As you read this, the 10th President of Ireland will be putting the kettle on in Áras an Uachtaráin as she gets acquainted with the place she will call home for the next seven years.

Maybe you voted for her, maybe not? But either way, you were given the opportunity to have your say in the democracy we take for granted.

Appropriately, she was inaugurated on 11 November – Remembrance Day, the day that marks the end of World War I, and nine days after All Souls’ Day, on which the Irish Defence Forces honours deceased former members, remembering those who died so we could live freely.

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Bloody and brutal, built on centuries of genocide and famine, occupation and emigration, history never repeats itself, it is said, but man always does. That’s hard to argue with as we watch the descendants of those who narrowly escaped death in previous wars once again go to battle with their neighbours.

According to the Global Peace Index study, there are 59 active conflicts currently raging across the globe, the highest number since World War II. Fought on different continents and in different languages, the one thing they all have in common is the loss of innocent human life.

Conscripted soldiers dying for a cause they may or may not believe in. Civilians too, collateral damage the headlines call them; others call them mammy or daddy, son or daughter.

My uncle was a conscripted soldier and after the war ended, he returned to his home county’s village, becoming the local coal man. Changed by the horrors he had witnessed, he was a quiet man who said little.

As American poet Amy Peterson wrote about her son when he returned from Iraq – “His mission is over, he’s sent back to me, he fought for our freedom, but he’ll never be free.”

As children, my brother and I made a weekly visit to see our uncle, who was invariably as black as the fuel he delivered, wearing coal dust from head to toe. With the whites of his eyes shining out of his smiling face, he always made time for a game of cards, or a stroll down the garden to show us the gooseberry bushes he was so proud of.

As American poet Amy Peterson wrote about her son when he returned from Iraq – “His mission is over, he’s sent back to me, he fought for our freedom, but he’ll never be free”

When he died, predeceased by my aunt and, sadly, their only son, I inherited the biscuit tin that held the memories of his life.

Battered and dented, it was only a shadow of the brightly coloured box it once was. Its chocolate-coated contents long since eaten, leaving behind the remnants that told the story of his life, through faded letters, sepia photographs of unfamiliar faces, and his war medals.

In ageing velvet-lined boxes, tarnished and dull, they sat quietly, hanging on to tattered ribbons by a thread. They had never been spoken about but were hidden away with the other relics of his past, in the back of his dusty mahogany wardrobe, where his rarely worn best suit and Crombie overcoat hung.

The responsibility of becoming the keeper of his memory weighed heavily on me, and when the dust had settled on my loss, I put the photographs into an album, his letters into a protective folder, and his medals into the framing shop.

I wish he knew how proud I feel when I look at the gilt frame that holds his citations and decorations, no longer hidden in the back of the wardrobe but hanging proudly on my sitting room wall.

Reminding me of the unfathomable contribution that he, and all those brave men and women who paid the ultimate sacrifice and never returned, made.

Democracy is hard fought, and hard won and, despite the uncertain times we’re living through, Ireland, according to the Global Peace Index study, remains one of the safest countries in the world to live in; retaining our second-place ranking for the second year running.

So, whether you voted for our current President, a noted pacifist, or not, you had, thanks to the generations that came before us, the right to vote freely in a peaceful nation – a legacy we must never take for granted.