Our Children's Voice

 Padraig MacLochlainn; Michelle O'Neill; Gina Grant; Gerry Adams; Aisling Nibbs

Many, many years I heard Father Alec Reid say 'There is no blessing like the blessing of a healthy child'. When I first heard him say this I was under-impressed. It was such a patently obvious observation. Usually when he made this remark we would be in the company of a new baby or some boisterous youngster. Or youngsters. Full of energy and life and potential. 

Then as I got older and met children with life limiting ailments and disabilities and their parents or carers I came to reflect on the Sagart's remarks.  Fr. Alec was right. There is no blessing like the blessing of a healthy child. Imagine having to cope with the heartbreak of a child with a terminal illness?  Or a child with profound disabilities? 

This is the challenge facing many parents. Terminal illness is perhaps the most difficult and emotional crisis to confront families. It is difficult enough if this is an adult. But it is especially demanding when the person who is ill is a child.

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As an activist and particularly as a public representative I have been honoured to meet many carers over a very long time. I'm sure all public representatives have the same experience whether they are TDs, MPs, MLAs or MEPs. Whether they are unionists or the rest of us. It is particularly moving to meet the parents or grandparents of children who are grievously ill. It is also an absolute imperative that we help to shape society to give them the supports they deserve. That means a rights based society. 

During the Stormont negotiations in June, at my request, Ashling Nibbs and Gina Grant of the Donegal based parent-led campaign group “Our Children’s Voice”, made the long journey to Stormont Castle to meet Michelle O’Neill and me.  The two parents were accompanied by Senator Padraig Mac Lochlainn. This was my second meeting with them. 

Michelle and I had agreed to meet them to explore how an all-Ireland/cross border solution could be put in place to ease the distressing trauma faced by desperately ill children in Donegal who urgently need palliative care and treatment for life limiting conditions. They and their families must travel approximately 140 miles to access treatment and care.

Ashling and Gina explained to us how they have been campaigning for over three years for the level of care that their children need and deserve. Their very personal and harrowing accounts of the distress they and their children have had to endure was upsetting.

The two very brave mothers spoke about how they are forced to bring their very sick children to Dublin to access end of life care, palliative care and respite care.  

Ashling told us about the ordeal experienced by her seven year old son, Órán. Órán suffered from Mitochondrial Disease and faced eight hour round trips for surgeries while seriously unwell. Imagine how much these grueling journeys must have drained Órán of the energy he so badly needed in his fight? Sadly, Órán has since passed away. Since 2014, when the campaign group was established, four children have died.

The parents expressed their anger at the lack of facilities closer to their homes and the physical and emotional strain that the long journey create for them and their children. Michelle and I heard of the indignity one family endured. They had to transport their child's body for over 4 hours home and then a further ferry trip to the islands.

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The only respite services currently available to these children are accessed via referral to Laura Lynn Children’s Hospice, based in Dublin. Families may be offered fifteen nights per year, in blocks of two or three night stays. In many cases, the travel outweighs the benefit of respite for children and families. So they go without. 

The absence of such services closer to Donegal is an injustice. It is unacceptable that extremely sick children must undertake such lengthy and tiring trips to access vital care and treatment. Children's Palliative and End of Life care should not be determined by geography. Not in a modern wealthy society. Not anywhere.

The reality is that the parents of ‘Our Children’s Voice’ shouldn’t have to protest, lobby or fight to secure the right of their children to have proper access to the required standard of care. But they have to. They have to become activists and campaigners because they have been failed by the state. They have been punished by the marginalising policies implemented by successive governments. 

A central objective of Our Children's Voice campaign is for children in Donegal to have access to necessary respite/palliative /hospice care closer to home. That includes the possibility of services within the North as an alternative to having to travel to Dublin. There is obvious potential for an all-island approach to this problem.

When Michelle O’Neill was Minister for Health in the North, she launched a ten year strategy for children’s palliative and end of life care (2016-2026). This strategy provides for extending Paediatric networks outside of the north to explore access to specialised services on an all-island basis.

Sinn Féin has consistently advocated for healthcare to be developed on an all-island basis. In fairness other parties have acted on this imperative as well, including the DUP's Edwin Poots. They recognise the mutual benefits of such a policy. The provision of cancer services at Altnagelvin Hospital in Derry for the whole of the north west of the island is a model that works. It makes sense. There are healthcare benefits for all. And ultimately and potentially for the children represented by ‘Our Children’ Voice.’

The courage and bravery of Ashling and Gina and the other parents is amazing. Their tenacity in the face of governmental failure to provide a necessary service is astonishing and uplifting. I believe all public representatives can and should support them. Since our meeting in June we have engaged with the Irish government, the HSE, and even in the absence of Northern Assembly, with the departments and bodies in the North.  There is an urgent need to put in place a system of care that is compassionate and effective and meets the needs of terminally ill children and their families. A severely ill child should not be forced to travel such distances to receive the care they need. 

Not if we are really serious about cherishing all our children. Equally.

Jimmy

Once upon a time I was in prison. Truth to tell I was in prison a few times. That experience stays with you. Even now I occasionally have the sense of being a lapsed prisoner. Though not in any serious way. I suppose I say that only because I think it is a funny thing to say. I don't seriously believe I could end up back in prison. But never say never. We live in a funny old world. Anyway prison never did me any harm. I met many interesting people there. Some of them were prisoners. Some were prison officers. 

Some of the ones who were prisoners were Trusties. ODCs. Ordinary Decent Criminals. Jimmy was one of these. That's not his real name. The ODCs emptied the rubbish. Worked in the kitchen. Or the hospital.  The ODCs wouldn't have much truck with us anyway. Especially the ones from loyalist neighbourhoods. Jimmy was a loyalist. Or at least that was his background. How do I know that I hear you ask. He told me so himself. The Ordinary Decent Criminals didn't consort much with republican political prisoners. Probably afraid to. Not that there were many points of contact between us anyway.  Especially with the loyalists. By the way there were quite a few ODCs from nationalist neighbourhoods as well less I am accused of caricaturing loyalists. 

Jimmy worked with the prison doctor. I was over one day chancing my arm looking for a milk ration. Getting a milk diet was a good way of avoiding some of the worst of the prison food. Jimmy noted down my details. There was no one else in the waiting room. The Doctors was in a little wing of its own. A small cell. There was a slightly bigger one just beside where the doctor had his office. Jimmy and I were in the small cell. Just me and him. 

'How you getting on?' I asked.

He was a little bit surprised. Looking up from his folder - my folder - he asked ' Who me? You talking to me?'

'I don't see anybody else here.'

'Oh I'm dead on. Just not used to one of youse talking to one of us'. He looked around anxiously. ' I'm not of your sort. I dig with the other fut.'

'Good man' I replied 'what's your name?'

'Jimmy' he said ' and I know who you are.'

I stuck my hand out.  He shook it firmly. 

'You smoke?' I asked. 

'Yup' he said ' like a train. Nothing else to do in this kip'. 

I gave him a few cigarettes. He smiled warmly at me. 

'Thanks mate. I appreciate that.' 

'I'm giving them up' I said. 'Again.'

'Wait there' he ushered me into the bigger cell. 'the doctor will call you in a minute'. 

When I finished with the doctor and returned to the small cell Jimmy was gone. But I saw him again the following week. My milk ration had to be prescribed on a weekly basis. I didn't mind that. It got me out and about. Getting a ration of milk every day was a big deal. And getting out to the doctors was a break in the monotony of prison life. So was meeting Jimmy. He and I became friends. I would bring him a few fags. He would slip me a newspaper or a bar of chocolate. That might not sound like a big deal but when I was on punishment a square of Cadburys was a feast and getting a newspaper was like a visit to the library. 

Jimmy was also taking a chance giving me this stuff. He could have got into trouble. Loss of his privileges. Maybe even loss of remission. Me? I was in trouble anyway. On a Red Book. So it didn't really matter to me. Most of the time I was in with a bunch of other political prisoners. We looked after each other. We didn't have that much contact on a daily basis  with the prison system. Or as I've mentioned, with the Trusties. That wouldn't be approved of. By the prison regime. Or maybe by our own ones as well. 

But as luck would have it Jimmy and me never got caught. These weekly encounters became part of our routine. We would only be together for a few minutes. Even less. But we liked chatting to each other. Jimmy chatted a lot. So after six months I knew he started his gaol career for stealing drugs from a chemist he worked for. He said he was pressured into doing it. That's how he got to work with the prison doctor.  Because he used to work for a chemist. He said he was a young man at the time. Now Jimmy was married and had two kids. But since his first stint he was in and out of prison a good deal. Just for a few months or a year or so at a time. Nothing too big. Mostly bits and pieces of fraud. Once for assaulting a peeler. 

'What type of loyalty is that? I scolded him. 

'I'm also fond of a wee drink' he confessed to me. 

One day as we discussed his release. It was only a month off. 'Drinks a curse if it gets to you' he proclaimed. 'I'm gonna give it up'. 

'Well' I said ' You have a lot going for you. A wife. Two babies. You gotta think of them'. 

'That’s okay for you to say that. Your side has everything going for you'. He replied. 

I burst out laughing. 

'Would you ever catch yourself on' I told him. 'I'm stuck in here. No charges. No trial. No release date. You're out next month. I'm sure there will be a wee rehabilitation job waiting for you. There is no reason for you ever to be back in here again. If you mind yourself. Remember if you can't do the time don't do the crime'.

'That's not what I mean!' He retorted. 'You know that. I mean your side are getting everything that's going. All the oul shite about discrimination is paying off. You really think our side has all the good jobs and the nice houses? We have nothing. Not where I come from.'

'Well do something about it' I said. 'Don't blame me. I don't blame you. I don't believe in this two sides carry on. Who does that suit?'

We left it at that. But when I was leaving a few minutes later he slipped me a packet of Polo mints. 

'Your breath is stinking' he smiled. 

We parted on good terms. He, a few weeks later, out to East Belfast. Me back to solitary. I missed our weekly engagements. Then eventually I got out as well. Years later up at Stormont I was on my way into Martin McGuinness' office one day when a man detached himself from a group of visitors and hailed me. It was Jimmy. 

I was delighted to see him.  He was delighted to see me. We shook hands warmly. 

'You've come up in the world' he exclaimed.

'So have you' I said.

'I'm taxi-ing' he told me 'showing these French visitors around. Giving them the real history of our wee country. Will you get a photo with them? '

'Sure' I agreed ' if you come in and say hullo to Martin'. 

So we did.  Martin was as gracious as ever. I told him about me and Jimmy and our gaol soirées. Jimmy insisted on getting a photo with Martin. As he looked around his big office he turned to me. 

'Didn't I tell you your side is getting everything that's going?' He laughed.

'And didn't I tell you that I don't believe in this two sides nonsense. We disagree on  things  but we're all the one'. 

'That’s my position too' Martin said. 'You won't be surprised to hear!' 

'Ask my brother am I a liar? Jimmy smiled. 'Seriously Martin you're doing a great job with the peace process'. 

'You never said that to me' I chided him. 

'I get the credit' Martin laughed ' he gets the blame. Now if you two aul jailbirds get out of my office I'll get back to my work'. 

So we left him. Jimmy and I parted in the Great Hall. As he went out with his group he slipped me another packet of Polo mints. 

'Your breath is still stinking' he told me. 

That was Jimmy.  We arranged to meet again but we never got round to it for a while after I became a TD for Louth. Then he came down to Dublin for a Bruce Springsteen concert and I got him - Jimmy that is not Bruce - to come into the Dáil for lunch and we had a great session together. 

When we were parting he told me he hopes he never goes back to gaol again. I hope so too. Jimmy is a decent man. He has learned his lesson. If he does end up in clink again that would be a disaster. Especially if I was there as well. 

Féile an Phobail - Thirty Years a Growing

Thirty Years A Growing

I didn't get to any Féile events this year. That's a first. Truth is I was too tired. Martin's death. Two elections. Two USA trips in July. Constituency duties in the Dáil and in Louth. Talks or what passed for talks at Stormont. It all takes time and effort. 

So I decided to forgo Féile this year.  I missed a very wonderful series of events. I was particularly sore not to get to the RFJ's Plastic Bullet picket. Another first. But I followed it all on Twitter. Especially Clara Reilly. A mighty woman. Battling on. Never giving up. Emma Groves and Clara were never beaten. Never will be. 

Féile is great. Taking a step back from it all is a very good way to appreciate how great it really is. So once again well done and thanks to Sam and Kevin and Angela and Harry Beag and all the women and men of the current brilliant, energetic and ever resourceful Féile team. That includes Ciaran Morrison who is leaving after 17 year of Féile adventures. And Ciaran eile who keeps us honest.

Back in the days before Féile An Phobail, West Belfast was a different country. Under military occupation. Censored. Community structures subjected to political vetting.  Discrimination rampant. Everyone was related to or knew someone who was a political prisoner.  Neighbours' sons and daughters. No state funding whatsoever for Irish language education.  Little for Gaelic games. Neighbourhoods subjected to counter insurgency  measures. Betrayed by church hierarchies and by the great and the good. Including Dublin. Especially Dublin. Community leaders and political representatives targeted by British State sponsored death squads. 

Republican West Belfast was a community in rebellion. We still are. Back then we were deeply invested in a culture of resistance against occupation and oppression. Many of our battles were defensive. Underground. But we were in transition. Our culture of resistance was becoming a culture of change. Of reconquest. But there were too few platforms for this. The republican community of West Belfast was hemmed in. Under the cosh. Unbowed and unbroken. But needing an outlet for our positive energy and imagination. And vision. 

The killings at Gibraltar of three outstanding West Belfast citizens Volunteers Mairead Farrell, Seán Savage and Dan McCann and especially the establishment's vile demonisation of their community- our community - was a tipping point. A lesser people could not have survived the decades of vicious insults, lies and invective. But this onslaught and the attacks on their funerals and the other funerals and deaths of Caoimhín Mac Brádaigh, Thomas Mc Erlean and John Murray which followed, including the two British soldiers,  became a catalyst for that culture of change to find a platform. Féile An Phobail was a result of that. We were telling our detractors to f... off. We knew who we were. We were no better than anyone else. But we were no worse.  

So Féile was our answer. Our alternative. It became the forum or forums for local artists, poets, photographers, singers, dramatists, dancers, painters, chancers, writers, talkers, sports people and spoofers to strut their stuff. To yell yahoo!  In harmony. To give licence for hope and creativity and cheerfulness and positivity. To reclaim our space. To create space for others. To enjoy ourselves. To say this is who we are. Not a terrorist community. But a patriotic, resourceful, intelligent, cheerful, confident, caring and hopeful gathering of men and women looking to the future and prepared to imagine that that future could be fair and inclusive. And happy. Capable of making our own music. Of shaping and creating our own vision.

Féile was also an invite for other progressives to join us. And they did. Playwrights. Painters. Singers. Musicians. Actors. Actresses. Activists from other struggles. Other political views. Other traditions. Boy Bands and Girl Bands. Writers. Orchestras. Rap artists. Seán nós singers. Hip Hoppers. Rappers. Céili dancers. Movers and shakers. Stilt walkers. Discreet Walzers. Tango dancers. Talkers. Walkers. Citizens with disabilities. Old people. Children. Youth. Wannabe Youths. Cooks. Cranks. Fly boys from the love comics. Loose men. Delinquent pensioners. Dog lovers. Dogs. Glamorous Grannies. 

Some are coming to Féile still. Now part of the Féile family. Marie Jones  brought her plays. She nurtured a theatrical undercurrent which took its own communal stories and experiences and gave them dramatic form. Pam Brighton mentored local writers and stage designers and sound engineers. Citizens who were never in a theatre flocked to parish halls, local schools, community centres and GAA clubs to be uplifted and moved to tears or cheers. Field Day included the Féile in its tours. Stephen Rea brought Oscar to life. Ulick O Connor and the late Tomás MacAnna gave us Executions. Dan Gordon gave us A Night in November. The list is endless. A new generation of young artistes blossomed. They are still captivating us with their art. Local performers, writers. Bi lingual drama at its best. Communal tales with universal themes. 

Robert Ballagh arrived to acknowledge the artistic beauty and integrity of our fledgling mural painters.  Where previously the painting of political graffiti was liable to incur RUC harassment or worse no one could stop you painting a gable wall if the householder was content to have their gable transformed by Mo Chara or Danny D, Martie or their legions of fledgling Jim Fitzpatricks. And Jim came as well to praise their masterpieces. 

So did Gerry Keenan with orchestras to beat the band. The Sky's The Limit opened for The Ulster Orchestra. Peadar O Riada brought An Cor Cullaigh. Eddie Keenan sang 'I Was There.'  Seán Maguire enthralled us with his fiddle magic. Mícheál Ó Súilleabháin with his piano. Terry Enright brought us up the Black Mountain. The Falls Park hosted a Póc Fada. The Bobby Sands Cup challenged soccer teams. The Mairead Farrell Tournament did the same for Camogs. Aidan Creen and Terry Goldsmith opened up The Bog Meadows. Tom Hartley started his graveyard tours. Féile opened our own radio station. If we were blocked from other media why not start our own? Hector McNeill and Tea Pot footered at that for a while. Donnacha Rynne made his debut there. Fergus Ó’ Hír dabbled in Irish language radio broadcasting. Radio Fáilte was born. Ag fas fos. 

Martin Sheen came to visit. And later Michael Moore. And many, many more. President Mary Robinson defied both the British and Irish governments and visited us with the active encouragement of Inez McCormack, Eileen Howell and other sisters.  Mary McAleese, no stranger, was later to make the same journey also as President. 

And those who censored us? We reached out to them and invited them to talk and to listen to us. We welcomed detractors and other  naysayers along with ordinary decent citizens to West Belfast Talks Back. Discussion groups, debates and lectures flourished under the leaderships  of Jake Jackson, Paddy Kelly, Majella McCloskey, Siobhan O Hanlon, Carol Jackson, Bill Rolston, Danny Morrison and Jim Gibney. Danny also pioneered Scribes at The Rock and the odd time in The West Club, and brought authors from far and near.

Exhibitions blossomed everywhere. Quilts. Photos. Posters. Drawings. Paintings. Sculptures. H Block Comms. The West Belfast Film Festival brought Stephen Fry to visit. He was amazed at the grey threatening awfulness of the Barracks opposite Milltown Cemetery and delighted by the welcome he got in McAneany's. Seamus Heaney came as well. His first time back in St Thomas's since he taught there. A memorable day with Jimmy Ellis at Sam Thompson's graveside in the City Cemetery and later in St Mary's.

And singing? We sang like angels. With Planxty. Anúna. Frances Black. Mary Black. The Bueno Vista Social Club. The Wolfe Tones. Bríd Keenan. Altan. Brian Kennedy. Shane Magowan. Davy Spillane. Dolores Keane. Mick Hanley. Jimmy Yamaha. A Welsh miners choir. Brush Shiels. Jimmy McCarthy, Fra McCann. Floyd Westerman. St Agnes Choral Society. Tony McMahon and Noel Hill. Christy. UB40. Brian Moore. Noírín Ní Riain. Tony Carlisle, Flair, Jim Moody became friends of the stars. High flyers. 

For years we survived without funding. Our leaders included Deirdre McManus, Siobhán, Danny Power, Seán Paul O Hare, Geordie Murdoch, Caitriona Ruane, Niamh Flanagan, Geraldine McAteer, Ciaran Quinn, Aidan McAteer, Ciaran Kearney, Deirdre Mackle, Margaret McKernan, Deirdre Walsh, Maura Brown, Chrissie Keenan and Bridie. And countless others. Many worked in a voluntary capacity. The Andersonstown News was always an ally. And the local Irish language community. And Springhill the main concert venue for years. Right in the centre of the war zone. No one else would have done it with such panache. 

Now the Féile is Irelands foremost community festival. Despite the best efforts of those who lorded it over us thirty years ago. I am sure the history of this all will be chronicled. It needs to be. Memory is important. So too is the telling of our own stories. That's what Féile is about. Writing the future while righting the past. 

But the arts needs proper dedicated core funding. Local sponsors have kept faith. We are grateful to them but the Féile team survives on a shoe string. Could it be better? Of course. But almost 30 years later Féile is still one of the best things I was ever involved with. It's success is a great credit to everyone who was or is associated in any way with this outstanding communal celebration. Not all the names are included here. That is not intentional. So if you're left out or if you know somebody who is left out shout! This is only my flawed hurried little recollection. Write your own. Send it to Andytown News. Or the Féile office. With photos if you have them. 

Maybe as we celebrate thirty years a growing some of us will find the time to write a list of all the Féile leaders and champions and do a Féile Thirty Years On Birthday ReUnion. Just to remember and say Go raibh mile Maith agaibh go leir. 

An Féile Abú! 

The View From A High Stool.

The pub was empty. Except for me and the bartender. In this particular pub the bartender was a bean an tígh. She was a wise woman. She served me my pint with a cordial, indulgent and native generosity which underpinned her roots, her gender and her age. In other words she indulged me, knowing instinctively that I was after a quiet interlude. 

'Bain sult as,' said she 'sláinte' as she retired to polish the shelves and wash glasses. 

It was just me and her in silent harmony as I digested the sports pages and savoured the pundits' musings on the weekend's hurling treats and football results while sipping on a pint of plain. The sun shone blissfully and cheerfully through the pub windows  and smiled upon our little soirée. The pint was a work of art.  All was bliss. 

It was then that two is company and three is a crowd became a reality. A tall gangly gent draped himself on the high stool beside me, ordered a drink and shattered the silence. 

'You're just the man I wanted to see. I said to the wife this morning if I ever see Gerry Adams I'm gonna ask him this question. Isn't it funny that I said that this morning and here you are? Sitting beside me?'

I said nothing. Instead I smiled lamely and peered earnestly at my drink. 

He continued without appearing to notice my disinterest. And discomfiture.

'What question' says she to me. 

'Who wud want to be a unionist?  That's what I said to her. Who wud want to be a unionist? And do you know what she said to me?'

He looked at me earnestly. I maintained my silence. 

'Arlene Foster' says she to me. 'What do you think of that for an answer? Arlene Foster'.

'Well' I ventured ' Arlene IS a unionist. She isn't a wannabe unionist. She's the real deal.'

'I know' he countered ' but my question is who wud want to be a unionist?'

I swallowed the last dregs of my glass as the bean a tígh appeared with a successor. 

'I don't know' I replied ' but whether we like it or not some folks are unionists. That's the reality.' 

'So you think that's ok' he accused me. 'It's very clear that they don't want any old union. They only want a union which reflects their jaundiced view of the world.'

'That was always the case' I said 'only it’s more obvious nowadays'

'I wud never do business with Arlene Foster!' He told me assertively.

'Do you think you will ever have to?' I enquired as pleasantly as I could in the circumstances. 

'That's not the point' he asserted ' you're like my wife. Typical politician's answer'. 

'Is your wife a politician?' I queried. 

He ignored me. I hated being ignored. Even when I want to be. 

'Did you ever meet with Arlene? Or Edwin? Or Gregory?' I asked. 'When is the last time you had to do business with any of them? It’s me or Michelle O Neill or God rest him Martin McGuinness has to do all that. Not you'. 

'I know that' he responded'. 'That's why I vote for youse. But that's not the question. The question is who wud want to be a unionist? Imagine! If you're a Unionist you not only have to stop other people getting their rights you have to give up your own  rights as well.'

He ordered another drink for himself. The bean a tígh sniffed crossly at him as she took his money but it made no difference. He was on a roll. 

'Do you know any gay Orangemen?' He continued. 

I said nothing. Even though I do know some gay Orangemen. But I didn't want to think about that. I was still in the ecstasies, in the after flow of the Tipp and Galway game. It's funny how you retain and savour some things. They live on in your memory. I can still see clearly DJ Carey and Seán Óg facing each other like gladiators in an epic game from years ago. That's where my mind was. But I said nothing. Instead I folded my paper and shifted slightly on my stool as I got ready to leave. 

'So do you know any gay unionists?' He repeated.

'Well I don't think our sexual orientation is determined by our political views or our constitutional preference' I replied affably. 

'That's not the point' he asserted. 'what is a gay unionist to do?' 

'The same as gay nationalists did before we all became gay!' I said more tersely than I intended.

 'What you mean? I'm making a serious point' he argued. 'They not only deny equality to others. They deny equality to themselves. They condemn themselves to lives of denial, deceit and misery.'

'And I'm on my holidays' I said ' I'm on a break'.

'I'm sorry' he said ' you're probably sick of people asking you these questions. But my big issue is who wud want to be a unionist? If you're gay? Or against Brexit? Or against inequality? Not just for others. But for yourself?'

'I'll ask Arlene that the next time I see her' I said. 'I'm going now'

'Glad to meet you' he said. 'Keep up the good work'.

'Go raibh maith agat' I said.  

'Slán ' I said to the patient bean a tígh. ' Thanks for the hospitality' 

'You're welcome 'she smiled. 'I have a question as well. Who would want to be a Sinn Féin rep? In a pub?'

'I'll ask Arlene that as well' I smiled back at her. 'Slán'.

Sometimes it's hard to be a Shinner.

Collusion and the abuse of power

On Monday of this week the families and friends of Fran O’Toole, Tony Geraghty and Brian McCoy remembered their loved ones who were killed when members of the Glenanne Gang attacked the Miami Showband as they returned home from a successful gig in Banbridge on July 31 1975 outside Newry. The survivors have been fighting for justice ever since.

Last Thursday, as part of the ongoing battle around truth and legacy, around 40 relatives were in a courtroom in Belfast to hear the outcome of a case taken by one of the families against the PSNI. Patrick Barnard aged 13 was one of four people killed in a bomb attack on the Hillcrest Bar in Dungannon in March 1976. It was one of scores of attacks carried out by the Glenanne Gang, which included in its ranks members of the British Army, the Ulster Defence Regiment (UDR), the RUC, and unionist paramilitaries. In what is a significant judgement the High Court concluded that the PSNI breached its human rights obligations by refusing to publish an overarching thematic report regarding the murder of Patrick and “its linkage to other murders and offences carried out by the Glenanne Gang.”

During the 1970s, when the gang was active, it was responsible for over 120 killings, and scores of injuries, including the Dublin and Monaghan bombs in May 1974 which killed 33 people, and the bomb attack in December 1975 at Kay’s Tavern in which two Dundalk men Jack Rooney and Hugh Watters were killed. In 2001 a Commission of Inquiry under Mr. Justice Henry Barron was established by the Irish Government. Four reports were published and a Sub-Committee of the cross-party Joint Oireachtas Committee on Justice, Equality, Defence and Women's Rights conducted an extensive examination of the reports. The Sub-Committee concluded “that given that we are dealing with acts of international terrorism that were colluded in by the British security forces, the British Government cannot legitimately refuse to co-operate with investigations and attempts to get to the truth.”

The Sub-Committee was right. But the British have consistently and illegitimately refused to co-operate. It is now clear that policing, intelligence and political elements within the British system have sought to frustrate families and victims getting to the truth of the Glenanne Gang and its actions.

The judgement last week by Mr. Justice Treacy, sitting in the High Court in Belfast, was given in a case taken by Edward Barnard, the brother of Patrick. Edward’s legal team argued that the PSNI was in breach of a package of measures agreed between the British government and the Committee of Ministers (CM), which is responsible for implementing judgements by the European Court of Human Rights (ECtHR). These measures had been agreed after the ECtHR ruled between 2000 and 2003 that a number of complaints, regarding killings with British state involvement, had breached Article 2 – the right to life – of the deceased. The British government gave a commitment to the Committee of Ministers that investigations into state killings would be carried out independently.

The Historical Enquiries team (HET) was part of this process. It was supposed to be an independent investigative process with three main objectives. Firstly to assist in bringing a measure of resolution to families of those killed between 1968 and 1998; to re-examine all deaths linked to “the troubles” and to ensure that “all investigative and evidential opportunities are subject to thorough and exhaustive examination” and to do so in a manner that “commands the confidence of the wider community”.

However, seven years ago the PSNI brought the HET under the control of its Crime Operations Branch and removed investigative functions from HET officers. Under the new regime the HET could no longer arrest and question suspects. The PSNI also took control of the HET’s budget. Critically, in a reply to a letter from Edward Barnard’s legal representatives the Assistant Chief Constable of the PSNI (ACC) Drew Harris, on 12 June 2014, confirmed that the “HET does not intend to prepare an overarching thematic report into those cases referred to as the ‘Glenanne Gang’ linked cases.”

In deciding whether the PSNI decision not to produce an overarching report into the Glenanne gang was an abuse of power Justice Treacy “referred to case law which stated that “conspicuous unfairness” amounted to abuse of power. The more extreme the unfairness, the more likely it is to be characterised as an abuse of power.”

Justice Treacy ruled: “The unfairness here is extreme – where the applicant had believed that the murder of his brother would finally be considered in context for the purposes of discovering if there was any evidence of collusion in the murder, that process is now completed and will not be taken up by any other body.

The frustration of the HET commitment communicated by the ACC completely undermined the “…primary aim [of the HET] to address as far as possible, all the unresolved concerns that families have”. It has completely undermined the confidence of the families whose concerns are not only still unresolved but compounded by the effects of the decisions taken … “

The Judge is also critical of the decisions of the then PSNI Chief Constable in 2010. He expresses his concern that “decisions were taken apparently by the Chief Constable to dismantle and abandon the principles adopted and put forward to the CM to achieve article 2 compliance.”

Justice Treacy concluded that: “In the context of the Glennane series, as I said earlier, the principal unresolved concern of the families is to have identified and addressed the issues and questions regarding the nature, scope and extent of any collusion on the part of state actors in this series of atrocities including whether they could be regarded, as the applicant argued, as part of a ‘state practice’. I consider that whether the legitimate expectation (that the HET would publish an overarching thematic report) is now enforceable or not its frustration is inconsistent with Article 2, the principles underpinning the ECtHR judgments in the McKerr series and with the Package of Measures.”

In other words as the summary of the judgement states “the Chief Constable’s decision to transfer the work of the HET into a branch of the PSNI was fundamentally inconsistent with Article 2 and frustrated any possibility that there would be an effective investigation in the Glenanne cases.”

That has been the pattern for decades. The British state has consistently sought to cover-up the role of its policing, intelligence and military agencies in the killing of citizens.

Despite these efforts last week’s judgement was a significant success for the Barnard family and the scores of others effected by the actions of the Glenanne Gang. Regrettably, this legal milestone was largely ignored by the mainstream media or given little prominence in their news coverage. Where it was covered words like ‘rogue’ were used to describe the role of RUC, UDR and British Army members in the Glenanne Gang. The cover-up continues but so too does the search for truth by families.