In Listowel, the Kerry town hit by controversy after a show of courtroom support for a man convicted of sexual assault, ROSITA BOLANDgauges local opinions

LISTOWEL IN Co Kerry is a small town of some 4,300 residents that has long celebrated words and those who write them. There are statues of two of its former residents, playwright John B Keane, author of

The Field, Sive

, and

Big Maggie

, and short story writer Bryan MacMahon in the town centre, as well as a road named for Keane. In the central square, close to Listowel Castle, is a converted Georgian building named Seanchaí, that houses the Kerry Literary and Cultural Centre. Every May, a long-running festival, Listowel Writers Week, takes place, attracting writers and participants from all over the world.

It’s ironic that a town so noted for its love of language on Wednesday became infamous for a communal wordless gesture by some 50 people, mainly middle-aged and elderly men, from the locality. They lined up in single file in a Tralee courtroom to shake hands with or hug Danny Foley (35), from Meen, Listowel, whom a jury had unanimously found guilty of sexual assault two weeks previously. While Foley awaited sentencing in the courtroom, his victim, together with Bernie McCarthy, a counsellor from the Kerry Rape Crisis Centre, a female garda, and a friend of the victim, were forced to watch him receive this display of public sympathy. Some of those who shook Foley’s hand were in tears.

One man in the queue was Fr Séan Sheehy, parish priest of Castlegregory, Co Kerry, who had supplied the court with a character reference of Foley, describing him as “having the highest respect for women”. Judge Donagh McDonagh, who did not witness the scenes in court prior to his appearance for sentencing, criticised Fr Sheehy’s statement, stressing that Foley’s actions “gave the lie” to what Fr Sheehy had said.

Foley received a seven-year sentence, with the last two suspended. Fr Sheehy later described the sentence as “very harsh”. On Thursday, when the news was reported nationally, the country’s airwaves started throbbing. “What type of society are we living in?” was a rhetorical question asked by Lorcan, the first of many angry and bewildered callers to

Liveline

that afternoon. There were calls for the town to be boycotted, and for people to avoid attending the races there next year. “That’ll teach them an economic lesson,” one caller proposed. “Never again will I set foot in Listowel,” another declared. The fact that so many people in a Tralee courtroom had publicly supported the perpetrator of a sexual assault engaged – you could say transfixed – the country.

By Thursday evening, the Bishop of Kerry, Bill Murphy, had issued a statement saying he wished to dissociate himself and the diocese from Fr Sheehy’s actions and words and yesterday it was announced that Fr Sheehy had stepped down.

Thursday evening was a particularly cold one in Listowel, with temperatures well below freezing. The town’s Christmas lights, simple strings of red and yellow bulbs, burned through a light haze of chill fog. Over the course of the evening,

The Irish Times

approaches at least 60 people of all ages, coming and going from parties, standing outside bars smoking, shopping in supermarkets, walking along the streets, waiting for takeaway orders to be prepared. Only one of them gives me their name.

The first person interviewed is a middle-aged woman with spiked blonde hair, dressed in black, walking briskly in the square. “Surely it’s just a court case,” she snaps. “That’s it, it’s a court case, and nobody else can make a judgment on it or have an opinion on it. The sentence was handed down, and that was it. What has it got to with Listowel?” What is her opinion of the 50 people who shook his hand? “Those men could have been from anywhere. I don’t know any of them. Why would I have an opinion on what they did?”

“The way I look at it is, if Dan Foley was one of your relatives or friends, sure you’d have to support him really, wouldn’t you?” offers an employee in the Listowel Arms Hotel. “I’d do the same myself.”

ON THE CORNER

of Market Street, some 20 or more people start passing by in a lively, excited, chattering group, several of them without coats, despite the cold. They are dressed up, with sparkly jewellery and high heels, and on their way to their office Christmas party. They are all female, and appear to range from 20-something to 50-somethings. Not one I speak to has anything but sympathy for Foley. They stand in a group and stare hard at me when I approach, their cheerfulness and the celebratory atmosphere of moments ago utterly dissipated.

“He didn’t rape her,” one states flatly.

“There was no sexual intercourse,” says another.

“He was wronged!” spits one young woman, and the group assert their agreement of this accusation.

Several of them say they know Foley, who had worked as a bouncer around the town. “He’s a very nice fellow, and everyone knows him,” they chorus. “Very jolly,” one offers.

As women, do they have any sympathy for the woman from their own town who was sexually assaulted? They glance at each other. “Let’s just say, there’s always two sides to every story,” is the eventual consensual response. Heads nod.

What do they think of the fact so many people shook Foley’s hand in court? “He well deserved the support he got, because he was wronged.” What about the fact a jury unanimously found him guilty of sexual assault? They point out angrily that Foley received seven years, while the recently convicted priest, Fr Thomas Naughton, received only two years for his conviction.

Being from Listowel, do they have any concerns about the negative things people are now saying about the town? One girl with long, fair curls, dressed in red, laughs and snorts. “It’s our town, and we know what really goes on here. Other people just think they know what goes on. So we don’t have any worries at all about what people are saying about us.”

THERE MAY BE

fewer than five miles between the farming townland of Meen, where Foley is from, and the town of Listowel, where the victim lives, but some people were calling the controversy a “typical urban-rural divide”.

Foley comes from a well-to-do family of farmers in the townland. Neither of his parents are in good health. His mother screamed so loudly when he was sentenced that she had to be removed from court. A brother and sister were also in court. The victim, who cannot be identified, comes from a local council estate, although she is not thought to be staying there are present.

Across the road from the Spar on Market Street, a man in his 60s, wearing a crisp white shirt and blue striped tie, demands to see a press card before he talks. “I don’t know what to make of the case,” he sighs. “I don’t want to see anyone done wrong. It would appear the girl was sexually assaulted. The jury found him guilty. It makes me believe he was guilty. Obviously something happened. And no man who raises a hand to assault a woman should be congratulated in any way.” What of the bad publicity the town is receiving and the public anger currently directed towards it? Is this a concern of his? He laughs loudly and slaps his own arm. “Don’t they say all publicity is good publicity!”

In common with almost everyone else spoken to during the evening, he refuses to give his name. “In a small town like this one, when you have to live here, you can’t make enemies,” he explains.

Bill – he won’t disclose his surname – has wiry white hair and is standing smoking outside the Saddle Bar. He reveals he’s a farmer from a little way outside the town, and that he knows both families well. “It was hard luck it got to that stage. [Foley] slipped up. He didn’t tell all the truth to the guards,” he says, looking at the ground. “It’s very sad for everyone. They are both nice families, and it’s very hard to get involved in it, unless you’re a close neighbour. It’s sad because people will be taking sides now.”

What did he think of Foley’s courtroom supporters? He shrugs. “They were neighbours; they felt he was an honest kind of a guy.” For a time, Foley worked as a bouncer at Jumbo’s takeaway on William Street, which displays a large red sign of an elephant’s head over its door, along with the words “Number 1 Family Restaurant”. Jumbo’s is directly opposite Mermaids, the nightclub where Foley first met the victim on June 15th last year.

Joan Walsh is an elderly woman with glasses and a neat white handbag hooked over her arm as she passes by Jumbo’s. She is very annoyed about the radio coverage that day. “I don’t think there was any need for all that,” she tuts. “They went on too much about it all.” She talks about Fr Sheehy. His mistake, as she sees it, was to go public on what he said about Foley. “Isn’t he entitled to his opinion? But maybe he shouldn’t have said it out in public. That was what he did wrong.”

The only person I speak to during the evening who has anything at all supportive to say about the victim is a young man smoking outside Kevin Broderick’s bar, a fur-edged parka hood pulled over his head against the freezing fog. He says he is a relative of the woman’s. “I think it’s a disgrace, degrading a young woman like that. She was so brave to take the case.”

By yesterday morning, the Kerry Rape Crisis Centre had received more than 400 phone calls and 300 e-mails of outrage, in a period of less than 36 hours. Their usual rate of calls is 20 a day. Some of those who called and e-mailed were petitioning for the businesses of Listowel to be boycotted as a mark of protest.

“We wouldn’t be going down that road at all,” stresses Bernie McCarthy, the counsellor from the Kerry Rape Crisis Centre, who sat with the victim in court on Wednesday. “Our job is to support victims of sexual assault, not to get involved with anything else.” She confirms that the hundreds of calls and e-mails had come in from “both men and women, and from every county in Ireland”.