ONE OF the more commonplace arguments that crops up in relation to abortion is that it is a matter on which only women should have a voice.
Even if we are to take this argument on its own reductive “gender” terms, an obvious question arises: may anyone speak on behalf of the male 50 per cent of those human creatures whose existences are snuffed out by abortion?
But there is another unspoken category of overlooked humans here also: the might-have- been fathers of those obliterated children.
It is noticeable that when this issue is referred to at all in these discussions it usually gets disposed of in the conventionally censorious terms our society has contrived to dispose of fathers: “Oh, he won’t be seen for dust”, etc, etc.
Just as self-styled “liberals” use hard cases to bludgeon problematic principles, they also like to advance worst-case caricatures to disallow the claims of inconvenient parties whose involvement might complicate things more than liberals like (a pretty low threshold, generally speaking).
But imagine a 19-year-old boy, perhaps your son, brother or nephew, who gets his 18-year- old girlfriend pregnant. The pregnancy is unplanned, ie in conventional terms “unwanted”.
In the culture we have constructed of recent times, the question of the child’s survival is a matter primarily for the woman. Perhaps her parents will become involved, but nowadays this is unlikely to alter the dynamic significantly.
The man or his family have no right to an opinion. The culturally allocated role of the might-be father is to offer “unconditional support”.
But the woman has not quite made up her mind. She is taking her time with the decision. This, we insist, is her prerogative entirely. The man – the putative father of the child-in-the- balance – has no entitlement to speak for himself or his would-be son or daughter. He waits to hear the fate of his child.
In that period of uncertainty, what is to be his disposition? He may be about to become a father or he may not. Indeed, in his own mind he may already be a father, but this is something he will be well advised to keep to himself.
Irish society increasingly takes the following view: if his child is allowed to live, this man must be available, for the rest of his life, to love and provide for his child – emotionally, materially, psychologically and in manifold other ways.
He will be expected – by the mother, her family and friends, and by society in general – to step up to the plate and become a loving, caring and responsible father. He will also be expected to live his life thenceforth as if these days or hours of indecision and mulling-over never occurred – as if the idea of obliterating his child had never been considered.
From the moment his child is delivered from the threat of the abortionist’s knife, he must locate in himself the qualities of love, devotion, duty and protectiveness that society feels entitled to demand from a father while implacably refusing him the legal basis from which to protect his child.
If, on the other hand, it is decided that his child is to be destroyed, he should be able to go about his life as if nothing has happened, as if he never had a child, the prospect of a child, even the thought of a child.
I wonder: in the event that his child is not permitted to live, at what precise moment is the father expected to extinguish in himself the love, duty, affection and devotion that would have been required to parent a living child?
Or, conversely, if the child is given the green light, does the father’s responsibility to ignite in himself the various qualities that are expected of a good-enough father begin from the moment of the announcement of the baby’s reprieve? Or is such a suddenly incorporated father entitled to a period of time to initiate the process of ignition in himself? If so, how long might he have to do this? Of what do we imagine a man is made?
Does modern Irish society imagine that its young males come equipped with some hidden mechanism for use when their children are annihilated – when, having been briefly invigorated with the possibility of fatherhood, they find that the emotions normally called upon in this context are not needed?
Or, on the other hand, do we believe that a man who has started in himself the process of grieving his child should be able to arrest this procedure and behave as though his child had merely had a miraculous recovery from a serious illness?
What kind of men might such a society expect to produce? Automatons with switches secreted in various regions of their bodies for turning on and off their human passions and emotions? Or – if flesh-and-blood males with real human desires, affections and capacities – what might we expect to happen to the hearts of men under such a regime?
Would a society such as ours is becoming be entitled to be surprised if it ended up producing male humans who were incapable of loving, or grieving, or telling the difference between?