CHILD'S LAUGH HERALDS THE DAWN OF A SLOW HEALING PROCESS
Child's laugh heralds the dawn of a slow healing process
Martina Devlin
A BLOND toddler ran gleefully up the courthouse steps, weaving among the solemn-faced adults who stood with clasped hands and bowed heads.
He giggled as he climbed and the sound pealed out in the hushed heart of Omagh, for the child chose the symbolic one-minute silence to make his escape.
A young woman in black, eyes hidden by dark glasses, raced after him and scooped up the wriggling child to carry him back to his buggy.
She was a relation of Oran Doherty's and part of a family contingent who travelled to Omagh on Saturday, so they could remember the eight-year-old schoolboy in the town where he died alongside 27 others.
The woman stayed slightly apart from the Dohertys with some other mothers and children, struggling to keep her wayward charge occupied. When the minute's silence began she covered her face with her hands and the toddler seized his chance.
Nearby, Oran's father, Michael, was impervious to the interruption; his body shuddered with grief and he seemed lost in an all-consuming world of pain.
He stood at the front during the 30-minute service, an Act of Prayerful Reflection, clinging to railings as though he dared not let go. Bereaved relatives of virtually all the victims were pressed on either side and behind him, while massed ranks of dignitaries were ranged further back on steps.
Two pretty daughters, their fresh faces contorted despairingly, stood alongside Michael; one laid her head on his shoulder in a gesture of infinite weariness and wept when Oran's name was read aloud, as the dead were listed.
PRAYERS
Michael stared downhill while prayers were recited and a brass band played, he appeared to be straining for a glimpse of the bomb site.
It was only a few hundred yards away but a wooden barricade had been erected to protect these ashen-faced, desolate-eyed people from the rubble in which their mothers, sons, brothers and wives lay.
Victor Barker from Buncrana stroked his wife Donna-Marie's blonde hair and she gripped his hand - they lost their boy James (12). From Omagh, Godfrey Wilson and his wife Ann stared ahead with immeasurable bleakness they mourned their daughter Lorraine (15). Stanley McCombe buried his face in a handkerchief and sobbed for his wife Ann.
But the frail figure of Michael Doherty drew the eye again and again, with his dark three-piece suit and his air of absolute incomprehension.
Even after the service ended he remained in his place, looking wordlessly ahead. He was almost the last person to quit his position, facing into an ocean of locals gathered there in communal sorrow.
Michael hung, white-knuckled, from those railings and he could not bring himself to step back into the courthouse where a flag fluttered at half-mast.
A priest hugged him in farewell and still he stayed. A man who looked like a brother stretched out his hand to his shoulder and still he stayed. He took out a cigarette, lit up, and still he stayed. The band packed up their instruments and still he stayed. His daughters drifted away and still he stayed.
STRENGTH
Not a VIP in sight, barely a relative left. You watched Michael Doherty, wondering how he'd ever find the strength to turn his back on the High Street where his son Oran died.
Finally, when even the television cameras were finished filming, when the massive crowd of 40,000 was dispersing, Michael slowly oh so slowly mounted the steps towards a red curtain that would shield him from view.
He hesitated passing the Sinn Fein delegation; some of his family were talking to Gerry Adams, Martin McGuinness and Donegal man Pat Doherty, one of west Tyrone's new Assemblymen. But he lowered his head and kept moving conversation was beyond him.
Above Michael and about to disappear inside the scarlet screen was the small fair boy who was in one of his daughters' arms. Already gone was the woman who had tiptoed back into place with the child during that fractured minute of silence at 3.10pm.
Her face had reflected her embarrassment, as the toddler's protests echoed among the bereaved. President Mary McAleese, a mother herself, looked down from her vantage point on the top step and half-smiled in sympathy.
But the boy's behaviour seemed so natural, so normal, that an onlooker could not but welcome it.
Laughter was a rare commodity in Omagh in the days following that landmark explosion, which people trust will be a bomb to end all bombs.
Listening to the child's delighted shrieks during the emotionally charged silence, you thought it might be a sign. A message that now the healing could begin.
Martina Devlin
A BLOND toddler ran gleefully up the courthouse steps, weaving among the solemn-faced adults who stood with clasped hands and bowed heads.
He giggled as he climbed and the sound pealed out in the hushed heart of Omagh, for the child chose the symbolic one-minute silence to make his escape.
A young woman in black, eyes hidden by dark glasses, raced after him and scooped up the wriggling child to carry him back to his buggy.
She was a relation of Oran Doherty's and part of a family contingent who travelled to Omagh on Saturday, so they could remember the eight-year-old schoolboy in the town where he died alongside 27 others.
The woman stayed slightly apart from the Dohertys with some other mothers and children, struggling to keep her wayward charge occupied. When the minute's silence began she covered her face with her hands and the toddler seized his chance.
Nearby, Oran's father, Michael, was impervious to the interruption; his body shuddered with grief and he seemed lost in an all-consuming world of pain.
He stood at the front during the 30-minute service, an Act of Prayerful Reflection, clinging to railings as though he dared not let go. Bereaved relatives of virtually all the victims were pressed on either side and behind him, while massed ranks of dignitaries were ranged further back on steps.
Two pretty daughters, their fresh faces contorted despairingly, stood alongside Michael; one laid her head on his shoulder in a gesture of infinite weariness and wept when Oran's name was read aloud, as the dead were listed.
PRAYERS
Michael stared downhill while prayers were recited and a brass band played, he appeared to be straining for a glimpse of the bomb site.
It was only a few hundred yards away but a wooden barricade had been erected to protect these ashen-faced, desolate-eyed people from the rubble in which their mothers, sons, brothers and wives lay.
Victor Barker from Buncrana stroked his wife Donna-Marie's blonde hair and she gripped his hand - they lost their boy James (12). From Omagh, Godfrey Wilson and his wife Ann stared ahead with immeasurable bleakness they mourned their daughter Lorraine (15). Stanley McCombe buried his face in a handkerchief and sobbed for his wife Ann.
But the frail figure of Michael Doherty drew the eye again and again, with his dark three-piece suit and his air of absolute incomprehension.
Even after the service ended he remained in his place, looking wordlessly ahead. He was almost the last person to quit his position, facing into an ocean of locals gathered there in communal sorrow.
Michael hung, white-knuckled, from those railings and he could not bring himself to step back into the courthouse where a flag fluttered at half-mast.
A priest hugged him in farewell and still he stayed. A man who looked like a brother stretched out his hand to his shoulder and still he stayed. He took out a cigarette, lit up, and still he stayed. The band packed up their instruments and still he stayed. His daughters drifted away and still he stayed.
STRENGTH
Not a VIP in sight, barely a relative left. You watched Michael Doherty, wondering how he'd ever find the strength to turn his back on the High Street where his son Oran died.
Finally, when even the television cameras were finished filming, when the massive crowd of 40,000 was dispersing, Michael slowly oh so slowly mounted the steps towards a red curtain that would shield him from view.
He hesitated passing the Sinn Fein delegation; some of his family were talking to Gerry Adams, Martin McGuinness and Donegal man Pat Doherty, one of west Tyrone's new Assemblymen. But he lowered his head and kept moving conversation was beyond him.
Above Michael and about to disappear inside the scarlet screen was the small fair boy who was in one of his daughters' arms. Already gone was the woman who had tiptoed back into place with the child during that fractured minute of silence at 3.10pm.
Her face had reflected her embarrassment, as the toddler's protests echoed among the bereaved. President Mary McAleese, a mother herself, looked down from her vantage point on the top step and half-smiled in sympathy.
But the boy's behaviour seemed so natural, so normal, that an onlooker could not but welcome it.
Laughter was a rare commodity in Omagh in the days following that landmark explosion, which people trust will be a bomb to end all bombs.
Listening to the child's delighted shrieks during the emotionally charged silence, you thought it might be a sign. A message that now the healing could begin.
Further Information
Publisher: IRISH INDEPENDENT
Ref: II/106
Published Date: 24-Aug-98
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