The Day my Uncle was Murdered by IRA criminals -

When I was a child growing up I was surrounded by death and destruction as both Loyalist and Republican terrorists waged a campaign of terror in Northern Ireland (the north).

My first memories of the troubles are bombs and death, Neighbours, friends and family all buthchered to death over something that I as a child could not understand. There was a small betting office in our town and my Mother liked to have a small bet on the horses. The betting office was one of the few places that Protestants and Catholics mixed in our town once the terrorist campaign started.

I remember going into the betting office with my Mother one day and there was a deadly silence. My Mother had not heard the news that day, and as we soon found out one of the Protestant lads who would drop into the betting office now and again had been murdered in his bed that morning by the IRA. People were numbed and shocked, but that was now part and parcel of our daily life. On another occassion I was walking up the street and there was a policeman lying dead, he had just been shot by the IRA. I knew this man well, he lived a few doors away. He left behind a young wife and his babies.

I was very sick as a child, asthma was the medical condition, but the way we lived aggrivated my sickness into a life threatening disease. We lived in a cold, damp house. Mother and Father were both alcoholics, although to this day they would not admit that. Indeed even after my Father was told he would die if he didnot stop drinking, he said, "What do doctors know". Last week he had another heart attack and went to the pub when he was let out of hospital.

I was so sick at one point that I was given the last rites (just before you die) by the parish priest (who by the way lived in a big warm house). Any way following the last rites I fully recovered. I dont try to explain this, I will leave that to the believers and the non believers.

For some reason I was always the one kept at home from school when my mother needed someone to mind my baby brother and sister at that time. This meant that I missed a lot of school and sure who cared about that anyway. I was a Catholic and not destined for University.

During my years of sickness, long before bullying was frowned upon, I was an easy target for the bully boys. These were very different times than we live in today, but my God they were cruel. As we had no money, underclass, in todays sociological terminology, I was always wearing clothes that my Mother had bought in the jumble sale. In a small town this does not work so good, as the well to do boys at school usually owned the clothes I was wearing. And as I learned during those formative years, just because people have money it does not mean they have good manners or respect for other people.

Ah, sure, what could I do only get on with it. I liked taking my dog away in to the country side and just staying away from everyone, that was the best way. Any way the problems in Northern Ireland simply got worse. Bombs and gun attacks were regular features. Even as I write now I cant even begin to recount the number of people I knew who were murdered during those brutal years of my childhood.

As I have said before I was told that no matter what happened during the terrorist campaign in Northern Ireland, it was the fault of the British. This of course was a great lie that I have already addressed, the Brits were not faultless but neither side had any legitimacy (irishrepublicanarmy-ira.blogspot.com).

So it was then that as neighbours, family and friends were butchered, I was to blame the Brits. Even if the IRA (small extreme Catholic terrorist organisation) murdered a totally innocent civilian, it was the Brits fault. If the Brits were not in Northern Ireland that person would not have died. Its a strange logic when I look back now, but at the time it made perfect sense. I suppose it is the logic of the abusing parent, he/she was bad so I had to beat them with the stick. Or the unfaithful lover, I had to kill him/her becasue they were unfaithful.

Any way in the midst of all this death and destruction people just had to get on with life. As I was about to leave the house one morning my Mother asked me to stay at home to mind my baby brother and sister at that time. I was about 9 years old. This was usual practice. So I set about cleaning the kitchen. Mother had asked me to clean the kitchen and my reward when she returned would be a can of coke. A can of coke back then would be the equivilant of gold dust today, priceless.

As I cleaned the kitchen I had a small radio on in the back ground. The TV then was rented, and it only worked if money was put into a slot at the back, so it was rarely on. Any way I cleaned the kitchen and then tended to my baby brother and sister, they would have been one and two years old at that time. The house was cold, the electricity worked the same as the TV. The heaters would only come on if there was money in the metre. So there was rarely heating.

In the kitchen there was a gas cooker, four ring job, with a bottle of gas attached. I sat my baby brother and sister on a blanket on the kitchen floor and turned on the gas oven to generate some heat. I knew there was a good chance that my Mother would get a bottle of gas that day and hopefully some potatoes would be cooked for tea.

I was playing happily with my baby brother and sister when the one o clock news came on the radio. The news reported that two men had just been killed on the road outside our town. They said both men were from my home town and had been named. One of the names read out was my uncle, he was 23 years old. He had a baby daughter and son the same age as my baby brother and sister. He had been a great man, loved cars and always rushed home from work to play with his babies.

As I would later find out, my uncle and his Protestant friend were travelling home from work when they were murdered by the IRA. The IRA wanted to kill my Uncle's friend as he was a Protestant, but it would appear that they did not want to leave any witnesses.

That evening I travelled with my father over to the Morgue as my father had to identify my uncle's body. This was not like CSI New York, where the family member is taken to a side room and where only the face of the deceased is disclosed. No, this was an open morgue. My uncle was lying on a stainless steel trolley covered in a white sheet. His friend was on the trolley next to him. Across the room two more dead bodies lay on trolleys, these were two British Solidiers who had also been murdered that morning by the IRA.
The Police Officer who accompanied my father and I, indicated to the mortician to uncover my uncle's face for identification. My father broke down, "Yes, in Gods name thats him". I at nine years old was more curious than scared. I wanted to know why there were big stitches along my dead Uncle's neck. Big stitches like you would see on a broken teddy bear. The mortician explained to me in a very medical fashion that my uncle had been de-capitated. His head had been cut off and the mortician had sown it back on for the sake of the family who would be viewing my uncle over the following days.

My uncle's wake (at his home in open coffin) was very sad. You could only see my uncle's face in the coffin, his neck was covered up with a silk cloth. After three days of traditional mourning my father and others closed my uncle's coffin. I watched and listened as the brass screws sqeaked into their final position.
My Uncle's funeral was massive, he had been so popular. Yet I was told that even though he had been murdered by the IRA (our own people) my uncle's death was the fault of the Brits. I watched as my uncle's baby daughter and son had a single rose placed into their tiny hands so that they could touch the rose before it was dropped down into the deep grave were my uncle now lay. I insisted on helping to fill in my uncle's grave. I wanted to make sure that nobody could hurt him anymore. Each shovel of clay echoed as it fell upon my uncle's coffin. I tried to put the clay down quitely but it was a long way down.

It is probably clear that the murder of my young uncle remains with me until this very day. Those memories will never leave me. More painful are the lies I was told by people who perhaps knew no better.