A lonely vigil can be inspiring, but the figure keeping Ireland’s most famous modern-day vigil is unlikely to warm the cockles to quite the extent that Greyfriars Bobby, Japan’s Hachiko or the heroine of The French Lieutenant’s Woman did.
For one thing, Enoch Burke is not an appealingly faithful dog, like the first two patient sentinels, but a suspended school teacher. Mitigating against a movie with Meryl Streep is that Burke is not waiting for a vanished beloved. His daily surveillance is, as he sees it, in the cause of religious freedom.
Two years ago, a young teen at his school in County Westmeath asked to be referred to as “they/them”. The school acceded to the request, but Burke, an evangelical Christian Protestant, refused.
The matter could have been finessed, as Burke didn’t teach any classes the student attended. But Burke escalated the matter and was suspended – as much for his belligerent advocacy as for the risk he might upset the non-binary student.
Burke’s response – turning up outside the school every day to glower – led to a trespass order, which he has repeatedly flouted. As a result, he has had three stints in custody for contempt, totalling 500 days. A judge set him free for Christmas, but despite a near-record-breaking cold snap, there he stood again as students returned to Wilson’s Hospital School after the Christmas break. By press time, he may be back in the nick a fourth time, remaining subject to a court fine of NZ$2500 for each day he defies the judge’s order.
Few here doubt Burke will be toggling between the school and prison indefinitely, for he’s from a family of famously militant religious fervour. Wherever there are social liberals, there will be Burkes raising hell.
Renowned for their anti-LGBTQI+ advocacy, the Castlebar clan’s years of tireless campaigning against liberalisation of social restrictions have been largely unsuccessful, but this has turbocharged their resolve. Burkes have repeatedly been ejected from court and other tribunals for hurling abuse.
Enoch Burke’s stand has divided Ireland, though it’s probable most people think he has made a mountain out of a molehill. Once governed as much by the Catholic Church as by the government, the population has in recent years thrown off key strictures of its dominant faith, legalising gay marriage and permitting divorce and abortion.
The rapidity of these reforms reflects a massive loss of faith in the church after a slew of revelations of hypocrisy, abuse and cruelty.
Trust in, and compliance with, the church have been eroded by some priests’ molestation of children, various orders’ enslavement of unwed mothers and a Galway bishop’s 1992 admission to fathering a child.
The days when people looked to priests to resolve issues like that of the school are over. Burke’s actions have been greeted by a resounding silence from church leaders.
Still, his treatment has raised concerns about the proportionality of his detention and fines compared with penalties for crimes of, say, physical harm and drug dealing.
Compliance with the court is fundamental to justice and the rule of law. But some fear Burke’s seemingly eternal defiance will, if eternally punished by a cycle of fines and detention, risk public disapproval and make him a glamorous martyr.
Even so, the chances of a much-kissed statue being erected to him, or causing a flood of romantically enchanted tourists to travel to Westmeath, as Streep’s hooded, pining maiden did for the shores of Lyme Regis, are remote.
Burke’s consolation, as his fines mount past the NZ$370,000 mark, is that school authorities have so struggled to resolve his rightful fate that he remains on full pay.
