Hazel Chu, Green Party
‘Would I run for the Dáil? You sound like my mother’
Hazel Chu, the new Green Party councillor for Dublin City’s Pembroke Ward, was the national co-ordinator of the party and its spokesperson for enterprise, but when I ask if she was political growing up, she laughs.
“Jesus, no. My mum and dad came from a very working-class background. My mum was a dishwasher. My dad was a kitchen porter. If you had asked them 40 years ago if they knew anything about politics, they would have said no.”
Her parents came here from Hong Kong in the 1970s. “They were without the language, without friends, without homes, they didn’t talk about politics that much. I lived in a very packed household. Nine of us in three bedrooms. None of us knew how the country was run.
“This is the issue I always have with politics coming from a working-class background. It never felt like it represented me. That shouldn’t be the case, but if you’re worrying about where your next pay cheque is coming from or whether you can put food on the table, politics isn’t what you think about.”
She studied politics and history in UCD, where she met her fiancé, fellow councillor Patrick Costello. Then she graduated from King’s Inns with a lot of debt, double-jobbing for a while at a non-profit and for the Electric Picnic festival.
After a close friend died, she took time to travel ("very much part of the grieving process"), and found herself teaching in a remote part of China, something she found "very head-clearing. It was in one of the most remote places in China, teaching kids who didn't have anything at all . . . So it was nice and really heart-warming and gave me perspective of how things should be."
That we weren't going to hit the 2020 emissions targets was mindboggling to me
Back in Ireland, she says, she began getting involved in the Green Party behind the scenes. Why the Greens? "At the time the Greens had just crashed out and a lot of people were asking, 'Why not join a bigger party?' but I wanted to join a party that aligned with my principles.
“Our climate is breaking down and that’s really important. The stats were going in the wrong way. That we weren’t going to hit the 2020 emissions targets was mindboggling to me.”
It was only during a pregnancy in 2017 that Chu realised she wanted to be a politician. It was a big decision. It involved her putting herself out there and giving up a well-paid job at Diageo.
She wants to contribute to a “good city development plan”. She wants housing and better transport for the people of Dublin. She hates the idea that some see the Green Party as being for “rich people”.
Chu sees it as a party of climate justice and social justice and thinks the “green wave” is just part of people realising this. Something shifted, she says, between her first “bleak” nights canvassing last winter, when the party were only polling at 2 per cent, and last week when they looked to be at 9 per cent in the exit polls.
What did her mother make of the count centre? “She was a bit baffled about the whole thing. When she was naturalised, one of the first thing I remember doing was getting her registered. She’d never voted [before that].”
At one point, Chu went to check on her and found her in tears. “She was really happy she was part of the process . . . She felt part of the country, very much Irish.”
Would she run for the Dáil? “You sound like my mother. That’s the first thing she asked when we came out of the count centre.”
Jackie Healy-Rae jnr, Independent
‘I don’t think Dublin politicians get rural life’
Twenty-four-year-old Jackie Healy-Rae jnr, the new councillor for Castleisland in Kerry, was born with a campaign leaflet clutched in his mitts. The namesake of a grandfather who spawned a political dynasty, he's well used to people knowing who he is. As a child, people would say to him, "Oh my God, you're Jackie Healy-Rae."
“You couldn’t get up to too much mischief [as a Healy-Rae],” he recalls.
He’s joining two of his cousins in the county council, and his father, Michael, and uncle Danny are TDs. He got 2,621 first-preference votes, apparently unhindered by an allegation of a late-night assault that’s due for mention in Kenmare Court on the day he’s due to take his seat (this is still outstanding so we don’t discuss it).
He always wanted to be a politician. He would go to council meetings with his father. Every year he would get a day off school to be brought to the agm, where the council elected a new mayor and they’d go for dinner afterwards. “It was the highlight of the year.”
At a young age he knew the names of different types of planning procedures and housing grants. Five years ago, on finishing his Leaving Cert, he became a parliamentary assistant for his father. Did he ever feel like rebelling and joining a political party? “We’ve been independent all the way. We don’t have to adhere to party politics, and that’s the way we like it. You see politicians in the Dáil voting for things they don’t agree with.”
Like what? “Penalties on drink driving,” he says. The current drink-driving laws, he says, are ruining social life in rural Ireland. He, like other Healy-Raes, sees himself as a defender of rural Ireland against city politicians who preside over post office closures and poor public transport systems.
Unlike some of his family, Healy-Rae believes climate change is real
Being a councillor in rural Kerry, he says, is very different to being one in Dublin. “I don’t think Dublin politicians get rural life,” he says. He reaches for an example. “We would have people coming once a day looking for a local improvement scheme.” In Dublin, he surmises, “it’s sure it’s something to do with scooters.”
Unlike some of his family, Healy-Rae believes climate change is real. He just doesn’t agree with carbon taxes or any policy changes that might penalise farmers. He’s appalled that Leo Varadkar recently spoke about reducing his meat-eating. Jackie Healy-Rae jnr, for the record, eats meat.
But he is not above new ideas. He has his own views on how to help the environment and they include easing restrictions on growing hemp, which is “environmentally and financially beneficial”.
He plans to be there for his constituents, uncompromised by party lines or world-changing ideology. His grandfather used to say, “A good no is better than a bad yes”, which means, he says, that politicians should return every call.
He knows that Dublin media people “don’t get the way the Healy-Raes do things”. He laughs. “But we’re doing fine the way we are and we proved it this weekend.”
Anthony Molloy, Fianna Fáil
‘Mental health is an issue close to my heart’
Anthony Molloy was the captain of Donegal football's first All-Ireland winning team of 1992. He was less nervous playing football, he says, than he was during the count that saw him elected as a councillor for the Glenties electoral area.
“You had some sort of control over things that happened on the football field, but when the control lies in the hands of others, it’s certainly nerve-wracking.”
His family has always been Fianna Fáil and he even went for a nomination before, back in the 1990s. "I didn't get it that day."
Since then he’s canvassed regularly for the party, so he knows how it all works. In a way, he thinks little will change for him. He’s already well-known in the community as a GAA manager and, until 2012, as a publican.
The single biggest issue was the bad state of our roads, broadband and mobile phone coverage
Winning the All-Ireland changed his life. “Without a doubt people are still talking about it . . . It was a huge achievement at the time, I suppose.”
What came up on the doors? “The single biggest issue was the bad state of our roads, broadband and mobile phone coverage,” he says. “And mental health, which is an issue close to my heart. My dad would have suffered from depression, and people would have been afraid to talk about that.
“And home help is a massive issue. My mother had Alzheimer’s. We would have been quite lucky in those days to have had good home help, [but] the home help has declined since.” He talks a little about the false economy of cutting back on something that keeps people independent and out of hospital.
He thinks he got voted in because of the work of his team. He spent eight weeks canvassing. “I went to every door myself and was met with a huge welcome. I’m looking forward to it. I’ve always liked helping people anyway.”
He’s aware of the limits of the role and says that when a councillor hits those limits, “You make representations to the hierarchy. If there’s a problem [I can’t fix] I will let Pat the Cope [Gallagher], who is our TD, know.”
The GAA taught him to be a “team player”, he says. And it helped in other ways as well. “I would have got a lot of number twos from different people just because of the football.”
Yemi Adenuga, Fine Gael
‘Migrants have ideas to contribute’
Gogglebox star Yemi Adenuga is the first black woman to be elected to an Irish council. Now Fine Gael councillor in Co Meath, she had never seen herself as a particularly political person despite a longstanding involvement in the community.
Before she came here from Nigeria in 2000 she had worked as a newscaster and was the host of a talk show called Sharing with Yemi. "The one thing I had was a knowledge of people and I've always been a people person . . . That's the way I live my life."
Being on Gogglebox, she says, was a great experience and most people locally were very happy about it. “A tiny percentage of people said, ‘Why does it have to be a black family?’ But only one or two.”
They quickly became local celebrities – taxi drivers told her that curious passengers would ask where they lived – but she stresses that she was already very involved in local community groups. After a period working for IBM, she started her own NGO and runs training courses and projects such as Sheroes, which aims to empower women and young people. Last summer she ran an upcycling project.
When Fine Gael asked her if she was interested in running, she was a little taken aback. “It was not something I ever wanted to do,” she says. “I always thought politicians were a different breed of people.”
Her husband, Deji, a Nollywood actor, really encouraged her and became her campaign manager. He said: “You’re doing so much in the community, and politics would be a platform to do more, and you’re a people person and always saying politics should be more about people.”
She likes Fine Gael and her values align with the party’s, she says, but she wanted assurances that she would be able to speak her mind. She is “pro-life”, for example, and knows that others in the party are not. “I am guided in my life by my values and beliefs, and I’m not going to change that because I have become a politician.”
It would be great to see Ireland come to understand God and love God again
Her Christian faith is very important to her, but she understands, in the wake of child abuse scandals, why Irish people are less religious now. She thinks that can change.
“Ireland came to invest in Nigeria with Christianity way back, and we Christians are bringing God back to Ireland, the dividend of what was invested,” she says. “It would be great to see Ireland come to understand God and love God again, because Ireland taught us how to understand and love God.”
On the doorsteps people recognised her, she says. Sometimes Gogglebox-watching teenagers told their parents who she was. Her priorities as a councillor revolve around supporting local businesses, tackling anti-social behaviour and empowering and including young people in the decisions that affect them.
“People were very welcoming [on the doorsteps],” she says. “I felt it was an opportunity to show that migrants have the ability to do several things in this community. Aside from working and paying tax we have ideas to contribute.”
Ben Dalton O’Sullivan, Independent
‘I’m not trying to change the world’
Nineteen-year-old Ben Dalton O'Sullivan is a new Independent Cork county councillor for Carrigaline. His dad is a taxi-driver and his mum once ran a boutique. Neither of them, he says, were very political.
He caught the bug in sixth class during the election that first propelled Michael D Higgins to the presidency, when his teacher enacted a “fake” election and showed them how the transfers worked.
Since then he’s been an absolute enthusiast when it comes to campaigns and counts. He follows it like other young men follow football. None of his friends can quite understand it, but he registered them to vote and they voted for him.
He’s been very involved locally. He helps with Cork’s Homeless Drive, and last December he organised a bus to bring pensioners to Northern Ireland for cataract operations from the NHS (they could then claim the money back from the HSE).
There’s another “cataract bus” planned for June 29th. “I thought there were enough people here in Cork city suffering and booked a bus.”
An hour before one of his end-of-year exams he was canvassing in a nursing home
Often when young people become political they want to change the world. Dalton O’Sullivan just wants to help his community. He has no interest in being a TD or being a member of a party. Though he’s studying for a BSc Government and Political Science in UCC, he won’t pigeonhole himself as either right- or left-wing.
When he canvassed he had only eight posters and 4,000 leaflets, and he went down country lanes that “hadn’t seen a politician in 20 years”. An hour before one of his end-of-year exams he was canvassing in a nursing home.
The phone has already been ringing, he says. Someone needed help getting a medical card. Someone else was looking for a swing for a playground. A third person was complaining about a dangerous crossroads.
He promises that he will always be at the end of the phone. “I’m not trying to change the world,” he says. “I’m just trying to get the basics right.”
He’s the youngest councillor in the country. It was initially reported that another Cork councillor had this honour.
A stickler for detail, Dalton O’Sullivan says this was not erroneous. That politician was elected first. “He was the youngest on Saturday,” he says. “Then I became the youngest on Sunday. He was the youngest for a day.”
