SPIRIT EVIL CAN'T CRUSH
Spirit evil can't crush
Brian Reade
I FLEW out of Belfast yesterday and the last words I heard were the same ones I heard when I stepped off the plane on Sunday.
A greeting from a total stranger. An instinctive welcome that Irish people can't help uttering whenever they make eye contact with another human being.
"How are ya?" "Fine." I lied. "Smashin'," she replied. But I was far from fine and things were far from smashin".
I'd just driven 80 miles from a ghost-town called Omagh where those who weren't at funerals either stayed at home and shut their curtains or walked the deserted streets in a dead-eyed trance.
This was the day when the horrifically mutilated remains of sixteen of their own were lowered into the ground.
More innocent victims buried on this day, than on any other day in this island's long and tragic history.
And it paralysed Omagh's central nervous system.
Sixteen ordinary human beings, grannies, mums, dads and kids just like the ones in your road, went to watch a parade down their town's main street on Saturday and ended up having their limbs scattered around that very street.
A street that yesterday had huge wooden hoardings mounted at one end to block out the view of the passing funeral corteges because the sight was too much.
Grief
But I still said "fine" and the stranger still said "smashin'. And we smiled when we wanted to weep.
They're like that here. I've received more smiles, more warm greetings, more courtesy, more generosity of spirit in the past four days than I receive in London in a month.
And I was a stranger intruding on their darkest hour. Invading their private grief with a notebook.
These are people who can't say no. Uncomplicated people who simply like to please. And it is one of the many painful contradictions inflicted on this cursed land.
No people use the English language better, more lyrically, more poignantly. Ireland has produced most of these islands' finest writers - Joyce. Shaw, Yeats, Wilde, Behan. But they are struck dumb when the bombers strike. Articulation vanishes as they fumble to find words where none exist. They say the first casualty of war is the truth. Here it is language.
At the funerals, priests offer the same words of comfort, on the wreaths little is written other than the names of the mourners, politicians trot out the same angry phrases, and commentators say there are people in the coffins when they are merely a collection of dismembered body parts, and how many pieces missing is anybody's guess.
We even speak about The Troubles as though they started 30 years ago in Derry. when in fact they go back 827 years to 1171 when the native kings of Ireland were forced to acknowledge Henry II as Lord of all Ireland.
But 827 years of half-truths and distortions paled into insignificance yesterday when the deluded fanatics who planted Saturday's bomb used the word "ceasefire" and "apologies" on the day Omagh planted its dead. It was as sincere as a hangman's handshake.
It added insult to mutilation. And it pummelled the bereaved's spirits further into the ground. Listen to the shameless lies: 'We offer our apologies to the civilians."
"It was a commercial target." Yes, commerce being carried out by women buying towels and lads buying Celtic football shorts.
Decent
And the biggest lie of all: "It is part of the ongoing war with the Brits."
They're not at war with the Brits. How many Brits did they think they would kill in an Omagh High Street?
What about the Spanish. They killed one of them. But they're not at war with them either.
They are at war with the Irish people. Collectively the most decent, friendly people you will find anywhere in the world.
And they are at war with them because they know the Irish people despise them and are bulldozing them into insignificance by grasping the hand of peace. And when you are a professional henchman with no other trade to fall back on other than bomb-making, the word peace is as despised as a crucifix dangled before Count Dracula.
If I am convinced of one certainty after this harrowing stay in Omagh it is that the Republican rebels are not at war with the Brits.
I saw that at the funeral of Avril Monahan and her 18-month-old baby. An Irish Catholic who went to mass every day who called her children Maura, Aoibheann. Eilisha and Patrick.
Who received wreaths from people called Eamonn and Niall, Brigid and Padraig.
Who was buried next to graves of people called McKenna, McCaffrey and McGeough.
The Real IRA are at war with people like her. Irish Catholics who voted overwhelmingly to accept a form of rule from London so long as they can have a life.
And when I left yesterday, I left convinced that they will get it. My mind had made a massive U-turn.
As I walked around Omagh Leisure Centre on Sunday, looking at the distraught relatives weeping for their loved ones peace seemed further away than ever.
But in the subsequent days I grew convinced it is actually nearer than ever.
Horrors
That from the most horrible of Ireland's horrors hope may finally emerge.
Because while the people remained mute the politicians started talking. And used real words.
It was there in the words of Sinn Fein, who after 30 years of "regretting" bombs, now "condemn" them. That is one huge step forward.
As is the Irish government starting to mention a word which is anathema to every Republican: Internment.
As is David Trimble writing in his newspaper column that he's convinced Sinn Fein/IRA had nothing to do with the atrocity.
These are real words that marginalise the bloodthirsty fanatics like never, ever before. And there were other words spoken which show how much the people of Northern Ireland deserve the right to live in peace.
They were spoken in Buncrana, the broken-hearted town that yesterday buried three young lads.
And it was spoken by the leader of the Spanish students Paula Helguera as she sent home one of her young charges in a body-bag.
The incredibly kind people of Buncrana have been phenomenal. That is why I will continue to bring students here again who want to learn English."
It is the REAL people of this province who inspire such love, who will triumph in the end.
It is the Real people who will defeat the Real IRA and anyone else who stands in their way. It is those people who offer real hope for the future.
Who give people like me hope that we may never have to fly over there again and intrude on their grief.
That instead we will fly over and when someone asks "how are ya?" we'll both feel "fine" and things will finally be smashin".
And we'll smile because there is no need to weep.
Brian Reade
I FLEW out of Belfast yesterday and the last words I heard were the same ones I heard when I stepped off the plane on Sunday.
A greeting from a total stranger. An instinctive welcome that Irish people can't help uttering whenever they make eye contact with another human being.
"How are ya?" "Fine." I lied. "Smashin'," she replied. But I was far from fine and things were far from smashin".
I'd just driven 80 miles from a ghost-town called Omagh where those who weren't at funerals either stayed at home and shut their curtains or walked the deserted streets in a dead-eyed trance.
This was the day when the horrifically mutilated remains of sixteen of their own were lowered into the ground.
More innocent victims buried on this day, than on any other day in this island's long and tragic history.
And it paralysed Omagh's central nervous system.
Sixteen ordinary human beings, grannies, mums, dads and kids just like the ones in your road, went to watch a parade down their town's main street on Saturday and ended up having their limbs scattered around that very street.
A street that yesterday had huge wooden hoardings mounted at one end to block out the view of the passing funeral corteges because the sight was too much.
Grief
But I still said "fine" and the stranger still said "smashin'. And we smiled when we wanted to weep.
They're like that here. I've received more smiles, more warm greetings, more courtesy, more generosity of spirit in the past four days than I receive in London in a month.
And I was a stranger intruding on their darkest hour. Invading their private grief with a notebook.
These are people who can't say no. Uncomplicated people who simply like to please. And it is one of the many painful contradictions inflicted on this cursed land.
No people use the English language better, more lyrically, more poignantly. Ireland has produced most of these islands' finest writers - Joyce. Shaw, Yeats, Wilde, Behan. But they are struck dumb when the bombers strike. Articulation vanishes as they fumble to find words where none exist. They say the first casualty of war is the truth. Here it is language.
At the funerals, priests offer the same words of comfort, on the wreaths little is written other than the names of the mourners, politicians trot out the same angry phrases, and commentators say there are people in the coffins when they are merely a collection of dismembered body parts, and how many pieces missing is anybody's guess.
We even speak about The Troubles as though they started 30 years ago in Derry. when in fact they go back 827 years to 1171 when the native kings of Ireland were forced to acknowledge Henry II as Lord of all Ireland.
But 827 years of half-truths and distortions paled into insignificance yesterday when the deluded fanatics who planted Saturday's bomb used the word "ceasefire" and "apologies" on the day Omagh planted its dead. It was as sincere as a hangman's handshake.
It added insult to mutilation. And it pummelled the bereaved's spirits further into the ground. Listen to the shameless lies: 'We offer our apologies to the civilians."
"It was a commercial target." Yes, commerce being carried out by women buying towels and lads buying Celtic football shorts.
Decent
And the biggest lie of all: "It is part of the ongoing war with the Brits."
They're not at war with the Brits. How many Brits did they think they would kill in an Omagh High Street?
What about the Spanish. They killed one of them. But they're not at war with them either.
They are at war with the Irish people. Collectively the most decent, friendly people you will find anywhere in the world.
And they are at war with them because they know the Irish people despise them and are bulldozing them into insignificance by grasping the hand of peace. And when you are a professional henchman with no other trade to fall back on other than bomb-making, the word peace is as despised as a crucifix dangled before Count Dracula.
If I am convinced of one certainty after this harrowing stay in Omagh it is that the Republican rebels are not at war with the Brits.
I saw that at the funeral of Avril Monahan and her 18-month-old baby. An Irish Catholic who went to mass every day who called her children Maura, Aoibheann. Eilisha and Patrick.
Who received wreaths from people called Eamonn and Niall, Brigid and Padraig.
Who was buried next to graves of people called McKenna, McCaffrey and McGeough.
The Real IRA are at war with people like her. Irish Catholics who voted overwhelmingly to accept a form of rule from London so long as they can have a life.
And when I left yesterday, I left convinced that they will get it. My mind had made a massive U-turn.
As I walked around Omagh Leisure Centre on Sunday, looking at the distraught relatives weeping for their loved ones peace seemed further away than ever.
But in the subsequent days I grew convinced it is actually nearer than ever.
Horrors
That from the most horrible of Ireland's horrors hope may finally emerge.
Because while the people remained mute the politicians started talking. And used real words.
It was there in the words of Sinn Fein, who after 30 years of "regretting" bombs, now "condemn" them. That is one huge step forward.
As is the Irish government starting to mention a word which is anathema to every Republican: Internment.
As is David Trimble writing in his newspaper column that he's convinced Sinn Fein/IRA had nothing to do with the atrocity.
These are real words that marginalise the bloodthirsty fanatics like never, ever before. And there were other words spoken which show how much the people of Northern Ireland deserve the right to live in peace.
They were spoken in Buncrana, the broken-hearted town that yesterday buried three young lads.
And it was spoken by the leader of the Spanish students Paula Helguera as she sent home one of her young charges in a body-bag.
The incredibly kind people of Buncrana have been phenomenal. That is why I will continue to bring students here again who want to learn English."
It is the REAL people of this province who inspire such love, who will triumph in the end.
It is the Real people who will defeat the Real IRA and anyone else who stands in their way. It is those people who offer real hope for the future.
Who give people like me hope that we may never have to fly over there again and intrude on their grief.
That instead we will fly over and when someone asks "how are ya?" we'll both feel "fine" and things will finally be smashin".
And we'll smile because there is no need to weep.
Further Information
Publisher: THE MIRROR
Ref: TM/073
Published Date: 20-Aug-98
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