Friday July 29 2005 Daily Ireland 9

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...that was the beginning of my understanding of the system

HISTORIC IRA STATEMENT endgame

BY EAMONN HOUSTONe.houston@dailyireland.com

It became an iconic image of the prisonprotests of the late 1970s. Threewomen, barefoot and clad only in greyblankets, stood outside Derry’s St Eu-

gene’s Cathedral on a freezing cold Decem-ber day. They bore placards with the sim-ple inscription – “Do you care?”

One of the three women was a then 40-year-old Mary Nelis, a woman thrust intowhat she still describes today as “a horrorstory”.

It marked the biggest statement of whatbecame known as the blanket protest.Nelis, a Creggan mother of nine and nowaged 69, had been a community activist —a troubleshooter for those who foundthemselves unable to deal with the paper-work of day-to-day society. Active in ten-ants’ associations and an energetic servantof the community, Mary Nelis would havethe very fabric of her beliefs first testedand then destroyed.

The arrest of her then 18-year-old sonDonncha in 1976 was the point that wouldchange Nelis’ life forever.

In recent years, she distinguished herselfas an outspoken Sinn Féin assembly mem-ber and a staunch defender of women’srights. During the course of the Troubles,Nelis’ place in society would be upended.She confesses that, at some points of herlife during the last 30 years, she thoughtshe had lost her sanity.

“Politically, I got dragged into Sinn Féin.Donncha was one of the first arrested afterthe removal of political status in the pris-ons. He was held for seven days, and I

couldn’t get to see him,” she says.A meeting with the then assistant RUC

commander in Derry, Frank Lagan, lit thetouchpaper for Nelis’ subsequent involve-ment in the republican movement.

She says Lagan had asked her to ask herson where he had got the gun with whichhe had been arrested.

“Something instinctive told me rightthen, right at that moment, that there wassomething wrong. That one incident

changed my whole life. That was the begin-ning of my understanding of the system,”she says.

Mary Nelis says that, while her son Don-ncha was in the H-blocks, she had “no no-tion” of what Sinn Féin meant or who wasinvolved in the movement.

She had been active in inquiring aboutyoung men on the behalf of their mothers.She would have been a familiar face at theBritish army base at Bligh’s Lane in Creg-gan.

As a mother, she cared only about theplight of her teenage son in prison.

“He was trying to prepare me for what-ever. That was around the time that theydid not recognise the courts. He told me inno uncertain terms that he would notrecognise the court.

“He was to be sentenced to 16 years andhe was clear in his own mind that he wouldserve them.

“I remember visiting him and they hadshaved his head and he looked terrible. Inearly had a nervous breakdown. It was ahorror story,” she says.

Prisoners refusing to wear the prisonuniform were refused visits. For the moth-ers on the outside, there was a heartbreak-ing feeling of powerlessness.

“They treated us like dirt,” Mary Nelis re-members. On the outside, Nelis suddenlyfound herself isolated. Lifelong friendspassed her on the street. Her belief systemas a Catholic was upended.

She would not speak to the bishop ofDerry, Edward Daly, for 25 years.

“I felt powerless and very alone. Mywhole belief system was overturned and, inmany ways, I felt a deep sense of betrayal.

“Our wee boys were on the blocks. I ex-pected the church to be our defenders butthey hung them out to dry.”

The iconic protest outside the cathedralwas a spontaneous act, according to Nelis.

“Kathleen Deeny, Theresa Deery and Ijust made the placards and did it.

“The only person who gave us support onthat freezing day in December 1976 wasthe local barber, Andy McGarvey.

“It was said later that what we did wasthe biggest political statement.”

That protest would later appear on theChamps-Élysées in Paris and would travelto Europe and the United States. However,people were “scared” to become involved.Mothers were worried about the politicis-ing of their sons. They worried about prisonand all that this entailed in the late 1970s.

The prison protests met with an unbend-ing British prime minister, MargaretThatcher. The intransigence of the “Iron La-dy” forced the issue further.

“As mothers, girlfriends and wives, wedidn’t have a political axe to grind. The ef-forts of the Armagh Committee withBernadette Devlin still couldn’t prevent thehungerstrike.”

By this time, Mary Nelis was becomingpart of a bigger family — the republicanfamily.

“In many ways, I feel sorry for the restof the family during those times. My fami-ly paid a price for me supporting a justiceand human-rights issue.

“I remember going to see my son andfeigning a smile when he sat before mewith long hair and a beard. They had nomirrors so they didn’t know what way theylooked. It was horrific.”

At 1.17am on Tuesday, May 5, 1981, af-ter 65 days on hungerstrike, Bobby SandsMP died in the H-block prison hospital atLong Kesh.

“I cried like a waterfall,” Mary Nelis re-calls. “I cried like he was my own son.”

She quickly joined Sinn Féin. “There wasa huge raft of people that had becomepoliticised. Everybody was joining Sinn Féin.The hungerstrike was the catalyst for us all.

“It was a logical progression. We alwaysknew that the problems of this island wouldhave to be solved politically.

“Young people made choices, very delib-erate ones, especially after Bloody Sunday.They were realists.

“They knew exactly what was in front ofthem because the regime was so harsh.

“The IRA is advancing the progress ofpeace. You cannot measure things in termsof what you’ve got. Globally, things havechanged.

“When people describe the republicanmovement as a family, that is accurate.There is a sense of comradeship, support.Sure, we have our disputes and fallouts justlike any other family.

“But the republican family remains thefinest and most sensitive family. No onefeels isolated. I have not one single regret.I feel good to be alive.”

Nelis says she believes that proactive in-tervention by the Catholic church, businessprofessionals and the government in Dublincould have prevented “at least half” of thedeaths that occurred during the course ofthe Troubles.

“It wouldn’t have happened had theychallenged the political and social establish-ment,” she says.

Mary Nelis, a Derry-based former assembly member for Sinn Féin, looks back on her life within the republican community.

“When people describethe republicanmovement as a family,that is accurate. Thereis a sense ofcomradeship, support.Sure, we have ourdisputes and falloutsjust like any otherfamily. But therepublican familyremains the finest andmost sensitive family.No one feels isolated. Ihave not one singleregret. I feel good tobe alive.”

- Nelis

A family built on a shared belief

10 Daily Ireland Friday July 29 2005endgame HISTORIC IRA STATEMENT

Bobby Storey takes part in a protest on theCliftonville Road in 1997 PHOTO: JARLATH KEARNEY

A protest on the Andersonstown Road in 1996 calling for the RUC to disband PHOTO: MAL McCANN

Nationalists were barred from entering Lurgan town centre in1996 PHOTO: MAL McCANN

The RUC move in to clear the way for Orangemen to march down the Garvaghy Road in 1997 PHOTO: MAL McCANN

A large parade supporting the blanket men and women on the Falls road in 1980 PHOTO: ANDERSONSTOWN NEWS/ARCHIVE

Friday July 29 2005 Daily Ireland 11

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People want to find out the truth about unsolved cases - Daniel Lundy

HISTORIC IRA STATEMENT endgame

For some of the North’syoungest inhabitants, theturbulent days of the Trou-bles are something they as-

sociate with textbooks and anec-dotes from older friends and fam-ily members.

Thankfully for them they havehad the fortune to grow up intimes of relative peace and havenot been adversely affected by theconflict.

Daniel Lundy is not one of thoseyoung people.

Along with his four siblings,Daniel has had to grow up in Ar-doyne, north Belfast, without hisfather, Alan, the last Sinn Féinmember to be shot dead beforethe historic IRA ceasefire in 1994.

Reflecting on the latest IRAstatement, Mr Lundy said: “Timesare moving on and things have tomove forward. However, all thekillings and collusion can’t just beforgotten about. You can’t justmove on and forget about them.They always need to be on thetable.”

The 24-year-old insisted: “I re-ally don’t think that nationalistswill ever let these killings be for-gotten about and they will alwaystry to get them solved.”

Alan Lundy was gunned downby the UFF while working at thehouse of Sinn Féin councillor AlexMaskey in Andersonstown in May1993.

Alan, from Ardoyne in northBelfast, was helping Mr Maskeybuild a porch on his house to helpprovide additional security at thetime of his death.

Gunmen drove up to the housein a red Ford Orion, firing a num-ber of shots before chasing him in-side the house where they shothim in the back in front of MrMaskey’s children.

The gunmen then went upstairsand searched the bedrooms butdid not find Mr Maskey.

This was only one of a numberof attempts on Mr Maskey’s life ashe had previously been woundedwhen a UFF gunman shot him atclose range in the stomach with ashotgun.

Recalling the horrific day whenhis father was murdered, MrLundy said: “I was 12-years-oldwhen my dad was killed and I canstill remember that day clearly.

“It was a Saturday eveningaround six o’clock and I was sit-ting on the street playing with myfriends when a priest went up toour door. A few minutes later Icould hear my mother screamingand I knew straight away that mydad had been killed.”

Daniel is the second oldest inthe family. His mother was left torear him and his brothers Alan Jnrand Ciaran, and his sisters Claireand Elizabeth, alone.

“I can remember my dad sowell. He used to be coming homefrom work and I’d run down thestreet to meet him.

“It is still hard to this day to ac-cept that he is dead. It is especial-ly hard when you see other matesgoing for a drink with their dadknowing that we just can’t dothat.

“He used to take us over toCeltic matches every other week

before he died and then we weren’t ableto do that after his murder.”

Daniel also recalls the increased ha-rassment from British Crown forceswhich he received after his father’s mur-der.

“From I was around 15-years-old toabout 18 or 19, everywhere I went I wasgetting stopped and searched in thestreet.

“They’d drive past, get out of the jeepand stop me, saying things like ‘that’sAlan Lundy’s son’. One time in Etna Dri-ve they grabbed me, threw me againstthe jeep, arrested me and charged mewith resisting arrest and assaulting po-lice. The case was later dropped, butthat was the kind of general harass-ment,” he says.

However, like many others affectedby the conflict Daniel is determined tohave his voice heard.

A conference affording young peoplewith a chance to tell their stories abouthow collusion has affected their lives istaking place in St Mary’s College on theFalls Road, Belfast, next Thursday.

Mr Lundy, who will participate in thisconference, said: “I think the Youth forTruth conference is a good idea. Peoplewant to find out the truth about allthose cases that haven’t been solved.

“It’s good to show people that thosewho have been killed have not been for-gotten about and that they are stillcared about. It’s also still very importantto try and find out the truth about whathappened to them.”

Mr Lundy is convinced there wasBritish state collusion in his father’sdeath.

“There was definitely collusion in-volved in his killing. He was working onAlex Maskey’s house and they were verygood friends. As they worked together,there was photos taken of them by thepolice and he had been stopped on theway to work on the house.

“On the day he was killed there waspolice all over the street and about halfan hour before he was killed the policedisappeared.”

When asked if he ever gets the sensethat his father’s murder will be forgot-ten about he said: “I must say that tothis day my father is talked about every-where I go, especially in Ardoyne. Peo-ple come up to me and say that he wasa gentleman.

“You can never say never, but I reallythink that it is too late for somebody tobe got for his killing. His death hit every-body in the whole family circle really badas he was just one of those people thateverybody likes. That was shown by themassive crowd at his funeral.”

Daniel Lundy welcomes the IRA’smoves towards peace saying progress isinevitable while mindful of the fact thatthose who have been killed should nev-er be forgotten.

“It’s good to showpeople that thosewho have been killedhave not beenforgotten about andthat they are stillcared about. It’s alsostill very importantto try and find outthe truth about whathappened to them.”

Times are moving on

12 Daily Ireland Friday July 29 2005endgame HISTORIC IRA STATEMENT

A support rally for the women prisoners in Armagh Jail in 1981. ANDERSONSTOWN NEWS/ARCHIVE

A Saoirse protest in Crossmaglen in 1998. PHOTO: MAL McCANN

A Saoirse protest calling for the release of republican prisoners in 1997. PHOTO: JARLATH KEARNEY

A sign highlighting the dangers of British army spyposts in south Armagh. PHOTO: MAL McCANN

Sinn Féin youth take their protest to south Armagh spyposts in 1997. PHOTO: MAL McCANN

Friday, July 29 2005 Daily Ireland 13

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Republican movement has become a powerful political force

HISTORIC IRA STATEMENT

BY EAMONN HOUSTON e.houston@dailyireland.com

Terry Crossan to this day remem-bers the town-land of Aughnaskeain Co Tyrone. It was the home ofMartin Hurson, a young man he

was to befriend and remember.Crossan had never been to Aughnaskea,

but its name is embedded in his head.Martin Hurson was the sixth of ten men

to die on hunger strike in Long Kesh prisonin 1981. Crossan breaks into a fond smilewhen he recalls the camaraderie he enjoyedwith the young country man.

Crossan joined the Provisional IRA in the

weeks that followed Bloody Sunday. By hisown admittance, he had no notion, nor carefor politics.

Now at the age of 50, Crossan is fullysupportive of the republican movement’smomentum towards a new chapter. ForCrossan, the war is not yet over, but simplyentering a new and more hopeful phase.

Crossan was arrested with Sinn Féinchief negotiator, Martin McGuinness, in thelatter’s sister’s home in 1976. The pair hadbeen childhood friends. To this day they en-joy fishing trips as a hobby.

Crossan would spend six years in thecages of Long Kesh for ‘conspiracy to causeexplosions in the United Kingdom’.

Martin McGuinness would be released afew weeks later after their arrest.

“Bloody Sunday was the catalyst for me– that, I suppose, brought me to believethat I should play a more proactive role inthe struggle against occupation and for jus-tice.”

Crossan sits in a bar – of which he is pro-prietor – adorned with images of Derry dur-ing the early days of the Troubles.

“When my parents found out that I wasinvolved, they blamed poor Barney McFad-den [a veteran Derry republican] - who ofcourse was totally innocent - but still he gotthe blame.”

For Crossan, the prison years formed an

important part of his development, as aperson, and a politically aware republican.

“While difficult times for my wife andfamily, prison had no lasting negative ef-fects on me personally. For me it was aplace to learn tolerance and respect. I alsolearned my native language which I nowspeak on a daily basis.

“I met many good friends from all overthe country and have many good memories,but also sad ones - especially the death ofMartin Hurson on the 1981 hungerstrike.

“He was a good friend. I met Martinwhile on remand and remember well someof his great stories.”

Crossan describes his motivation to jointhe Provisional IRA as a response to a se-ries of events.

“I suppose it was more of a reactionarything than something that was motivatedby any sort of political ideology. I had comethrough the Civil Rights period and wit-nessed the burning of my grandmother’shome in William Street by the RUC and B-Specials. I also remember the attack onSammy Devenny – a neighbour of ours – bythe same people.”

On April 19, 1969, the Devenny familywere assaulted by the RUC in their WilliamStreet home. Three months later, SammyDevenny died as a result of the brutal beat-ing.

Within weeks, the resulting tensionwould help spark the Battle of the Bogside.

Crossan says: “There were no republicanlinks in my family. My grandmother was ofChurch of Ireland stock and for a time didhousekeeper at the old Lecky Road bar-racks.

“During the early 1960s, policemen onduty would have called to my granny’shouse for a cuppa and there was no senseof animosity towards them. The events ofDuke Street and Burntollet would changeall that.”

On October 5, 1968, the Northern Ire-land Civil Rights Association had intendedto march from Duke Street in Derry’s Wa-terside to Derry city centre. As the marchassembled the Royal Ulster Constabularybatoned demonstrators in the glare of theworld’s media. Events at Duke Street force-fully hit home with nationalist youth.

As would events at the close of a People’sDemocracy march from Belfast to Derry inJanuary 1969. The marchers would endurea sustained and brutal attack from loyalistsat Burntollet bridge, while the RUC lookedon. Some of the marchers were reportedlytossed into the nearby River Faughan.

Crossan recalls: “I remember the earlydays of the Troubles and the emergence ofthe Provisional IRA and the ‘stickies’ too. Ittook me a while to know the difference, butI often lay in bed and listened to the crackof bullets and the pinging across to the oldBSR factory, where the British Army wasbased. At that time I had a quiet admira-tion for these people.”

Today Crossan finds himself able to ac-cept the current process - but in pragmat-ic terms. “It is very clear to me that the re-publican movement has evolved to becomea powerful political force on the island. Weare very much admired by other revolution-ary groups world-wide. Armed force is ameans to an end and, personally, I feel thatthe armed struggle was one facet of awider struggle that continues. I see greatchallenges ahead and I feel that the lead-ership of the movement has done greatwork in maintaining unity while at thesame time preparing for great change.”

But for Crossan, the family he knows asthe ‘republican family’ will always remainintact as will his memories of Martin Hur-son.

“I met many goodfriends from all overthe country andhave many goodmemories, but alsosad ones - especiallythe death of MartinHurson on the 1981hungerstrike.”

n TERRY CROSSAN:

‘Struggle entering hopeful phase’

- Crossan

endgame

14 Daily Ireland Friday July 29 2005endgame HISTORIC IRA STATEMENT

PERCUSSION: A girl bangs a bin lid on the ground outside Woodburn barracks in west Belfast in 1997. PHOTO: JARLATH KEARNEY

SHOW TRIALS: Protesters call for an end to show trials at a demonstration on north Belfast’s Crumlin Road outside the crown courtin 1985. PHOTO: ANDERSONSTOWN NEWS/ARCHIVE

CYCLIST: Campaigning in west Belfast for Sinn Féin’s DannyMorrison in 1983. PHOTO: ANDERSONSTOWN NEWS/ARCHIVE

BARRACKS: A demonstration against the RUC at Rosemountbarracks in Derry in 1995. PHOTO: JARLATH KEARNEY

“ Newfound optimism will replace hint of scepticism

Friday July 29 2005 Daily Ireland 15HISTORIC IRA STATEMENT

The year 1995 was a great year forme. I turned 16, got up close andpersonal with a ‘laydee’ for thefirst time, and enjoyed a full year

of relative peace. I remember sitting inthe Waterworks Park in north Belfastwith a group of teenage friends, drinkingcheap cider and waxing lyrical about howgood things were.

Living all my life less than 100 yardsfrom the city’s Oldpark Road interface, Iwas not so much touched as punched bythe Troubles.

Thankfully, I never lost a family mem-ber but an uncle was shot, friends weremurdered and blown up and a number ofrelatives did some serious jail time.

Because of this, I initially treated the1994 ceasefires with scepticism.

However, I quickly came to realise thatthe times were indeed changing and, bythe summer of 1995, Belfast was a muchbetter place.

My biggest wish is that, following yes-

terday’s IRA statement, kids turning 16 in2005 can harbour the same feelings ofhope I did turning 16 a decade ago.

To be able to stand on the corner of theOldpark Road in 1995 or in a bar or abookie’s and not worry about being shotwas amazing.

Before the ceasefires, when I called in-to my local — aptly nicknamed the Sui-cide because of its peace-line location —to watch Celtic, I would stand behind aconcrete pillar.

I was always paranoid about gunmenbut, in 1995, I felt I didn’t have to hide be-hind posts any more. It was these smallthings that were the most noticeable andultimately life-changing.

In the same way that the ceasefirestransformed my teenage years, confirma-

tion the IRA is to go away will alter thelives of thousands of kids throughout theNorth.

Sure, there will still be sectarian vio-lence, rioting at contentious parades andpeople getting kickings because of theirreligion or the soccer team they support.

But not having the IRA around sets theNorth on the road to normality.

It also effectively destroys the UlsterDefence Association and Ulster VolunteerForce as paramilitary forces. What reasondo they have to exist now? There is noone left to fight. Hopefully this statementalso means that a measure of the politicalpressure applied to the IRA in recentyears will now be applied to those cur-rently shooting and bombing on theNorth’s streets.

Later on today, I’m going to call intothe Suicide and, with it being builders’ payday, the majority of my mates, who arescaffolders and brickies, will be in.

We’re all the same age, we all comefrom the same backgrounds, we were allin our teens in 1995, and we’ll all agreethat July 28, 2005 is a historic day. To tellthe truth, it’s a milestone because none ofus has known life minus the Provos.

Writing this, I’m experiencing the sameemotions I did after the 1994 ceasefires— uncertainty, doubt and a hint of scepti-cism. But if 1995 is anything to go by, I’mquietly confident that these feelings willhave been replaced by a newfound opti-mism come next year.

I just hope every 16-year-old across theNorth feels the same.

Daily Ireland reporter Ciarán Barnes reflects on what the IRA statement means for him and other young people in the North

CIARÁN BARNESTo comment: c.barnes@dailyireland.com

Milestone can transform lives

COLLUSION: A rally against collusion goes down west Belfast’s Falls Road. PHOTO: MAL McCANNFUNERAL: Gerry Adams at a funeral in May 1987

PHOTO: ANDERSONSTOWN NEWS/ARCHIVE

GIBRALTAR THREE: Hearses carry the IRA volunteers Daniel McCann, Mairéad Farrell and Seán Savage along west Belfast’s Andersonstown Road in 1988. PHOTO: ANDERSONSTOWN NEWS/ARCHIVE

endgame

– Ciarán Barnes

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