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A
few years back Marie and I had the opportunity to
visit North Africa. Sitting on an isolated beach one
evening as the sun was setting we heard in the distance
music. While we could almost make out the song, which
we believed we recognised, we however still strained
to hear it. So we went to investigate as to where
it was coming from and to find out what the song was.
As we got closer we began to make out its lyrics,
which to our surprise came from an Irish Republican
song. The music directed us to a hotel just along
and off the beach, and on arrival other such songs
mixed in with ‘some traditional Irish music’
met us. They were coming from an ‘African DJ’
whom had one parent of ‘Irish dissent’ and
had visited Ireland on a few occasions, where he had
acquired such music. Yet to us it was a surprise to
hear such, such a long way of from Ireland. So while
chatting to him he said he considered himself African
and Irish, an ‘African-Irishman’. I have
continually found though that ‘the Irish’
can be found all over the world and an interesting
book on the Irish Diaspora I had read recently was
that by Tim Pat Coogan entitled ‘Wherever green
is worn’, which gives an interesting insight
into this.
Yet
as I have touched on in my previous article in this
series the whole issue of identity, and ‘Irish
ness etc’ is an important issue to many. When
I look back at my childhood and hear such questions
asked about such, one found that one was always slotted
into many different categories, (putting aside the
issue of race). May it be Irish, Catholic, Nationalist,
Republican etc as one still is today, and even whether
one agrees with it or not. So it has been historically
the nature of this state and its Unionist governance
to use such on many cases for the issue of discrimination.
I remember in college writing letters and filling
out application forms for jobs. I sent off at least
twenty and received no reply and was getting really
frustrated. So a ‘Protestant lecturer’ at
college suggested to me to leave out my estate, which
was then Twinbrook (a Republican-Nationalist estate)
and stick in Dunmury, which was the surrounding area
in which I lived, along with my postcode when sending
of letters and application forms. The reasoning being,
that usually no –one could then tell whether
I was a Catholic or Protestant, with that I sent of
four applications and received four replies and got
a job. Therefore like many many others a ‘perceived’
or ‘real’ identity was and still is on many
occasions used for the purpose of discrimination.
For
me though in childhood many of my mates held families
like myself of Irish Republican, Republican and Socialist
beliefs. Yet from growing up together we then all
went our separate ways through moving away to different
areas, to different schools, or just moving on and
in many cases, to very different directions in life.
I have seen though on many occasions in recent years
faces on television or on the front pages of various
news papers of many that I had known, with some because
of the recent conflict having seen them, jailed, killed,
murdered or having committed suicide.
I
had seen a childhood friend on Television a while
back being released from prison under the terms of
the Good Friday agreement. I seen another whom had
escaped from prison, another again a next door neighbour
whom used to follow me and his big brother around,
recently sent to prison for killing someone in a stolen
car, while also seeing in the media the case of a
young woman being shot dead by soldiers while in a
car. I hold pictures at home with my arms around Big
Andy Kearney, slaughtered in the name of Republicanism
as he was left to bleed to death after being shot.
Andy had held aloft many football trophies with myself
over the years and we had had many pints together
when I was in my late teens early twenties after our
many victories, before his life was snuffed out, brutally
by the IRA. I have read of others whom as a child
and teen I had known, one was found in a bed-sit after
committing suicide, another kicked to death, another
having being gunned down by loyalists, others by the
state, while another again killed by aspects of Republicanism.
The list goes on and on over the years of those whom
I knew like those above whose lives went to, or were
taken to, a particular direction, mostly though the
direction being of death.
Yet
such is the relative small size of the community of
West Belfast many would know such persons or instances,
so with many memories and faces of yesteryear being
seen with regularity in the present, let me go back
again to West Belfast, the West Belfast of my childhood
---- It was again the late seventies.
‘Jesus
Christ did ya fucking see that’! My mate came
running up and was pulling on the sleeve of my jumper.
I had seen it, in fact I could not have missed it
as the man was within inches as he ran past me. A
house which I visited often in childhood which held
a kind lovely woman, whom I used to talk to and run
errands for, had seen a man jump straight through
the front room window and onto the street as I approached
the house. He ran past me straight up the Falls Road
and into the side streets, I watched until he had
disappeared then went on my way as I did not feel
it was exactly the right time to pay a visit to the
woman.
Much was going on in those days that ‘our click’
(we kids) could see and hear, and to us it was exciting.
We knew as kids that there was a difference between
the ‘IRSP’ (Irish Republican Socialist Party),
the ‘Sticks’ (Workers Party) and the ‘Provos
movement’ including (Sinn Fein) yet nevertheless
one would stand and watch all the differing parades
and marches with their bands and tunes etc. The kids
could also at times come across crates of planked
(hidden) petrol bombs or see volunteers from various
groups sitting openly in various places with their
‘rods’ (guns). ‘The click’ could
ensure that one was also kept well equipped with various
items from the hijacked vans and lorries, which were
soon to be, or indeed already being set on fire as
happened quite regularly at the bottom of our street
to use as barricades (although the ‘boys’
eventually put a stop to this). I remember on one
of these occasions when a lorry was hijacked which
contained crisps, and so the kids after stuffing ones
faces then planked (hid) around thirty odd boxes of
crisps to get wired into (eaten) later. I also remember
another occasion when it was a lorry full of roller
boots and eventually ‘the kids’ armed with
the speed of those roller boots and the knowledge
of the alley ways, then took to making home made ‘catties’
(catapults) made out of a wire coat hanger, elastic
bands and a piece of leather. With that then for a
few days one felt confident enough to skate forward
with the very small army of seven to twelve year old
‘roller booters’, and armed with the wee
catties, to then take on the might of British Imperialism
and every thing she could throw at the kids in the
form of her tanks, trucks, personnel carriers etc.
It was not the classic guerrilla hit and run tactic
but I think some may have been responsible for inventing
the first ever hit and roller tactic. Unfortunately
not only did it not catch on but also the defeat of
British Imperialism was not at that time forthcoming
through ‘the kids’ actions.
For
me now though in the present I have developed a concrete
understanding of those various parties, their histories
and their present ideologies. For me as I have stated
previous, I hold no belief in Nationalism while on
defined, Socialist Republicanism, I hold much understanding
and support for. Similarly in relation to much of
Connolly the United Irishmen, etc. Yet on Republicanism,
that is, that as defined as Provisional Republicanism
which is the main force in West Belfast, I seen not only
historically more needless slaughter in relation to
its continual military campaign but also on the political
front their type of Irish Republicanism has ever more
embraced the unity for and of all ‘Class Nationalism’
as seen through Sinn Fein. They also held a centre
right approach while in governance in the North while
embracing some left ideas in the South. They said
one thing yet did another, although they attempted
to give reasons as to their actions. Yet now ever
to often we have seen their contradictions coming
more to the fore, the meeting for example where their
leadership as well as the SDLP (Nationalist Party)
and others who had said that they were opposed to
war in Iraq, which they attended with US President
George Bush. He who had come here to this tiny island
on the back of the Irish peace process to host his
war summit while slaughtering innocents in Iraq. This
even though many of their rank and file members were
on the streets protesting against the war. Also their
initial welcoming, before implementing, privatisation
such as PFI, their corporate sponsorships, the donations
from multinational organisations and other donations
from right wing organisations and individuals etc
has made clear their present position. Although while
I don’t believe in purist politics as one needs
always to adapt to the present, their actions and
their political direction though shows that they are
now a Nationalist party based on that Unity for all
class Nationalism albeit stating that they follow
a ‘historical Republican tradition’. It
was brought all the more closer to me (if it had needed
to be) once again practically at a meeting that I
had attended a few months ago in West Belfast when one
could hardly tell the difference between a leadership
speaker from Sinn Fein and the one from the SDLP.
In fact if an observer whom did not know the speakers,
had been there, the only give away could have been
at the start when they were introduced by the chair
and told which party each were from. Whether one believes
or not that they were always a radical Nationalist
party albeit with the use of violence, many within
their actual organisation and their supporters had
nevertheless seen themselves as Republicans, but now
Sinn Fein openly and frequently admits as being the
spokespersons of their supporters and community -
that of Nationalism and that of the Nationalist community.
Yet
through the ‘troubles’ and the changes I
can and do have an understanding as to why people
can be pushed to fight back at the oppression and
repression, even the most passive of people.
It was late 1977 another day of rioting, it was though
relatively quiet now and I had ventured from my door
down to the bottom of my street, Sevastopol Street.
Looking up and down the road I then went amongst the
debris to attempt to build up my collection of rubber
(rubbers) and plastic (plastics) bullets. Then from
Lesson street a young man ran up and I heard a jeep
raving behind him, I dropped my newly acquired collection
of rubbers and plastics and ran up my street a bit.
Then across the road at the bottom of my street the
young man slipped and fell, he was a boy of around
sixteen whom I knew from the area. The jeep then caught
up with him and out jumped a snatch squad and they
started to beat him brutally with batons as he screamed
out for help and for his mother. I ran down to the
bottom of the street screaming at them across the
road to leave him alone while screaming for help.
I could see the blood pouring from his face as they
dragged him into the jeep. He held on in one last
vein attempt to the door but a baton crushed his fingers
as he was trailed inside by the hair. I by now had
edged almost onto the Falls Road and a few others
were coming out onto the street. As the jeep took
off with the back doors still swinging open I seen
gun butts, batons and boots being savagely laid into
the boy who was squealing for help with his face completely
hidden by his blood. As it took of down the road,
I don’t know why as I could do nothing to help
him but I took off after the jeep, shouting, screaming
and crying. I ran down the Falls a bit then stopped,
I went over then to a corner, I covered my face, I
sobbed deeply.
I
cried because I was angry, because I felt helpless,
because they could do this and there was nothing I
could do. After a while I walked back up the Falls
in the middle of the road and looked upon the boys
pool of blood, I lifted up the few teeth that lay
there belonging to the boy amongst chucks of his hair
and put them in my pocket, I went back up my street.
Two
or three days later, I was sitting at the top of Sevastopol
Street with a childhood friend Michael, who lived
also in the street. A foot patrol was coming up the
street so instinctively I put my toy machine gun behind
my back and sat up straight against the wall of a
house. When they reached there my mate asked one of
the Brits could he hold his gun, to which the Brit
replied 'no'. Michael then stated that his toy gun
(which lay openly on the ground) and my toy gun was
better than his so he didn’t care, which got
the Brits attention as he looked at me in hopeful
anticipation. Guessing by my suspicious stature that
mine was behind my back he asked to see it to which
I said no, he then stated that I could hold his gun
if I would let him see mines, I again said no. He
then kicked my foot and asked more aggressively to
which again I said no. He then pulled me away from
the wall quite roughly and as I stood up he lifted
up my toy gun. He looked at it then laughed then threw
it back at me and continued to laugh while making
a racist remark about myself to one of his chums.
I lifted the toy gun up and aimed it at him and pressed
the trigger and the little whirling sound it made
came out. The Brit laughed again, I continued to press
the trigger, I pressed and pressed it as I continued
to aim at him. His face had changed now to one of
puzzlement. I then let out a squeal aaaaahhhhhyaabastard,
while still pressing my toy guns trigger. I did not
look at his face I just ran and he and they did not
follow me. I went around the block until they disappeared
then went into my house and went out the back to our
outside toilet. Now shaking uncontrollably, pissing
and shitting one self (literally). All my anger at
the almost daily racism towards myself by them, seeing
the brutality dished out to those I knew or loved,
being treated like dirt and humiliated and much more
had driven me to squeal out like that and had directed
my behaviour. I had stopped shaking, in fact I now
felt good, I walked back into our kitchen and took
a glass of water, and with now a smile I looked into
the cracked mirror
Now
once again in my life I was now seeing eyes of defiance
and also now of hate emerging as I looked into that
mirror. From fear, to tears, to a smile, and of now
slightly laughing to oneself at my image in that mirror,
I then walked back out the door of my home and made
my way down my street onto the Falls road to join
the gathering crowd, but now this time - for the first
time - stopping to pick up bricks and any unbroken
bottles I could find on my way.
I
was but seven years old yet I had taken enough.
I
was generally a passive kid yet their (the state)
continual actions even in me forced a physical and
emotional reaction. For me therefore although I may
not agree I though can understand (although many cannot)
why many individuals, in the main coming from social
and economically deprived working class areas, felt
the absolute last alternative left to them was to
hit back physically (through desperation, self-defence,
anger, frustration and growing hatred) as to what
was happening to both them, their loved ones and those
around them. Given the nature of the state and its
continual brutal actions towards many innocent persons
many were then ‘driven’ into the politic
of the gun. And to do that they joined organisations
who could and would provide the means and the direction.
Therefore
I can understand it not only within a political context,
but also at that time actually feeling and being driven
to re-act, albeit in a much lesser scale even as a
passive child. Fortunately by the time I was in my
late teens much of the daily conflict was away from
my sight and the overt state racism towards myself
lessened, also an embryo of a peace process was in
the making and some very limited change was forthcoming.
I could go to college and eventually was able to look
forward to a career. In those previous days though
no such thing realistically existed for persons in
such working class estates. That’s not to say
such economic and politic discrimination does not
still happen today, it does, one just needs to looked
at the Unionist dominated Lisburn City Council as
I have stated before to see such. Now today more kids
from such estates can go to college although the 11plus,
tuition fees etc still enforces educational discrimination
on working class children. And that brings me to a
memory on the point of education.
I
had gone to a Secondary school in West Belfast. It had
a strict catholic teaching, even in the school song
it’s wording held strong bonding words with the
church and our Lord. Yet it was and is an excellent
school both academically and within the sporting arena.
I was happy there, but one occasion sticks out in
particular which is held on my mind. I was doing my
GCSE exam in English Literature; I had chosen this
exam, as I loved reading, writing essays and poetry.
I remember at family gatherings where I and a cousin
of similar age would recite poems we had written.
The
particular event in two parts happened on the same
day. As we sat in class it was the day that each of
us had to get up and give an oral presentation on
one of the books our syllabus had dictated that we
were to read during that year. The teacher called
for a volunteer to lead of and with that everyone’s
head looked at the floor and so with the deafening
silence one could even have tried to listen out for
grasshoppers in the distance outside our windows.
I then put up my hand and was directed to the front.
I had chosen one of those books dictated to us it
was called ‘Animal Farm’. I started into
my speech describing not only the content of the book
but also of what I had thought of it, good and bad.
At the end I was greeted with huge cheers, banging
of desks and stamping of feet, and to be honest I
had thought I had given an excellent speech as many
of my classmates had said to me later. The only person
that did not clap although he had done to most others
was my teacher. He just looked at me and his eyes
directed me back to my seat. Later that day I got
my essay back from course work I had done and had
got a poor mark. I asked the teacher could I speak
to him about it after class to which he agreed. I
asked him why I had got such a low mark as I had thought
it merited a higher mark and I had put an awful lot
of work into it.
His
words to me were ‘I don’t believe you wrote
it’. I was shocked and I told him I had written
it and had spent a lot of time on it. He still would
not listen and I asked him what he meant and he picked
out a part of a sentence, which I remember still today.
It was about someone who was daydreaming about happy
experiences in the past and had then come back to
the real world it read ‘and his daydream memories
had now dissolved him into a basin of bliss and satisfaction
only to be broken when he returned to the realms of
reality’. I told him again I had written it and
parts of the essay were poetic as I wrote poetry at
home, but to no avail.
I
felt sick to the stomach.
As
I stated the school was and is a great school and
I had happy times there, but I raise this one incident
as it is important in the overall context of my developing
understanding of issues.
He
would not change his mind and there was nothing I
believed I could do (I knew nothing about appeal boards
etc in those days), so having learnt about the ‘authority
of the state and the church, I now was faced with
a position where one person could in effect dictate
my chances in life by failing me in my course work
which made up a large proportion of my exam. Although
I had written the entire essay myself with no help
(unlike others I knew at other schools whose parents
had hired personal tutors for their children), in
future then I left out any expression which would
have been more poetic or part of my own self expression
about things, as I tended to at that time detail small
things in a deep and meaningful way. By doing that,
I then scrapped through with a C pass and therefore
could go on to college. In effect, from that day on
while in his class I wrote only what he wanted to
read or hear and probably then in doing so re -enforcing
what he had actually thought my abilities were. I
felt that I had no alternative, I needed the exam,
yet once again I had learnt another lesson, about
another aspect of authority.
As
a child I had then made up my mind that when I was
with those I loved when the Brits were around I would
try to avoid detection but on my own or within the
crowd I could vent my anger. My anger was dictated
much by my personal experiences from those various
‘authorities’, but much of that anger was
laid dormant for many many years as I pushed memories
to the back of my mind, some occasionally made there
way to the front again, while others were triggered
by other events. It was in relation to this that moved
me to become involved in politics.
It
was almost twenty years after walking out of number
6 Sevastopol Street, and making my way those few yards
as a seven year old down to the Falls Road, and for
the first time stopping to pick up bricks and bottles.
Now
again I was seeing friends and loved ones then almost
twenty years on being brutally battered of the streets
of the Ormeau Rd seeing the Garvarghy road etc and
innocent people being brutality laid into was in part
to politicise me. Nothing had changed, yet things
needed to change. I became a political activist and
was to eventually develop a political understanding
of a Socialist Revolutionary while could also hold
support and understanding for various other political
‘traditions’, which put the politics of
unity and not division at the fore. As a socialist
I became involved in an active way looking to put
theory into action or practice, thus developing a
concept of ‘ideological activism’. The abstract
notion within some perceptions held that socialists
were persons digging up the ground in some collective
in Donegal or sat around with beards and beads all
day discussing the meaning of life in some backroom
smoked filled bar looking for something ‘trendy’
to get involved in, was a initial humorous insight
as to what some thought. But I came to understand
that some people held and hold many weird perceptions
of different ‘groups’ of people and individuals
for various reasons. For me though my ultimate aim
was and is to see a society based on equality both
politically and economically while always striving
in the present to bring closer in whatever way, real
and practical, aspects of social justice and equality
while standing against oppression and repression both
at home and internationally.
It
was late 1981, Twinbrook estate, ‘what will we
play dead (or best) man fall, or wounded soldier’.
These were two of the favourite games for us at that
time, yet the games themselves I believe were at times
reflective of the immediate violent times in which
we lived. ‘Dead man Fall’, was a game in
which we ‘kids’, stood on a quite high wall
(to us) around in the ‘circle’ at the back
of some houses. Then one person stood in front of
us and said what do you want, and then those on the
wall would decide which way they wanted to be killed.
‘ I want a hand grenade’ went one, and with
that the kid in front pretended to throw a hand grenade
at the kid on the wall. The kid on the wall would
take a sprint run along then wall and leap of it (while
pretending) to be blown to bits by the hand grenade.
Others would choose machine guns etc and would wriggle
around on their last death throws while on the ground,
with the winner being the one who did the ‘best
death’. The other game ‘Wounded soldier’
meant that one stood as the edge of the wall and had
to run across it without being hit. ‘Hit’
meant that a person a few yards away from you would
kick a football and try to hit you with it. If your
were hit on the leg you had to hop the next time,
hit on both legs you had to drag yourself along next
time by the arms which gave the kicker of the ball
ample time to have many shots at you. To die you had
to have the football kicked at you and to be hit in
the head. I witnessed many bloody noses but when at
times a Hurley stick and a tennis ball were produced
to be used, I thought it was taking the game a bit
to far, but one participated.
Many
such games of war were played with also many of our
childhood songs being directed to the likes of the
Queen and eventually to ‘Maggie Thatcher, ‘
to take the piss’ out of them (make fun of them).
Many other games were less ‘politicised’,
in the sense they were traditional kids games, Hop
scotch, skipping etc with its own songs to accompany
the turn of the rope, and many whose lyrics I can
remember still to this day. The politic of childhood
embraced much and provided much learning for one-self
and I presume many others would have experienced similar.
From laughter to tears, from fear to defiance it was
a childhood in which materially like many others I
may have had little but had still gained much.
For
now I will take a break, but sometime in the future
I will return again to my childhood, and to the ‘West’
of Belfast.
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