May Mornings

One morning in May the blue sky had left Belfast and grey clouds hung themselves to an empty sky . The rain poured down on the civil rights march and all the people got drenched .
The march was stopped at the bridge by the police . Like animals they brought down their batons upon a peaceful parade and the marchers began to fall .
Unable to get to their feet they could not march any further .
Jesus wept .
Innocent blood was washed from their faces and swept into the river . The brute force was captured by an overseas film crew .
Inside the city was a growing community of photographers, journalists and sight seers witnessing first hand just what was taking place . Eventually the truth was getting out and the propaganda machine was switched off .
One morning in May as I read the morning paper I was shocked by the number of people who had been during killed the night before . I wished it not to be true but the sad face of my city was scared by the brutality of a war escalating every day . The front page of the newspapers had graphic photographs of cars and buses upturned and burning . There were pictures of soldiers with rifles pointing into a crowd of stone throwers .
I saw photos of the homes in the streets where I lived on fire . The inside pages tried to explain the story behind the madness around Northern Ireland in 1968 as each day homes were burnt and people were killed . TV crews from all over the world began to arrive and capture on film the horror of war .At night when you switched on the TV and watched the news it brought home how real the war was . As the streets around my home were portrayed by the journalists and their report of the bloodbath the night before sent a message to the rest of the world how helpless we all felt in Belfast .
Last nights fatalities included seven men shot dead in a corner bar by some crazed gunman with a death wish who crossed over the divide with murder
on his mind . Three special branch officers were found shot dead in their parked car . Then there were the combatants corpses that lay on pavements on both sides of the road . The dead count in all numbered over twenty five civilians , seven British soldiers , five policemen and three members from the special branch . Scores of people were in a serious condition in the Belfast City hospital . People had learned to switched off from it all .
Some say war is a necessary thing . It had to happen and for what ever the reason it is acceptable . Growing up with a war you learn to adapt to whatever life throws at you . It's easy to sleep when you're tucked up in a warm bed listening to the sound of gunfire ripping through the sky . It's easy to turn a blind eye to those who fight for a cause they believe in .
Its hard to get up in morning and discover that innocent life has been lost . It's even harder still when that life is someone close to you .It's hard not to react and give in to the anger brewing inside you and seek after revenge .
After wrestling with demons I evicted thoughts of hatred from my life and spent time doing spiritual retreats I was able to escape from the war in the wilderness of the streets of my home town .

People called me Gandi because I shaved my head . I liked being bald . It kind of left me out there in the open about things . Maybe it could have even been a religious thing without the sackcloth and ashes but I did my own penance and prayers for my beloved city of Belfast . I prayed constantly for peace that never seemed to come . I felt distant but close to God in my dark night of the soul experience .I stopped asking why we had to have war and learned to accept the way it was . There is a lot be said for serenity .
One morning in May after I had read the morning papers I swallowed a cup of tea and eat some toast then headed down town to the city center .

I passed the junction of Antrim and Cliftonville Roads before saying hello to some of the beggars standing on the footpath . They were alcoholics with a smile who I had known for years . Some of them turned to the drink to cope with the situation in Belfast . Others were born that way .

Sometimes when I had something extra in my pocket I would hand over a few bob for them to buy a bottle . I always enjoyed having a chat with them .

"Good morning Gandi."
They would say .

"Give me some skin ."
I would answer them back with an open hand .

They called me Gandi because I shaved my head . I liked being bald . It kind of left me out there in the open about things . Maybe it could have even been a religious thing without the sackcloth and ashes but I did my own penance and prayers for my beloved city of Belfast .
I prayed constantly for peace that never seemed to come .
I felt distant but close to God in my dark night of the soul experience .

I stopped asking why we had to have war .

One morning in May I went for an early morning walk through the city center and got into a taxi . There was always some one waiting for a taxi in Castle Street . I put my suitcase into the boot and sat beside the driver .

"To the airport "
I said .

That morning I felt as if life had came to an end . There was an eerie silence that clung to the air . I was saying goodbye to the place where I grew up .

An ambulance thundered past the taxi probably with another victim of some sectarian slaughter . After years of murders all the cemeteries were full .
All the prisons and interment camps were bursting with inmates .
All the factories had long ago closed .
All that remained was a slaughter house .
I could no longer live in a slaughter house and decided to leave .
It was a very hard things to do but necessary if I was to remain healthy and sane .
It was one morning in May in a country far away I lifted the newspaper and
Read the report about the good Friday agreement . There were some pictures on the TV that evening and I saw at long last the blue sky had returned to Belfast and the kids again were out playing in the streets .
I prayed for the people of Belfast and maybe God will give me the grace to return to that place, one morning in May .

By Paul McCann

The End