It is a truth universally acknowledged that the new, youthful boom-time Ireland has left its old Catholic nationalist identity far behind. And like most universally acknowledged truths, this one is a simplistic reflection of a complex and contradictory reality.

That reports of the death of Catholic Ireland have been greatly exaggerated is evident from recent MRBI and IMS surveys which suggest that two-thirds of Irish people still see going to Mass as important and that 77 per cent still have confidence in the Catholic Church.

As for nationalism, a survey of school students published this week by the National Youth Council of Ireland produced some startling results. Among the voters of tomorrow, the most popular party is not some new, dynamic alternative to the Establishment, but the quintessential party of power, Fianna Fail, which registered 34 per cent support. But the real eye-opener is that Sinn Fein came second, securing the support of 24 per cent of students surveyed. This is almost as much as Fine Gael, Labour and the Greens put together.

The extremely high level of identification with Sinn Fein among teenagers is all the more striking because it simply can't be explained away as a result of parental influence. With Sinn Fein support among adults in the Republic hovering around five per cent, the vast majority of the young people who support the party are clearly going against the grain of their parents' political views. If anything, the chances are that many of these young people have to actively shrug off the hostility of the adults in their lives towards their party of choice.

That, of course, is itself one reason for Sinn Fein's impressive level of support among the young. The party is hoovering up the anti-Establishment, anti-authority attitudes that might have been expected in other circumstances to attach themselves to the Greens, Labour or the Socialist Party. But why has a party that most young people a decade ago would have seen as representing the awful pull of the past acquired this image in the brave new world of the 21st century Republic?

One obvious reason, of course, is that if you're now 16, you've spent all your conscious political life with the new, respectable Sinn Fein of the peace process. Your very first political memory may well be the IRA ceasefire of August 1994. You don't remember the vicious mass murders, the bloody rubble of Enniskillen, the naked savagery of Teebane Cross. Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness are not apologists for sickening atrocities, but calm, reasonable, earnest men who talk about peace.

Today's teenagers are the most media-saturated generation in human history. And the peace process has been the biggest Irish media story for the last seven years. As a key player in that process, Sinn Fein has enjoyed a media profile out of all proportion to its support base in the Republic. The inescapable force of celebrity is at work.

And this high profile on the TV screen is matched by hard work on the ground. If you're a teenager living in a working-class housing estate in any Irish city, the chances are that the only local politician you know is the Sinn Fein councillor or candidate. The biggest issue that the party is identified with in these areas, moreover, is not partition or cross-Border bodies, but drugs. This also happens to be the issue that the National Youth Council survey found to be at the top of the list of political priorities for school students.

These simple, tangible factors go a long way towards explaining the attraction of Sinn Fein for teenagers. But deeper, more abstract reasons may be even more important. For a generation that every survey shows to be largely uninterested in current affairs and alienated from the democratic process, broad images and vague aspirations may count for more than specific policies and campaigns. What the Provos have to offer to the cubs of the Celtic Tiger may be neither the ballot box nor the Armalite, but a powerful cocktail of nostalgia and disaffection.

Boomtime Ireland may offer more teenagers more opportunities than ever before but it is also a deeply unsettling place. For the teenagers of the 1970s and 1980s, the repressive orthodoxies of Catholic nationalism were oddly reassuring. You might not have liked the system, but you knew exactly what it was and how it worked. You knew what you were rebelling against. The ordinary weapons of teenage rebellion - sex, drugs and rock'n'roll - could serve as stones to be thrown at the stained glass windows of Church and State.

Now, sex, drugs and rock'n'roll are taken for granted. The church is a God Is Love poster. The State is that nice fella Bertie and his girlfriend who knows all about make-up. Yet the feeling of disaffection is, if anything, even stronger than before. For those who are outside the loop of a boom economy, the sense of exclusion is heightened by the pervasive evidence of other people's conspicuous consumption.

Even for those who are inside the loop, the pressure on teenagers to be both consumers, working part-time to fund the obligatory drinking and designer labels, and at the same time academically competitive students can be quite ferocious. The sense of being pulled in different directions as you try to come to terms with a constantly shifting society must be overwhelming.

In this context, Sinn Fein functions as a political version of a teenage pop product like Britney Spears. Britney prances around in skimpy, revealing costumes and sings about sex. But she also markets herself as a good Christian virgin who lives by the old family values.

The Provos, likewise, offer the ultimate allure of rebellion. But they also place that impulse within a decidedly traditional framework, presenting themselves as merely the contemporary manifestation of an 800 year-old struggle. The promise of change goes hand-in-hand with a guarantee of continuity.

For a generation learning to live in a country that hankers after old certainties even while it embraces a disposable consumer culture, that makes for a powerful appeal.

fotoole@irish-times.ie