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- Herausgeber: Eland Publishing
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
At the height of The Troubles, Dervla Murphy cycled to Northern Ireland to try to understand the situation by speaking to people on either side of the divide. She also sought to interrogate her own opinions and emotions. As an Irishwoman and traveller who had only ever spent thirty-six hours of her forty-four years over the border to the north, why had she been so reluctant to engage with the issues? Despite her own family connections to the IRA, she travelled north largely unfettered by sectarian loyalties. Armed instead with an indefatigable curiosity, a fine ear for anecdote, an ability to stand her own at the bar and a penetrating intelligence, she navigated her way through horrifying situations, and sometimes found herself among people stiff with hate and grief. But equally, she discovered an unquenchable thirst for life and peace, a spirit that refused to die.
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A Place Apart
Northern Ireland in the 1970s
DERVLA MURPHY
With an afterword by DAVID RAMSBOTHAM
To the Northern Irish who made me so welcome and taught me so much
I have yet to see any problem, however complicated, which when you looked at in the right way did not become still more complicated.
PAUL ANDERSON
Contents
Glossary
Foreword
Before June 1976 I had spent in Northern Ireland precisely thirty-six hours out of forty-four years. My one crossing of the border, in September 1973, was to give a talk in Enniskillen; and as soon as possible I was on my way home having felt no urge to stand and stare. To me, in County Waterford, Northern Ireland was merely a squalid little briar-patch swarming with human anachronisms – who often seemed sub-human – and seething with dreary dissensions punctuated by ghastly excesses. Since there seemed to be nothing anybody could do about it, it was best forgotten. So I went to South India that winter, and to Baltistan the following winter, and wherever I went people asked me why Christians were fighting in Ireland. To which I replied impatiently that I didn’t know myself. It never occurred to me that this reply, from an Irishwoman, betrayed an attitude both stupid and unkind; even, some might say, irresponsible.
In the spring of 1976, after listening to two of the more bone-headed Northern politicians arguing on the wireless one evening, I was appalled to hear myself saying viciously, ‘Why don’t the Brits get out and let them all slaughter each other if that’s how they feel? There’s nothing to choose between them. Why did we ever long for a united Ireland?’ It was then that this book was conceived, by shame out of repentance. It is not a study of history, politics, theology, geography, sociology, economics or guerrilla warfare. It is simply an honest portrayal of emotions – my own and other people’s – and an attempt to find the sources of those emotions. At one stage I had hoped to be able to clarify the present Northern Irish turmoil for the ordinary citizens of Britain and the Republic. But the more time I spent up North the less capable I felt of doing any such thing.
In Ireland, during recent years, many Southerners have been voicing anti-Northern sentiments with increasing vehemence and frequency. Some such outbursts may be excused on the grounds of frustration and despair but most, I fear, are symptoms of a spreading infection. To me it seems unlikely that the North’s physical violence will ever overflow seriously into the South, yet this is a tiny island and gradually the emotional violence ‘up there’ has affected the atmosphere ‘down here’. Moreover, because the Provisional IRA hope one day to be free to transfer their attentions to the Republic, many – less optimistic than myself – feel threatened by the Northern chaos. And the maggots of bigotry breed so fast on fear that we may soon see a new form of intolerance in Ireland, between Southern and Northern Catholics.
It is ironical (or do I mean comical?) that so many in the Republic are so thankful now that Westminster rather than Dublin is responsible for Northern Ireland. And it seems odd that, despite decades of political bombast and emotional white-heats about a united Ireland, so few of us have ever crossed the border or taken a normal neighbourly interest in our Northern fellow-countrymen. It is true, sadly, that there is nothing tangible we in the South can do. But the intangible also counts. Why should we not travel in the North to express a concerned interest in the people there and to see for ourselves what really goes on, as distinct from what the media choose to tell us? When I urge my friends to holiday in Northern Ireland they look at me as though I were delirious. Yet it is an entirely sensible suggestion, from every point of view. Visitors from the South would find books, beer and butter cheaper than at home. And they would find the people as welcoming, the scenery as good, the roads better and the weather no worse.
Having cycled hundreds of miles through superb countryside, and into (and safely out of) dozens of small towns and villages, I feel no hesitation about recommending the rural North of Ireland as a holiday area for families of any nationality. During July and August I was accompanied by my seven-year-old daughter, Rachel, who rode her pony, Scamp, for more than 300 miles while I cycled ahead and her elkhound, Olaf, trotted along behind. We camped out in a tiny tent in the counties of Fermanagh, Tyrone, Londonderry and Donegal and spent one night in a field bisected by the border. While we slept in Northern Ireland Scamp grazed in the Republic. It was not a bit like what you read in the papers.
However, these were not my sentiments as I cycled North in early June from my tranquil home in the far South. I then experienced, at intervals, sick little spasms of fear. Even those of us who cherish our independence of thought can no longer protect our emotions from the influence of the media; though we may continue to think for ourselves, our feelings are all the time being manipulated. Also, for weeks my local friends (perfectly sensible people, most of them) had been begging me to ‘forget Ulster’ – which naturally increased both my determination to go and my nervousness. Never before had I embarked on a journey that required courage.
The difficulties involved in writing about Northern Ireland at this time will be apparent to every reader. In a situation that has developed out of centuries of fear, distrust, resentment and contempt, the enquiring outsider is given an enormous amount of biased misinformation. I discarded as ‘likely to be inaccurate’ at least 75 per cent of the ‘facts’ I collected. But this does not mean that my collection was worthless; the manner in which facts are consciously or unconsciously distorted, and the reasons why they are distorted, can be very illuminating.
Another difficulty concerns the identification of individuals: I have felt bound to disguise the identity of all those to whom I talked. Several people have been killed in Northern Ireland because of journalistic indiscretions. In one case a New York newspaper named a certain pub as the area headquarters of a paramilitary group and as a direct result that pub was blown up and three lives were lost.
Again for security reasons, I cannot acknowledge in the usual way the generous help and hospitality I received from so many people in Northern Ireland – of every sort and condition. Without their guidance I could never have begun to understand Northern society. But to mention names would be tactless as well as dangerous since all my Northern friends would wish not to be associated with some of my views. However, I can at least acknowledge the support of a Southern friend, Joyce Green, without whose faith in this book it might never have been begun and would certainly not have been finished.
1
Jottings on the Way
Fethard. 6 June
This morning I felt a mild pang as I said goodbye to Rachel. But it was soon counteracted by the joy of being again wheel-loose on Roz,* free and alone. We crossed the Knockmealdown Mountains on a narrow road with a spine of grass – no traffic for two hours. There was a stiff southerly breeze, a hot sun and a few wispy clouds high in the blue. New, through-the-looking-glass signposts made my destination seem more distant the farther I cycled. Perhaps some poetical County Council worker was so overcome by the glorious landscape that he got them muddled. The countryside was laden with June riches: foxgloves, forget-me-nots, loosestrife, Queen Anne’s Lace, honeysuckle, dog-roses, cow-parsley, mustard, may-blossom. Tall white bells and tiny white stars shone in the deep grass of the verges; bluebells were still thick in mixed woods of beech, pine, hazel and ash; boulder-strewn expanses of brilliant turf were scattered with minute pink flowers. One solitary rounded hillock was all covered in gorse, violently yellow against the blue, its nutty scent heavy on the warm air. Why do people leave Ireland for their holidays?
Then steeply down to the wide lushness of Tipperary. For miles, as I free-wheeled, dense seven-foot fuchsia hedges rose on either side like walls draped in red velvet. On the plain I passed groups of venerable chestnut trees pinkly in flower, and an old grey handsome house with valerian bursting from every crack in its rough surrounding wall. The narrow road meandered between tangled hedges fifteen feet high – and long may they remain so! One can always stop by a gateway to look at the view.
I paused for a pint in Clonmel. The sleazy plastic Lounge Bar had a vomit-green carpet and purple curtains with canary blotches. How is it that the race bred in this lovely country has never developed a sense of visual beauty? Or aural, for that matter. Everywhere one has to endure the vile piped music of RTE-sponsored programmes. At present pseudo-risqué songs seem very popular. No witty lewdness – just awful sniggering vulgarity. This is sexual liberation in Ireland.
The next pint-pause was better. A dark little village pub with hard wooden seats, a dirty tiled floor and no plastic nonsense. Three men were drinking slowly at 3.30, looking as if they grew there and sounding preternaturally knowledgeable about horses and cynical about politicians. Referring to the death of a local TD one said – ‘They’ll put the wida back in because of he dyin’ on her.’
The publican remarked casually that his sister left for Lourdes yesterday. A lanky middle-aged man with a thin red face and small, very blue eyes looked impressed, as he was meant to do. ‘You’d want a fierce amounta cash goin’ out to them places these times. Th’oul pound’s worth nathin’ no more.’ English writers who report such turns of speech are sometimes wrongly accused of stage Irishry.
I steered the talk towards the Northern problem and the lanky man said vehemently, ‘God forbid ’twill ever come our way! ’Twould be a shame to lay a finger on a Protestant an’ they such decent people – the best we have. And the most o’ them is leadin’ wicked lonely lives these times, with not the half of what they were used to. And all the same they’re the ones that pays their bills and gives the employment. Terrible honest, so they are.’
The publican agreed, adding, ‘Sure we’d never have a civil war down here anyway. For who’d be fightin’ over what?’ But a sallow little man – standing in his socks beside sweaty Wellingtons – looked up from the Irish Press to say, ‘Have sinse, Larry! You could always raise a gang for fightin’ an’ burnin’ – even here an’ now.’ True, no doubt. Almost anywhere in the world a gang could be raised to do almost anything.
I am interested in this new mixture of shrewdness and faint condescension in rural Irish attitudes towards the remnants of the Ascendancy. No more forelock pulling and no more resentment. People feel very secure when their community forms 95 per cent of the population. The average Protestant still has a far bigger farm than the average Catholic but it doesn’t matter now. Most Irish countrymen are not envious by nature if they have enough to keep going and they are not yet much troubled by socialism. It seems natural to them that the gentry, whatever their religion, should have bigger farms and better houses.
Ballymackey. 7 June
This evening I am asking myself why I have been so determined to go North? Partly, I suppose, because of the challenge to my philosophy of travel. (Only discovered I had one lately, when being interviewed by a fatuous television ‘personality’.) I’ve always found people trustworthy if you trust them and why shouldn’t this apply in the North? As well, there is the opportunity for once to do something genuinely brave. It’s quite a relief to be what I’m supposed to be, after years of feeling a phoney. Odd to fear the known rather than the unknown. Though in a way it’s more the unknown here, or at least the unpredictable and incomprehensible. One can accept fanaticism as part of the Meshed way of life, or murderous shifta as part of the Ethiopian way of life – but not sectarian assassinations as part of one’s own way of life. Of course there must still be many aspects of Northern Ireland to be enjoyed, apart from the horrors – or maybe they can’t be ‘apart from’ but anyway as well as. And I want to find them. We like now to take the attitude ‘They’re impossible’. But are they any more so than ourselves? Or are we just more subtle in our manifestations of intolerance? Yesterday as I crossed the mountains I remembered my patriotic ecstasy when I made a pilgrimage along that road, at the age of seventeen, to the Liam Lynch† memorial. I seem a different person now. And Ireland seems a different country. It would need to be. I never realised then how close I was to the Treaty – born only ten years after it. And brought up in the shadow (and occasionally on the lap) of Dev, where everything seemed so black-and-white and tidy around the edges. Fed on fake history: all the Irish were heroes/saints/martyrs, all the English were robbers/murderers/tyrants. But happily that was counteracted by Eng. Lit. One can’t grow up on a country’s literature and hate that country. Maybe that’s part of the long-term answer to the Northern Problem: expose the Catholics to Eng. Lit. and the Protestants to Gaelic Lit. But no one would listen to me if I said so.
Cavan. 8 June
There was a strong tail wind and much cloud when I left Ballymackey at 6.30 a.m. Then heavy cold rain drenched me to the skin. At Egan’s Hotel in Birr a large pot of tea, a piled plate of home-made brown bread and lavish butter and marmalade were served beside a bright fire for thirty pence. A tubby, elderly priest reading the Irish Independent across the hearth thought me mad to be going North – ‘Keep away from Paisley’s lot, with your accent.’ It was impossible to get him to express any opinion about The Troubles, apart from his feeling that their location is best avoided. He was not being evasive, I think, just feeling bewildered and bored by it all.
I pedalled on towards Athlone through slashing rain across brown miles of harvested bog – looking like a child’s dream of a world made of chocolate. Beyond Athlone the sun came out and I was in Goldsmith country where one is more aware of the sky than of the green undulating, tree-fringed landscape. An immense melancholy sky – grey and black and silver today, shifting ever before the wind and often lowering to drench me again. Despite this being a main road there was little traffic. The visible locals were few and not very friendly. Many of the men looked moronic or sinister – sometimes both. A curious and unexpected impression. Doubtless they would prove to be neither if one got to know them. All afternoon I seem to feel an extraordinary brooding watchfulness over the landscape, a stillness and silence that was pensive rather than peaceful. And the little towns had a dispirited air about them. Stopping in Ballymahon, to picnic in an empty pub during heavy rain, my pint was pulled by a fourteen-year-old girl proud of her new dentures. ‘Ten of me own had to come out! The dentist thought mebbe I’d been eatin’ too many sweets, like.’ Her small brother came to sit beside me, sucking something puce and repulsive on the end of a stick.
As one goes farther north the farmhouses look more neglected, the cars more battered, the land poorer. Several small hand-painted signs were lurking in thick hedges where no motorist could possibly see them: ‘Danger! Cows Wandering On Road!’ So unlike the brisk ‘Cows Crossing’ of more with-it areas. Do these cows need the long acre? Or had it simply not occurred to anybody to eliminate the danger by mending a fence instead of painting a sign? Near here cows were being milked into buckets in the fields. My own part of Ireland was like this forty years ago.
In Granard the Mart was just closing. The pub – one of many – was full of foul-mouthed farmers, some very drunk. Pulling my pint, the young woman behind the bar called, ‘Mind yer langwidge, now! There’s a lady present!’ Whereupon a weather-beaten old man beside the door – holding a wad of bank-notes in one hand and a double whiskey in the other – replied swiftly, ‘I don’t see no lady here, on’y a tough woman in throusers!’
At 7.00 p.m. all Cavan’s B&Bs were full. I felt disinclined to go farther, after cycling 104 miles, so I am now in the allegedly posh Farnham Arms Hotel. And I am moved to wonder – would our tourist figures be declining even without The Troubles? Peeling paint everywhere, filthy smears on my bedroom wall, no bedside lamp, no hot water. Personally I don’t want hot water in June but many people paying £4.75 for a tiny room might expect it. The receptionist tells me that The Troubles have hit the tourist trade so hard nobody could be expected to keep up such a place. But at least they could keep it clean.
In the huge lounge-bar a sofa cushion has been ripped across, apparently with a knife. Its foam-rubber guts look like cold porridge. The only other drinkers this evening were two silent German anglers, gloomily considering their beer, and a talkative young mining engineer just home after two years in Canada. He pointed to an anti-contraceptive letter in his Irish Times. ‘Why are they still going on about it? If you ask me it’s all to take our attention off inflation.’ I know exactly how he feels. It’s hard to believe – especially after a period abroad – that in Ireland we are still arguing about legalising the sale of contraceptives. I remember arriving home from Baltistan last year and feeling that I’d come from the Third World to some dotty Fourth World consisting only of Ireland.
It seems strange to be keeping a diary about travels in Ireland. A vague little sadness follows like a cloud-shadow after the realisation that I have grown remote enough from my own country to look at it with something of the detachment I might feel in Asia or Africa. Is this what it is fashionable to call ‘loss of identity’? Can’t be helped, even if it is. And there are compensations. It’s a form of somewhat belated growing-up – being weaned from that Mother Ireland on whose not entirely infection-free milk so many of my generation were reared. A lot of Irish people are now going through this process. The Northern Troubles have forced us to reconsider our personal versions of nationalism. Ten years ago I wrote in a newspaper article that if a war were to break out for the purpose of uniting Ireland I would wish to take part. Now that attitude seems to me immoral. Or was I only pretending to myself, because such a conflict then seemed impossible? And are those in the Republic who now give verbal support to the Provos also pretending to themselves? It’s hard to gauge the extent to which the Provos can depend on voluntary Southern help. Involuntary help they can always obtain in a crisis, since we are not a race with a death-wish. Beyond a doubt an enormous majority in the Republic is anti-Provo and becoming more so every month. But how potentially violent is the small minority? How fanatical? Is the Fighting Irishman stage or real in 1977? And does Ireland’s weird national sex-life come into the picture anywhere? Even if one doesn’t accept a direct link between sexual frustration and aggression, Irish Christianity’s anti-sex complex must have very peculiar effects on some unfortunates.
When people in the Republic show sympathy for the Provos does it mean they condone their crimes? Or have they succeeded in mentally separating the crimes from the aims? Certainly some feel the aims justify the crimes. After one ghastly bombing in Belfast, a County Cork farmer remarked cheerfully to me, ‘You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. We wouldn’t be free down here if your father or mine was all that squeamish’ – an argument which is hard to demolish without embarking on a detailed analysis of Irish history which few County Cork farmers would relish. Yet such people can be weaned off Mother Ireland only through education. They must be persuaded to look calmly at the Northern Protestants’ point of view, however much they may abhor what they see. Now they won’t admit it even exists, for which the Irish Government’s stance from 1932 until very recently is largely to blame. Given that stance, it’s surprising that so many of us have already outgrown the anti-Partition cult. But some have outgrown it merely because the North has become too hot to hold; not because they see that the Unionists have a point of view which is valid, however badly some Loyalists may have behaved in its defence.
In these northern counties of the Republic it seems that more people are willing to look at the Unionist viewpoint – though of course this is also the area where one finds the most active support for the Provos. But I am thinking now of those who are not extremists. At least they have some contact with the Northern Protestants, as individuals, in a way we don’t. South of the Dublin–Galway line there is little sense of personal involvement with Northern Ireland; it seems much further away than Britain, where so many people have lived and worked, or even than the USA. But beyond Athlone I noticed the North beginning to impinge, if only through complaints about the tourist trade; most of the Northerners who used to holiday in the Midlands or the West do so no longer. And as one moves nearer the border changes in attitude are marked. Instead of Northern Protestants being seen as an amorphous, objectionable mass, people tend to comment on the good qualities of the ‘nice’ ones and to see them as co-victims, with the Northern Catholics, of the ‘nasty’ extremists on both sides. Some Northern Catholics might consider that a too-charitable interpretation of history. But one doesn’t complain, nowadays, about an excess of charity. Though perhaps one should. Perhaps the only thing of real value – the only thing that can help to sort it all out – is a dogged concentration on the truth, however hard it may be to establish or uncomfortable to live with.
* My bicycle, on which I cycled to India in 1963. Since being flown back to Europe in 1964 she has covered many thousands of miles but has needed only a new saddle and a new chain.
† Leader of the Cork No. 2 Brigade of the Old IRA.
2
A Few Small Clarifications
We are repeatedly told, usually by churchmen, that the Northern conflict is not about religion. Maybe not. But it so often seems to be that any account of personal impressions of its nature must be prefaced, if it is to have the slightest value, by an exact statement of the writer’s own religious standpoint.
Once an English journalist asked me, in all seriousness, if my wanderings could be traced back to my frustrating experiences as a pupil at an Irish convent boarding-school. The question fascinated me, as an indication of how durable certain stereotypes are. That young woman was astonished to hear that my schooldays really were among the happiest of my life. On other subjects she was quite well-informed yet she genuinely believed that most Irish schoolgirls suffer hell under the domination of puritanical, sadistic nuns, many of whom are probably themselves repressed nymphomaniacs. This notion would not be surprising in East Belfast but it disturbed me to find it embedded in the mind of a London journalist. It was not of course a malignant prejudice. The young woman was perfectly prepared – even glad – to discard it on being assured that most Irish convent schools, while slow to encourage intellectual freedom, are no more psychologically unhealthy than the average English public school. But the persistence in Britain of such cartoon notions about Irish Catholicism adds another pinch of misunderstanding to the Northern witches’ brew.
My parents were enthusiastic amateur theologians and I grew up listening to them quarrelling savagely about things like Transubstantiation, Predestination and Original Sin. As an only child I often had no choice but to endure these doctrinal gymnastics – on long car journeys, for instance – but the boredom was worth it because I thus became aware of religion as something that really mattered to individuals, and could be felt and thought about. It wasn’t just something to be accepted pre-packaged from priests. I also learned to appreciate, at a very young age, the difference between Irish Catholicism and The Rest. My father often remarked that it was unreasonable to judge Roman Catholicism by its aberrant quasi-Jansenistic Irish version. (Just as it is unreasonable to judge Protestantism by the uses to which it has been put in Northern Ireland.) Yet I was not allowed to overlook the benefits Ireland has derived from Catholicism, despite its local defects. Not the least of these were on the practical level, in the provision of educational and medical facilities and trained personnel of a standard which for a long time the State could not afford to provide.
Although my parents were essentially orthodox Catholics they had a light-hearted approach to the peripheral taboos. Long before Vatican II they never fussed much about eating meat on Fridays or darning socks on Sundays. They were heart-broken when I drifted away from the Church during my early twenties yet they never tried to argue me back. Nor did I ever have any feeling, during childhood or adolescence, of being pressurised by priests or nuns. This may be one reason why I escaped that urge to uproot from Ireland which afflicts so many Irish writers. (The urge to travel is quite another matter.) There was nothing in Ireland that I felt I had to get away from, either as a person or a writer. On the contrary, it was the place I had to get back to, wherever I went.
There is a popular theory that lapsed Irish Catholics are psychologically incapable of cutting the umbilical cord and so remain permanently uneasy about the eschatological consequences of their rebellion against Mother Church. The motives for one’s defection clearly have a lot to do with this. In times past a common motive was conflict between personal ambitions and Catholic moral teaching. Then guilt was almost inevitable, the defection being based not on a genuine experience of the Church’s inadequacy for the person concerned but on a defiance, for practical reasons, of the inconvenient laws of an institution still reluctantly revered. Nowadays, however, things are different. The majority of lapsed Catholics of my age, or younger, seem to bear no such burden of fear-full guilt.
At a stage in human development when so many people elsewhere are making alternative ethical and/or spiritual arrangements, it is hard to see orthodox Christianity becoming a civilising factor in Irish society. To me, as to many others, the inability of the Churches to exercise the slightest restraint on Northern excesses is their death-knell. The mess is too nasty to be cleaned off the ecclesiastical carpets. They will have to be thrown away. And their replacements will have to be woven by Irish men and women of every sort working together on the loom of forgiveness. All this will take time but one has to look far ahead when considering Northern Ireland. To think only about the present and the immediate future is to invite despair.
The clergy, from curates to cardinals, are the inevitable scapegoats when people set out to criticise Irish Catholicism. But do they deserve all the blame? Some time ago Louis McRedmond wrote an article in the Tablet in which he recalled his Catholic childhood in a small town not far from my own home. He maintained that in Ireland the Church is the people, and if the people seem priest-ridden to outsiders it is because they want to be so. My own experience certainly confirms this. As a family we did not want to be priest-ridden: and we weren’t. When I ‘lapsed’ a quarter of a century ago – long before such an event could be spoken about above a whisper in rural Ireland – no priest ever attempted to ‘get me back’; the local clergy knew perfectly well that I was not, and never had been, within their disciplinary reach. I am still living in that same little town, on good terms with the clergy of all denominations and with the nuns in the convent next door to my house. No doubt prayers are wistfully said for my salvation but nobody, clergy or lay, has ever tried to make me feel ill-at-ease because of my defection.
Several Northern clergymen eagerly asked me, ‘Why did you decide to leave the Roman church?’ Two were obviously hoping for an anti-Roman tirade which could be put to good use in the pulpit on the following Sunday and all looked disappointed when I explained that ‘decison’ did not come into it. My lapse was not something I consciously willed; it was something that had to happen in the course of my maturing. But I never felt that the world would be a better place if it happened to everybody. Nor did I ever wish that I had been brought up outside the confines of the Catholic Church – rather the reverse. Perhaps illogically, a Christian upbringing seems to me a good launching-pad, even for those who do not find Christianity a suitable dynamo to power their adult lives.
I suppose I am now an agnostic humanist, though I don’t much like the clinical sound of that. Nor am I sure of its accuracy, unless the humanism may be restricted to just one of its dictionary meanings – ‘doctrine emphasising importance of common human needs and abstention from profitless theorising’ (e.g. breakfast-time discussions about Transubstantiation, Predestination and so forth). And unless the agnosticism leaves me free to believe – or at least to feel that I would like to believe – in some immaterial influence pervading the universe and entitled to reverence. I have an ineradicable respect for all the great religions and even for some of the little cranky ones, trying though these can be.
My drift away from Christianity is nowadays such a normal process for so many Europeans that some readers will wonder why I have gone on and on about it. But Ireland is very much on the edge of Europe, in more than the geographical sense, and religion – or the lack of it – is central to the theme of this book. How the individual thinks and feels about it profoundly affects his reactions to Northern Ireland – and, sometimes, the Northern Irish reactions to him.
Perhaps what the English most resent about the Irish is not our bombs or our bombast but the fact that we seem so like them, and in many ways are so like them, and yet on certain issues we are unalike enough to appear dishonestly elusive if not downright treacherous. The average Englishman can be securely and legibly labelled, but often our labels don’t stick or prove hard to read. One memory from my childhood perfectly illustrates this point.
The year was 1944 and I was aged twelve. On a harsh, dark March afternoon, at the start of the Easter holiday, a squealing gate hinge made me look through the kitchen window. I saw a young man entering the cobbled yard from the garden, which meant that he had climbed an eight-foot wall – hardly a normal approach for afternoon callers. Yet I was not at all alarmed, possibly because we were a slightly eccentric family and so I was not prone to be made uneasy by the unconventional. Or it may simply have been because the young man looked so amiable. He was tall, broad-shouldered and handsome, and as he stood at the back door I noticed that he seemed rather apprehensive and very tired. I marked his Kerry brogue when he gave his name as Pat Carney and asked, diffidently, if he might see my mother.
In the sitting-room my invalid mother’s Bath chair was close to the sulky wartime fire of wet turf. She seemed oddly unsurprised by our visitor’s original approach route and my curiosity was further sharpened when she asked me to leave the room when I had shown him in. The temptation to eavesdrop then through the guichet was considerable, but successfully resisted. Ten minutes later Pat was back in the kitchen. He said that he had been invited to stay for a few days and that my mother would like to speak to me.
Then, pausing inside the sitting-room door, I did begin to feel alarmed. My mother was the sort of woman who usually managed to remain in control of situations, however tricky, and never before had I seen her so distraught. A friend was coming to tea so there was no time to waste on euphemisms. She told me that Pat was on the run, wanted for the murder of a Dublin detective-sergeant. He had come to us as a protégé of my father’s elder sister who, never having recognised the validity of the post-Treaty Irish Government, was an active supporter of the illegal IRA. On no account must any caller be allowed to see our guest or any trace of his presence. As I continued to stand by the door, paralysed with astonishment, my mother made a gallant preliminary bid to sort out the ethics of the situation. ‘This young man is a criminal though he regards himself as a patriot. No doubt his elders are chiefly to blame. They are using his muddled, foolish idealism. But we can talk about it later. Now please show him his room and give him a meal.’
I walked down the hall in a joyous daze. This was the stuff of which fantasies are made, yet now it had become part of the reality of my own life. I was to prepare a meal for a man on the run who would be hanged if caught. My mother might have saved her breath. Of course Pat was not a criminal, or muddled or foolish. He was a most glorious patriot, heroically dedicated to the reunification of Ireland. And he looked the part, to my eyes, as he stood by the sink chivalrously scouring a saucepan. My father and grandfather had killed British soldiers but no one had ever suggested that they were criminals. One had to be logical. I was badly jolted when I discovered, that evening, how strongly my father disapproved of Pat. But then I reminded myself that he – my father – was very old (forty-two). And I reflected that, at that age, some people just can’t have the right reactions any more.
Listening to my parents, I gathered that for some days they had been half-expecting Pat without knowing exactly why he was on the run. Now they were disagreeing vigorously about how they should deal with him and it gave me a certain sardonic satisfaction to observe them both being inconsistent; at twelve one likes the feet of clay to appear occasionally. My father, who came of an impeccably Republican family, should surely have been the one to welcome Pat, while my mother, whose ancestry was Redmondite at best (Unionist at worst) should have been the one to reject him. Instead, my father coldly argued that it was sinful (he was very sin-conscious) to shelter someone who had deliberately killed an innocent man in the course of a seditious campaign against a lawfully established government. And my mother warmly argued that it was unthinkable, sinful or no, to betray someone whose coming to our home was an act of faith in our humanity. She insisted that allowances must be made for Pat’s sick idealism. To which my father, sprung from generations of rebels, replied austerely that it would prove impossible to govern the state if hectic emotionalism were to be accepted as an excuse for murder.
‘Very well,’ said my mother at that stage, ‘go now to the gardai barracks.’
But my father didn’t.
It interests me now to remember that my parents never debated the ethics of capital punishment. Presumably they accepted it, in theory, as the appropriate penalty for murder. Yet had it not been commonly employed in Ireland during the forties, as part of the Government’s anti-IRA campaign, they might well have refused to succour Pat. When such a decision can lead directly to a death sentence it requires more moral courage, or moral arrogance, than either of my parents possessed.
From their point of view an awkward situation was being compounded by the need to impress on me that giving refuge to Pat did not mean condoning his crime. In the end they gave up pretending to unravel this tangled skein for my benefit, which was sensible of them since I well know that they were incapable of unravelling it for their own. Anyway I had already come to my own conclusions and was only listening to their dutiful waffling out of politeness. Yet I vaguely sympathised with their discomfiture and appreciated their compassion – spontaneous on my mother’s part, reluctant on my father’s. Although they repudiated Pat as a violent man their consciences compelled them to allow for the fact that he saw himself as a soldier fighting a just war: a dilemma that in present-day Ireland has again become familiar to many, even if the disuse of the death penalty has somewhat blunted its horns.
A parallel situation is inconceivable in an English middle-class household. Our drama was a direct product of Irish history – the history of a people who for centuries were unwilling subordinates, accustomed to devious defiance of the law and to making subjective moral judgements in a variety of turbulent situations. Given normal circumstances it would have been hard to find a more scrupulously law-abiding, high-minded and civic-spirited couple than my parents. But when it comes to the test few, if any, Irish people show that bred-in-the-bone respect for law and order which is so fundamental to the English way of life. The average Englishman adverts to this potent force only when it is missing and its absence in Ireland apparently charms/repels/bewilders/scares/amuses many of our English visitors. Some sense it merely as a pervasive ‘difference’ which makes of Ireland a foreign country, despite all the superficial similarities to Britain. Others perceive it as a threat to our development as a responsible nation – or, in times of stress, to their own safety.
For the past half-century the uncomplicated English attitude to law and order has been officially encouraged in Ireland. But such traditions do not take root within decades, especially if there is a political grievance to provide restless spirits with an excuse – however implausible – for continuing lawlessness disguised as heroism. Personally I cannot see us ever becoming dependable citizens on the English model. As has often been remarked, we are on the whole more imaginative, individualistic (in the moral rather than the social sense) and argumentative than the English. It is not in our nature to obey any Authority simply because it is there. We have been accused of using up all our docility in our relationship with the Roman Catholic church but this is not strictly true. During the past 150 years many Irish men and women have found it quite easy to remain fervent Catholics while rejecting clerical interference in the military and political spheres – a theological juggling feat at which some Provos are particularly expert.
Pat stayed with us for a fortnight but he and I never referred directly to his peculiar status and he made no attempt to influence me politically. We played round after round of rummy and he gave me lessons in map-reading and taught me how to whistle through my fingers so piercingly that I can be heard two miles away. Also, he often talked anxiously about the world’s endangered wildlife; he was a keen conservationist thirty years ahead of the fashion. To me this marvellous companion seemed a magic sort of person, an intelligent grown-up who had retained all the wondering enthusiasms of childhood. And my intuition was right. It was Pat’s tragedy that he had never outgrown either the innocence or the ruthlessness of youth. Life, for him, had an unreal simplicity and of death he felt no fear. He was a devout Catholic yet his religion had been tailored to fit The Cause. Having seen his vision – an Irish Republic of thirty-two counties – he believed that nothing should be allowed to stand in the way of its attainment. Not even the shooting in the back of an unarmed fellow-Irishman troubled his Christian conscience when the victim had betrayed Ireland by serving a twenty-six-county Irish state.
That strange contradiction at the core of fanaticism was very obvious in Pat though I was then too young to see it. Within him existed both a paranoid egocentricity – the sort that dismisses other people’s opinions as necessarily false – and a totally selfless dedication to The Cause. One of my mother’s favourite theories was that every human being is born a potential fanatic and the test of a civilisation is its ability to ‘defanaticise’ us. But I was not prepared to acknowledge, during early adolescence, the fanaticism of Pat and his like. Their heroism – so obviously genuine, however misdirected – utterly blinded me to the viciousness (in its consequences if not in its aspirations) of their patriotism.
Perhaps because of my friendship with Pat, it still seems wrong to me, when discussing guerrilla fighters of any nationality, to use the words ‘gunmen’ or ‘terrorists’. In moments of shock, feeling revolted by their deeds, one chooses these terms almost as a form of revenge; I have done so myself, frequently. Yet it is probably true that most guerrillas start out as quite ordinary (though perhaps abnormally immature) people, and then begin to act in extraordinarily uncivilised ways under the pressure of uncivilised situations that are usually not of their own making. To reject and despise them as individuals, without any attempt at understanding, is merely another sort of sterile violence.
When the modern guerrilla fighter seems to disqualify himself for consideration as a human being we tend to forget that every form of war has a brutalising effect. In 1855, from the trenches before Sevastopol, a young soldier wrote to his aunt: ‘Man-shooting is the finest sport of all; there is a certain amount of infatuation about, that the more you kill the more you wish to kill.’ A nasty confession, all the nastier for being made with such élan. Yet one never thinks of that soldier as a gunman or terrorist. He survived Sevastopol, and a lot more besides, to become one of the most eminent Victorians. All his long life he frankly enjoyed killing men (preferably coloured) to enrich his Queen’s Empire, and his reward was to be made a Field Marshal and a Viscount.
No doubt Lord Wolseley was in many ways a good chap: and so was Pat. My parents became very fond of him and deeply concerned about him; night after night they argued patiently in futile attempts to make him see the error of his ways. Very soon he seemed a member of the family – quite an achievement, in view of the strains imposed on all the adults concerned by his presence in the house. Had he been detected under our roof, my father would not have perjured himself by denying any knowledge of his identity, and so would certainly have been imprisoned; as his sister was soon to be, on Pat’s account.
Our guest was careful never to go too near a window and any knock at the door sent him rushing upstairs. Remembering how I relished all this melodrama I wonder now if I fully understood that we were truly dicing with death. But my light-hearted approach may well have helped by easing the tension generated between the three adults. Pat knew that I took the game seriously enough to keep all the rules, and I was made deliriously proud by his entrusting to me the addressing and posting of his letters. One morning I went into his room to leave fresh linen on the bed and saw an automatic by the pillow. For years this was to rank as the most thrilling moment in my life. I tingled all over at the romance of that weapon – symbol of Adventure! – gleaming black and lethal on the white sheet. It never occurred to me that in certain circumstances it could be used to kill the local gardai, the fathers of my playmates. But then it was impossible to associate the gentle, considerate Pat with any form of violence or cruelty.
One evening Pat said goodbye instead of good-night and when we got up next morning he was gone. We heard nothing of him for several months but his luck did not hold. Eventually he was captured while asleep in my aunt’s house and tried in Dublin before the Military Tribunal. Then he was hanged by the neck until he died, at eight o’clock in the morning on 1 December 1944. His real name was Charles Kerins.
I continue to think of him as Pat. And even now I prefer to remember only that he was brave. Brave enough to refuse all sedatives in the condemned cell and to walk to the scaffold unaided, in full possession of his faculties, at the age of twenty-five, proud to die, as he believed, for his country.
In Waterford city, where I was then at boarding-school, 1 December 1944 was a morning of violent wind and slashing rain. Just before eight o’clock I was queuing for my breakfast. I knew of Pat’s attitude towards his sentence and at the moment of his hanging, when the gong in the hall was signalling us to enter the refectory, I experienced an almost hysterical elation. Then, curiously enough, I ate my usual hearty meal. It was against the nationalist tradition in my blood to mourn such deaths for that would have been to imply that the sacrifice was not worthwhile.
Our mail was distributed during the mid-morning break and two worlds met when I stood amongst my classmates and – while they drank their milk and chattered of hockey – read a letter from a friend who had been hanged three hours earlier. Pat had written the day before, to thank me for my ‘high-spirited devotion’. With his letter he enclosed a silver ring which I wore constantly from that moment until my fingers and my ideals outgrew it – developments which conveniently occurred at about the same time. But I have it still and I would not part with it.
Charles Kerins’ mortuary card described him as ‘Chief-of-Staff, Irish Republican Army’ which to the unknowing sounds impressive. But in fact the IRA was virtually a one-man show by the end of 1944. In The Secret Army J. Bower Bell considers Pat’s last months and the significance of his death. ‘Kerins eventually left his safe house at Dr Kathleen Farrell’s* and returned to Kerry to let the heat cool.’ (Staying with us en route.)
He felt the police were very close and knew of the house; nevertheless, he left some papers and guns behind to be picked up. The year 1944 was so bad that he could not find a single man left to go by the Farrells and collect his dump. In June he came back to Dublin and hired a pony cart to move the things from the Farrell house. He called in a disguised message over the tapped phone that he would be over that evening, 15 June. There was no sign of the police when he arrived at 50 Rathmines Road and he slipped in quietly. Late that night the trap finally closed. The police arrived with squad cars, ambulances, tin hats, coats of mail and machine guns. They prised off the side-door lock and went straight up six flights to the room where Kerins and Dr Farrell’s seventeen-year-old son were sleeping. The detectives burst through the door. Kerins had a Thompson under the bed but he never had a chance to use it for he was seized before he was fully awake … On 9 October, as expected, he was found guilty and sentenced to hang … and with him died the last fragile symbol of IRA continuity. For the first time in generations the line had been broken. There no longer was a Chief of Staff or a GHQ or an Army Council or even an IRA. The prisons and the camps held those who would not quit but few of these men looked forward to more than their own freedom and the chance to lead quiet private lives … The IRA had become an anachronism for most Irishmen. The time for physical force had passed: partition would be ended by political agitation, not gunfire in the streets. The Irish Minister of Justice, Gerald Boland, announced in pride that the IRA was dead and that he had killed it. He had been helped by the RUC, the British police, the Irish Army, and of course by the IRA itself, but to all intents and purposes he spoke the truth.
A new offensive against the British in Northern Ireland was begun in December 1956 but by the following July the IRA were again on the defensive. They fought on, however, for another four years, causing £700,000 worth of damage in Northern Ireland and making it necessary for the Stormont Government to spend half a million pounds a year on their security forces. But on the whole this was not a ‘killing’ campaign and by the standards of the seventies very few lives were lost. Then in February 1961 a public statement, drafted by Rory Brady, was issued ‘To the Irish People’. It said:
The leadership of the Resistance Movement has ordered the termination of the Campaign of Resistance to British Occupation launched on 12 December 1956 … All arms and other material have been dumped and all full-time active service Volunteers have been withdrawn. The decision to end the Resistance Campaign has been taken in view of the general situation. Foremost among the factors motivating this course of action has been the attitude of the general public whose minds have been deliberately distracted from the supreme issue facing the Irish people – the unity and freedom of Ireland.
To put it in more realistic terms, the Irish general public, North and South, had matured enough, politically, to see the folly of IRA methods. In the South they had said so at the polls in October 1960 when only 3 per cent of the electorate cast a first-preference vote for Sinn Fein. And not even the IRA’s genius for auto-brain-washing could overcome the lack of money to buy arms.
During the sixties some IRA leaders came to accept what a few of their predecessors had unsuccessfully preached during the thirties: that they could do more for Ireland by ‘going political’ and opposing social injustices than by sticking to their guns. Many traditionalists disapproved, especially when the new thinking led to a recognition of existing political and legal institutions and when Marxist influences became apparent. They were able to say ‘I told you so!’ in August 1969 when Paisley-inspired Orange mobs attacked Belfast’s Catholic ghettos and on one night burned 500 homes. The RUC had proved unwilling or unable to defend the Catholic population and an armed IRA was needed again.
How had it come about that in two cities of the UK – Belfast and Derry – the discredited IRA was able to regain support because it was genuinely needed to protect certain areas? There is no short answer to that question; here an historical digression becomes essential. But I will be as brief as possible. Anybody who wishes to study Northern Ireland’s history in detail is advised to consult the bibliography.
In 1603 the Gaelic Ulster chieftains were defeated after a nine-year war and the province was planted with Protestant colonists from England and Scotland. In other parts of Ireland a Plantation usually meant confiscating the land and replacing the Gaelic aristocracy with English landowners but in Ulster the colonists were of all social classes. By 1703 only 5 per cent of the land of Ulster was owned by the Catholic Irish. The planters’ towns were fortified against the Catholics and it was illegal to employ Catholics within their walls. Often, however, this law had to be ignored for lack of colonists, so the descendants of the Gaelic landowners were permitted to slip into the towns, from their hovels on bogs or mountains, to scrape a living as servants. As John Darby has written in Conflict in Northern Ireland:
The sum of the Plantation then was the introduction of a foreign community, which spoke differently, worshipped apart, and represented an alien culture and way of life. It had close commercial, cultural and political ties with Britain. The more efficient methods of the new farmers, and the greater availability of capital, which allowed the start of cottage industries, served to create further economic differences between Ulster and the rest of Ireland, and between Catholic and Protestant within Ulster. The deep resentment of the native Irish towards the planters, and the distrustful siege mentality of the planters towards the Irish, is the root of the Ulster problem.
