The Irish government is a concierge for Donald Trump's junket
By Maya Ellison · Reporting from Detroit ·
The ledger of power is always written in the language of "security," but the costs are always paid by the people on the street.
The ledger of power is always written in the language of "security," but the costs are always paid by the people on the street. As Donald Trump touched down in Dublin on September 12, 2026, the world was told this was an "informal, non-state visit." But there is nothing informal about 10,000 police shifts, water cannons hauled in from Northern Ireland, and the temporary erasure of public space.
When I was eighteen in Flint, I learned that when the state "ramps up a gear" in security, it isn't to protect the citizens; it’s to protect the interests of the people who own the zip code. This trip isn't diplomacy; it’s a billionaire’s junket masquerading as a presidential mission, and the Irish government is playing the role of the concierge.
Ten Thousand Shifts for Eighteen Holes
The scale of the operation is an insult to any working person. According to MyJoyOnline, An Garda Síochána is executing one of the biggest policing operations in its history, with 10,000 12-hour shifts worked between Friday and Sunday. They’ve shut down the Phoenix Park, the Dublin Zoo, and the Magazine Fort. They’ve throttled the M50 motorway. In Doonbeg, journalist Sharon Dolan D'Arcy reports a surreal scene where "every street, every entrance to a farm, every unoccupied house that's for sale" has a garda standing outside it.
All of this—the "Beast" motorcade, the US Army Chinook helicopters at Shannon Airport, the maritime exclusion zones—is the price of admission for Donald Trump to play golf at his own beachfront resort for the Irish Open. As Christopher Fox, a Dublin taxi driver, told The Guardian: “He’s causing mayhem in this city because he wants to go down to Doonbeg and play golf.”
This is a pattern we've seen before. During Donald Trump's visit to Ireland in 2017 and again during Donald Trump's visit to Ireland in 2019, the line between the office of the presidency and the balance sheet of the Trump Organization was nonexistent. We are seeing the same dynamic now: the machinery of two nations deployed to ensure a man can enjoy his own real estate without being bothered by the people his policies harm.
The Stability Trap
The real drama isn't at the golf course, but in the 10-minute meeting at Áras an Uachtaráin. President Catherine Connolly, a leftwing leader, is walking into a room with a man who has previously mistakenly referred to her as a man. The Guardian reports a nation divided: some want her to "let rip" at Trump’s rhetoric on immigrants and the Middle East, while others fear she might "upend Ireland’s economy" by offending him.
This is the "Strongest Case" for the Irish government’s caution: the argument that in a globalized economy, a small nation cannot afford the luxury of moral clarity when dealing with a superpower’s volatile leader. Simon Harris, the Tánaiste, is leaning hard into this, playing the part of the welcoming host, noting he had phoned Trump upon his election. The logic is simple: keep the visitor happy, keep the investment flowing, and keep the peace.
But that "stability" is a lie. It is the stability of the hostage. When you trade your principles for the favor of a man who views the world as a series of transactions, you aren't securing your economy; you are subsidizing your own irrelevance. The costs of this "cautious approach" land on the immigrants and the vulnerable, the same way the costs of deregulation landed on my neighbors in Flint.
The Imperial Playbook
This isn't a new strategy; it's a classic power move. This visit mirrors the mechanism of the Visit of Richard Nixon to South America, where a high-ranking US official’s tour triggered violent public protests because the "diplomacy" was actually a cover for a polarizing, imperialist agenda. In both cases, the tour isn't about the host country; it's about the US president signaling leverage and consolidating power. Nixon used his travels to pivot global alliances for strategic gain; Trump uses his to pivot the state's resources toward his own resorts.
The Garda Commissioner, Justin Kelly, has promised "no tolerance" for public disorder. He is treating the Irish public as a threat to be managed rather than citizens to be served. When the state deploys water cannons to protect a golf outing, it has stopped being a government and has started being a private security firm for the 1%.
The Irish government believes that by stifling criticism, they are protecting their future. They are wrong. They are merely teaching the world that the US presidency is a brand that can buy the silence of a sovereign nation.
The verdict is clear: this visit is a performance of power designed to remind the world that for the right kind of billionaire, the law, the borders, and the public purse are merely suggestions. By treating a business trip as a state event, the Irish government isn't preserving stability—they are validating the idea that the world is just one big resort, and the rest of us are just the hired help.