Considering Grace. Gladys Ganiel
these shootings. The protest is not against the UDA, but against illegal punishments.
The letter encouraged people on the estate to give information to the police. The UDA wrote a letter back that said: ‘If you think the police are friends of Taughmonagh, you’re living on a different planet.’
After that, Bill’s church was daubed with graffiti and an arson attempt destroyed the church kitchen. It was rumoured he would leave the estate, but Bill believed God wanted him there – and that there were people on the estate who wanted him there, too.
In one public meeting, a UDA man attacked me and one wee woman stood up and she says, ‘Now, keep Bill around because when I got my house burgled he came round and he gave me money and you lot didn’t do that!’ The UDA man said, ‘I actually like Bill Moore, it’s just the things he says I don’t like!’
‘He’s still alive.’
Bangor West was established as a new congregation in 1961. David Bailie was there from the beginning. A predominantly Protestant town, Bangor did not experience the Troubles in the same way as mixed border areas or inner-city interfaces. Members of the security forces often moved there for its relative safety.
David experienced ‘a baptism of the Holy Spirit’ in the late 1960s. This is a personal encounter with God, often involving physical or emotional healing. Bangor West started a healing service, which met after its Sunday evening service. Those who attended began praying for the safety of people in the security forces. ‘People would give the names of policemen, and at the end of each session, the final thing we would do, would be to name those policemen. Many of them we would not know. The name would be given by somebody who would have cared for them.’
David shared two experiences which he believes demonstrated God’s answers to their prayers.
A policeman was coming home one night, parking his car in his garage. As he walked to his front door he heard a voice saying, ‘Run for it!’ Which he did. The door was normally locked. This night it wasn’t locked. He rushed through it and a hail of bullets came in after him. He’s still alive. The other was a young man just starting off as a policeman. There was a bomb scare. He was on the beat with a senior policeman. The older policeman said to the young man, ‘You and I will go down and warn people.’ As he was walking, he heard a voice say, ‘Fall flat!’ Which he did. And the bomb went off. He was covered with shrapnel and when he was pulled out, he said, ‘Who called for me to fall flat?’ Nobody had.
‘If they think you are on a personal crusade, they won’t go with you.’
Husband and wife Stanley and Valerie Stewart ministered in Clones, Co. Monaghan at the time of writing. Stanley was ordained in 1997, after a career in teaching. He also served as a part-time RUC reservist. He attended the special General Assembly in 1990 which produced the Coleraine Declaration on peace. The Coleraine Declaration reflected the Stewarts’ perspective even before Stanley’s ordination. He said, ‘I can remember thinking, “God is speaking.”’ Valerie was also a teacher. Both were involved with faith-based cross-community initiatives where they taught in Dungiven, Co. Londonderry, a town with a strong republican movement. Because of the security risk, Stanley wore concealed body armour and ‘carried a side arm as I taught in a secondary school’.
Stanley’s first congregation was in Donagheady, Co. Tyrone. They secured European Union peace funding to renovate a derelict cottage in the grounds of the church into a cross-community centre. They felt supported by the congregation, but some people in the community – from both nationalist and unionist persuasions – resisted their work. They had been at university in Coleraine during the David Armstrong controversy and the lesson they learned was that if you wanted to bring people along, it was important to move slowly and build trust. Stanley said, ‘If only David Armstrong had a support network. If you run too far ahead it can be counter-productive. Yet I have great admiration for his willingness to tackle the issues that weren’t being tackled.’ Valerie added, ‘It’s so important not to go out on your own. You must have others that you can trust, those people you can call who you know will pray for you. You have to gain people’s confidence. If they think you are on a personal crusade, they won’t go with you.’
CHAPTER 3
Victims
People who were bereaved or injured – or in some cases, both – had no choice but to respond to the Troubles. They have been forced to consider a range of responses: anger, revenge, hatred, bitterness, mercy, forgiveness, reconciliation and grace.
Victims’ voices are often absent from public conversations about dealing with the past, so we do not understand how they suffered at the time, how they manage their pain, and how they live with the legacy of the Troubles. For these reasons, we spoke to more victims than any other category of people. Some said they didn’t consider themselves victims; others called themselves survivors.
We have presented victims’ stories holistically, but there are common themes throughout. Ministers and other members of congregations supported most victims after the incident. But some victims felt abandoned by their church. Others doubted God, some asked Him ‘Why?’, some lost their faith altogether for a time. Many were comforted by prayer and reading the Bible, or by the idea that a just God would judge the perpetrators someday. Bereaved children were inspired by their grieving parent or parents – usually mothers – who made sure they grew up without bitterness. Others found solace in memorials to their loved ones, such as plaques in their local church; and by hearing their names recited on Remembrance Sunday. They still needed pastoral care, especially on the anniversaries of incidents. Some received this care; others did not. We did not ask victims directly about forgiveness. Most of them brought it up themselves. There was a range of perspectives: some had forgiven the perpetrators, others had not, and some hoped they would forgive them eventually. We asked victims about reconciliation, and their views diverged widely. Some thought reconciliation was impossible and even inappropriate if perpetrators did not repent; others thought it should be central to their lives and the mission of the Church.
For most, their faith and the support of their ministers and congregations had helped them heal – or at the very least, cope. But very few had much to say about the wider Presbyterian Church in Ireland (PCI). It did not impinge on their everyday lives, and they had never heard of its peacemaking programmes. Only one person mentioned participating in such a programme, which he found helpful. Others attended special events for victims organised by PCI, but criticised them for being insensitive and lacking follow-up.
‘It would be nice to have reconciliation, but at the same time our lives have been ruined.’
Anne’s father lost his legs in a car bomb. He had retired early from the Ulster Defence Regiment (UDR), but was targeted because of his previous work in the security forces. Anne’s mother developed dementia. Anne and her husband George cared for Anne’s parents until they died. Anne said, ‘We had a young family and our lives were wrecked.’
In those days, it was rare for someone to lose their legs and survive. But her father pulled through and learned to navigate life in his wheelchair. Anne’s mother, who died before her father, was more difficult to care for. ‘I literally lost my mother. It was quite horrific with her. I think a lot of it played on her mind, trying to deal with it.’ Her father lived nearby in his own house until he died at age ninety-three. He was resourceful, always fixing things and even gluing down objects around his house, like lamps, to keep from knocking them over as he went about in his wheelchair.’ She said, ‘He was a very determined man, and that’s how he survived. But we’ve missed out on our family growing up because they’ve had to grow up with Granda coming first.’
Anne’s father did not speak about the incident. He suffered severe bouts of pain and was confined to bed. At times, the pain was so much he rang Anne to come and sit with him during the night. Otherwise, he tried to get out of the house every day. He attended church until the pain became too much. George said, ‘He was more forgiving about it than I would be. He never spoke much about it. It was his way of coping.’ This reminded George of his father, who found the body of his own nephew, a policeman, who had been shot. ‘He never talked much about it either, although