The tutor on my writing Masters degree said of penning one’s life, “And once you’ve done that, then what?” But this year I decided to ignore that advice. My life and my father’s family history are both movie-worthy, and because I want my future grandchildren to know about them, I figured I’d start and see what happened.

I began with my maternal grandfather, Gerard, born in Skibbereen, County Cork, in 1906. An Ireland trip was Covid-scuppered, so I decided to explore maps and photos instead, and find out what I could from relatives. Skibbereen was one of the worst affected areas of the 1845-48 potato “famine”, losing a third of its inhabitants, but Gerard somehow survived infancy. He became a Guarda Siochana, and was posted to Rathcoole, Dublin, where he met my grandmother, who hailed from a wealthy merchant family; they later moved to London with their children, and here we are.

Wanting to know more about what they call in America, “The Great Hunger” — it wasn’t accurately a famine: there was enough food to save the million or so who died but the ruling British decided against it — I listened to an excellent History Extra podcast on it when I drove from Brighton to Manchester for Shabbat a couple of weeks ago. The part that struck me most was when the historian mentioned the Choctaw, a Native American nation from Oklahoma, who had suffered hardship, poverty and colonisation by an external power themselves. Unable to stand by and do nothing, in March 1847 they collected around $174 (£5000 today) to send to the people of Ireland.

This was a significant sum: along with the Navajo and other Nations, the Choctaw were forcibly removed from their ancestral homes between 1830 and 1850 after the discovery of gold, and around 4,000 of their 20,000-strong number died from exposure, starvation and disease.

These were not people with money. Their staggering kindness brought tears to my eyes on my drive, but there was more to come.

In 1995 and 2018, the Irish presidents visited the Choctaw Nation to thank them for their generosity in Ireland’s time of greatest need. In 2017, a sculpture dedicated to the Choctaw called ‘Kindred Spirits’, featuring nine eagle feathers, was unveiled in a park in County Cork, and in 2018, the Irish government established a scholarship program for members of the Choctaw Nation to study in Ireland.

More recently, after hearing reports of the devastating effect of Covid on the Navajo and Hopi Nations, Irish people living in Ireland donated over $3m via a GoFundMe page before word spread on social media, and Irish people all over the US and the world chipped in, too.
And, in a touching act of solidarity, donations of clothes, blankets and medical supplies from Irish people across the US were sent to the Irish Cultural Centre hub in Arizona in November 2020 — so many that the National Guard were called in to drive two enormous articulated trucks 4.5 hours to the Navajo reservation.

Who’d have thought that the Choctaw’s kindness would still mean so much 175 years later?
Struck by the beauty of humanity in the darkest of times, I thought of the kindnesses people offered Jews during the Holocaust, many of which have been commemorated in Yad Vashem, but many more of which throughout the centuries remain undocumented.

We can’t easily return the favour, either: it’s possible Israel has set up scholarships, and I’m sure Jews would donate without hesitation to the descendants of those who once helped their people, but it’s harder to repay individuals: thanking a nation is more straightforward.
Still, that’s not the point. Learning about this made me realise that no matter how little we might have, or how hard things might be for us, we can’t ever stand by and do nothing when others are suffering and in trouble, and that’s a worthy thought to bear in mind as we enter a new Gregorian year.

I didn’t get far with the life writing, but then some diversions turn out to be precious. Hopefully, I’ll get back to it in 2022. I can’t wait to see what else I find out. I haven’t even reached the juicy parts yet.