Kate Rice ✍😔 A while ago, I read a short book.
It was the select writings of Mr. Brendan Hughes. His own writing, extracts from interviews - the honest words of a complex man. I read these pieces, and then I read the extracts of his interview for the Belfast Project that have been made available.
Today, I pre-ordered a bunch of Easter lilies to lay down in memory of Brendan Hughes and those who suffered and died during such a harrowing time in the history of Northern Ireland. The kind woman in the florist offered to tie the flowers with ribbons of green, white and orange. For a moment, I hesitated. I am English. My paternal side has lived in Ulster for as many generations as I can count. My maternal grandfather moved away from the Falls Road in the early 1960s. My maternal great-grandmother, a daughter of County Tyrone. Those beautiful six counties have always been in my blood, even if not by birth. I am the daughter of an Ulster man, yet to many - I am not a daughter of Ireland.
If I have inherited anything, it is uncertainty. In that negative space, there is a lack of identity. No claim can be made that won’t be contested by a louder voice. Brendan Hughes spoke honestly about his dissonance, though his was far different from mine. One particular writing of his has stuck with me, long after reading it:
To my friends who ask why I speak out, this is the reason. A love of people, a love of justice, a love of truth - and a hatred of power that gives privilege to the few and abuse to the many.
This reflects, for me, a care for the principles of an every day man - a desire for fairness, betterment for ordinary lives, and attention to truth. Even in a world where many would compromise their principles for personal gain, Brendan Hughes reflected on conscience and responsibility in ways that have stayed with me.
I have heard it said that Brendan would have taken no pride in the murals and celebrations in his name. While I cannot and do not condone the violence of the time, especially the deaths of civilians, these reflections help me understand how systemic oppression can drive people toward choices that may seem alien to a modern audience.
In his writing, Mr Hughes spoke of a young British soldier he had encountered in Leeson Street. He aimed his weapon, but in such close proximity all he could see was a “mere child, so frightened, out of his own country.” Out of all things Mr. Hughes wrote, it is the ending of this particular piece I often think of:
You came here at the direction of your leaders to invade our country. I had more reason to end your life than you ever had to take mine. I do not know you yet I know you so well. The two of us, working class guys thrown in against each other so that others could benefit. You were English and I was Irish - hardly reasons to kill each other. Farewell British soldier. May you and your children live happy lives. I would like to see you again - but not in uniform.
I often think of him by his window in Divis Flats. I think of his recognition that all those who suffered were the son’s and daughters of somebody - a truth easily forgotten when death tolls are announced with great regularity and in flashing colours, civilian and fighter alike.
On the 16th, I will lay lilies in reflection, to acknowledge a man who wrestled with conscience, and to remember the many lives affected and ended by a complex and tragic history. A man who expressed, in his own words, a desire for a better and fairer world for ordinary people. A son, for better or worse, of Ireland.
I do not know if I can claim to be a daughter of Ireland, though I am a daughter of many things. A daughter of an Ulster man. A daughter of truth. A daughter of diaspora. On the 16th, I will lay those lilies as a daughter of hope, that such pain will not be felt again.
⏩Kate Rice is a peace baby.























