Pandora's Box: The Kingsmill Massacre

     Thirty-nine years ago this week, Northern Ireland witnessed one of the deadliest and most saddening atrocities in the difficult period of our history known as the Troubles. The Kingsmill Massacre took place on the evening of 5th January 1976, when the I.R.A. stopped eleven Protestant workmen travelling home from work in a minibus, lined them up beside the vehicle, and shot dead ten of them, the eleventh surviving despite having been shot eighteen times. It was later stated that the attack was carried out in retaliation for the killing of six Catholics by Loyalist paramilitaries the previous night. 

     In choosing to write on this topic, I want to avoid, as far as is possible, making any sort of political statement. Northern Ireland as a nation has not yet been able to find a way of talking about our difficult past which is acceptable to everyone, and this issue is at the centre of an ongoing and heated debate within N.I. politics. There are those who believe that we should simply forget, that we should release from our memories the terrible events of our history. I do not have the answers to the question, and equally, I do not in any way wish to drag up the hurt and tensions surrounding the memory of the massacre. There is, however, one element of this event from which I believe we can all learn, a story which touched me deeply the first time I heard it told, several years ago, as I was listening to the radio over breakfast. 

     It is the story of the twelfth workman, Richard Hughes, the only Catholic to still be travelling home on the minibus when it was stopped by the I.R.A. When first stopped, the workmen all assumed it to be a Loyalist attack, an attempt to find and execute any Catholics. When the armed men demanded that any Catholics identify themselves, they therefore attempted to protect Hughes by preventing him from identifying himself as such. Hughes in turn, when told by a masked gunman to run, hurried to the nearest police station to raise the alarm. 

     For me, this is a beautiful story, and the beauty lies with these men - not great thinkers, Nobel Prize winners or world leaders, but ordinary men; men who, simply put, got it right. They understood, as so many on both sides of our country's political and religious divide have failed to understand, that religion and politics can divide us if we let them, but that it's our choice, and we don't have to let them. They understood that the life of every person is of equal value. They understood that whatever our beliefs, we're all human beings, and we all have the ability to make a difference in this world. 

     I find it truly breathtaking that in the midst of such a catastrophe, in the face of such needless violence, the first instinct of these men was to do something so simple, and yet so heroic. To me, their actions shine like stars piercing through the blackest of skies, refusing to be overcome by the despair, darkness and devastation which surround them. It may seem childishly idealistic and overly simple to say this, but because of this story, I have hope. Hope for our country. Hope for mankind. I truly believe that we will be able to work together as a nation to overcome the darkness which has gone before us. I may not know how this can be achieved in real terms, but I believe that the story of the Kingsmill Massacre proves that it can be done. 

     Pandora's Box was opened long ago in N.I., and we have already suffered so many of the terrible monsters which escaped from it. But we must not forget that the box isn't empty yet. There is one last tiny creature inside, yearning to get out. She may seem inadequate, pitiful, useless in the 'real world', but I believe she could in fact be the most powerful tool this nation needs in order to rebuild itself. How to come to terms with the legacy of our past? I don't know. But what I do know is that if we could each look inside ourselves, deep into the Pandora's Box of our own hearts, and find that tiny glimmer of hope - well, wouldn't that be a good place to start?
   

1st January 2015

     I've never understood what there is to celebrate at New Year's, and it's therefore never a time when I feel particularly joyful. Minutes, hours, days, months, years - they're all just numbers, yet another way in which we humans try to impose some sort of logic and meaning on the otherwise random events which occur over the course of our lives. But the truth is, it's meaningless; years are numbers, and nothing more. So many people, at this time of year, say things like "I hope 2015 treats you well" - a nice little pleasantry, perhaps, but that's utter nonsense. It doesn't matter how we measure our lives - no measurement will ever treat us any way at all, because that has to come from us. 
  
     I'm starting to sound a tad too existentialist for my own liking, and probably for that of other people, so apologies for that, and please, consider this: the world could end tomorrow, and we would only have got live one day of this new year. Does that mean that this year was wasted, pointless? Not at all. Just think what we can, and may well have, put into one day, how drastically our lives can change over the course of 24 of those things we call hours. Now, I'm very tired and feeling somewhat melancholy, so this probably makes no sense at all, and I doubt that I'll ever be able to write down what I truly want to communicate. As I sit here, however, there are 364 more days left before the number at the end of 201 changes from a 5 to a 6. Who knows, I might not even get to see all of those days. On the other hand, I might see them 80 times over. Nobody can ever know what lies ahead.

     What I do know, however, is that I'm going to do my best to treat 2015 well. To make sure that every single moment receives the recognition of its value that it deserves. To live, as intensely as anyone who ever lived, and more. But first, I'm going to get a good night's sleep.