Voice of the voiceless
By Laurence McKeown
I told the editor some weeks ago that I would have to give up
this column. Pressures of studies and deadlines to be met mean
that some activities - stimulating as they may be - have to be
foregone at least for now. I'll miss the handsome salary of
course, but sure...
I actually told him that I would not mention that this was my
last one. Didn't want to become all sentimental or provoke riots
on the streets. I would just slip quietly away. When I sat down
to write though, I didn't feel that there was anything in the
news of late that motivated me enough to feel I wanted to comment
upon it.
But then I've often felt that those sort of issues get enough
coverage and what this paper should be focused upon is
facilitating the voice of the voiceless to be heard. So I would
like to recount a conversation I had on the phone this morning
and I hope that Mary will not be offended or embarrassed.
The phone call wasn't actually for me. I was simply answering it
as Sonia was not available. ``Would you like the mobile number
where Sonia can be reached? It's one of those Cellnet numbers so
you have to dial 0035387...''
``No, it's not that important, not today. I need to get out of
this house before I crack up. Yet if I go out it's going to hit
me again. Do you know what the cut-off time is for letters to the
Andersonstown News?''
``Monday evening, I think. But you could give them a call. I'm
sure they would be flexible if it was urgent.''
``You see, it's these books that have been written. They mention
Paddy. And the things they say. I just want to say something
myself. I meet people in the supermarket and in the shops and
they ask if I've seen it and what I think of it and I just wonder
why do these people write these things, and it brings it all back
to me. So do you think I could write a letter? If I could only
settle myself down to write I would. It's my eldest daughter's
birthday today you see. I think I'll just go out into town and
buy her something for her birthday. It'll do me good too. To get
out of the house. But I hope nobody asks me about it again. Not
today. I'm sorry. Tell Sonia I'll be in touch with her later.
It's just not a good day for me.''
I said goodbye and put the phone down, guilty that when I had
first lifted it I had been almost annoyed at the interruption. I
was busy, you see. Caught up in the hustle and bustle of life.
Getting things done. For Mary Brady, though, life is much
different. She has to live with the loss of her husband Paddy.
Paddy, the father of her children. Paddy, the member of Sinn Fein
who was killed by loyalists. Paddy, the milkman, the community
worker. Paddy, whose killers now talk of how they targeted and
executed him.
Mary doesn't have a voice, except at the other end of a phone.
Unlike Sean O'Callaghan, Martin McGartland, Eamonn Collins and
others, The Sunday Times will not want to offer her money to tell
her tale. She won't be given a computer to write her story. Hers
is a voice that must be silenced. We cannot even hear her quiet
sobs, the sobs of a mother, the sobs of a single parent, a widow.
Except at the end of a phone. No platform for her. No guest
appearances.
That's why this paper should exist, to hear the cries of the
downtrodden, the oppressed, the humiliated, the degraded, the
ones who have been forgotten. And they don't usually turn up on
our doorstep with their tale already printed. Gura fada buan a
shaol.
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