26/08/2009
Teddy Kennedy.
I first met Senator Teddy Kennedy early in October 1994 in Boston. The IRA cessation was over a month old. I was in the USA for a fortnight long coast to coast visit – a frenetic city a day whirlwind tour. We started in Boston and Teddy was there to greet us at the airport. From our first meeting I was very taken by him. He had played a very crucial role in the build up to the cessation, in particular by supporting a visa for me. Then as the painstaking work of constructing a peace process continued in Ireland and as it created the possibility and opportunity of an IRA cessation he also intervened to support an immediate visa for the late Joe Cahill.
Teddy’s sister Jean Kennedy Smith, US Ambassador to Ireland, played a pivotal role in the last minute tick tacking between Sinn Féin through Fr Alex Reid, the Taoiseach Albert Reynolds and her brother the Senator. The Cahill visa issue went down to the wire. Sinn Fein had our own contacts with the White House and I had made the case that a visa for Joe Cahill would be proof that the USA supported an alternative way for republicans to pursue our objectives.
The Taoiseach was also lobbying the White House. But as is now a matter of public record President Clinton was being offered conflicting advice by his own system. It is my view that Senator Kennedys direct appeal was crucial. So also was the encouraging role of his sister Jean. Joe’s visit to the USA, even as news of the IRA cessation was being announced, showed the Irish Republican base in the States as well as in Ireland, that there was another way forward.
Teddy’s role in getting the Joe Cahill visa was always a source of much humour for the Senator. Apparently the State Department came back with Joe’s record. Aside from numerous terms of imprisonment and a deportation from the USA he was also sentenced to death in the 1940’s for the killing of an RUC officer. He and others escaped the hangman’s noose but one of their group, Joe’s friend Tom Williams, was hanged in Belfast prison.
‘I never said he was an altar boy’ the Senator recalled telling the US authorities.
He himself was firmly against political violence. He was a long standing supporter of John Hume. The Irish government’s role in the USA in the 70’s, 80’s and early 90’s was very divisive and badly advised, more concerned with anti-IRA propaganda than genuine work for peace or national reconciliation in Ireland. Or for the rights of Irish citizens, particularly in the north of Ireland or Britain.
For his part Senator Kennedy never allowed this to prevent him from being an advocate for citizens rights. And when called on to stand up for a real peace process Teddy Kennedy stood up.
Later at other critical phases in the process particularly when the IRA cessation broke down almost two years later in 1996, on the back of John Major’s government and the unionists refusing to talk to republicans the Senator stayed steady. In 1997 he made a keynote speech calling on the British government to set a date for Sinn Féin’s entry into talks. For this he was roundly abused by London.
In the end of course he was vindicated.
My thanks to him for being a good friend to Ireland. And to Britain also as it turned out. And for lots of good work on many causes including rights for illegials in the USA.
Teddy was a good American. His work in the US Senate is the stuff of legend. He was a genuine and powerful voice for disadvantaged people in his own country for almost five decades. My condolences to his wife Vicky and family, and to Jean. My sympathy also to his colleagues in the Senate and Congress. And to the American people who have lost a champion.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
WET,WET,WET.
24 LUNASA 2009.
WET,WET,WET!
Almost a year ago, on the cusp of your man’s last birthday a few friends informed him that they had gathered together their meagre monetary resources. They intended to buy him a fitting present as a sign of their great love and affectation for his aging personage. Your man protested, as one does, that there was nothing he wanted or needed. Although deeply moved by their generosity, he told them that he was also mindful of the poverty in which they existed. They had their families and other burdens to carry. Be that as may, he was told firmly, that his companeros had contributed to marking his lá breithe and it would be better that it be with something that he wanted instead of something that he would have no use for.
Finally they wore him down. Friends can be like that sometimes. Trying. Very trying as your man observed to me. One particularly longstanding amigo of mine once remarked to me that you didn’t have to like your friends….. to be friends with them.
I understand that he didn’t contribute to the birthday collection. Maybe he was trying to prove his point? Which is very much to the point. But anyway as I mention above your man eventually gave in.
‘Wet gear’ he said, ‘ wet gear would be nice, thank you very much, though you know you don’t need to get me anything……’
And so it came to pass. The birthday arrived bountifully. So did the wet gear. Your man had pictured himself whistling cheerfully up Donard or along Sliabh Dubh in the very finest of gortex pants and matching jacket. Would they be revolutionary red? Or a masculine blue? Maybe patriotic green?
I was there as the wrapping was torn eagerly apart and a black rubber balaclava and black rubber boots with individual big toes tumbled out to be followed closely by a one piece suit of the same material. Not exactly the clothing for brambley paths or heather clothed boggy slopes.
‘Wet gear?’ your man muttered as the truth dawned on him. ‘this is a bloody wet suit!!’
And so it was. A really fine and dandy job. But no use for hillwalking And not exactly suitable for the Falls Baths.
Of course I kept all this to myself.
And the wet suit kept itself to itself. Until last week.
Last week your man stood in a gale force wind on a deserted beach. Him and the wet suit. There was not another sinner in sight as he stripped off and proceed to slip into his slick new outfit. Getting into it was torturous and slow. The wet suit resisted every inch of the way. It was a pulling and stretching marathon, a wrestling match with an unsympathetic, wily and rubbery opponent. But eventually leg by leg and arm by arm your man wormed his way into its innards. There was sand everywhere.
Eventually he stood up. In reality he stooped up. He could hardly breathe. A panic attack threatened. His limbs were constricted. The new goggles were steamed up. The balaclava put an halt to his hearing. The wind and the sand whipped around his twisted contorted Quasimoto form. As he lurched towards the broad Atlantic the tide appeared to be going out.
And then to compound his difficulties he realised that he had no towel. He slunk back to the car and drove, wet suited balaclaved and begoggled, like a thief back to the house, scundered in case he met anyone he knew en route.
By the time he got back to the beach he realised that needed a pee. For a second he contemplated doing it in the suit. But he knew he would regret that. His waters would have no point of exit. His midriff regions would be poached.
So he jigged from foot to foot as he tried to strip off what was now a second skin. Peeling a live conger eel would be easier, he confided to me, than taking off a wet suit with manical tactile tendancies while dying for a leak. His jig became a jive, then a slow tango along the strand while all the while his bladder beat its own crazy beat until ….. eventually….. relief!! Ahhhhhhhh!
By the time he got the wet suit on again the tide was even further out. But he was not going to be denied his reward. He trudged seawards until at long last he could plunge into deep water. He lasted all of five seconds. The problem was he couldn’t move. The suit had him in a full nelson. He could barely flex his arms.
He also knew now why it was called a wet suit. He was soaking. He got some slight relief by floating on his back. But his y- fronts were wringing wet. He had kept them on. Under the suit. He was wet,wet,wet. And half strangled.
Later back among the dunes he thought he would die. The rematch was a prolonged duel. Like a grudge match with a drunken but happy octopus. By the end of it he was exhausted. And close to tears.
But at least as he consoled himself later with a drink or two, at least he had conquered the wet suit. It was now only a matter of practice. What a great birthday present. He would be like a dolphin before long.
Ps. The next day as your man and I watched surfers dancing on the waves on a different strand he told all this to me. Suddenly mid sentence he choked and exclaimed,
‘The zips of their suits are down their backs!’
I grinned at him.
‘ My wet suit was on back to front!’
‘Don’t you tell anyone.’ he begged me.
‘Of course not’ I assured him. ‘Of course not.’
WET,WET,WET!
Almost a year ago, on the cusp of your man’s last birthday a few friends informed him that they had gathered together their meagre monetary resources. They intended to buy him a fitting present as a sign of their great love and affectation for his aging personage. Your man protested, as one does, that there was nothing he wanted or needed. Although deeply moved by their generosity, he told them that he was also mindful of the poverty in which they existed. They had their families and other burdens to carry. Be that as may, he was told firmly, that his companeros had contributed to marking his lá breithe and it would be better that it be with something that he wanted instead of something that he would have no use for.
Finally they wore him down. Friends can be like that sometimes. Trying. Very trying as your man observed to me. One particularly longstanding amigo of mine once remarked to me that you didn’t have to like your friends….. to be friends with them.
I understand that he didn’t contribute to the birthday collection. Maybe he was trying to prove his point? Which is very much to the point. But anyway as I mention above your man eventually gave in.
‘Wet gear’ he said, ‘ wet gear would be nice, thank you very much, though you know you don’t need to get me anything……’
And so it came to pass. The birthday arrived bountifully. So did the wet gear. Your man had pictured himself whistling cheerfully up Donard or along Sliabh Dubh in the very finest of gortex pants and matching jacket. Would they be revolutionary red? Or a masculine blue? Maybe patriotic green?
I was there as the wrapping was torn eagerly apart and a black rubber balaclava and black rubber boots with individual big toes tumbled out to be followed closely by a one piece suit of the same material. Not exactly the clothing for brambley paths or heather clothed boggy slopes.
‘Wet gear?’ your man muttered as the truth dawned on him. ‘this is a bloody wet suit!!’
And so it was. A really fine and dandy job. But no use for hillwalking And not exactly suitable for the Falls Baths.
Of course I kept all this to myself.
And the wet suit kept itself to itself. Until last week.
Last week your man stood in a gale force wind on a deserted beach. Him and the wet suit. There was not another sinner in sight as he stripped off and proceed to slip into his slick new outfit. Getting into it was torturous and slow. The wet suit resisted every inch of the way. It was a pulling and stretching marathon, a wrestling match with an unsympathetic, wily and rubbery opponent. But eventually leg by leg and arm by arm your man wormed his way into its innards. There was sand everywhere.
Eventually he stood up. In reality he stooped up. He could hardly breathe. A panic attack threatened. His limbs were constricted. The new goggles were steamed up. The balaclava put an halt to his hearing. The wind and the sand whipped around his twisted contorted Quasimoto form. As he lurched towards the broad Atlantic the tide appeared to be going out.
And then to compound his difficulties he realised that he had no towel. He slunk back to the car and drove, wet suited balaclaved and begoggled, like a thief back to the house, scundered in case he met anyone he knew en route.
By the time he got back to the beach he realised that needed a pee. For a second he contemplated doing it in the suit. But he knew he would regret that. His waters would have no point of exit. His midriff regions would be poached.
So he jigged from foot to foot as he tried to strip off what was now a second skin. Peeling a live conger eel would be easier, he confided to me, than taking off a wet suit with manical tactile tendancies while dying for a leak. His jig became a jive, then a slow tango along the strand while all the while his bladder beat its own crazy beat until ….. eventually….. relief!! Ahhhhhhhh!
By the time he got the wet suit on again the tide was even further out. But he was not going to be denied his reward. He trudged seawards until at long last he could plunge into deep water. He lasted all of five seconds. The problem was he couldn’t move. The suit had him in a full nelson. He could barely flex his arms.
He also knew now why it was called a wet suit. He was soaking. He got some slight relief by floating on his back. But his y- fronts were wringing wet. He had kept them on. Under the suit. He was wet,wet,wet. And half strangled.
Later back among the dunes he thought he would die. The rematch was a prolonged duel. Like a grudge match with a drunken but happy octopus. By the end of it he was exhausted. And close to tears.
But at least as he consoled himself later with a drink or two, at least he had conquered the wet suit. It was now only a matter of practice. What a great birthday present. He would be like a dolphin before long.
Ps. The next day as your man and I watched surfers dancing on the waves on a different strand he told all this to me. Suddenly mid sentence he choked and exclaimed,
‘The zips of their suits are down their backs!’
I grinned at him.
‘ My wet suit was on back to front!’
‘Don’t you tell anyone.’ he begged me.
‘Of course not’ I assured him. ‘Of course not.’
Thursday, August 20, 2009
BALLYMURPHY MASSACRE
20/08/2009
This blog promised to return to the deliberate massacre by the British parachute regiment of 11 civilians - ten men, including a local priest and a mother of eight children - in Ballymurphy in the 36
hours following the introduction of internment in August 1971. Five months later the same Paras were on the streets of Derry and in an action similar in scale and scope they shot dead 14 people. These killings must rank as some of
the worst events of the troubles.
Evidence of that was all around me two Saturdays ago. The Ballymuphy Massacre
Committee had organised a walk through Ballymurphy which stopped at the
locations where their loved ones died.
At each point a speaker stood on a small makeshift platform and told the story of the person or persons killed at that spot. No emotion was spared. The detail of how people were shot, where and how often they were shot, and how long it took them to die was told. The desperate efforts of their loved ones to locate those missing was also recounted along with the threats by the British soldiers to mothers and daughters; the obstruction of officials; and the co-operation of sections of the media in telling lies about the circumstances of the killings.
Flowers were laid at each spot and family members cried. For them it was like
yesterday. The years had not dimmed their recollection or their sense of pain and of
grievance.
Several months before this I had arranged for family members to meet the British Secretary
of State Shaun Woodward. At a meeting in Hillsborough Castle they detailed their
stories. A representative of each family explained how their father or brother or mother had died.
It was a heartbreaking meeting for everyone involved. Shaun Woodward was clearly moved by what he had been told.
The families want truth. They want an independent
international inquiry. They want the innocence of their relatives to be acknowledged by the British and an apology made.
They told Shaun Woodward this.
They asked him to consider their demands and to accede to them. Early last month he replied in a letter. His response was bland and inadequate.
The most he was prepared to do was commend the Historical Enquiries Team to them.
Several of the families who have already had contact with the HET, had already told
Woodward at the Hillsborough meeting, of their dissatisfaction with the character and quality of the engagement with the HET. They explained in detail why the HET is not regarded by them as an independent investigative body and why they
have no confidence in the HET being left with the responsibility for revealing the truth and resolving the families’ grievances.
The families invested great generosity of spirit in meeting with Shaun Woodward. His response was a rejection of that generosity. I have told him so.
But the families remain unbowed by this. In all my meetings with them and that day on the walk around Ballymurphy they demonstrated a tenacity and courage and determination to continue with their campaign.
The families have the full support and encouragement of the Ballymurphy community
and the people of the Upper Springfield. We are waiting for a meeting with the Taoiseach. And with the British Prime Minister. They recently met with a Congressional Delegation led by Richie Neal. They deserve your support.
The Ballymurphy Families can be contacted by emailing andree.murphy@relativesforjustice.com
This blog promised to return to the deliberate massacre by the British parachute regiment of 11 civilians - ten men, including a local priest and a mother of eight children - in Ballymurphy in the 36
hours following the introduction of internment in August 1971. Five months later the same Paras were on the streets of Derry and in an action similar in scale and scope they shot dead 14 people. These killings must rank as some of
the worst events of the troubles.
Evidence of that was all around me two Saturdays ago. The Ballymuphy Massacre
Committee had organised a walk through Ballymurphy which stopped at the
locations where their loved ones died.
At each point a speaker stood on a small makeshift platform and told the story of the person or persons killed at that spot. No emotion was spared. The detail of how people were shot, where and how often they were shot, and how long it took them to die was told. The desperate efforts of their loved ones to locate those missing was also recounted along with the threats by the British soldiers to mothers and daughters; the obstruction of officials; and the co-operation of sections of the media in telling lies about the circumstances of the killings.
Flowers were laid at each spot and family members cried. For them it was like
yesterday. The years had not dimmed their recollection or their sense of pain and of
grievance.
Several months before this I had arranged for family members to meet the British Secretary
of State Shaun Woodward. At a meeting in Hillsborough Castle they detailed their
stories. A representative of each family explained how their father or brother or mother had died.
It was a heartbreaking meeting for everyone involved. Shaun Woodward was clearly moved by what he had been told.
The families want truth. They want an independent
international inquiry. They want the innocence of their relatives to be acknowledged by the British and an apology made.
They told Shaun Woodward this.
They asked him to consider their demands and to accede to them. Early last month he replied in a letter. His response was bland and inadequate.
The most he was prepared to do was commend the Historical Enquiries Team to them.
Several of the families who have already had contact with the HET, had already told
Woodward at the Hillsborough meeting, of their dissatisfaction with the character and quality of the engagement with the HET. They explained in detail why the HET is not regarded by them as an independent investigative body and why they
have no confidence in the HET being left with the responsibility for revealing the truth and resolving the families’ grievances.
The families invested great generosity of spirit in meeting with Shaun Woodward. His response was a rejection of that generosity. I have told him so.
But the families remain unbowed by this. In all my meetings with them and that day on the walk around Ballymurphy they demonstrated a tenacity and courage and determination to continue with their campaign.
The families have the full support and encouragement of the Ballymurphy community
and the people of the Upper Springfield. We are waiting for a meeting with the Taoiseach. And with the British Prime Minister. They recently met with a Congressional Delegation led by Richie Neal. They deserve your support.
The Ballymurphy Families can be contacted by emailing andree.murphy@relativesforjustice.com
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Making Peace Work
August 16 09
Making Peace Work
One day during a particularly difficult phase of the peace process I was walking with Father Alex Reid through a west Belfast housing estate. We were having a ‘secure’ discussion about the issues involved.
‘When?’ he asked ‘will we know the peace process is working?’
‘When the people here have the prosperity they deserve’ I replied.
That was before I became a blog. But it is as true now as it was then in those more troubled times. Take west Belfast for example.
Areas like this have suffered grievously from years of institutional, social and political discrimination and disadvantage. Despite progress in the equality agenda there is still resistance to the delivery of citizens rights, particularly social and economic rights.
The West Belfast and Greater Shankill Task Force reports were published in February 2002.
Since then some progress has been made on a number of these projects like Conway Mill, the Colin Gateway Initiative, and the Shankill Peacewall Art Project. But getting agreement on these has been a huge job of work.
There have been at least three concerted efforts in the last 2 years to collapse the Task Force. There are still officials in different government departments working against investment and economic development in west Belfast.
For some time now a group of us have been exploring with others how we can proactively construct an accelerated regeneration programme within this part of Belfast.
A programme which delivers real outcomes.
We have been discussing and examining what kind of overarching local structure needs to be put in place to ensure maximum investment and development, and maximum benefits for the community.
Our focus has been on creating an asset-backed local delivery vehicle for west Belfast and the Shankill. We are exploring innovative solutions to the use of the public sector asset base. The case for a special area-based strategy, within which we have agreed priorities, their sequence, and an investment strategy remains inescapable.
It is also important that space is created for local business and other private sector investors to play their part too. West Belfast has a very committed cadre of local business which have a real commitment to progressive social values.
The Enterprise Council in particular has been enormously supportive of local business and has done much good work.
There is also a clear momentum emerging from within An Cheathru Ghaeltachta. Colaiste Feirste is close to putting in place a new project with enormous potential. The Ulster Council of the Cumann Luthchleas Gael has made Casement Park its preferred location for a new provincial stadium.
The proposal for multi-million pound infrastructural investment by the Minister for Regional Development in the rapid transit system also has the potential to have a catalytic effect on regeneration of west Belfast.
After the summer, it is planned to widen the engagement about all this emerging initiative.
This is about building schools, stadiums and new transport systems. But it is also about building communities. Physical regeneration is a stepping stone to economic development and social inclusion.
An asset backed local delivery mechanism with a special area backed strategy is the way forward to regeneration.
That way peace will mean prosperity. For everyone. Including, the disadvantaged.
Making Peace Work
One day during a particularly difficult phase of the peace process I was walking with Father Alex Reid through a west Belfast housing estate. We were having a ‘secure’ discussion about the issues involved.
‘When?’ he asked ‘will we know the peace process is working?’
‘When the people here have the prosperity they deserve’ I replied.
That was before I became a blog. But it is as true now as it was then in those more troubled times. Take west Belfast for example.
Areas like this have suffered grievously from years of institutional, social and political discrimination and disadvantage. Despite progress in the equality agenda there is still resistance to the delivery of citizens rights, particularly social and economic rights.
The West Belfast and Greater Shankill Task Force reports were published in February 2002.
Since then some progress has been made on a number of these projects like Conway Mill, the Colin Gateway Initiative, and the Shankill Peacewall Art Project. But getting agreement on these has been a huge job of work.
There have been at least three concerted efforts in the last 2 years to collapse the Task Force. There are still officials in different government departments working against investment and economic development in west Belfast.
For some time now a group of us have been exploring with others how we can proactively construct an accelerated regeneration programme within this part of Belfast.
A programme which delivers real outcomes.
We have been discussing and examining what kind of overarching local structure needs to be put in place to ensure maximum investment and development, and maximum benefits for the community.
Our focus has been on creating an asset-backed local delivery vehicle for west Belfast and the Shankill. We are exploring innovative solutions to the use of the public sector asset base. The case for a special area-based strategy, within which we have agreed priorities, their sequence, and an investment strategy remains inescapable.
It is also important that space is created for local business and other private sector investors to play their part too. West Belfast has a very committed cadre of local business which have a real commitment to progressive social values.
The Enterprise Council in particular has been enormously supportive of local business and has done much good work.
There is also a clear momentum emerging from within An Cheathru Ghaeltachta. Colaiste Feirste is close to putting in place a new project with enormous potential. The Ulster Council of the Cumann Luthchleas Gael has made Casement Park its preferred location for a new provincial stadium.
The proposal for multi-million pound infrastructural investment by the Minister for Regional Development in the rapid transit system also has the potential to have a catalytic effect on regeneration of west Belfast.
After the summer, it is planned to widen the engagement about all this emerging initiative.
This is about building schools, stadiums and new transport systems. But it is also about building communities. Physical regeneration is a stepping stone to economic development and social inclusion.
An asset backed local delivery mechanism with a special area backed strategy is the way forward to regeneration.
That way peace will mean prosperity. For everyone. Including, the disadvantaged.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Building an Alliance for Change
14/08/2009
BUILDING AN ALLIANCE FOR CHANGE.
This blog will be speaking at the hungerstrike rally in Galbally, County
Tyrone on Sunday. While marshalling my thoughts for that event I have
also been reflecting on the challenges facing citizens on this island and
particularly in the southern jurisdiction.
The Irish government purports to be republican. There is nothing
republican about its policies. It is not about equality or citizens
rights. It is a bad government, taking bad decisions, in the interests of its money lender friends in the banks and among the developers.
Instead of taxing the wealthy the Irish government is slashing public
services and jobs and beating up on the unemployed, the elderly, the
children and the sick.
There is an urgent need to build opposition to the coalition government,
and to the conservative forces in the state.
They cannot be allowed to destroy the social fabric of Irish society.
What is needed is a new politics delivering and implementing new policies
that protect jobs, create new jobs, invest in public services and remove
the threat of homelessness from tens of thousands of families.
There are lots of potential allies out there. The prison protests in
Armagh and the H Blocks in 1981 brought together many people who disagreed
on other issues. The hungerstrikes became a catalyst for a huge mass
movement.
In dire economic times, not dissimilar to today, prison candidates received substantial votes and two prisoners were elected TDs.
Since 1927 the politics of the southern state has been dominated by the
two big conservative parties, Fianna Fáil and Fine Gael.
The reality is that it is only in recent years that Sinn Féin has been
able to seriously take on the task of building a long term political
strategy in the south.
It is a slow process but Republicans are about changing political
conditions so that citizens are empowered to make their lives better, to
reclaim their rights.
Our responsibility is to make republicanism relevant to our time by
bringing forward commonsense and practical solutions to the chaos the
conservative parties have caused.
So while building Sinn Féin, we also have to help build an alliance for
change.
There are lots of potential allies out there. We have to work with
activists in the other parties; in the trade unions; the community
organisations; Gaelgeoirí; in rural agencies and organisations, including
farming bodies and fishing communities; women’s groups; the students,
youth organisations and those who speak for the disabled, the poor, the
unemployed, the homeless and the marginalised in our society.
The prison protests in Armagh and the H Blocks brought together many
people who disagreed on other issues. The hungerstrikes became a catalyst for a huge mass movement.
So while building Sinn Féin, we also have to help build an alliance for
change. We have to come together with others to forge a stronger,
united progressive and democratic movement for our country - one that aims
to meet the needs of all citizens. Just as we did in that long hard summer of 1981.
I believe that this can be done.
BUILDING AN ALLIANCE FOR CHANGE.
This blog will be speaking at the hungerstrike rally in Galbally, County
Tyrone on Sunday. While marshalling my thoughts for that event I have
also been reflecting on the challenges facing citizens on this island and
particularly in the southern jurisdiction.
The Irish government purports to be republican. There is nothing
republican about its policies. It is not about equality or citizens
rights. It is a bad government, taking bad decisions, in the interests of its money lender friends in the banks and among the developers.
Instead of taxing the wealthy the Irish government is slashing public
services and jobs and beating up on the unemployed, the elderly, the
children and the sick.
There is an urgent need to build opposition to the coalition government,
and to the conservative forces in the state.
They cannot be allowed to destroy the social fabric of Irish society.
What is needed is a new politics delivering and implementing new policies
that protect jobs, create new jobs, invest in public services and remove
the threat of homelessness from tens of thousands of families.
There are lots of potential allies out there. The prison protests in
Armagh and the H Blocks in 1981 brought together many people who disagreed
on other issues. The hungerstrikes became a catalyst for a huge mass
movement.
In dire economic times, not dissimilar to today, prison candidates received substantial votes and two prisoners were elected TDs.
Since 1927 the politics of the southern state has been dominated by the
two big conservative parties, Fianna Fáil and Fine Gael.
The reality is that it is only in recent years that Sinn Féin has been
able to seriously take on the task of building a long term political
strategy in the south.
It is a slow process but Republicans are about changing political
conditions so that citizens are empowered to make their lives better, to
reclaim their rights.
Our responsibility is to make republicanism relevant to our time by
bringing forward commonsense and practical solutions to the chaos the
conservative parties have caused.
So while building Sinn Féin, we also have to help build an alliance for
change.
There are lots of potential allies out there. We have to work with
activists in the other parties; in the trade unions; the community
organisations; Gaelgeoirí; in rural agencies and organisations, including
farming bodies and fishing communities; women’s groups; the students,
youth organisations and those who speak for the disabled, the poor, the
unemployed, the homeless and the marginalised in our society.
The prison protests in Armagh and the H Blocks brought together many
people who disagreed on other issues. The hungerstrikes became a catalyst for a huge mass movement.
So while building Sinn Féin, we also have to help build an alliance for
change. We have to come together with others to forge a stronger,
united progressive and democratic movement for our country - one that aims
to meet the needs of all citizens. Just as we did in that long hard summer of 1981.
I believe that this can be done.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Memories of '69
Memories of 69
The Falls area of west Belfast was a very different place in 1969. Then there was a multitude of small back to back red brick houses in row after row of narrow streets. Like many other parts of Belfast they had been constructed in the shadow of the Linen Mills. They housed the workers who slaved under the worst of conditions for the most meagre of wages.
Most of those who worked in the Mills were women and children, mostly girls. They started work at 6.30 each morning and worked until 6 pm each night. On Saturday they worked until 12 noon.
The quality of life was very bad. Wages were low, disease was widespread, the diet was very poor and the death rate was high.
The growth of the city in the 19th century had witnessed an explosion of population with many Catholics traveling in from rural areas, some as far away as the west of Ireland, seeking employment. They were generally to be found employed in the unskilled jobs as navies and general labourers or working in the foundries.
But Belfast was a unionist dominated city. And this meant that when it came to naming the streets in which the workers lived the planners turned to the British Empire for inspiration. Consequently, names like Sevastopol or Odessa from the Crimea War found their way onto the Falls Road. Balkan Street, Balaclava Street were there also. And in and around Clonard names drawn from the Indian sub continent like Bombay and Kashmir found their place.
The summer of 1969 was a very tense period. The Unionist regime at Stormont was resisting any meaningful reforms. Ian Paisley was leading counter demonstrations to Civil Rights marches. And several Catholics, Samuel Devenny in Derry, Francis McCloskey in Dungiven and Patrick Corry in Fermanagh had already died as a result of injuries received in beatings from the RUC.
Civil rights marches had been banned from town centres for over a year and beaten off the streets. But in Derry the Apprentice Boys, one of the marching orders, were to march through the City centre and along the walls looking down into the Bogside.
At the edge of the Bogside, young nationalists clashed with loyalists, and the RUC launched baton charges. Fighting side by side with the loyalists, the RUC brought up armoured cars and, for the first time in Ireland, CS gas. For forty-eight hours the mainly teenage defenders of the Bogside used stones, bottles and petrol bombs against the constant baton charges of hundreds of RUC and loyalists. Exploiting high rise flats with great effect, they lobbed petrol bombs at their attackers and succeeded in keeping them at bay.
In Belfast tension was at fever pitch. There was an emergency meeting of the Civil Rights Association on August 13th which I attended. From it came an appeal for solidarity demonstrations across the north against the events in Derry.
I went from that meeting to one in Divis Flats which I chaired. It was agreed we would march to the RUC barracks at Hasting Street and then to Springfield Road. As we assembled in front of Divis Flats our mood was defiant. We sang ‘We shall overcome’ amid chants of ‘SS/RUC’ and carried placards saying ‘The people of the Falls support the people of Derry’. The RUC attacked the march and this led to heavy rioting in Divis Street.
On the late evening of the 14th I remember leaving Springhill for to the Falls. There the situation was one of bedlam. A loyalist mob, including many members of the B Specials, armed with rifles, revolvers and sub-machine guns had gathered on the Shankill Road and moved along the streets leading to the Falls. They petrol bombed Catholic houses that lay on their route, beating up their occupants and shooting at fleeing residents.
This loyalist mob invaded the Falls, and as it reached the Falls Road itself, it started to attack St Comgall's school. The IRA opened fire and a loyalist gunman was killed.
Now the RUC, coming in behind the loyalist civilians and B Specials, opened up with heavy calibre Browning machine-guns from Shorland armoured cars. They directed their firing into the narrow streets and into Divis flats itself, where they killed a nine-year-old boy Patrick Rooney and a young local man, Hugh McCabe, home on leave from the British army.
Within a remarkably short space of time, the streets off the Falls Road, and the Falls itself, had been turned into a war zone. The IRA's armed intervention throughout Belfast was an extremely limited one. The real defence of the area was conducted by young people with petrol bombs and stones and bricks, though the IRA actions in the Falls and in Ardoyne were crucially important in halting the loyalist mobs at decisive times.
However, Bombay Street, Dover Street, and Percy Street were burned out and fighting continued all night in Conway Street. And in Ardoyne scores of homes were attacked and many destroyed in Hooker Street and Brookfield Street.
As dawn arose on the morning of 15 August, it did so over a scene of absolute devastation. Six people were dead, five Catholics and one Protestant; about I5O had been wounded by gunfire and hundreds of Catholic homes had been gutted. The Unionist Regime had also responded by introducing internment and 24 men from across the north had been arrested – all nationalists or republicans.
A pall of smoke rose over the Falls. The old familiar streetscape was shattered. The environment that I grew up in was gone.
The self¬-contained, enclosed village atmosphere of the area and its peaceful sense of security had been brutally torn apart, leaving our close¬knit community battered and bleeding The everyday world in which we lived our childhood had been destroyed. None of us knew what it presaged for the years ahead but we did know that things had changed utterly.
The Falls area of west Belfast was a very different place in 1969. Then there was a multitude of small back to back red brick houses in row after row of narrow streets. Like many other parts of Belfast they had been constructed in the shadow of the Linen Mills. They housed the workers who slaved under the worst of conditions for the most meagre of wages.
Most of those who worked in the Mills were women and children, mostly girls. They started work at 6.30 each morning and worked until 6 pm each night. On Saturday they worked until 12 noon.
The quality of life was very bad. Wages were low, disease was widespread, the diet was very poor and the death rate was high.
The growth of the city in the 19th century had witnessed an explosion of population with many Catholics traveling in from rural areas, some as far away as the west of Ireland, seeking employment. They were generally to be found employed in the unskilled jobs as navies and general labourers or working in the foundries.
But Belfast was a unionist dominated city. And this meant that when it came to naming the streets in which the workers lived the planners turned to the British Empire for inspiration. Consequently, names like Sevastopol or Odessa from the Crimea War found their way onto the Falls Road. Balkan Street, Balaclava Street were there also. And in and around Clonard names drawn from the Indian sub continent like Bombay and Kashmir found their place.
The summer of 1969 was a very tense period. The Unionist regime at Stormont was resisting any meaningful reforms. Ian Paisley was leading counter demonstrations to Civil Rights marches. And several Catholics, Samuel Devenny in Derry, Francis McCloskey in Dungiven and Patrick Corry in Fermanagh had already died as a result of injuries received in beatings from the RUC.
Civil rights marches had been banned from town centres for over a year and beaten off the streets. But in Derry the Apprentice Boys, one of the marching orders, were to march through the City centre and along the walls looking down into the Bogside.
At the edge of the Bogside, young nationalists clashed with loyalists, and the RUC launched baton charges. Fighting side by side with the loyalists, the RUC brought up armoured cars and, for the first time in Ireland, CS gas. For forty-eight hours the mainly teenage defenders of the Bogside used stones, bottles and petrol bombs against the constant baton charges of hundreds of RUC and loyalists. Exploiting high rise flats with great effect, they lobbed petrol bombs at their attackers and succeeded in keeping them at bay.
In Belfast tension was at fever pitch. There was an emergency meeting of the Civil Rights Association on August 13th which I attended. From it came an appeal for solidarity demonstrations across the north against the events in Derry.
I went from that meeting to one in Divis Flats which I chaired. It was agreed we would march to the RUC barracks at Hasting Street and then to Springfield Road. As we assembled in front of Divis Flats our mood was defiant. We sang ‘We shall overcome’ amid chants of ‘SS/RUC’ and carried placards saying ‘The people of the Falls support the people of Derry’. The RUC attacked the march and this led to heavy rioting in Divis Street.
On the late evening of the 14th I remember leaving Springhill for to the Falls. There the situation was one of bedlam. A loyalist mob, including many members of the B Specials, armed with rifles, revolvers and sub-machine guns had gathered on the Shankill Road and moved along the streets leading to the Falls. They petrol bombed Catholic houses that lay on their route, beating up their occupants and shooting at fleeing residents.
This loyalist mob invaded the Falls, and as it reached the Falls Road itself, it started to attack St Comgall's school. The IRA opened fire and a loyalist gunman was killed.
Now the RUC, coming in behind the loyalist civilians and B Specials, opened up with heavy calibre Browning machine-guns from Shorland armoured cars. They directed their firing into the narrow streets and into Divis flats itself, where they killed a nine-year-old boy Patrick Rooney and a young local man, Hugh McCabe, home on leave from the British army.
Within a remarkably short space of time, the streets off the Falls Road, and the Falls itself, had been turned into a war zone. The IRA's armed intervention throughout Belfast was an extremely limited one. The real defence of the area was conducted by young people with petrol bombs and stones and bricks, though the IRA actions in the Falls and in Ardoyne were crucially important in halting the loyalist mobs at decisive times.
However, Bombay Street, Dover Street, and Percy Street were burned out and fighting continued all night in Conway Street. And in Ardoyne scores of homes were attacked and many destroyed in Hooker Street and Brookfield Street.
As dawn arose on the morning of 15 August, it did so over a scene of absolute devastation. Six people were dead, five Catholics and one Protestant; about I5O had been wounded by gunfire and hundreds of Catholic homes had been gutted. The Unionist Regime had also responded by introducing internment and 24 men from across the north had been arrested – all nationalists or republicans.
A pall of smoke rose over the Falls. The old familiar streetscape was shattered. The environment that I grew up in was gone.
The self¬-contained, enclosed village atmosphere of the area and its peaceful sense of security had been brutally torn apart, leaving our close¬knit community battered and bleeding The everyday world in which we lived our childhood had been destroyed. None of us knew what it presaged for the years ahead but we did know that things had changed utterly.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
WRITE ON MA!
WRITE ON MA!
This blog wandered into Saint Mary's University College on the Falls Road and through the main exhibitions. All of them are brilliant. That aspect of the Féile goes back to almost the first Féile an Phobail twenty one years ago. Paintings, art work, photographic exhibitions, sculptures, quilts. Every Féile has had unique and very striking examples of the visual arts.
Robert Ballagh, a long standing friend of Féile exhibited his remarkable work here. So did Jim Fitzpatrick and many, many others. Some of the exhibitions are of times past. A good example of that this year is the exhibition about Belfast dockers. And there is Gerry Collins Bombay Street photos. And work by irish women artists.
There is also an exhibition by the families of the eleven people killed in Ballymurphy between the 9th and the 11th of August 1971 when the British government introduced internment.
These families are looking for:
• An Independent international investigation examining all of the circumstances surrounding all of the deaths
• The British government to issue a statement of innocence and a public apology.
This blog will return to this campaign at some other time but if you are interested in contacting 'The 1971 Ballymurphy Massacre Committee' email andree.murphy@relativesforjustice.com
Their exhibition drew me in to looking at the photographs of the victims and other artefacts from that time. My attention was taken by a handwritten statement. The writing looked vaguely familiar. It was my mothers! It was a complaint which she had handwritten against the British Army a few days after internment.
We lived at 11 Divismore Park at that time. The house had been targeted by the British Army constantly. Indeed they used to run their heavily armoured Saladin and Saracen cars against the walls of the house. A combination of that and the bad design and structure meant that the house was demolished and there is a shop where once we used to live.
I remember when I was a child; perhaps 7 or 8 accompanying her as she lobbied local political representatives for a house. Since she and my father married they and our growing family had lived with other family members or in a private rented tenement. A number of other families shared this slum with us.
Eventually she succeeded in getting allocated a house in Ballymurphy and she and my Granny went there one day to view the site. I was with them and I recall as we walked across the building site one of the workmen showing her where her new home would be.
In August 9th 1971 I watched the Paratroopers raid our home. I was in Springhill Avenue. My father and one of my younger brothers were among the several hundred men from across the north arrested that morning. I hadn't slept at home since 1969, except for the odd night.
All of this came back to me as I read her statement. It is here for your perusal. My mother's matter-of-fact account of the behaviour of the British Army says it better than anything I could write about what she and other women put up with.
The damage to the house was so bad during that internment raid that my mother moved out - never to return again. She's dead now but she often used to say that 11 Divismore Park was the place in which she was happiest.
.jpg)
This blog wandered into Saint Mary's University College on the Falls Road and through the main exhibitions. All of them are brilliant. That aspect of the Féile goes back to almost the first Féile an Phobail twenty one years ago. Paintings, art work, photographic exhibitions, sculptures, quilts. Every Féile has had unique and very striking examples of the visual arts.
Robert Ballagh, a long standing friend of Féile exhibited his remarkable work here. So did Jim Fitzpatrick and many, many others. Some of the exhibitions are of times past. A good example of that this year is the exhibition about Belfast dockers. And there is Gerry Collins Bombay Street photos. And work by irish women artists.
There is also an exhibition by the families of the eleven people killed in Ballymurphy between the 9th and the 11th of August 1971 when the British government introduced internment.
These families are looking for:
• An Independent international investigation examining all of the circumstances surrounding all of the deaths
• The British government to issue a statement of innocence and a public apology.
This blog will return to this campaign at some other time but if you are interested in contacting 'The 1971 Ballymurphy Massacre Committee' email andree.murphy@relativesforjustice.com
Their exhibition drew me in to looking at the photographs of the victims and other artefacts from that time. My attention was taken by a handwritten statement. The writing looked vaguely familiar. It was my mothers! It was a complaint which she had handwritten against the British Army a few days after internment.
We lived at 11 Divismore Park at that time. The house had been targeted by the British Army constantly. Indeed they used to run their heavily armoured Saladin and Saracen cars against the walls of the house. A combination of that and the bad design and structure meant that the house was demolished and there is a shop where once we used to live.
I remember when I was a child; perhaps 7 or 8 accompanying her as she lobbied local political representatives for a house. Since she and my father married they and our growing family had lived with other family members or in a private rented tenement. A number of other families shared this slum with us.
Eventually she succeeded in getting allocated a house in Ballymurphy and she and my Granny went there one day to view the site. I was with them and I recall as we walked across the building site one of the workmen showing her where her new home would be.
In August 9th 1971 I watched the Paratroopers raid our home. I was in Springhill Avenue. My father and one of my younger brothers were among the several hundred men from across the north arrested that morning. I hadn't slept at home since 1969, except for the odd night.
All of this came back to me as I read her statement. It is here for your perusal. My mother's matter-of-fact account of the behaviour of the British Army says it better than anything I could write about what she and other women put up with.
The damage to the house was so bad during that internment raid that my mother moved out - never to return again. She's dead now but she often used to say that 11 Divismore Park was the place in which she was happiest.
.jpg)
Monday, August 3, 2009
Fair Play
Joe McDonnell's grandson Caolan presents the Joe McDonnell Cup to Captain Gary Lennon of Sarsfields
3 Lúnasa 2009
FAIR PLAY.
On Saturday afternoon this blog travelled to Saint Teresa’s Club in Belfast to watch the play offs in the Joe McDonnell – Kieran Doherty Football Tournament.
Joe and Kieran who died on hungerstrike in the H Blocks in 1981 were Saint Teresa’s men. The very fine playing facility on the Glen Road bears their names, Páirc Mhic Dhomhnaill Uí Dhocartaigh.
Each year the club organises a very competitive days sport for Under 16 players in their memory. Fair play to the organisers, the referees and most especially the players and mentors. Joe and Kieran would have enjoyed the day out. They were good Gaels.
Joe, a wee bit older and a wee bit smaller than Kieran was a good sportsman, resourceful in a skirmish and inclined to play on the referee’s blind side. But always for the devilment of it. He was not a cynical player. In football or anything else. Doc was a big guy. Six foot three inches tall. Maybe in another era he could have been county material. He won a minor medal with Saint Teresa’s and although the struggle interrupted his sporting life Kieran stayed fit, energetic and athletic.
I thought of Doc and Joe as I sat with my back to the Black Mountain. The city of Belfast stretched before us away off to the middle distance and the Craigantlet Hills. To our left the Cavehill looked down its nose at Belfast Lough and to our right lightly shrouded in rain in the far distance, the Mournes swept down to the sea. Impervious to all this, Saint Teresa’s and Naomh Pol Under 16s battled it out in the final of one competition and Eoin Roe’s and the Paddies (Sarsfields) in the other. Eoin Roe’s are a Tír Eoghan club and they play good football but the Paddies were better on the day. Saint Teresa’s were victorious as well. Seven clubs in all participated.
The Pearse’s turned up with their Under 16 hurlers but they couldn’t get a game. Communications, communications, communications!! But fair play to the stalwarts who keep this very fine club going. It was terrific to see such a fine squad of young hurlers ready to do battle for their team.
I got to do some of the presentations afterwards. Caolan McDonald, Joe’s grandson did the rest. And a fine job he did as well.
Between them all and all the other young athletes who turned up at the Feile an Phobal Carnival opening on Sunday morning, methinks the future of the gaelic games is secure in Aontroim. Our camógs, hurlers and footballers are the sleeping giants of the GAA. Our senior footballers have shown what is possible. Fair play to them. They did us and our county proud.
Joe and Kieran would be pleased about that as well.
I went to the Féile Carnival from the commemoration at Doc’s house and the vigil on Andytown Road on Sunday morning. At the commemoration Big Bobby regaled us with tales of derring-do and other bits of loose talk laced with gems of political clarity and words of great wisdom.
Then Mrs Doherty sang for us. A song about her son.
I thought of the last time I saw Kieran. In the prison hospital in the H Blocks of Long Kesh. By this time he was the TD for Cavan Monaghan. It was the 29 July 1981. Kieran died on August 2.
‘I'm not a criminal.' He said
.
'For too long our people have been broken. The Free Staters, the church, the SDLP. We won't be broken. We'll get our five demands. If I'm dead ... well, the others will have them. I don't want to die, but that's up to the Brits. They think they can break us. Well they can't.' He grinned self-consciously: Tiocfaidh ar lá.'
We shook hands before I left, an old internee's hand-shake, firm and strong.
'Thanks for coming in, I'm glad we had that wee yarn. Tell everyone, all the lads, I was asking for them and ... ' He continued to grip my hand.
'Don't worry, we'll get our five demands. We'll break That¬cher. Lean ar aghaidh.
Talking later to Kieran’s father Alfie, his eyes brimming with unshed tears, in the quiet cells in the H-Blocks of Long Kesh, I felt a raw hatred for the injustice which created this crisis.
I am glad to say that I still feel the same today 28 years after Kieran’s death. And I am humbled that I knew him and Joe who died on July 8 1981, and the other hungerstrikers.
Fair play to them all. And to their families.
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