Forgiveness - Letting Go by Moreen Gordon

"Mummy, why do soldiers carry guns if they are not going to shoot?"

I was lying under a table at the clinic with a nurse and a patient. Volleys of gunfire were just outside the window. More gunshots were quickly followed by ambulance sirens ,clanging fire engines and the silhouette of army tanks. Unbelievable, yet actually happening! We all knew that this had happened to others, but now ,us.

We were in Cupar Street clinic on a sunny Wednesday afternoon in 1973.
This was an inner-city health clinic situated near the "Peace-line "dividing
Catholics and Protestants -an area where general practitioners no longer carried out home visits and where black taxis ruled-where miles of dreary, forlorn redbrick houses stood without signs of hope, and walls were decorated with militant graffiti.
I thought longingly of my little family only four miles away in a University Chaplaincy, which had been our home for the past three years. How vulnerable we were!
A bomb exploded in the near distance; probably the Europa hotel again ,."Dear God, please help us all now "I prayed, and glancing at my two companions said with a smile, "No cup of tea today "as glass shattered outside. I was a thirty-three year old doctor with three young children waiting for me. Could I continue to forgive if they were ever harmed?

After what seemed an interminable time , the gunfire ceased. We crawled out. The clinic was over. We all just wanted to go home. Helicopters were droning overhead ; never a good sign .We each made sure that everyone had transport, then found our cars- mine a green Morris Minor Traveller SOB 3796. I checked that there were no incendiary devices underneath, and drove shakily along Cupar Street, on to the notorious Springfield road, past the Royal Victoria Hospital, down the Grosvenor Road and turned into Sandy Row.
There horror of horrors, a road block!
Two masked youths held up their hands forcing the cars to stop. Six other masked men were grouped around ,and another three ,masked and carrying weapons ,leant against shop walls. We were near Reid's shoe shop where I had taken our three children to buy Start-rite shoes. This was also where our friend Sean,, aged twenty-two ,had been shot dead ,and also not far from the spot where Jimmy had collapsed ,and had received successful mouth to mouth resuscitation .Good things still happened.
Ordinary people tried to live normal, everyday lives. Christians on both sides spoke of forgiveness and the possibility through forgiveness of peace. There were many acts of sheer bravery and selfless giving.
One masked man approached,
"What's yer name?"-I gave it.
"Where are youfrom?
Where are yougoing?"
"I am a doctor ",
"I don't believe that "was the reply .
"Open your boot"

Road blocks on country roads were even more frightening especially at nights. The roads were unlit, all car lights had to be turned off, and one was left sitting in darkness, at the mercy of the masked strangers.
In those days , we did not carry identity tags ,nor mobile phones, and we were encouraged to leave our driving licences at home, in case the car was hijacked , overturned or set on fire. If needed, the licence could be taken to the nearest Police station.

There had been an increase in army presence over the last few months , by which I mean , Saracen Tanks, armed cars, army road blocks , body searches (,especially males spread-eagled against walls),boots of cars searched, handbags opened, and the possibility of detention without trial.

However this was not an army road block; this was a paramilitary show of strength. The paramilitary felt that they had a raison d'etre, a purpose,albeit malignant, but a purpose nevertheless, and girded with a religious gilt, Protestant or Catholic. Atrocities were permitted, terrifying, intimidating, ugly , wrong and evil. They felt significant.

Thoughts going through my head were of my lovely family . They can kill our bodies but they cannot kill our souls. I remembered my mother's words a few days before, "This is not like the Second World War. Then we were all in it together . This is far worse!" I had found this very significant as she had lost her two brothers in that war. They had been killed within a week of each other and years had to pass before my mother was able to forgive fully.

I glanced in the car mirror." Come on , courage! Don't lose your temper or show distress. Trust. You have been through this before .Many others will be caught up in similar traps throughout city ." My husband would be home by now with the children. I felt drained . It had begun to rain. Time passed .
Slowly ever so slowly, we were allowed to travel on . I was only one mile and a quarter from home.

"Mark, Eileen , Stephen , Michael, I'm home , I called. "Sorry I'm late"-and a quick glance at my husband which said, "Tell you later, not in front of the children". Oh, the simple joys of an evening meal with them all,bath time and bedtime , prayers.
True , the army tank was again outside our bedroom window, but our springer spaniel was asleep under the bed and we were all together.
Little did we know that, within a few months ,our home would be bomb-blasted. That, mercifully, is a story for another day,

As we all know what later became known in Northern Ireland as "The Troubles" has happened and is tragically ongoing in many areas of our world; where the pall of unforgiveness has lingered for centuries, where hatred is bred in mothers' milk ,and young ears hear their fathers curse their fellow-man.
I live in Scotland now , loving it, yet deeply conscious that there is a lifetime of learning about forgiveness, and letting go------.of the negatives of the past.
The future is in seeking to" love God and our neighbours as ourselves."

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