Showing posts with label Omagh Bomb. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Omagh Bomb. Show all posts
Writing in the wake of the judicial statement about the Omagh bomb Alex McCrory ✒ asserts that  the bombing was preventable.

So said a British judge today. The implications of his finding are tremendous and far reaching. One of the Omagh campaigners who lost his young son said today that it is something he does not even want to think about.

I remember the day well. My future wife and I were driving to Bundoran for a weekend break. She enjoys music and was listening to the car radio when the news began to break.

What I recall clearly was the serious tone of the reporter warning of a substantial explosion in Omagh, a predominantly nationalist town, and of multiple casualties. While driving, I asked my partner to flick through the stations as I was gripped by a horrible feeling of an unfolding disaster. This news story would not finish well.

When we arrived at our destination, I stopped at a well known republican bar in the main street. Already a crowd had gathered and there was a buzz about the place. People were engaging in quiet albeit intense conversation about what had happened in Omagh.

We sat for a few hours as more details came in pointing to the prospect of countless fatalities. As time passed the number of deaths accumulated at an alarming rate. I felt we were looking at unprecedented event in our violent history.

I could not fathom how something like this could happen in Omagh of all places. It did not make sense on any level. As to who was responsible, I had no idea. Sinn Fein could definitely be ruled out, which left so-called dissident groups as the prime suspects. I remember thinking this was a very bad day for Republicanism whoever was responsible.

In the coming days, weeks and months a witch-hunt began for "the monsters" in our midst. The media began to knock on doors, and sources were trawled for leads as to the identities of the bombers.

As the media was shaking the apple tree, the security services on both sides of the border were leaking names and pointing the finger in certain directions. This was undoubtedly the first stages in a massive cover up by both sides. Felon setting became the order of the day.

The official narrative was that Republicans had scored a massive own goal from which they would never recover. Omagh would put paid to any hopes some Republicans held for a resumption of the armed struggle.

Such logic was utterly convincing at the time, but as the years passed, and questions started to be asked how this could this have happened at all, doubts took hold in some people’s minds about what exactly was being done by the security services at the time of the bombing.

What did the security services know about the operation, and about those who carried it out? Surely now, with the Provisional IRA out of the equation, the security services in both jurisdictions were in a position to concentrate their combined resources on dissident groups, namely the CIRA and RIRA.

What was known about them? And how were they able to bomb Omagh under the security radar?

Question were asked but no answers were forthcoming from the agencies tasked with protecting the public. Something smelt fishy, and it was not Raffo’s.

Eventually, a number of Republicans were arrested and attempts made to bring them before the courts. This story is well known from the extensive public record on these cases. The upshot of it all was that no one was ever prosecuted in a criminal court for the Omagh bombing. Although four men were found to be liable for the attack in a landmark Civil case taken the the victim’s families.

And still, questions about the security services stubbornly refused to go away. Would there ever be a day of reckoning?

Today, we got a part of the answer. 

Alec McCrory 
is a former blanketman.

Omagh Was Preventable

Lesley, a former RUC and PSNI officer, narrates the personal trauma of a violent political conflict. 

She was just an ordinary woman. Hadn’t had a terrible upbringing and came from a loving and supportive home. She had gone to a relatively well-heeled grammar school, didn’t live in areas where the community was gripped with constant fear of either paramilitaries choking the people so hard by fear, that they could not dare to speak out to rid themselves of this scourge, or fear of security forces raiding her home on the dead of night.

In the late ‘80’s, Belfast was awash with the blood of victims: innocents who, because they were born on the wrong ‘side of the divide’ or the uniform they wore to work made them legitimate targets to be shot in front of their children or blown to smithereens, oftentimes being buried with a little piece of someone else’s body, so destructive was the blast.

To this day, She says She almost ‘fell’ into policing. She had a job She detested but knew She was good at helping people. So, the application went in and on 16 December 1989 the young naïve 22 year old was sworn in … 

Her introduction to terrorism came merely weeks after She joined. Donned in her freshly ironed skirt and very hideous regulation American tan tights, She pulled her long hair into a pony tail and set off with the lads on a foot patrol. Approaching the station on the return dander She heard pops and within a split second She was being trailed along the ground by a colleague, unceremoniously ripping the shit out of the newly acquired tights!! Effing and geffing at said colleague "have you gone mad?! Look at the fkg state of my tights and knees!"

Popping……… Gunfire.

Her second encounter with the horror of what was ‘The Troubles’ again, didn’t take too long to enter her world. A colleague was abducted, tortured, blasted in the face with a shotgun and dumped like an old dog by the side of the road. The station, for the days he was missing, was the eeriest atmosphere She had ever encountered. The normal jesting, carrying on and joviality that She enjoyed so much about her job was put on hold until they got their colleague back, for they knew all too well, he would not be returned alive ... (if ever ).

She continued working, getting on with colleagues, victims and more surprisingly most of the suspects. This girl was no shrinking violet though. She could hold her own with colleagues and the community in which She served. There was a phrase She used, The Attitude Test. You treated her with civility you got it back tenfold. Mess her about, abuse her and She took no shit.

In 1993, She had her 3rd taste of man’s inhumanity to man when two IRA bombers went one busy Saturday to a fish shop and planted a no-warning bomb in the shop. The devastation was horrendous, parts of masonry and brick strewn for metres, pieces of flesh and blood scattered to the wind. She remembers very little of that day, apart from standing at the cordon the following day weeping silently, just staring into the gaping hole where She had walked and driven past so many times before.

But, as with everything, life goes on. She married the following year, and the year after that had a baby boy. Life was good and She immersed herself in doing the best job She could.

On Saturday 15th August 1998, She had just returned home after having a lovely afternoon shopping with in-laws. She was pregnant for a second time. Work rang…. 

‘You’re casualty bureau trained aren’t you?’
 ‘Yes but what’s happened?’ 

The strained voice on the other end of the phone merely replied: ‘huge bomb in Omagh, multiple fatalities, get to FCIC an hour ago.’! 

When She arrived, She was detailed to be hospital liaison officer. Her role was to get descriptions from the guys on the ground of body parts found. She then called around all the hospitals hoping to find a victim which had been brought in ‘minus’ that part ... She went into ‘mode’ even though the names on the whiteboard of missing people had now reached hundreds. Every time someone was found, whether injured, deceased or returned home, their name was rubbed off the list. On the Sunday She received a call: ‘foot, wearing blue, pink, purple and white striped sock, blue painted toenails’. She never did find out who the owner of the foot was.

The bureau was wound up shortly after the last victim was positively identified by DNA. The de-briefing as it was back in the day was ‘great jobs guys, everyone ok?’ She put it to the back of her head, after all, She hadn’t been subjected to the screams, hadn’t had to her wade through body parts and flesh.

As her baby girl continued to grow inside her, She readied herself for the new addition but found herself being plagued by the same nightmare 〰 She was having that little long awaited for princess but then delivered the baby with an adult sized foot being covered by a striped sock. So now, She was plagued with horrors in her mind during every sleeping moment. Of course, when her daughter was born four weeks early, no large foot, no striped sock to be found. So She concentrated on her little family and being the best mum and police officer She could.

Years of relative normality followed, until out of the blue She was back in that large room with the whiteboard with the names of all the ghostly names. She was on that same phone, but now, She could only hear screams … At the time She has never heard the screams of loved ones searching despairingly for family, or the screams of the injured and dying ... She has been changed as a person. She has to have been.

Her story unfortunately is not unique, countless other She’s and He’s try to dispel the demons. Some have managed to permanently have peace, but that has only left other victims behind in spouses, mothers, fathers and their children. She was nearly down that road herself.

Every anniversary She posts a simple message:

Even though I never found out what your name was, whether you survived or not, what you looked like in your entirety - I’ll never forget you, the girl who wore the striped sock and had blue nail varnish on her toes ... I’ll always remember you.

How do I know this? Because She ... is me. 

Lesley is a former RUC officer, now involved in peace and reconciliation workshops.

She