Kindness amid the Troubles: from a snowball fight with British soldiers to an inclusive Twelfth bonfire

“Even in the darkest, most despairing of times,” says Alan McBride, “there were still little glimmers of hope, little glimmers of humanity, that shone through.”

In 1998 he was in South Africa when he spotted a book in second-hand shop: A Brighter Side to Apartheid. At first he was incredulous – “there was nothing bright about apartheid” – but when he began to read, he found it was “filled with little anecdotes; some were quite funny, but others were of compassion and human kindness”.

It made him think about his own life, and the kindness of one woman in particular, his daughter Zoe’s primary schoolteacher, Dorothy Cairns.

McBride’s wife, Sharon, and his father-in-law, Desmond Frizzell, were among those killed by the IRA in the Shankill bomb in October 1993. Now a single father, he did his best to raise their two-year-old daughter, Zoe, alone, but always struggled with her hair.

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“I couldn’t do it, I tried all those pigtails and things, but I’d get the wee plait thing done and it would start to unravel so it was easier to brush it straight back, put a bobble on it and send her off to school.

“One morning her teacher, Mrs Cairns, asked to see me ... The first thing she said to me was, ‘Alan, are you having trouble with Zoe’s hair?’

“She just said to me, very simply, just send her to school 10 minutes earlier in the morning, put two bobbles and a hairbrush in her bag and I’ll do her hair for her,’ and she did her hair for the rest of the school year.

“It meant that Zoe was able to fit in with her wee class friends, and she used to come home with her hair done all different shapes, and she loved it, and as a parent at the time, it just meant a lot.”

Zoe’s story is one of almost 50 memories collected in a new book, A Brighter Side of the Troubles: Stories of Kindness and Compassion that Occurred During the Conflict in Northern Ireland, which was launched this week by the victims and survivors group Wave Trauma Centre, where McBride is a project co-ordinator.

It was edited by McBride and George Larmour, whose brother John was killed by the IRA in 1998. Each story represents, says McBride, “those little acts of human kindness that I think helped to restore hope whenever they were at their darkest. They were bright lights shining in the midst of the Troubles.”

The book was made possible by financial support from the Department of Foreign Affairs’ Reconciliation Fund. McBride is keen to emphasise the Irish Government’s role in peace-building in the North.

“They are in many respects an unsung hero of the peace,” says McBride. “They have done nothing but good here in Northern Ireland in terms of the money that they’ve given to good causes and the way they’ve tried to promote good relations.”

The plan is to take the book on the road, so that those who have contributed stories can share them in person and spark conversations about kindness around Northern Ireland.

“I think we need that here in our society, we need it in our politics,” says McBride. “Could you imagine how our politics would be transformed here if our politicians acted from a perspective of just trying to be neighbours and trying to be kind to each other?

[ New book shines a light on the emotional legacy of the Troubles ]

“I don’t see why we couldn’t all just work together if we had the same mindset. I might be a dreamer or an idealist, but I believe there’s more people like me. You just never hear them.”

A Brighter Side of the Troubles: Stories of Kindness and Compassion that Occurred During the Conflict in Northern Ireland is available now from Wave Trauma Centre, Chichester Park South, Belfast, BT15 5DW, tel 0044-(0)28-90779922. The book is free but there is a charge for postage and packing wavetraumacentre.org.uk

An edited selection of stories from the book is published below

Strule Park, Omagh

‘One of the soldiers fell as one of our perfectly aimed snowballs knocked his beret off’

Strule Park in Omagh is built on a hillside, and without fail, every year, during the winter school holidays, it snowed.

For some reason the Brits [the British army] would always come out on patrol during the snow – the highlight of our day!

Friends would appear from nowhere; paths and car bonnets were all loaded up with our stockpile of frozen ‘ammunition’ and our ambush was ready.

Eventually the first ‘Piglet’ Land Rover would climb up the hill, round the top corner and the onslaught would begin.

Then the battle really started. The Land Rovers stopped and out they jumped and started making massive snowballs that were soon being tossed like hand grenades into our trenches.

[ North or South, no line can be drawn under the Troubles ]

But we hit back and one of the soldiers fell as one of our perfectly aimed snowballs knocked his beret off.

The famous Snowball Battle of Strule Park was over in minutes with us cheering as they jumped back in and the Land Rovers went whining on their way.

Looking back now I’m sure those tough lads were more than happy to have us kids throwing snowballs at them instead of the usual ammunition that was used against them.

The innocence and the laughter between us kids and those adults, who were really not that much older than us, is a memory that still lives with me now.

Pete Breslin

Wrong place, wrong time, Belfast

‘We were crying at this stage. I blurted out: ‘Missus, we’re Catholics and we’re lost!’

There is not a day that passes that I don’t think of my dear mother and wonderful childhood memories of her.

As I remember my mother, there is another lady I can’t forget, who touched my early life and whose actions helped make me the man I am today.

I was around nine years old in July 1970 and we were living in the towering Divis Flats complex [in west Belfast].

I had decided to walk to my granny’s house in Springhill Avenue, up the Springfield Road, along with three of my mates.

When we got about halfway up, we realised that the road was blocked by police and army as there were bands and marchers coming out of one of the side streets on to the main road.

We could see a number of older boys looking at us and we heard one of them shouting in our direction “Are youse Fenians?”

We quickly turned and started to walk back, but in our panic, we took a wrong turn; we had stupidly walked through to the top end of the Protestant Shankill Road area.

She brought the four of us in and sat us down on her big sofa and said very calmly, “You’re all right lads, don’t be cryin’”, and she gave us a biscuit and some lemonade

The further we went we became very aware that we as Catholics were definitely in the wrong area at the wrong time and were becoming more afraid with every step we took.

I decided to knock the door of a house. We were crying at this stage; a lady opened the door and she looked just like my mum, and I blurted out: “Missus, we’re Catholics and we’re lost!”

She brought the four of us in and sat us down on her big sofa and said very calmly, “You’re all right lads, don’t be cryin’”, and she gave us a biscuit and some lemonade.

After about 10 minutes she walked us to a makeshift barricade at the end of one of the streets, spoke to the men, and one of them led us through the makeshift barricade.

The lady put her arm on my shoulder and told me to head straight home.

Michael McConville, son of Jean McConville, a mother of 10 who was abducted, murdered and secretly buried by the IRA in 1972. Her remains were recovered in 2003

A breakdown in south Armagh

‘A random act of kindness by a group of workmen to a woman stranded by the side of the road’

South Armagh had a bad reputation during the Troubles, often referred to as “Bandit Country” by those who had never been there and only heard about it when it made the news.

Late one evening my aunt, a full-time social worker, was making her way home in the family car when she got a flat tyre.

Along came a van filled with workmen on their way home. A couple of the workmen got out and changed the wheel while their workmates waited patiently in the back of the van.

A random act of kindness by a group of workmen to a woman stranded by the side of the road.

You might think that there is nothing unusual about this story; the men in the van were doing what any decent human being would do when coming across someone in need.

My aunt was a Catholic woman, and these men were mostly Protestants on their way home from the textile factory at Glenanne.

The following week their van was stopped by the IRA and the men were callously shot down in a hail of bullets in what became known as the Kingsmill Massacre.

Kathleen

Newcastle, Co Down

‘The note said “From one mother to another” and included a £5 note for the children’

My brother was disappeared and murdered in January 1981 and his remains were found in 1984.

His wife predeceased him and they had three children who were orphaned and reared by their grandparents.

My father undertook numerous radio and media appeals seeking information as to his whereabouts.

My father was extremely courageous to make radio appeals and one of his RTÉ interviews was particularly poignant and emotive.

The family received a number of letters of support following the interview being aired. One in particular stands out.

It was addressed to ‘The mother in Newcastle whose son is missing’ and, incredibly, it reached its destination.

Inside the letter was a brief note which said “From one mother to another” and included a £5 note for the children.

Amid the darkness of the worst of times it was extremely touching for a stranger to reach out to us in such an empathetic way, a simple act of kindness which meant so much.

We never knew who the unknown mother was, just that she was from Limerick as the post mark on the letter indicated.

When I think of this lady I still smile, and if I knew who she was I would sincerely thank her for her act of kindness.

Sheila Simons. Her brother Eugene was disappeared in 1981. His body was found by chance in 1984

Belfast, Eleventh of July

‘A bonfire that stood in the middle of the garden, built by my Catholic neighbour, just for me’

It was easy for me to romanticise the Eleventh of July. I grew up in a loyalist housing estate and our bonfire was one of the largest in the city, a fact we were all immensely proud of.

When my wife, Sharon, was killed, I revisited my youth as I sat by her graveside at Carnmoney Cemetery. Sharon was killed in an IRA bomb on Belfast’s Shankill Road and, after a period of grieving, I started to ponder the reason for the murder – or indeed any of the murders.

I had a ‘lightbulb’ moment – I needed to move house. If I wanted my daughter to escape the kind of life I had, steeped in sectarianism, then we needed to move to a mixed area, where she would get to play with little Catholic girls as well as little Protestant girls.

We moved about two miles away to a little mixed community just off the Antrim Road and, sure enough, Zoe became best friends with a couple of little Catholic girls that lived across the street, and I became good friends with their parents.

One Eleventh Night the girls’ father called to my door and invited me to a barbecue at his house.

It was early in the evening, and I was getting ready to go around the bonfires, but I didn’t want to tell him as he was a Catholic and I didn’t want to cause offence.

There is no sound in all the world more beautiful than children laughing and playing together

Zoe was pulling on my trouser leg and begging me to go so she could play with her friends; we headed across the street, down the driveway of number 57 and in through the back gate.

Sausages and burgers were sizzling away, beers were in the ice bucket and the CD player was belting out hits by Guns N’ Roses.

What caught my attention was a bonfire that stood in the middle of the garden, built by my Roman Catholic neighbour, just for me.

Later as we drank beer and had a burger, we told stories around the fire, while our children, a little Protestant girl and little Catholic girls, played in the garden.

There is no sound in all the world more beautiful than children laughing and playing together.

Later that night I went to a bonfire on the Shore Road and watched as an Irish flag was burned on a loyalist bonfire while the crowd cheered on.

Then I thought about what had happened in my Catholic neighbour’s house only an hour before and I got a glimpse of what Northern Ireland could be like.

Alan McBride

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