on being a grown up

There were huge queues for the U2 concert on Wednesday night. We were searched and swiped before going into the venue. A helicopter hovered over head; sirens and blue flashing lights were about. I was really uncomfortable.

But why? I’d been here before. I grew up during the time the army could and did stop and search anyone on the street. We were all searched going into shops, evacuated from buildings regularly for bomb scares. We heard the bombs and the gunshots. We had nothing on the scale of recent attacks, but music and fun were targets and many people were killed when they were out to spend time with their friends and family. Later in the evening, our experiences were recognised by U2 as they showed fabulous artwork by Oliver Jeffers on the screens.

Northern Ireland is different now. Not different enough in its politics, but very different in its everyday.

But it wasn’t just the years away from heavy security that made me uneasy. I’ve changed too. Specifically, I’m a parent.

 

Spurs Fan and I huddled in the long queue and I wondered “Should we both be here?” Girls 1 & 2 were home alone. What if we didn’t make it back? Would anybody know to go to the girls? Who would wrap them up and love them? How would my wee people cope with the horror?

 

I have decided that we should behave like royalty from now on, and not all be in the same place at the same time. I’m going to sit at home, with my tiara on, coordinating with my pyjamas. I will expect a state carriage  and individual security should I have to leave the house. The roads will be cleared and safe before I travel. Spurs Fan will travel by stealth, like the Milk Tray man.

I’m sure that’s a better way of protecting ourselves from the baddies than dropping more bombs.

 

the silence

The silence. That’s what I remember most. My first lived experience of “whatever you say, say nothing.”

…

Me, only me. It’s just me that’s getting to go. No brother, no cousins. Me, me, me.

It’s Sunday, it’s sticky and we’re going for a run in Seamus’ car.

My auntie Mary on one side of me, auntie Helen on the other.

Newtownstewart, Sion Mills, Strabane, Lifford. There’s always buckets and spades outside the shop in Lifford.

On towards Letterkenny. Chat, chat, chat. Grown up chat. I wonder will we go as far as Gweedore? I hope we do.

Sudden quiet. They’re not even complaining about that lorry in the middle of the road.

Ah, soldiers. Guns.

Oh.

Not soldiers. Balaclavas. No uniforms. An awful lot of guns.

I don’t like this.

I can’t ask.

I can’t say anything.

Nobody is saying anything.

We’re not going to Gweedore.

going back?

.

I love that song, but going back isn’t always a good idea. Sometimes we come too close.

Last week our journey west was hugely disrupted by delays on the motorway. Eventually, the radio news told us why the road was closed. Prison Officer David Black had been murdered on his way to work, because of the job he did.

Going back.

Another murder, another funeral, more heartache, more pleas for no retaliation. A reminder that our society is still far from normal. Ben- Lifer on the Loose– has an interesting discussion on the role (or lack of) of prison officers in rehabilitation; but how to build appropriate relationships to support such rehabilitation when personal security is still such an issue?

Going back.

In April of last year, I wrote about the murder of policeman Ronan Kerr. We are better than this.

Going back?

I need to take heart from the little signs of ‘normality’ that still take me by surprise- a police officer, in uniform, on her own, going into the supermarket. We are making progress. There are small minded, angry, people all over the world, not just in this cantankerous small place.

Criminality, turf wars, shootings- sadly these are part of ‘normal’ everywhere also. It is good for us that we have regained the ability to be shocked by such things.Progress can take unexpected forms.

Going back?

No.