OH GOD! HOW COULD THEY?
Oh God! How could they?
From "Cappagh Parish News"of August 30, 1998
On 15 August, 1998, we were half way through a holiday at the southern-most tip of Europe. We first heard the news in Italian and, while we couldn't make sense of the sound, the pictures were all too painfully, shockingly, horrifyingly clear. Our holiday ended there and then and although it was to be four more days before we could get home we immediately embarked on a journey of a different kind - a roller coaster journey of emotion - fear, dread, shock, horror, outrage, anger, pain and sadness, infinite sadness. There was relief, overwhelming relief and thankfulness when after hours of frantic searching we learnt that our own four children were safe but this was quickly followed by guilt that we felt such relief when we knew that so many others were not going to be so fortunate.
Dead telephone lines, dead men and women, dead children. Our town - Ben Kiely's 'Sweet Omey,' Anderson's corner, the magical place of our childhood where the Christmas train ran gently along the makeshift tracks; the toys, the dolls in the window, and Anderson's Santa - the "real" Santa; and now transposed on top of these innocent memories of childhood were the horrific images of crumpled prams; the baby in the shop window; the mother with her hands to her ears, her skirt rent asunder; the torn limbs and mangled bodies; the little friend of our schooldays; our gentle cousin; the innocent children; the beautiful young people with the world at their feet; the Sunday school teacher; the loving mothers; the father and son; the grandmother, daughter and grandchildren; the lovely shop ladies who had all the time in the world to help you; the little boys from Donegal and the Spanish visitors to our town. From the east, west, north and south of Omagh they had come that sunny Saturday, men, women and children, generations of good people, to our town, to be murdered and maimed on our streets. Oh God! How could they? Why?
We have returned to Omagh now, we are back with our own people and have stood with countless others at lonely gravesides and wept bitter tears. There is much pain and suffering ahead and loneliness and desolation still to be endured, and the people of Omagh and its environs will carry the mental and physical scars of what happened on Saturday 15 August to their graves, but there is hope too. For, just as the appalling scale of the tragedy has unfolded, so too has the heroism, bravery, skill and goodness of our townspeople - doctors, nurses, medical and auxiliary staff, police, ambulance, firemen, ministers of religion of all denominations, public servants, politicians and the ordinary men and women who loved and cared for and tended these poor battered and bruised and wounded people.
There is hope in the goodness of people and this goodness and hope became tangible when we all gathered for that soothing, reverent and dignified service last Saturday. As we stood in silent remembrance on lower Bridge Street the only sounds to be heard at ten minutes past three were the gentle lapping of the river and the gurgle of children's voices. Omagh town had become a great field of people, honest, decent, kindly people, reaching out, touching, caring with their eyes and hearts and hands, wanting to comfort and support, to mend and heal. And how we will need the support of each other and the understanding and strength of the outside world as we all become doers, comforters, mourners, helpers, listeners, facilitators and prayers in the days and months and years ahead!
For the sake of little Sean, the 12-year-old schoolboy who wrote in his prizewinning poem that we must "scatter seeds of hope on our land," and for all our dead and injured and their loved ones we must begin to make Omagh a memorial to lasting peace.
Shiela McCaul
From "Cappagh Parish News"of August 30, 1998
On 15 August, 1998, we were half way through a holiday at the southern-most tip of Europe. We first heard the news in Italian and, while we couldn't make sense of the sound, the pictures were all too painfully, shockingly, horrifyingly clear. Our holiday ended there and then and although it was to be four more days before we could get home we immediately embarked on a journey of a different kind - a roller coaster journey of emotion - fear, dread, shock, horror, outrage, anger, pain and sadness, infinite sadness. There was relief, overwhelming relief and thankfulness when after hours of frantic searching we learnt that our own four children were safe but this was quickly followed by guilt that we felt such relief when we knew that so many others were not going to be so fortunate.
Dead telephone lines, dead men and women, dead children. Our town - Ben Kiely's 'Sweet Omey,' Anderson's corner, the magical place of our childhood where the Christmas train ran gently along the makeshift tracks; the toys, the dolls in the window, and Anderson's Santa - the "real" Santa; and now transposed on top of these innocent memories of childhood were the horrific images of crumpled prams; the baby in the shop window; the mother with her hands to her ears, her skirt rent asunder; the torn limbs and mangled bodies; the little friend of our schooldays; our gentle cousin; the innocent children; the beautiful young people with the world at their feet; the Sunday school teacher; the loving mothers; the father and son; the grandmother, daughter and grandchildren; the lovely shop ladies who had all the time in the world to help you; the little boys from Donegal and the Spanish visitors to our town. From the east, west, north and south of Omagh they had come that sunny Saturday, men, women and children, generations of good people, to our town, to be murdered and maimed on our streets. Oh God! How could they? Why?
We have returned to Omagh now, we are back with our own people and have stood with countless others at lonely gravesides and wept bitter tears. There is much pain and suffering ahead and loneliness and desolation still to be endured, and the people of Omagh and its environs will carry the mental and physical scars of what happened on Saturday 15 August to their graves, but there is hope too. For, just as the appalling scale of the tragedy has unfolded, so too has the heroism, bravery, skill and goodness of our townspeople - doctors, nurses, medical and auxiliary staff, police, ambulance, firemen, ministers of religion of all denominations, public servants, politicians and the ordinary men and women who loved and cared for and tended these poor battered and bruised and wounded people.
There is hope in the goodness of people and this goodness and hope became tangible when we all gathered for that soothing, reverent and dignified service last Saturday. As we stood in silent remembrance on lower Bridge Street the only sounds to be heard at ten minutes past three were the gentle lapping of the river and the gurgle of children's voices. Omagh town had become a great field of people, honest, decent, kindly people, reaching out, touching, caring with their eyes and hearts and hands, wanting to comfort and support, to mend and heal. And how we will need the support of each other and the understanding and strength of the outside world as we all become doers, comforters, mourners, helpers, listeners, facilitators and prayers in the days and months and years ahead!
For the sake of little Sean, the 12-year-old schoolboy who wrote in his prizewinning poem that we must "scatter seeds of hope on our land," and for all our dead and injured and their loved ones we must begin to make Omagh a memorial to lasting peace.
Shiela McCaul
Further Information
Publisher: CAPPAGH
Ref: MAG/009
Published Date: 1998
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