Election
day. I didn't want my daughter Firinne kissed by
greasy politicians drooling for votes so I saw her
safely ensconced behind a seat belt on her school
bus, before making my way into one of the local
schools which functions as a polling station. Seems
an awful waste of classroom facilities. The thought
crossed my mind that a place more attuned to the
character of our political class would be an appropriate
venue for the suffering public to register their
votes. A school is supposed to be a site of learning
and forward thinking. Hardly what we associate with
the politicians that seek to govern us. Polling
stations could be situated at sewers or rubbish
tips. That way the kids could get the education
they need. And the politicians could always tell
us it is not them we smell as we register our votes.
I
had just bid my daughter goodbye, when a Sinn Fein
canvasser offered me an advice slip on how to vote.
He was scrupulously polite while one of his colleagues
looked as if he had just emerged from a lemon sucking
competition. He had seemingly taken a vow of silence.
Hope it stands by him if he ever sees the inside
of a barracks. The polite canvasser entreated me:
'you know the list of preferences. If you have a
spare one maybe you will give it to us.' Perhaps
not quite verbatim, but close enough to it for me
to escape a perjury conviction if I were to swear
on oath that was what was said to me. I had no intention
of casting a vote of any preference Sinn Fein's
way, but courtesy gets what courtesy gives so I
thanked him and headed in the direction of the booth.
A car moved slowly in my direction. In the front
passenger seat sat a beaming Gerry Adams. So confident
was he of success in the face of opposition for
the most part characterised by bigotry, incompetence
and weakness, that he permitted himself a wave at
me. Adhering rigidly to the courtesy rule I waved
back, declining to be put off by that nagging thought
once expressed by John Banville, about a sentimental
streak that often characterises the totalitarian
mind.
May
the 5th. Twenty four years ago, as I lay in a H
Block cell - one of those blanketmen Richard O'Rawe
writes so strikingly of in his book - Brendan Hughes
shouted out in Irish those terrible words that have
remained etched in my mind. 'Bobby is dead.' Our
leader and selfless comrade had given his everything.
Looking over the list of those from all parties
seeking to have themselves returned to the Brit
parliament, none of them struck me as remotely having
anything in common with Bobby. The council list
was slightly better. But not so much as to make
me want to cast a vote the way of any of those on
it. My wife, because she is a US citizen and cannot
vote here, asked me not to spoil the votes completely
but to allow her to have a say. She has lived here
five years, is the mother of an Irish daughter and
has endured what passes for political representatives
who make rules governing how she lives. She is not
a SDLP supporter but feels the party's Margaret
Walsh was better than anybody else on the list.
She also wanted to protest against the way these
communities are managed. I stuck a '1' beside the
name Walsh and made no transfers. The Westminster
vote was my own. I simply wrote 'Bobby Sands' across
the ballot slip and deposited it in its allotted
receptacle. As a vote it would not count but I took
some consolation from knowing that the name of least
one anti-Stormont republican would reside inside
the little black box and that his name would be
seen by someone during Friday's count.
On
leaving, I nodded to the genial Sinn Fein canvasser.
Later, and not without some empathy, I thought of
him having to stand in the torrential rain making
a last minute try to get people to vote for his
party. If it were people that persuaded me on the
voting question rather than policies, his affability
might have won me over. As it stands his party's
intent to inflict 'politicide' on all opposition
shall not be nourished by my vote.
