Belfast Child Chapter Two. Glencairn – A loyalist stronghold.

 Well as no one seems to be interested in or reading my Autobiography I thought I would share some of my thoughts and events in my daily life. If this generates some interest in my Autobiography- great that’s-what-I-want

The News is full  of madness and sadness , why can’t we all live side-by-side and enjoy our journey through this one short life.

I know – life’s never that straight forward.

The Gods must have a sick sense of humour , if so many of  their disciples think its fine to slaughter innocent people the world over.  Seems to me that most of the hate and bigotry in the world is fuelled by the Gods and how we decide to worship them and tolerate other religions.

I’m no expert , but having been brought up in the war torn streets of West Belfast I understand what it feels like to live in a divided country , divided by a  religion and a  political oceans and over 400 years and more of intolerance and mistrust of each other.

I grew up in an environment were hate and mistrust of my Catholic neighbours and family were ingrained within the political and religious fabric of the community I lived in.  My people were at war with the Catholic population of Northern Ireland and we felt abandoned by the crown we worshipped and the politicians who ruled us. This opened the door to the paramilitaries(on both side)  and they sought a terrible price as they brought war and slaughter to the streets of Belfast and the mainland UK , as they fought a war that could never be  won,  but cost more then 3500 deaths and countless broken hearts and bodies.

But that’s in the past and a story for another day.

The Muslin community must do more and stand up and be counted. I am neither biased or bigot , my mother was a catholic  from the ultra Republican Falls road of Belfast and my father a protestant from heartlands of Loyalist Belfast , the Shankill road , so I grew up with an open mind and a nervous deposition and had more of a curiosity about my religious counterparts , rather than fanatical hatred.  Also my wife is half Indian , part French and a wee bit Scottish and many of her family are practising Muslims .So I think I therefore qualify for someone who does not registry religious or cultural differences. Live and let live is my motto.

But following the recent  terrible and pointless war these so called Islamic terrorist are sowing throughout the world in the name of Allah  , I felt sadness for the victims and disappointed with many branches of the Muslim community and religious leadership. No matter which god you worship and how you choose to worship them , to my knowledge no god demands the death of innocent life’s and such  religious intolerance . Maybe go back a few hundred years and you’ll find them, but this is 2015 for gods sake.

The point I want to make is that the Muslim community through out the world and more importantly in the UK need to stand up and be counted. They need to show their British neighbours and counterparts that they despise and deplore the acts of these mad men , who shame all Muslims the world over. There has been only a whisper from the Muslim community of the UK regarding recent events and I think its time the Muslim community stood  up  and yelled it from the highest roof tops – We stand united with our British brothers and sisters against this evil and will do all to  help  eradicate it.

The  majority of white British people are tolerant and are happy to live side by side with other religions and cultures communities , providing they are peaceful and live within the law. However their is a small majority who have a more prejudiced  view of the world and are suspicious of any change. Sadly we can’t change these freaks and I’m not going to waste my breath on them. The point I want to make is the British need to know that the Muslim community is with them. There is much doubt out there and this is largely due to the silence of the Muslim majority and doubt breeds  suspicion. It time the Muslims of this country united spoke as one. Stand up and tell the terrorist that this is your country too and you will not stand by and watch them shame Islam and kill in your name. If there was a huge out pouring of condemnation from the Muslim community  this would reassure the British public and send a clear to message to the terrorist-NOT IN MY NAME.

Anyways I’ve been waffling and must go for now, the kids will be home from school soon. The purpose of this blog was to tell you that my daughter is having a BOY FRIEND over tonight. Nothing unusual about this apart from the fact she’s only fifteen and I have been the only man in her life up to now. She does have a younger brother , but hates him with a passion.

The arrival of this young chap on the scene is causing me some discomfort. I’ve instructed her mother to inform her that she is not allowed to be alone with him , kiss him or encourage him in any way what-so–ever. Her mother called me an “Old Fart” and told me to get with the program and stay out -of-it. Not sure what all that meant, but I will be keeping a close eye on tonight’s events.

Been off the fags for three days now, but having to roll for thee wife is making it so much harder.

Weighted in at 13.6, need to cut out the sugar and cakes and do more exercise.

Got a hospital appointment tomorrow, great hours of my life sitting in a waiting room surrounded by sick people and over worked hospital staff.

Work on my book tonight and remember:

The past has gone, what’s done is done

But the future is yours so make it your own.

Bye

Belfast child

Below is the first chapter of my autobiography Belfast Child, which tells the story of my life growing up within the heart lands of Loyalist West Belfast and my life long search for my “dead” Catholic mother. Since the troubles began in the early sixties over 3500 people have been injured and lost their lives and this book is dedicated to all innocent victims of the troubles and those they left behind.

BELFAST CHILD

By JC

CHAPTER ONE

MUM & DAD

My father Samuel was born in 1944 and was the first of five sons and one daughter, born to my grandparents, John and Suzy Moore, who were both hard-core loyalists from the Sandy Row area of Belfast. Dads early years were typical of working class Protestants of the time, high unemployment and poverty dominated the area he lived in and home was in a council house in the heartlands of protestant West Belfast among other hard-core loyalist. Granda was lucky and like other protestant from the area worked in the shipyard, which at the time was controlled by protestant unions and blatant in its discrimination against employing Catholics. To the catholic population of Northern Ireland the shipyard was a symbol of unionist control and a constant reminder they were treated as second-class citizens in a Unionist run state. Being the oldest dad held a special place in both my grandparents hearts and like his siblings he was brought up to practice and respect the protestant culture and traditions, which controlled all aspects of their daily lives. Everything was going well until he met and fell in love with my Mother Sally, a catholic from the heartlands of republican Belfast.

My mother was a catholic from a hard-core republican family from the Falls Road area of Belfast and when her and my father got together both families opposed the relationship from the start. My grandfather disowned my father and both he and mum were ostracised for daring to cross the religious divided. Although tension and paranoia between the two communities was mounting, at this time mixed marriages did take place, but were always controversial and scorned upon by both communities.  Centuries of conflict between the two religions had left scars on both sides and it was always expected that when you got married, you would marry someone from your own religion. It was a marriage doomed from the start and although mum and dad tried their hardest to make it work, it was impossible for them to escape the sectarian conflict rage around them.   It was a marriage doomed from the start.

I was born on the 16th July 1966 and the first three years of my life were spent living in the Grovner Road area in the west of the city , which was one of the few areas of Belfast were Catholics and Protestants could live side by side., in relative harmony. Sadly this was to change within the coming years as the beginning of the modern troubles signalled all out war between the two communities of Northern Ireland and Belfast faced the biggest population shift since the Second World War. Relationships between the two communities of Northern Ireland had reached boiling point and within three years the Troubles reached a point of no return.

I was the third of four children and the first boy. My sister Margaret was born shortly after my parents married in 1962and Jean in December 1964. David the youngest was born in September 1968. In the early days mum and dad tried to shield us from the hatred that surrounded us and in an effort to bridge the gap give Margaret and Gerald catholic names. In the tribal world of Belfast names signified which religious group you came from and my Grandfather was outraged that two of his grandchildren were given catholic names. Hostilities continued between the two families and although my grandparents loved us, they could never accept that we had a catholic mother. Dad’s brothers were all ultra loyalist and there were attacks on my mother’s family, which made it impossible for mum and dad to disassociate them from the sectarian conflict surrounding them.

As if mum and dad didn’t have enough problems it was discovered when I was eighteen month old that I had osteomyelitis, a bone disease which lead to me spending the next two years of my life in hospital undergoing a total of sixteen operations as the doctors fought to save my right leg. Little did I know at the time that I was to spend the rest of my life in and out of hospital having various operations on my leg and a host of other medical problems?

The first five years of my life I spent more time in hospital than at home with the family and was shielded from the violent events that would ultimately lead to the break-up of my parents marriage and our family. My earliest memories are of me at about three in hospital, surrounded by other children, doctors and nurses. When I first went into hospital I missed my family terribly and cried myself to sleep feeling very sorry for myself. But as time went on and I realized that I hadn’t been abandon and mum, dad and other members of the family came to see me almost every day, I began to adapt to my life in the children’s ward. Due to the nature of my disease I had to constantly have plaster of Paris on both my legs and was unable to walk and was confined to my bed unless one of the nurses lifted me up and placed me on a chair or on the floor where I could play with the other children and crawl around until my heart was content. If I was really lucky I would be placed in this little four-wheeled cart and I would push myself around the ward for hours, getting myself into as much mischief as possible.

One day a new student nurse called Brown came to work on the ward and I immediately fell in love with her and decided she could be my foster mother in hospital. I was spending so much time away from my own mother and family that I became confused and cried more when nurse Brown left the ward at the end of her shift, than I did when my own mother left after visiting me. On her days off nurse Brown would come into the ward, get a wheelchair and take me on long walks in the park and hospital surroundings, feeding the birds and watching the squirrels fight.

Sometimes she would take me to her living quarters and make us both sandwiches and tea. I began so attached to Nurse Brown that when I was occasionally aloud home for the weekend to visit my family I would scream the place down and demand to be allowed to stay in the ward with Nurse Brown.

Although I was much too young to understand the complexities of my parents marriage I began to sense that something was not right when dad and mum began visiting me separately, with members of their own families in tow. This went on for some time and I gradually learnt to accept it as normal. Then one weekend when I was due to go home for a visit, mum turned up at the hospital early with one of her sisters and  bundled me into a waiting taxi.  At first I was surprised to find Margaret, Jean and David also in the car, but when mum said we were going on holiday I became excited began asking loads of questions.

“Where are we going? How long are we going for? Where’s dad?

Mum told me that dad would not be coming with us and I thought nothing more of it. Unknown to me dad and mum had finally parted and there was no turning back. The strain of their mixed marriage in the brutal environment of West Belfast had become too much for them to cope with and lead to various arguments and the eventual end of their marriage.

Mum took us straight to the airport and the five of us boarded a plane for London. Once we were in London a friend of mum’s picked us up from the airport and drove us to a flat in Stockwell. As a child I the whole thing very exciting and was blissfully unaware of the significance of it all. Within a few days dad arrived on the doorstep with his brothers to take us back to Belfast. There was nothing mum could do about it and although  we didn’t know it at the time , when we left mum crying after us on the door step that day , it was to be the last time any of us would ever see or have any contact with mum or any of her family again , for the next 25 years. We were told she was dead and never to mention her again.

From that moment onwards mum ceased to exist in our lives and through time we all came to believe she was dead and it was better not to talk about her. We all loved dad hugely and after mum left, he became the centre of our universe and we all worshiped the ground he walked on. Having spent so much time in hospital , I was use to being away from mum and the family and I  think this may have eased the pain of a three year old losing his mother. It must have affected my sisters more, because they were older than me and had a longer time to bond with mum. My brother David was only one at the time and has lived his entire life not knowing what it is like to have a mother and share her love.

Life went on and gradually mum became a distant memory of my first three years on earth and before long I had learnt to live without her in my life. When we arrived back in Belfast I was brought back to hospital to continue my treatment and dad brought the rest of the children home to begin a new life without mum. I was four at the time and having spent so much time away from mum in hospital, for the first few years after she had gone I hardly missed her presence at all, but this was change through time. Bedside’s I had Nurse Browne and all my adopted family in the hospital to keep me company. I used to pretend mum was still at home with the rest of the family and was too busy to visit me. But as I grew older the pain of not having her in my life tore me apart and I missed her terribly. Throughout my childhood and teenage years I tried my hardest to forget mum, but fate was to play havoc with my life and before I reached my tenth birthday my beloved father died and I considered myself an orphan. Little did I know that my mother was alive and well and living in Northern England and one day in the distant future I would be reunited with her.