It was very sunny morning when I went to the Braniel estate in east Belfast in April 1984 to pay my respect to a dead young man. I remember it so well, I mean how could one forget it? My caring, sweet, kindly mother had been murdered the night before in a loyalist bomb blast after years of bile, hatred and unspeakable harassment from the UDR in the lower Ormeau Road. That awful night also ended the life of another who came to help her, his name was Michael Dawson, an RUC Constable aged 23, just married, now dead. Upon entering his home I will never forget the sense of shock the people present felt. After a few moments we joined in a prayer and while there was no rudeness or bad manners there was an air of disbelief that we dared arrive. A minister shook my hand and thanked me for coming with a bunch of flowers and a sympathy card, but expressed some misgivings that we a family from such a staunch Rebel background [his words] had the nerve to express sympathy to the deceased. I looked at him in near disbelief. I hadn’t got it in me to say what I wanted to, unprintable even all these years later
I learned that day the reality of this conflict. All the ingredients for dysfunction were not easily manifested. We all spoke the same language, were Christians, were white in our skin colour, yet we lived in two parallel universes, them and us, no if, no buts, no maybes, two tribes ,one Irish , one British, both totally right.
While the guns are gone along with the death and murder so daily in lives, we are left with a legacy of distrust, alienation and recrimination. This pain is now being fought out in a variety of ways: flags, marches, social media, emblems, and of late the issue of victim’s pensions and how we add comfort to those so terribly injured physically and psychologically in this most bitter of conflicts
It is incredible to think that 22 years after the GFA that this issue is still in the public domain. Many victims have died, many more remain isolated and in poverty while we on the airways pontificate about who is deserving of help and who isn’t. Is it not a dreadful indictment of this society that many feel that they will sleep better if a severely injured person without legs or arms is denied some financial help in their final days? These same people who often espouse strong Christian beliefs seem to find the second commandant of their God impossible to adhere to.
That dreadful night back in 1984 also saw a young man leave his home in Fortuna Street in Donegall Road. He carried a bomb to murder a grandmother he had never met. To a home he had never been in, to a family he did not know. The obvious question, why? Can you the reader imagine leaving your home tonight to murder a total stranger far from your home? Of course you can’t, then again this is 2020 not Belfast 1984, a toxic hate-filled place where danger was everywhere. The bomber was David Maitland, a British patriot and member of the UVF, a product of his time, his area, his DNA .In some circles he is a hero who defended Ulster. To me he is a product of hatred and dysfunction, an ordinary man in extraordinary circumstances. I would not hesitate to award him a full pension if it were in my power. I wish him and his family peace and stability in his final years
Maybe when this poison leaves us all we can as David Irvine said to me walk hand in hand over the Rubicon to a decent world of shared hope and integrity. Just maybe that word forgiveness might be more that biblical emptiness, become a real and meaningful engagement about how we hope to share this small piece of land. Maybe, but I doubt it.
Rest in peace, Mum and Michael.
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