Andy Burnham, the new mayor of Manchester, who coped so gracefully with the aftermath of the terrible atrocity at the Manchester Arena, said that we must not blame or stigmatise Muslims for the evil deeds of extremists. He drew a comparison with not stigmatising Irish people in general for the bombing campaigns carried out by the IRA.
He is right, both morally and politically. The person who carries out a wicked deed is the person responsible – the guilt does not belong, collectively, to a wider group of co-religionists or compatriots.
And yet when I look back on the IRA bombing campaigns of the 1970s, 1980s and even early 1990s, I believe the sense of horror and shame that we came to feel did play a useful part in increasing public repudiation of these acts of terrorism.
I remember having conversations with Henry Kelly and Fergal Keane about this: conversations whose theme was that such attacks were “not in our name”.
The Irish community was exercised by the way in which the wrong people were accused and convicted of the Birmingham and Guildford bombs in 1974, and was much taken up with reversing those miscarriages of justice (campaigns in which Cardinal Basil Hume played a leading role). But while the Birmingham Six and the Guildford Four were wrongly convicted, somebody carried out those killings of ordinary, innocent people, and somebody did so in the name of the Irish Republican Army.
In Ireland, the leading intellectual Conor Cruise O’Brien mounted an effective campaign of words against what he called the “sneaking regarders” – those who had a “sneaking regard” for terrorist violence. His influence grew, and after the two little boys in Warrington were killed by an IRA bomb, the then President Mary Robinson flew to Warrington on her own initiative to bear witness at the funeral. She was emblematic of that “not in our name” feeling growing among the Irish community, at home and abroad.
Andy Burnham is right to say that groups should not be scapegoated for the deeds of individuals. But shame and mortification at what is being done can activate a groundswell of opinion that will help to halt the slaughter of the innocents.
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It was disclosed during President Trump’s visit to the Vatican that his wife, Melania, is a Catholic (and she asked Pope Francis to bless her rosary beads). It’s hardly surprising: Slovenia is a mainly Catholic country (with a sizeable Lutheran population) placed between Italy, Austria, Hungary and Croatia. Although more recently part of former Yugoslavia, Slovenia had historically been part of the Austro-Hungarian empire. Some Slovenes thought of themselves as the closest of all the Balkan nations to Habsburg culture.
Melania grew up under a communist regime, but evidently was baptised at some point in the traditional faith of most Slovenes – although she doesn’t appear to be a practising Catholic (the Trumps usually attend an Episcopalian church when in Florida).
There are two saints named Melania: the elder (d 410) was a Roman widow who travelled to Palestine where she became associated with St Jerome. She was apparently a “domineering” personality. Her granddaughter, St Melania the younger (d 439), was married off to a relative against her will who, after the early death of her two children, devoted herself to the poor and the emancipation of slaves, selling off much of her husband’s property. After Melania was widowed, she founded a community of women, dedicating herself to a life of prayer, good works and the copying of books.
I don’t suppose that President Trump would be particularly thrilled to hear of a patron saint who sold off all her husband’s property to benefit the poor.
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That wonderful comic Barry Cryer last week visited the Astor Theatre in Deal, Kent (with his gifted musical stage partner Ronnie Golden) and told the following joke, which went down very well.
A Irishman enters a railway carriage announcing an emergency. “Is there a priest present?” No answer. “Is there a vicar present?” No answer. “Is there a rabbi present?” No answer. Then a little man in the corner speaks up: “Actually, I’m a Methodist minister – can I help?”
He’s told: “You’re no good to us – we’re looking for a corkscrew!”
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