All language subtitles for dev.rise.and.rule.s01e01.1080p.web.h264-cbfm_track3_[eng]

You can't understand modern
Ireland without first

understanding our history.

Fifty years ago, the nation said
its final farewell

to Éamon de Valera.

From his emergence in the run-up
to the Easter Rising,

until his death in
1975, he had come to personify

Ireland's difficult
journey to independence.

The State Funeral was
an opportunity to pay respects

to a leader who left an indelible
mark on our national story.

A leader whose legacy to this
day still divides the jury.

His capacity to bend expectation
to his will and bring the public

with him was absolutely superb.

His actions caused a lot of Irish
deaths,

a lot of needless brutality.

He was a great statesman.

A man who embedded a very
reactive, conservative state.

His willingness to serve Ireland,
making a society where

there is religious liberties.

It's hard to know whether he
was a force for good or evil.

♪ (music builds)

He had a meteoric rise through

the ranks of Irish nationalism...
(gunshots)

and then ruled as the dominant
figure

in our 20th century history.

But are we still living in
De Valera's Ireland?

♪ (dramatic music)

♪ (rippling piano music)

Decoding Dev is no easy task.

Plenty of people have had
a go, myself included.

I spent a few years of my life
in this library,

researching and writing
a two-volume biography about

the man they called The Chief.

As part of my research, I asked
people to tell me the first word

that sprang to mind when they
heard the name Éamon de Valera,

and the results were
a bit surprising.

At the time of his death,
De Valera's reputation seemed

unassailable, but 50 years later,
a much more critical

view has taken root.

But between hagiography and
hatchet job,

where lies the history?

♪ (calm piano music,
film reel clicking)

To tell this tale, we need to go

back to the very beginning.

Éamon de Valera's story begins
when his mother, Kate Coll,

left rural Limerick for a fresh
start in Manhattan in 1878.

She was one of millions of people
who sailed into New York

looking for a better life.

She found work as a domestic
servant,

and in late 1882,

while living in the shadow
of Grand Central Station,

she gave birth to a child
who would reshape Irish history.

Six weeks later, he was
baptised in the local church.

So we have to find the years.

Okay.
This should be it.

These are all the records from
'82.

It should be here somewhere.
Yeah, see?

There it is!
Okay, there he is, yeah!

As you can see, the name is
Edward,

which is obviously English.

It was changed to Eamon.

In the actual book?
Yeah.

And his surname is down as
De Valeros... Yeah. "o s".

Yes. And that's been corrected as
well, to De Valera. Yes.

Is it usual for records to be
corrected like that,

or just if you... When they have
some kind of

information that is not correct

in a record, if it's a direct
relative

of somebody, then they
usually would change it.

They will correct it, yeah.
Yeah. Okay.

So... Well, thank you very much.

Oh, you're very welcome.
Yes. (laughs)

A misspelt surname is
certainly a little odd.

Maybe the official records
in the New York City Archives

could shed more light.

They contain millions of documents
dating back to the early 1600s.

Given the scale of the material

you have here, you must have
something

on Éamon de Valera.

I think, yes, we do,

and I was able to locate the
certificate...

Wow! 352241, and here it is.

Wow. So we have a State
of New York birth return.

This is the actual original...
Sorry, I...

(laughs) That's so cool.

Name of child:
George De Valero.

Hmm. Okay.

Vivian De Valero, Kate De Valero,
but "maiden name Kate Coll."

So that is exactly as
we would expect it.

Birthplace: Ireland, birthplace of
father: Spain,

father is an artist.

There doesn't seem to be any
suggestion

that Kate and Vivian are

anything other than
a married couple.

I don't think they even
asked the question.

They just said "Who's
the name of the mother?

Who's the name of the father?"

They write it down on the form,
and that was that.

The fact that the first
name is incorrect.

She said subsequently that she
originally wanted

to call the child George.

She changed her mind
and gave him the name Edward.

So it's a little bit odd?

A little bit odd, yes.

A lot of mysteries, shall we say.

There is a correction.
Oh.

This is a very unusual situation.

There's a second birth
certificate. Okay.

Same number.

And as you can see, it says
there, "corrected certificate".

Okay. So "Edward de Valera"
with a lowercase d

and finishing with an a.

This second version is signed
by Catherine Wheelwright,

as she was by this stage.

So this is De Valera's mother. Oh!
Has remarried a man

called Charles Wheelwright.

The details are the same,
October 14, 1882.

The date of the corrected
certificate

is June the 30th, 1916.

In 1916, De Valera was
involved in the Easter Rising.

He was sentenced to death.

So we know that his mother
campaigned on his behalf

in the United States. Okay.
That explains

why she's looking for the
corrected version at this time.

It doesn't explain why
the original version is incorrect.

Dr. Murray, you can see
his signature there.

He is not the man who filled out
this part of the certificate.

Handwriting is different.

Quite like that, though, isn't it?

Now that you say that... Huh.

So it looks

very similar to Catherine
Wheelwright...

Yeah! Or Kate Coll or Kate
De Valera's handwriting,

doesn't it? It does, doesn't it?

She filled out

the original birth return,

and then it was signed by
Dr. Murray.

It's all a bit unusual, isn't it?

I agree. I've seen

many, many birth certificates,
and this

is an exceptional situation.
It truly is.

Kate Coll always said
that the father of her child was

Vivian De Valera,
an artist who fell into ill health

and died when his son was just 2.

The search for the Spanish side
of De Valera's story brings me

across the Hudson River
to New Jersey.

This is where Kate Coll says she
married Vivian De Valera

on the 19th of September, 1881.

The only problem is there's no
record of that marriage here

in this church, or in any Catholic
church in New Jersey,

or in any Catholic church across
the river in New York City.

And the absent marriage
certificate

isn't the only bit of missing
paperwork.

There is no record of Vivian de
Valera entering the United States.

He's not mentioned in any US
census,

and there's no record of his
death.

As far as the official record
goes,

it's almost as if he didn't exist.

You might ask, does it matter if
his parents were really married?

Does it matter who his
father really was?

But the point is,
it mattered to him.

It shaped his character.

And so did his mother's decision
to send him,

aged just two and a half,
back to Ireland to be

raised by his grandmother.

The doubts about his paternity
and his rejection by his mother

left him with questions about his
identity,

which would preoccupy him
throughout his long life.

His uncertain start meant
that Bruree in County Limerick

was where he he'd call home.

I was born on the 29th of April,
1927.

I'm 98 years, but I feel young,
and I would advise everyone,

go dancing! (both laugh)

So Mary, this is where
Éamon de Valera, grew up,

and it was a fairly tough
upbringing, wasn't it?

It was very, very hard.

I don't know how he survived it.

Unfortunately, the grandmother
died when she was only aged 50.

So he was left then with his
uncle Pat,

who was a very, very strict man.

They were very poor.

Actually, my father
gave them some land.

That was what they
were depending on.

They had two or three cows.

De Valera, then, as he grew up,

he did every kind of a job in the
farm,

raking the hay, cutting the hay,
cleaning out the hen house,

and look after the cows.

And when they would be milking
the cows,

he would be reading books.

He was always reading books.

He always enjoyed
coming back to Bruree.

Loved it.
He was happy when he came back.

He said to me one time,
"Oh," he said, "Mary,

I would love to go back to that
little home."

And he said "Sit at the fire and
read a book."

He said "Mary,
that's what I would love."

Whatever it was about this place,
it made his character

because he's unique.

Where did he get it?

He got it from here.

De Valera loved to romanticise his
childhood here in Bruree

once he'd left the place far
behind him.

But when he lived here,
he wanted to get out.

His mother escaped
through the emigrant ship.

His exit was through education.

♪ (electronic music)

(gulls crying)

An obvious flair for the books
caught the eye

of the local parish priest who
arranged a scholarship

to Blackrock College.

(rugby crowd chanting)
About to turn 16, De Valera moved

from Limerick to Dublin, a short
distance,

but a million miles away

from the world he knew.

(crowd chanting)

So Paul, you have the advantage
over me

'cause you actually had
a face-to-face encounter with Dev.

Well, I saw him lying
in state, David, it was

the year I turned five, queued
for what seemed like hours.

And I whinged the whole way
through,

but having seen the body,

I wanted to go back and queue
again.

It was... it's one of my earliest
memories.

(crowd cheering, feet stamping)

Blackrock College, a very elite
sort of an establishment.

Really not what you'd
expect for de Valera.

Blackrock is a launching pad

which defined the rest of his
life.

He wanted to rise up out of
poverty into the middle classes,

and he used education as
the conduit to do that.

(crowd cheering and clapping)

And this is a guy who has lacked
emotional support

in both places he'd lived
previously.

He spoke always of a loneliness
in Bruree, and all the while,

there's New York,
where his mother is,

like, thousands of miles away,
that he's separated from.

(crowd roars)

But even in Blackrock College,
he was conscious that he needed

to earn the scholarships
that would keep him there.

He was always conscious of where
he came from,

and it marked him apart.

It takes time,
but there's a gathering momentum

around his life,
and you can feel it moving on.

I know you have to be very
careful here not to

look at that in hindsight and say
it was obvious

that he was going to come through
it

in the manner in which he did,
and that

he would gather momentum.
That wasn't clear.

He drove himself on.

(crowd cheering)

It goes a bit against the grain
that this great Nationalist

has a real enthusiasm for rugby.

Oh, he loved rugby and was
always interested in the game.

Throughout his life,
he retained that interest.

(crowd cheering, feet stamping)

(crowd roars)

He loved playing the game.

He was good enough to get a trial
for the Munster rugby team

in a North v South match,
and his opposite number

outperformed him slightly and

became an Irish international.

So that road was almost
taken by de Valera.

(whistle blows, crowd cheers)

De Valera strove for excellence
in everything that he did.

Blackrock is that place where he
revealed once more his ambition,

his capacity for work.

People came through those gates
and walked out

into the professions, and that's
what de Valera wished to do.

There's this lovely photograph
that really sums up

Eddie de Valera as he then was.

It's a group shot,
a couple of lads standing around,

they're holding rugby balls,
they're about to go off

and have a game, it looks like.

And de Valera is the only one
holding a book.

He has a finger marking
his place in the book.

A bit of a swot.

He stayed in Blackrock for his
final years of school,

and then he stayed here to study
for his university exams,

but he ended up with a pass
degree,

which was a huge disappointment to
him.

The problem was with a pass
degree, he ended up doing

different bits of part-time
teaching jobs,

kind of scraping an existence.

It was for career advancement
that he signed up for classes in

the Gaelic League to learn Irish.

They gave him a cause which he
pursued for the rest of his life,

the restoration
of the Irish language.

It gave him a new name.

Eddie de Valera became
Éamon de Valera,

and most important of all, it gave
him a wife.

Sinéad Ní Fhlannagáin was his
teacher in the Gaelic League,

and they got married very soon
after they met.

Conradh na Gaeilge,
where love stories begin.

(slide projector clicking)

By the time he turned 30 in
October 1912,

he had a permanent teaching
job in Carysfort College.

He was married with a growing
family, and he seemed destined

for middle class obscurity.

But then, everything changed
on the island of Ireland.

Ulster loyalists pledged to
protect the Union with Britain

through violence, if necessary.

Nationalists responded by forming
the Irish Volunteers in 1913,

determined to see the promise
of independence become a reality.

Éamon de Valera signed up,

and his drive and
single-mindedness

saw him quickly rise
through the ranks.

♪ (dramatic music)

(marching feet)

♪ (gentle music)

By the time the Rising came along

in 1916, De Valera was Commandant
of the Third Battalion,

a key position for what
was about to unfold.

(gull crying)

Dev did his homework. He always
did his homework,

and he did his study, as he always
did his study.

To avoid suspicion,
he used to take his son Vivian

with him, he was only
3 or 4 at the time.

They'd take what looked like
a Sunday stroll, but actually,

he was assessing the lie of the
land.

He knew where they'd be able
to find water if they needed it.

He knew where they'd
be able to find tools.

He was completely on top
of every single detail.

The rising began on Easter Monday,
1916, when Irish volunteers

and the Irish Citizen Army
seized key buildings in Dublin.

British reinforcements were
expected to arrive

into Dun Laoghaire.

De Valera's mission was to stop
them getting into the city

to attack the main rebel
positions.

Despite popular legend,
his base wasn't in Boland's Mills.

It was actually in Boland's
bakery, half a kilometre away

The site was later occupied
by the headquarters of NAMA,

ground zero for the
Irish economic crash.

♪ (sinister music,
building collapsing)

Some people said in later years

that de Valera had some kind of a
breakdown in 1916,

that his nerve went.

He felt that with his grasp
of detail, he was the only one

that could look after everything.

But obviously, if you don't have
any sleep for three or four days,

that isn't good for your
decision-making.

While de Valera's position was
shelled, it didn't come under

direct assault by the British.

The garrison felt they could fight
on, but reluctantly obeyed

Pearse's order to surrender.

They went out, they laid down
their arms,

they marched out onto
Mount Street.

And this is one of the sliding
door moments

in Éamon de Valera's life, and in
Irish history.

Instead of turning right and going
to Richmond Barracks,

where the court-martials were
going on,

they were taken to the left,

down to Ballsbridge, to the RDS.

And the point is,
by the time de Valera got

to Richmond Barracks,
there was a big queue ahead of him

for court-martials, and that delay
probably saved his life.

♪ (poignant string music)

So Liz, what happened here
in 1916 changed Irish history.

For Éamon de Valera,
he's sentenced to death.

Yeah. And he expects to die.
Yeah, he does.

He's court-martialled on the 8th
of May.

And that day is quite significant
because that's the day

that Michael Mallin,
Éamonn Ceannt,

Con Colbert and Seán Heuston are
executed.

So, you know, there was over 90
going to be executed.

Those who are sentenced or were
awaiting sentence

are brought to Kilmainham.

But by this stage,
you have pressure being put

on the British government.

The Prime Minister is starting
to ask the questions

of the military "Do we need
to actually start executing?"

But de Valera's sitting in a
cell,

like so many of them at that
time,

thinking tomorrow is the day.
They're gonna come,

you know, first thing in the
morning, that's gonna be me.

And he fully expected
to die the following day.

But because you have such a
radical shift in public opinion,

from one of anger into one of
sympathy, initially, not support,

but sympathy for the way
the volunteers are being treated,

Prime Minister Asquith is
starting to ask the questions.

And it's not that as an American
citizenship,

is the thing that saves him.

It's the fact that he is not
seen as an important figure.

It must have been a really
traumatic time for him.

He's sitting in his cell writing
his last letter to his wife

and his children, and never
seeing them again.

The feeling of anxiety...
the fear... the sounds.

You're standing even here now.

Every sound is magnified.

The waiting game.

What's gonna happen?

The most important thing de Valera
did in 1916 was simply to survive.

As one of the few leaders
of the Rising still alive,

he was now a credible candidate
to lead Irish Nationalism.

In the aftermath of 1916,
public opinion in Ireland

shifted dramatically.

Republican prisoners sentenced
after the Rising were released,

and Éamon de Valera rode a wave
of enthusiasm to win

the East Clare by-election.

Seen as a unifying figure,
he was chosen to lead Sinn Féin,

and the party won a landslide

in the December 1918 general
election.

The following month,
a breakaway Dáil met in Dublin.

De Valera was absent,
in prison again.

A few days later,
he escaped and made his way home,

but he didn't stay for long.

As political violence erupted
around the country,

he decided that the best way to
help the battle

was to bring the fight to the
country of his birth.

He crossed the Atlantic for the
second time as a stowaway,

hidden in the hold of the ship,

where a rat ate a sandwich
out of his pocket.

He was so seasick,
it was thought that he might die

until he was revived
with a drop of brandy.

And when he arrived into the city
of his birth,

he had to be smuggled ashore.

He was a fugitive.

But all of that was
about to change.

We're here in a lovely,
peaceful park

in the middle of New York City.

But if you were here in 1919, it
would have been a different story.

You're right. This was the site
of de Valera's

first rock and roll moment

in the United States. At a packed
Madison Square Garden,

some 15,000 people

were here to hear Éamon de Valera
speak.

♪ (upbeat jazz drums,
crowd noise)

♪ (lively jazz music)

This was De Valera's moment

as the uncrowned king
of Irish America.

It really was Dev-mania
because it wasn't just here.

It was Fenway Park in Boston,

it was Wrigley Field in Chicago.

Absolutely massive crowds.

He was a celebrity, as you would
think of

in the 21st-century term.

He lived at the Waldorf Astoria
Hotel,

which was the home for many
queens and kings

when they visited New York City.

And his suite was known
as the Irish White House.

Women were fainting in his
presence,

so he had almost like a sex
symbol status.

Some people accused him of
shirking the War of Independence.

Is that fair?

Well, de Valera, perhaps more
than any other politician

in modern history, recognised
that the Irish question

was also an American question.

He sought to incorporate
the United States politically,

in terms of publicity, and in
terms of the Irish diaspora,

into raging that war
against the British state.

De Valera toured the United
States for about 18 months.

He raised about $65 million
in today's money

for the nascent Irish Republic.

And in some respects,
De Valera's financial tour

of America was his success story.

But it wasn't all sweetness
and light with some members

of the Irish-American community.

De Valera really
met his match here.

Irish-Americans of long-standing,
most notably John Devoy

and Judge Daniel Cohalan, who had
led Irish America for decades.

America wasn't big enough
for all of their egos.

It's an an Irish-American Civil
War before an Irish Civil War.

So what about the effect
that America had on de Valera?

'Cause I'm always conscious
of the Arthur Griffith quote

that he was a good man
spoiled by America.

De Valera met great adulation
here on the streets

of the United States,
especially here in New York.

But he also met great
tension and great push-back.

And in some respects,
his lesson learned from America

was to control the narrative.

The American education of
Éamon de Valera will influence

his political career
for decades to come.

By December 1920, De Valera
had raised a ton of money.

He'd set up his own organisation
to control Irish America,

and he'd put Ireland at the top
of the news agenda,

added to which he'd heard
that there were peace moves

afoot in Ireland.

It was time to go home.

By June 1921,
the War of Independence

was an effective stalemate.

Both sides were ready for a truce.

So de Valera travelled
to a face-to-face meeting

with the British Prime Minister,

harbouring Irish hopes for
liberty.

De Valera came to London,
the heart of the greatest empire

the world had ever known,
to seek recognition

of the Irish Republic, which it
quickly became clear

he wasn't going to get.

David Lloyd George,
the British Prime Minister,

famously unscrupulous,
famously wily, not to be trusted,

and De Valera certainly
didn't trust him.

As far as the British were
concerned, the Irish

were part of the empire.

They owed allegiance to the Crown,
to the King,

and they simply couldn't imagine
a situation where Ireland could

become an independent Republic.

It wasn't just about principle.

It wasn't just about the position
of the Crown in Irish life.

There was also practical reasons
for Britain to be concerned

about Irish independence.

If you look at a map
of the British Isles or

the Celtic Archipelago,
as it's more properly known,

you can see that Ireland is
crucial to British security.

If Ireland was in hostile hands,

Britain, militarily,
was indefensible.

♪ (ominous music)

Negotiations to reach a deal
opened in London in October,

but controversially,
de Valera decided not to travel.

Instead, five plenipotentiaries
led by Arthur Griffith

and Michael Collins would
negotiate Ireland's future.

WT Cosgrave said it was a team
they were sending over,

and they were leaving their best
player in reserve.

♪ (tense music, gull crying)

By definition, plenipotentiaries
have the power

to sign an agreement with a
foreign government,

but they were also given
instructions by de Valera,

secretly, that they had to refer
back to Dublin

before they signed anything.

The British had some of the most
seasoned

political negotiators on the
scene.

They'd just negotiated and signed
the Versailles Treaty.

The Irish, by comparison,
were completely inexperienced.

The plenipotentiaries were
under incredible pressure.

Lloyd George turned the screws

right at the end of the
negotiation.

He said "If you don't sign,
there will be war in Ireland

and war within three days."

So they felt they had no time
to refer back to de Valera.

They had to sign.

One of the British delegates said

"I am signing my political death
warrant."

Michael Collins said "I am
signing my actual death warrant."

And he was right.

♪ (sombre orchestral music)

The plenipotentiaries came back
from London

with the treaty signed, but it
still had to be ratified.

So after the Easter Rising,
the War of Independence,

the battle in London over
the terms of a deal with Britain.

It all came down to a war of words
as the Dáil debated the Treaty.

That debate took place at UCD's
premises in Earlsfort Terrace...

♪ (violins playing)
..now the National Concert Hall.

De Valera saw his role as keeping
everyone in harmony,

but the Treaty that came back
from London

introduced a discordant note.

So Gretchen, we're here in the
very room

where the Treaty debates took
place.

And right from the start,
they were emotional,

they were divisive,
they were really, really intense.

Yes. I mean, from the get-go,

it was an extremely emotional
situation.

♪ (orchestra plays dramatic
opening phrase)

The Treaty negotiations were
about

how far are you gonna go to

fight for independence.
Are you gonna go for

a republic at all costs?

And certainly, Collins and
Griffith

weren't willing to do that.

♪ (orchestra plays dramatic
music)

Collins argued that the Treaty
gave the freedom

to achieve freedom.

But Republican purists couldn't
swallow

the oath of allegiance to the
King.

De Valera, previously seen
as a moderate, agreed.

He wanted the Dáil to reject the
Treaty

and negotiate a better deal.

But his once unassailable
leadership

was beginning to crumble.

For so long, he had been able to
rely on

this deferential treatment.

He'd been treated in America as

the President
of the Irish Republic.

He didn't quite understand
that by sending

plenipotentiaries to thrash out
the most

difficult negotiations in the
most terrifying circumstances,

with war being threatened at
every turn,

his own authority was
gonna be undermined.

His gamble was that he could
impose his own solution,

impose his own compromise, and
still have everybody behind him.

It was a terrible,
terrible mistake.

♪ (orchestra plays dramatic
music)

Neither side paid much attention
to partition because both

wrongly assumed that a
Boundary Commission

would make Northern Ireland
unviable.

The debate was dominated
by division over

the Crown and the oath.

Partition was the dog
that didn't bark.

♪ (orchestra plays dramatic
music)

After a month of acrimonious
debate, it was time for the Dáil

to decide, and the result
went against de Valera.

His side lost by just seven votes.

In the emotion of the moment,
De Valera broke down in tears.

He had expected to be able
to control the plenipotentiaries.

He had expected to win
the vote in the cabinet.

He had expected to win the vote in
the Dáil, and he lost all of that.

It must have been a shattering
blow for him personally.

It was, for the first time
in a long, long time,

an utterly humiliating
experience.

This was the issue that dogged
de Valera throughout his life.

♪ (dramatic finish)

(audience applauds)

♪ (sombre music)

With the Dáil divided, the two
sides

took their case to the country.

(wings flapping)

As tempers rose and positions
hardened,

de Valera ramped up the
rhetoric in his public speeches.

Here in Thurles, on St. Patrick's
Day, 1922,

de Valera made the most infamous
of his speeches

during those tense months.

He said that if the volunteers
of the future

wanted to complete the
independence struggle,

they'd have to do so over the dead
bodies of their own countrymen.

They would have to wade through
Irish blood, he said,

through the blood of the soldiers
of the Irish government,

and through perhaps the blood
of some of the members

of the government in order
to get Irish freedom.

He said it was a warning.

His opponents, then and now,
said it was incitement.

Either way,
it added fuel to the flames

that were about to consume the
country.

As tensions rose,
the people had their say

in the June general election.

Michael Collins's energetic
campaign won a majority

to his side of the argument.

De Valera's anti-Treaty Sinn Féin
salvaged just 36 of the 128 seats.

Just days later,
Republicans in London assassinated

leading Unionist Field Marshal
Sir Henry Wilson.

The British government demanded
action

against anti-Treaty Republicans

who were occupying
the Four Courts in Dublin.

(cannon fires)

Troops loyal to the provisional
government shelled the rebels

and a civil war that would claim
almost 1,500 lives began.

♪ (sombre music)

In the opening weeks,

anti-Treaty forces were quickly
pushed out of urban areas

and reverted to guerrilla fighting

in the south-western corner of the
country.

The Civil War claimed many victims
on both sides,

many of them personally close
to Éamon de Valera,

and here on a remote roadway
in West Cork, Michael Collins.

In a coincidence that would give
rise to many conspiracy theories,

de Valera himself was in this
area just hours before.

So we're sitting in the house
that de Valera was in

on the day Michael Collins was
shot just 100 yards away.

Not only are we sitting
at the house,

we're sitting at the table that
Dev sat at

here in Béal na Bláth

on the day that Michael Collins
was shot.

♪ (quiet, sombre music)

When you come here and you look
at the terrain, like...

Yeah. It's so close. But how
close did they actually come?

Within 30 minutes of each other,
the two men

passed by the same crossroads.

Collins is going further west,
and Éamon de Valera comes

from a safe house three or four
miles away, neither man knowing

that they had come to the exact
same location on the same day.

And what was he doing here?

Well, I think it's fair to say
that he was here looking to see

could the war be
brought to a conclusion?

This was a room where there was
a big meeting planned between

brigade and divisional officers.

That's what Dev was doing here.

So de Valera is fairly peripheral
then in the Civil War, is he?

Control of the military
operations are Liam Lynch's.

Even in a local setting, even at
Béal na Bláth

and at this ambush,

Éamon de Valera has no
real say as to whether

an ambush occurs here.

That's not his role
at this juncture.

From what we can gather, de Valera
is not in favour of the ambush?

No.

♪ (sombre music, bird squawks)

His general opinion seems to have
been

that if something would happen to
Collins,

that he might just be replaced by
a weaker man.

So despite what you might be led
to believe

by some cinematic representations,

Dev actually had nothing to do
with it.

Dev had nothing to do
with Michael Collins being shot.

There's no Alan Rickman
crying behind a haystack here.

And yet a lot of people are still
determined to put

the responsibility
for the Civil War

on Éamon de Valera's shoulders.
Is that fair?

I think it's fair to say
that Éamon de Valera

helped strike the match of the
Civil War.

But then the actual activities
that occur in the Civil War,

I think it's very questionable
to the degree to which he has

a lasting amount of control over
that, a major amount of control.

So after Collins's death,
you get this series of events,

a spiral of events that just add
to the bitterness that

lasts for generations.

It's in the aftermath, a place
like Béal na Bláth ,

that we're seeing these
tit-for-tat executions.

These really are one of the major
reasons that it's left such

a lasting legacy of kind
of sourness, if you like,

in relation to what occurred.

It was an ugly time,
as all civil wars are.

Because of the scars left
by the Civil War,

de Valera could never again be
the undisputed leader

of Irish Nationalism.

Yet, he went on to dominate
Irish politics for 50 years.

After the Civil War, Éamon
de Valera spent a year in jail,

much of it in solitary
confinement,

giving him plenty of time to
think.

Meanwhile, outside these prison
walls, Sinn Féin was becoming

more attached to abstentionism,

the refusal to enter the Dáil
under any circumstances,

which meant that even when
de Valera was finally released

from prison, his room to
manoeuvre, politically,

was still restricted.

♪ (urgent orchestral music,
crowd noise)

As far as De Valera was concerned,
it was a question of tactics

rather than principle.

But the Republican purists
in the party refused to consider

entering Leinster House under
any circumstances, whatever.

As far as they were concerned,
it was a partitionist parliament,

and the problem for de Valera was,
that means, in effect,

that there's no political path
forward.

The issue came to a crunch
at a special Sinn Féin Ard Fheis,

de Valera lost in his attempt
to get the party

to change policy, and he walked
out.

In May 1926, he established a new
party, Fianna Fáil,

a more pragmatic political entity.

They completely supplant
Sinn Féin,

and de Valera engages in a bit of
street theatre.

He marches at the head of all the
Fianna Fáil TDs

up to the gates of Leinster House,

demands to be admitted,

de Valera says "We will not take
the oath,"

and they're kicked out.

So they march all the way back
across to their offices

over on the northside,

and it looks like he's digging his
heels in.

And then Kevin O'Higgins
is assassinated.

The murder of the Minister for
Justice

in broad daylight shocked the
country,

and gave the Free State government

the opportunity to crack down

on its most strident critics.

(church bell rings)

New laws required election
candidates

to commit to taking the oath.

The policy of abstentionism
had run out of road.

And really, in the end,
there was only one choice to make.

De Valera had fought a civil war
against the Treaty settlement

and the oath which symbolised it,
but now he came face to face

with the bitter truth - in order
to get rid of the oath,

he was going to have to take it.

♪ (poignant orchestral music)

So, Peter, every TD has
to sign the book.

Correct.

And we have books for each
Dáil going back to 1919.

This is the roll book
for the fifth Dáil,

and if we open the book,
we come to the page where

Éamon de Valera signed the roll.

Wow. And that's his signature just
there.

Yeah. You can see it's in quite
large handwriting.

It's hugely interesting,
hugely historical, because

it was of huge significance.

Above the signature,
you will more importantly see

the oath that he was swearing
at that time,

and that's what caused all the
problems.

This is what caused
the Civil War, right?

Essentially.
In effect, yeah. Yeah.

It's really interesting
what he did.

He took a Bible
that was on the table.

He picks it up... Yeah.
Leaves it over by the door...

He covers up the text of the oath
and said "I am signing no oath.

I am merely signing the roll
to gain admittance to the Dáil"

and he signed his name.

It's bigger than the normal,
because we can actually see

in the subsequent Dáil,
after the following election,

he signs in his usual
very neat handwriting.

I think it probably shows that
he's under a fair amount

of emotional stress.
I do.

I think it does highlight the
stress of the moment, and also

the significance
of the moment for him.

The other interesting thing,
Peter, is that in 1922,

when the oath was first taken,

it's taken in the Dáil chamber,
and they have to actually

stand up and read out the text.
Yeah.

Whereas here, you're just
signing your name in a book.

Yeah, so I suppose you can see
the progression away

from the oath at that stage.

They were doing it in the privacy
of the clerk's office.

Okay, so if you said it was
an empty formula,

you might have a point.
I think you would.

And the other interesting thing is
that de Valera,

when he signed his name, he told
the clerk

"One day I will have this book
burnt."

Thankfully, he didn't.

♪ (calm music)

Now that de Valera and Fianna Fáil
were inside the system,

it was only a matter of time
before they took power

in the Free State.

The new movement took root all
over the country,

helped in no small part by
de Valera's new project,

The Irish Press,

the newspaper he regarded as
crucial to his political success.

In the 1932 general election,
Fianna Fáil overtook

Cumann na nGaedheal for the first
time.

It would remain the biggest
party for the next eight decades.

(de Valera)
The programme of Fianna Fáil

has now been definitely adopted

as the national policy
of the Irish people.

Ireland united, Ireland free,
Ireland self-supporting

and self-reliant,

Ireland speaking her own
tongue,

and through it giving to the
world her ancient treasures

of Christian Gaelic culture.

These are the ideals to which
enthusiastic young Ireland

is now devoting its energy.

♪ (emotional orchestral music,
slide projector clicking)

It had taken him 50 years,
but the boy from Manhattan

had finally made it big in
Ireland.

♪ (dramatic orchestral music)

(gulls crying)

Our history has shaped every inch

of the nation in which we live,
and shaped the lives and values

of every one of us who call
ourselves citizens.

So what do the people of Ireland
today think of the man

whose fingerprints are all over
our revolutionary period,

and our first half century of
independence?

(applause)

Good evening, and you're
very welcome to St. Patrick's Hall

here in historic Dublin Castle.

And you may be wondering,
why are we here?

Well, we're here to consider
the life and the legacy

of the most consequential
figure in 20th century Ireland.

Big claim to make,
but I think there's no doubt

that Éamon de Valera made a
massive impact on Ireland

during his extraordinarily long
career.

It was in St. Patrick's Hall
that Éamon de Valera

was inaugurated as President
of Ireland,

and it was also here,
in 1975,

that he lay in state
before his funeral.

It was in this room...

(boom)

..that tens of thousands of people
filed past the coffin

of the man who was viewed
either as a demigod,

or as the devil incarnate.

I was 22 when he died, and

I would have walked around

the coffin like I saw this
evening,

de Valera and his people at the
time.

So it was a generosity, trying
to help the whole nation.

The energy was always just to try
and find employment for people.

That's part of the de Valera
legacy

and part of the Fianna Fáil
party,

which I am proud to be a member.

So if my da wants to wind me up
and watch me go on a rant,

all he had to say to me

was that de Valera was a lovely
man, and I'd be off.

I remember we were attending
a funeral in Whitefriar Street,

and as we were walking through
the main entrance,

my dad told me to bless myself.

I did so without looking,
without hesitation.

My dad burst out laughing,
which I thought was strange

until I looked up at the picture.

To my horror, it was
in fact, de Valera.

(laughter)

De Valera, who my nanny refers
to as a god,

(laughs) or her family did.

To hold him up to such a high
regard means that he is devoid

of criticism, and so to criticise
is to create controversy.

To me, and as a young person
in Ireland today,

who's looking at the poverty
we're still in and looking at all

the issues we're still in,
and there's still the leftover

legacy of the Catholic Church
in Ireland,

I have to think of that,
and I have to use that to frame

how I think of de Valera.

Until we take that radical
position that goes against Dev,

heaven forbid, then I think we'll
still be having

this same conversation
in 50 years' time.

♪ (quiet orchestral music)

Acutely conscious,
though we all are,

of the misery and desolation
in which the greater part

of the world is plunged,
let us turn aside for a moment

to that ideal Ireland
that we would have.

As an immigrant, the fact that he
was born outside Ireland

from an immigrant father,
this man was born half Irish,

but he became full Irish
in his actions and his beliefs.

Saint Patrick came to our
ancestors

1,500 years ago, promising
happiness here,

as well as happiness hereafter.

Having children who are Irish,
born and raised here,

of immigrant background,
it was for me a testimony

that a national identity can be
forged not only because of

your place of birth, but also
because of your actions.

It was the idea of such an
Ireland -

happy, vigorous, spiritual -

that fired the imagination of our
poets;

and that made successive
generations of patriotic men

give their lives that they may
win

religious and political liberty;
and that will urge men in our own

and future generations
to die, if need be.

It was a civil war.

His actions caused a lot of

Irish deaths, a lot of needless
war,

and needless brutality,
and it fractured,

it splintered our culture.

He was a man defined by
hyper-traditionalism.

He was a man who did not have
enough empathy for certain groups

in Ireland, and a man whose
actions

led a lot of people into despair,
and levels of desolation.

..our contribution to humanity.

In my memory, it was always
there.

Even when I was a teeny child,
about five or six,

like, there was God,

there was the Church, there was
school,

there was Dev.

My father Tom was
a Fianna Fáil County councillor.

His devotion to De Valera was,
well, embarrassing.

He was a great statesman.

When we were gaining our
independence and becoming a free,

self-respecting country, that he,

if you just take it even as a
symbol,

was a very, very good person to
represent.

He was very, very clever and
politically very pragmatic,

though very, very flawed.

Dev, as the only surviving leader
of the 1916 Rising,

then went on to reject
a Dáil vote

accepting the Treaty and
rejecting the results

of the June 1922 general
election,

hardly the stance of a democrat.

He had a now kind of
unacknowledged charisma.

He had an ability to manipulate
and manoeuvre the media

and his public image that is
Machiavellian,

that is modern, really.

His capacity to bend expectation
to his will and bring the public

with him was absolutely superb,
but he kind of used

that skillset to, more often than
not,

bring the Irish people on the
wrong road.

(applause)

It wasn't all his fault,
but he was the leader,

and if you're the leader,
you get the blame.

Between 1932 and 1959,
when he was elected President,

Éamon de Valera,
dominated Dáil Éireann.

And the Fianna Fáil party he
founded remained

the most popular political force
of the 20th century.

De Valera himself spent 21 years
of his career

as head of government, a record
that will surely never broken.

But after a rise punctuated
by demoralising defeats

and compelling comebacks, how does
his rule stand the test of time?

It's a time still
of embedded patriarchy.

He was absolutely defining
Irishness as something that was

not beholden to the Crown.

We were desperately,
desperately poor.

The economic war had
a devastating impact.

There isn't really anything you
can say to defend

going to pay condolences on the
death of Adolf Hitler.

The Magdalen laundries,

if you said that there was
slavery in de Valera's Ireland,

most people would go "No, look,
that's a terrible thing to say,"

but it's just true.

♪ (dramatic orchestral music)

Subtitles: RTÉ 2025