Daire Lydon explores Washington D.C. on the fifth anniversary of January 6th.
I arrived in Washington, D.C. during the first week of January on an exchange from UCD, a time when the city usually feels subdued. Students are just returning, politicians are back from the holidays, and the capital slowly wakes from winter hibernation. What I had not fully appreciated until landing was that my first days in the United States would coincide with the fifth anniversary of January 6th.
For many Americans, this date carries a weight that remains unresolved. Five years on, the events of that day are not a closed chapter. They remain raw, contested and deeply present.
January 6th has already secured its place in American history. It was the day a presidential election result was rejected by force, when the seat of American democracy was breached by those convinced the system had failed them. The images from that day are seared into the national consciousness, but the emotional aftershocks are still playing out on the streets.
As part of studying abroad, UCD students are required to register with ISOS, an online system that emails safety updates about the city you are living in. In the days leading up to January 6th, alerts warned of heightened security around Washington, D.C., ahead of planned protests and counter-protests near the Capitol. Out of curiosity more than anything else, I walked towards the US Capitol to see who would mark the anniversary.
The protest was smaller than I had expected, but no less charged. Capitol Police lined the streets, visibly alert. Men and women stood wearing MAGA hats, holding portraits linked to January 6th and chanting familiar slogans. The purpose of the protest was twofold: to thank President Trump for the pardons, and to demand justice for their colleague Ashleigh Babbitt, who was shot and killed during the riots by Capitol Police officer Michael Byrd. I saw several high-profile figures wearing costumes emblazoned with anti–Michael Byrd slogans, as well as the phrase “2x pardoned”.
Nearby, counter-protesters hurled insults, some referencing figures like Charlie Kirk, others shouting accusations of fascism and Nazism.
Things became even more heated when Congressman Tom Suozzi came out and confronted the angry mob.
While the numbers were limited, there was an unmistakable edge to the atmosphere. It felt brittle, as though it could fracture at any moment. The police presence reflected that tension. This was not routine crowd control. It was vigilance.
Having seen enough, I headed back towards my hotel. Around the corner, a tent had been set up plastered with anti-Trump and anti-MAGA slogans. “Fuck Trump,” read one of the signs. Those gathered there heckled the occasional passer-by who had clearly just come from a nearby protest. More out of curiosity than anything else, I sat down on a bench to observe, wondering if anything might break out.
At one point, a man from the anti-Trump contingent spotted me. I heard him say to his companion, “Who did this douche vote for?” He then turned to me sharply and demanded to
know who I had voted for. His tone was confrontational, almost searching for an argument. Instinctively, I shouted back that I was Irish. The shift was immediate. His aggression evaporated. “That’s okay then,” he replied, as if an invisible line had been crossed.
Another woman, who had not heard the exchange, shouted that I did not look old enough to vote anyway. When others told her I was Irish, she paused and asked, almost suspiciously, “As in actually Irish?” When I confirmed it, she apologised. “My judgement is off today,” she said. “I won’t give you a hard time.”
A third man approached after overhearing us. He told me his surname was Egan and that he held dual citizenship. He spoke candidly about his life in America and his growing desire to leave it behind, to seek something quieter and more stable in Ireland. It was a striking conversation to be having in the shadow of the Capitol, surrounded by competing visions of America’s future.
As we spoke, distant chanting grew louder. I realised the Proud Boys were advancing down the road. Suddenly, I found myself standing on an embankment, police on either side of me, with the Proud Boys marching towards us and counter-protesters behind me screaming in return.
“Nazi scum off our streets,” came the cries from one side.
“These are our streets. We own you,” came the response.
The shouting intensified. A transgender woman standing beside me was subjected to vicious verbal abuse. The police tightened their formation. For a moment, it felt as though anything could happen.
Nothing ultimately did. The moment passed. The crowd dispersed. The city resumed its rhythm.
But the lesson was clear. January 6th is not over in America. It has not been processed, reconciled, or put to rest. It lives on in suspicion, in anger, in fear, and in the strange relief people feel when they learn you are not one of them.
Five years on, the insurrection may belong to history, but its consequences remain firmly rooted in the present. From where I stood, in the heart of Washington, it was impossible to believe that America is anywhere close to moving on.