Learning the Reality of Bombs and English Soldiers

By AM Saturday, September 14, 2013

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Guest writer Maitiu Connel with his first piece for TPQ detailing something of what it was like to grow up in a community that was wholly ill at ease with nationalismm and republicanism.

Slowly waking up in my childhood bed and watching the fresh morning sun rays shine of my bedroom wall and to hear the wonderful noise of birds singing. Gentle noise of traffic of in the distance. It was the summer holidays in the early 90's. Another day of running about with friends. Perhaps more football and of course imitating Man Utd as I would possibly score a goal.

My Mother was up early as usual to head of to work. UTV was on TV. Of course I had wished for cartoons. She always checked the news in the morning to ensure that town was open and that no road blocks were in place.

It seemed a morning never passed without the news commentator giving details of another murder, shooting or bombing that had happened over night. I use to ask my Grandparents if my Mother would come home safe from work. They were always nervous about such events happening. After all, my Mother had been near killed in 3 very close bomb situations. This was often followed with my Grandparents phoning around the place to make sure she was OK. I would hide at the top of the stairs to pretend that I did not know what was happening. Thankfully she was always OK and returned back to us.

Though as a child, the conflict always seemed so alien to us. I did not live in a front line area such as the Falls or the Shankill. Though this summer day was to change that.

My mates and I were kicking the ball around in the hot summer sun and we could see one of the locals washing dishes after lunch in her kitchen. She was listening to the news on the radio. Around 5 minutes later she came running out of her house with arms in the air screaming at us to run. We thought she was mental.

She started screaming “ bomb, there's a bomb in that car”. Needless to say we bolted up the street. The car in question had been left over night by the IRA. In a built up housing area. Whether they had ditched it or had planned it, I do not know. Soon after the bomb squad arrived, we thought the bomb disposal robot was brilliant. The area was swamped with British soldiers and RUC. It was strange to see them without raiding somebody’s house. Some of the kids wanted to play with their rifles.

A loud bang echoed across the area and it was now declared safe. After all the excitement was over, people suddenly just talked about the IRA all day and some kids spoke of wishing to join the Hairbears (nickname for the UDA)  later that night, we had Loyalist gunmen patrol the streets with machine guns, stopping cars driving through.

The RUC never entered the area unless it was needed and usually it was to raid a house or arrest somebody. Our area was covered with loyalist murals of UFF gunmen and every lamp post had a flag and every curb and post box was painted red, white and blue. The area was getting ready for the 12th July. At the top of the estate the bonfire sat. I was never allowed to attend the bonfire due to the gun men whom would appear to fire shots. I use to watch them out my window and listen the crowd cheer and chant U-U-UFF as the shots rang out. The flames quickly rising up towards the Irish flag nipping at it as it started to set it on fire. I never understood why. Why were they burning the flag of Ireland? Why so much venom. A wall near me had Kill All Irish written on it.

My Grandfather loved Irish music and his parents had came from Tyrone to get further up north for farming and also due to the famine. Our holidays each year involved 2 weeks down south. Fond memories of fishing on the river Shannon. Many a night in local Irish pubs with the bodhran and spoons being played. We owned giant Leprechauns and even owned small Irish flags. We had to hide them in the house and were never ever to tell anybody about them. 

I also grew up listening to my Mother play the Fields of Athenry. Irish was my identity and that burning of the flag was hard to watch. I often got picked on by others for having been down south in “Ireland “. These people literally viewed Ireland as a foreign country.

Despite Ireland being one island. We would sit in the car at the border and I was scared as soldiers pointed their rifles in the car at us. Their foreign accents. The way they treated my parents. It was probably around that age that I asked my Mother the one question to shape my mind set

‘Why are there English soldiers here and why do people hate us so much for being Irish, when they are Irish themselves?’