Mayo TD scared by 'dehumanising of politicians'
PART THREE OF A FOUR-PART SERIES ON WOMEN IN POLITICS
When Rose Conway-Walsh first put her name on a ballot paper in 2004, she did so reluctantly.
With two babies under the age of three and no political dynasty behind her, she had spent months trying to convince other women to run before finally accepting that if she wanted change in the Belmullet area, she would have to lead it herself.
“I followed women around the supermarket trying to get them to run,” she laughs now.
“But no woman had ever been on the ticket in the Belmullet area. I couldn’t accept that. So in the end, I said I’d go myself.”
That decision would make Conway-Walsh the first and still the only woman ever elected to represent the Belmullet electoral area, a statistic that remains unchanged to this day.
“I actually hadn’t realised until you reminded me that no woman has been elected there since,” she says, pausing. “It tells its own story.”
In 2004, while working in community development, Rose Conway-Walsh brought a group of women to observe Mayo County Council as part of a training course.
What she saw changed everything.
“There were 31 seats and only three women. It wasn’t reflective of society, of the county, of Erris. Sometimes you need to see it visually. And I couldn’t accept it.”
The reaction at home and in the community was mixed when she announced her decision to contest the election, a mix of surprise, curiosity, and beliefs often grounded in old assumptions.
“Some women asked me, ‘Who’s looking after the kids?’ as though I’d left them home alone,” she remembers.
“People weren’t used to seeing a woman canvassing.”
She also recalls the man who promised her his vote on one condition.
“He said, ‘I’ll vote for you. They need someone up there to make the tea for them.’ He wasn’t being smart; that was genuinely how he saw it.”
He viewed it as a cohort of men up there, and that it would be the woman’s role in the chamber to look after them.
Despite the obstacles, 924 voters backed her that first time, something she still remembers with clarity. It was enough to show her the seat was winnable, and in 2009 she took it.
Conway-Walsh’s time on Mayo County Council shaped her politics in more ways than one.
“It’s the best grounding you can have,” she says. “You learn what a load of 804 is, what drains cost, the nuts and bolts.”
But alongside the learning came frustration, enough that she wrote her masters thesis on it.
“I found the influence of elected members was being eroded. Too much power lay with the executive. When you get a mandate from people, they expect you to work for them, and that was becoming harder.”
She also questioned the value for money in local authority contracting.
“It was cheaper for me to buy a single load of 804 myself than for the council to buy it in bulk. That always bothered me.”
Council life, however, did not isolate her socially, despite what many female representatives elsewhere have reported.
“I was used to being the only woman in the boardroom in London. I never felt isolated in Mayo. Across parties, I got on with most councillors. Working together matters; nobody has all the answers.”
One of the first topics she put on her leaflets was combating violence against women, and the pushback was immediate.
“A man came in, banged the desk, and said, ‘If you want a vote here, stop that nonsense.’ He didn’t think it was something I should concern myself with.”
She persisted. Years later, in the Seanad, she would help secure legislative change on coercive control.
By 2016, Conway-Walsh felt she had “outgrown” the limits of local government.
Her nomination to the Seanad brought her into national politics, and on her first day, she unexpectedly found herself appointed leader of the Sinn Féin team there.
“It was a huge moment for me. It recognised that I had the ability to lead.”
The work was rewarding; the travel, less so.
“If I don’t leave Leinster House before three on a Thursday, it can take over five hours to get home. That’s still a challenge.”
“My boys always came first. If they had ever said they wanted me to stop, I absolutely would have. Even though they’re adults now, I still treat them like babies,” she smiles.
“The biggest issue now is the growing abuse,” she says. “If I had a daughter, would I advise her to go into politics? I’d sit her down and spell out exactly how it is.
“I don’t think anyone should be allowed on social media without their real name. It’s cowardly. The dehumanising of politicians — of people — scares me. If you take the humanity out of politics, what’s left?”
Despite this, she remains firmly committed to encouraging more women to run.
“I’d love to walk into Mayo County Council and see 15 women and 15 men. Women don’t have all the answers, but neither do men. Together is how you solve problems.”
She wants younger women, older women, women with caring responsibilities, and women with disabilities to see politics as a place for them.
“If you’ve spent years caring for someone, imagine what you could bring to the Dáil. We need women with different life experiences.”
And what would she say to a young woman listening or reading this series on women in local politics in Mayo and wondering if politics is for her?
“Absolutely go for it. We need you. Women inspire me. Young girls inspire me.
“And we need more of them shaping this country.”
(Published under the Local Democracy Reporting Scheme).
* A podcast mini series accompanies this article - you can listen on Spotify and other podcast streaming platforms, just search for All-Ireland Whinger.