s back on the news, it’s your favourite Republican hoods”). What this does actually is to place more distance between Irish and the unjustifiable terrorism of the Troubles. How unbelievably it may seem at first, the dilution of unfortunate history from an entire language may be beneficial, actually.

The opening scene of Kneecap is a spoof on the relentless characterisation of Northern Ireland, and Northern Irish cities as violent places (see Kenneth Branagh’s Belfast, it came out in 2021, by the way). Now more than twenty years on from the Good Friday Agreement, it’s absurd to continue treating Ireland and the Irish language with a connotation of violence and sectarianism, when it’s so inapplicable to modern-day Ireland and the people who live there. What contributes most to this attitude is the culture of taboo surrounding anything remotely connected to the Troubles and the IRA. Even besides this being a largely contentious issue with justifications and atrocities committed on both sides (albeit unequally), absolute silence on this will do nothing to create closure or foster productive conversation. What Kneecap is doing—taking these sensitive topics and destigmatizing them through satirization and modernisation—does far more to remove this tag from contemporary Irish culture than a gag ever could. It’s hard to argue that one is not defined by something when one can’t even address it. 

One of the largest factors of a language’s popularity is its relevance—it must be applicable in all aspects of communication, which includes politics, and there must be opportunities made and incentives given for people to want to speak it. By relieving the burden of nonpartisanship, it becomes much easier to check all of those boxes. The DUP and many other anti-Irish factions commonly use the excuse of exclusion, sectarianism, and politics as tools to obstruct the revitalisation of Irish—it should be clear by now that nonpartisanship is at best a concession and at worst, a self-inflicted crutch where none are needed. Irish should be treated like any other language, its rhetoric cannot be silenced by claims of interest about equality, inclusion, and apoliticism, when no other languages (and certainly not English) are held to such standards. A language is merely a language; one should be judged on the substance of their message and politics, not the language itself—so be bold, be blunt, be political.