By Susan Gilshinan, comrade in Drimnagh PBP

He stood six feet four or more
In his stocking feet
And a nicer man you wouldn’t meet.
He was soft-spoken and gentle, firm in his beliefs,
Highly intelligent but never shoved his views down your throat,
Unlike the gang in Leinster House, he certainly did loathe!!
John loved Art History and sometimes he could be a mystery.
As Mary said “He often took to wearing his shirt
One collar in, one out. Sometimes his jumper was worn back to front,
His big black bag over-flowed with pamphlets and prose”.
John is too Large a Life Figure to be gone,
He is still here among us, standing tall.
Still here among us talking of Lenin and Marx,
And he will never leave our hearts.

Hi Memet, just thought I’d email you the post I made last night about John, it doesn’t half do him justice and plenty of people have written far more fitting tributes to him, but I hope I can be forgiven being at a loss for words strong enough to describe the admiration and respect I had for him. I’ll also attach the photo I posted on it too as I thought that the sign he was holding in it encapsulated him exactly as he was, a rebel for life, right up to the end.

I can still barely come to terms with the news of John’s sudden passing, he was always such a constant on the Irish left. Whether it was protests on anti-racism, Palestinian solidarity, the housing and climate crises, you name it, John was there. Activism in Dublin will never be the same again without him. He was a committed socialist campaigner and revolutionary who dedicated his life to changing the world for the better. I’ve learned so much from my conversations with him and I’m heartbroken that I won’t be able to have any more with him. Rest in power comrade.

A memory of John in Egypt

John was a wonderful travelling companion. He talked to everyone – and made friends on all sides. We went twice to Egypt at a time when the radical left in the country was consolidating and John was able to pass on some of his experience to young revolutionaries. On one occasion, after several days of intense meetings in Cairo on Marxist theory, strategy and tactics, John said that he urgently needed to play some chess: where could he go? what did I know about chess in the city? 

Despite a good knowledge of Cairo, as a chess incompetent I had no idea – except a vague memory of seeing chessboards at a bar downtown. In the evening we set off for Al Hurreya, a cavernous place in Midan Falaki and one of the few places in the city where Egyptians could freely buy beer. For generations it had been a hangout for liberals and the left – and sure enough, in a corner away from the drinkers, there were three tables with chess games under way.

John’s eyes lit up: “Excellent”. He stood above one of the games – towering over the players – and waved me off. After a beer I left – and didn’t see him again until the next morning, when he clattered exhausted into the flat in which we were staying. I asked about the Al Hurreya experience – and received an account that could only have come from John.

“I watched few games,” he said, “and then they invited me to play. I lost a couple but then started to win – a lot. I beat everyone in the bar who could play and so they called up their champion. I beat him too and they made a phonecall for the top chess man in the city – and, well, I won that as well. 

“They kept telling me that I was ‘Al Malik’, and someone with a few words of English translated… that I was ‘The King’ and then ‘Al-Far’un’ – ‘The Pharoah’. 

“I had a good time but unfortunately I didn’t have the Arabic for a sustained critique of the monarchy.”

Phil Marfleet