Ronan Collins

I received my Morrison visa in 1993 while I was volunteering with GOAL in Khartoum, Sudan. Even now, it still sounds surreal to say out loud. My mother was the one who called to tell me I’d been selected. Because I wasn’t in Ireland, my paperwork had to be transferred from Dublin to Washington, then on to Khartoum, a more complicated process than most people experienced. But once the hurdles were cleared and the interview was done, the actual move to the U.S. in January 1994 felt remarkably straightforward. I still remember arriving, photo, thumbprint, and not long after, my green card came in the mail. It’s hard to overstate how fortunate that felt.

Before coming to the U.S., I’d lived a very mobile life, starting in student politics and community work.

I did a year at university, was active in the Students’ Union movement, and worked with what’s now DCU. That brought me to central Missouri for a year. I had no idea then how significant those early connections would become.

After Missouri, I spent time working with Student Unions in Tasmania, then back to Dublin, and eventually took a placement in Sudan through an agency that matched skillsets with volunteer opportunities. That whole path was shaped by curiosity and a desire to serve, and then the visa came through, and life took another turn.

One of the most powerful memories from my early days in the U.S. was the contrast. I’d just come from camps in Khartoum, and arrived in a country in recession. But the difference in wealth, in what “hardship” meant, was stark. What really stayed with me, though, was the welcome. The human warmth, the curiosity, people asking where I was from, wanting to know my story. Even now, decades later, people still ask when they hear the accent. That sense of openness meant the world to me when I was finding my feet.

Of course, the biggest challenge was homesickness and distance. This was pre-internet, and staying in touch meant expensive long-distance calls.

Getting back to Ireland wasn’t easy or cheap. What helped was finding my tribe. I worked in an Irish bar and started helping with music nights. A small Irish and Irish-American community formed from there. Gigs turned into community events. We created something that felt like home.

That spirit of community continued to shape my life. I now work as a Solution Architect with an IT firm, but community and culture have always been central for me, going back to my student days and my time in music. I helped start the Kansas City Irish Festival, which has grown into one of the largest Irish festivals in North America. It began with pub gigs, evolved into a neighbourhood event, and eventually became a city-wide celebration. Pre-COVID, we welcomed 90,000 attendees; post-COVID, around 60,000. Twenty-five years on, I’m proud of that legacy.

The Morrison Visa changed everything for me. It gave me a path that was clear, supportive, and, looking back, remarkably humane. I know how lucky I was. And most of the people I know who came through this program have given back in every way imaginable: culturally, socially, and economically.

We built lives. We built communities. That’s the real legacy of the Morrison Visa.