Note: The author’s grandmother Begum Jennifer Qazi Musa was born in a tiny village in Tarmons, in Tarbert in County Kerry, in southern Ireland. She was elected to the Pakistani parliament on a NAP ticket, and then nominated as the representative of Balochistan on the constituent committee that was writing the 1973 constitution. Click here for the story of her life and work in part I.
When I was launching my book in London in 2022, I met aunt Marie, the daughter of my grandmother’s younger sister Jo Wren. She asked if I would like to meet the rest of the family in Kerry. My book on Balochistan, published in London, had connected me with the rest of my Irish family.
Having finally connected with my relatives in Kerry, I have managed to piece together a deeper and wider picture of my Irish ancestors.
Johnny Wren was an educated farmer and insured his children were all educated. While his girls were in London, I have had the privilege of reading some of his letters to his daughters, including to my grandmother Bridie. The letters share the conditions of Tarmons in the 1930s: food and tobacco rations, living in darkness with little kerosene. Little money, few jobs for those not working on farms. Difficult times but living with a smile. The love of a father comes through so strongly in these letters: his concern for aunty Margret (sister) being unwell and Johannah keeping it from him not to concern him. He describes local gossip to keep the daughters connected to Tarmon, who were so far away from home and probably feeling disconnected from their roots.
Reading these letters, I thought about how incredibly wonderful literacy is. We are well versed as to how many in Pakistan are desperate to migrate and make better lives for themselves and their loved ones. But without skills which only education can bring, what opportunities can they manage? Moreover, imagine all those migrants who were not literate and could not write to their families, or write well enough to maintain the links with loved ones. Lost and disconnected – their history has disappeared.
But for those who were educated, these precious records remain to tell their histories and stories.
The Irish lost Gaelic when the British occupied Ireland, in its place English was taught at every hamlet. I visited the school that my grandmother went to in Tarmons. While researching who my grandparents and the family tree another gem emerged. The Wrens of Ireland are originally descended from a general who came with Cromwell’s army in 1600s. He married a local Kerry girl, converted to Catholicism and ever since the Wrens of Tarmons have lived here.
Maha and I landed in Dublin in July 2024, meeting our ‘cousins’ for the first time. They are our father’s cousins, but in Ireland they are referred to as cousins once or twice removed. I cackled at the complicated terminology – or perhaps just a difference in points of view. Shades of green.
We were in Ireland because our grandmother Begum Jennifer Qazi Musa was being honoured with a plaque in her birth town of Tarbert in County Kerry, in southern coastal Ireland. The Irish government was finally (overdue) establishing a diplomatic mission in Islamabad. I believe the first Ambassador is due this month. Maha and I were thrilled all round.
I had visited County Kerry a couple of years ago in 2022. When my book was released in London, I had flown in to meet many of my Irish relatives for the first time. For Maha, my sister, it was the first time.
The reception I had received was so overwhelmingly warm and kind, that I insisted my sister also come this time for our grandmother’s plaque ceremony.
Staying with people connected by blood association alone is strangely unfamiliar today, even in urban Pakistan. Once this was a norm, today it really isn’t. But in Ireland, it is. That is how Maha and I felt instantly. From the first hello at the airport by Helen and Mick, and onwards with Dan and Finola who drove up to Dublin to pick us up and drive us right back to Tarbert!
Our hosts in Tarbert, Meg, Josette and Tom, to name just a few of our relatives in Tarbert. We were met with such love and affection. In fact, everywhere we went on the road, in shops, in the parks, the pubs, the restaurants, we were embraced and met with such affection. Everywhere we went there was a Bride Wren story or connection.
The plaque ceremony was officiated by the historical heritage society of Tarbert in the town’s centre. Josette and Tom O’Donold (Tom is my father’s first cousin) have a home just across. In fact, Tom generously donated the wall where the plaque is mounted. The mayor of the town, along with the minister of education Norma Foley and our ambassador Ayesha Farooqui, graced the occasion. We had expected family to attend, but Maha and I did not realise that meant approximately 300 people. The whole town of Tarbert, it seemed, attended – and so many relatives from afar came. Speeches, memories and celebrations continued in the town hall over a sumptuous spread and a recorded message from my father to all those who came to honour his beloved mother.
There are many precious memories of this trip. One occasion, at Listowel village in Kerry, with Dan and Fiona at a pub owned by the son of the famous local playwriter John B Keane, was quite symbolic. Our grandparents were such avid readers, which my father and Maha, in particular, have inherited. Listowel is one of the well-known international literary festival destinations. On the banks of the river Feale, a Norman castle gives this quaint town the feel of an ancient town. There is a writer’s museum here as well. I am in awe of societies which celebrate and display their heritage locally. Ireland remains one of those incredible countries where bookshops have not gone out of fashion, rather every imaginable kind of specialist bookstore are wonderfully available in so many corners of all their towns and cities. I just loved that!
In Tarbert, the forests are thick, dark and green. The woodland park in Tarbert was part of the estate of the Leslie family; an English landlord who was bequeathed over 1,700 acres in the 17th century. The Leslies are a Protestant family. At one point they were the landlords of most of the residents of Tarbert farmers. Cousin Josette took Maha and I to meet the grand old lady of Leslie House. At the end of the forested lane stood a two-storey Georgian home in the Queen Ann style – a Haveli, a familiar design to many South Asians. There was a gorgeous garden going down onto the shores of the Shannon River at the back.
Leading up to the church door is a tree and a plaque honouring Father O’Hanlen. He was a Kerry man who settled in Lahore
Mrs Ursilla Leslie had attended the plaque ceremony for my grandmother in her wheel chair. We were quite moved by her resilience. Little did we know she had been a prominent barrister in London and quite well known in patent law circles! An Irish lady who had married an English gentleman who ironically brought her back to her lands once he inherited the Leslie estate! She regaled Maha and I with her amazing adventures as a young woman in London in a profession dominated by men. “After the war, it was difficult to put the women back in their assumed places, we had occupied many positions by then,” she recalled. She had a lovely anecdote about Margaret Thatcher: she had applied to join her Chamber but was refused a place.
As we soaked the wonders of Tarbert, Josette took us to the harbour on the Shannon River. She and Cousin Dan swam in these icy waters regularly. A group of regular swimmers picnicking invited us for coffee and biscuits. As I listened to these lovely Kerry women and men talk, I admired the hills of Limerick across the river. The demise of the public health system, the lack of investment in emergency health care at local hospitals and local politics dominated the gup-shup. I smiled at the similarities between our societies. The differences were equally stark, though.
Pat Conoll, a local 90-plus-year-old historian was sitting on a nearby bench. My relatives introduced us; he broke out in poetry celebrating the beauty of a buxom woman with a twinkle in his eye. Sometimes the stereotypical experiences are so very beautifully amusing! Everywhere we went everyone was aware of Bridie and were very curious to meet her granddaughters.
Across the Shannon harbour park is a little café attached to a museum of prisons! We met John Black, a friend of our relatives, affectionately known as Johnny Mulvhill. He is a well-respected photographer. We saw some of his work in the café and were blown away. He has photographed the river Shannon and its beauty in all its glory. As we were sipping our tea and munching on local scones, he came to sit with us. At the end of our chat about the beauty of the river, he gifted us two of his photos. The Shannon at high tide and low tide; they look like completely different rivers. Shades of green at play again.
Our family graveyard is in a village called Lislaughtin, where our great grandparents are resting in eternal peace, a few miles away from the Wren farm in Ballinoe. The graveyard is surrounded by rolling green hills. This serenity is deceptive. This is a place of many battles conquests since the Normans first came to these shores in the 12th century. Kerry became Christian around the 1460s by a Saint called Lachtin, the first person to preach Christianity in the area. Then English brought Protestantism and another kind of conflict emerged.
In Tarbert town there is a lovey modern-looking simple church, St Mary’s. This is where all my relatives were christened, went to church, got married and had their final rites as well. As I was exploring and reading the consecration document of the Church, I discovered that it was consecrated as St John’s in 1814! None of my relatives knew this! It was once a Protestant church and later reconsecrated as a Catholic church. The document acknowledged the both sects’ families as parishioners and welcome.
Leading up to the church door is a tree and a plaque honouring Father O’Hanlen. He was a Kerry man who settled in Lahore. He was a good friend of our grandmother’s. Like her he spent all his life educating children in Lahore. I had heard of him from my father, and was thrilled to see the family church honouring him. Kerry had more than one connection to Pakistan!
In Pakistan, we are cricket-crazy. The Irish love their Gaelic football. But the Irish football is nothing like soccer. I think it is a cross between rugby and football, and it is 15-a-side as well. They can also use their hands in this version of the game. Maha and I had an opportunity to see the National Gaelic Football final with our cousins. What is lovely is that Gaelic football is played across all 32 counties of Ireland (northern and southern Ireland), and every county has an association. In fact, there are 2,200 clubs. It is an Irish sport encouraged in every school and county. Girls and boys play avidly. It is something to think about for Pakistan.
Kerry, although not in the final in 2024, is one of the strongest national teams and has won the cup several times. In fact, our family boasts a national champion. Jim Wren, known as Timber Toes, who played barefoot sometimes, was great-grandfather Johnny Wren’s brother. We have another nephew who is playing at the national level today. Maha and I were shown the gold medal that Jim Wren won in 1904. Wow!
As we drove between the lovely towns and hamlets in Kerry, the black Polly local cows stood in amazing contrast to the shades of green everywhere. These black Kerry cows produce an amazing high-quality milk. Some say it is the highest quality in the world. In fact, some would be familiar with the Kerry Gold Butter!
As we approached our ancestral farm in Balinoe Tarmons, we drove past Johannah Mcgragh’s home town in Ballgocklin Glin, in county Limerick. My great-grandparents lived across from each other, separated by a field. We stopped in the home that would have been grandmother Johannah McGarah’s as a young girl.
Maha and I were overwhelmed by the love we received from Kerry. As we returned to Dublin/Baile Átha Cliath, we realised that walking in the path of our Irish ancestors, there was so much more that connects us.