Events | 2010.08.29
Claudy's grief speaks volumes about Northern Ireland's unspoken truths
The official cover-up of a priest\'s involvement in an IRA bombing reflected a wider fear of speaking out at the time
It came as no surprise when the official police report into the 1972 Claudy IRA bomb concluded that there had been a cover-up by the Catholic church, the police and the Conservative government. In the village of Claudy, where I grew up, the involvement of Father James Chesney in the atrocity was well-known but, like so much else during the Troubles, the knowledge sank into a thick, black silence as dense as tar.
Ivan Cooper, the MP at the time, had "absolutely no doubt" that the priest was involved and yet admitted: "I asked no names. That is the way it was then. It was dangerous to know too much." The dangers of knowing too much are familiar to anyone who has lived in a divided country. Often, a new language develops, of half-truths and shadows. No one will ever say what is on their mind, aware that honesty risks retribution.
In Northern Ireland, keeping silent became necessary to preserve the common good. If a priest who was also an IRA quartermaster needed to be dealt with in a way that would not inflame conflict, then so be it. It was not talked about. So it was that Fr Chesney was allowed to sink into the silt of anonymity across the border while his victims\' families were denied any justice.
I was four when we moved to a house just outside Claudy. It was 1982. A decade had passed since the bombing but it was still, for many locals, one of the most traumatic events in living memory. Yet no one spoke of it. By the time we arrived, a car park had been built over one of the bomb sites. For a long time, I had no idea that nine people, including a girl not much older than me, had been slaughtered in the very place my mother used to park.
As an English blow-in, it is possible that no one would think to talk to me about events that could only truly be understood by those who had lived through them.
My accent meant that everyday communication rapidly became a series of pitfalls to be avoided. Many things had two names. There were obvious examples – the city of Londonderry, as it was referred to on road signs, was never called by its full name in conversation. To do so was to imply unionist sympathies. The same rules applied to what you called the land across the Irish Sea – to describe it as "the mainland" was to state an anti-republican bias.
And religion was never openly discussed. I remember being profoundly shocked when, on a visit to England, I was asked – in the plain light of day – whether I was a Protestant or a Catholic.
There was always a sense that what was not being said was just as important as what was. In a culture torn apart by sectarian violence, it seemed that some memories could best be dealt with through silence. Postwar Berlin faced a similar dilemma. The land in front of the Reichstag became a car park. Just as in Claudy, the residents chose to deal with their grief and shame by covering it up until they were ready to address it.
For Berlin, this came after reunification in 1990. For Claudy, it was not until 2000 that a memorial was erected.
The secrets of Northern Ireland are only just beginning to surface. For all the achievements of the peace process over the last 12 years, it will take far longer for the people of Claudy to trust they can speak the truth without having to look over their shoulder.
For more information, please visit
http://www.guardian.co.uk/theobserver/20[...]claudy-bombing-priest-cover-up
