Ryan My Life in the IRA:

The Border Campaign
1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-78117-519-4
Verlag: Mercier Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 352 Seiten

Discover the Inspiring Story of a Revolutionary: Mick Ryan's memoir of growing up in Dublin's East Wall and his journey as former IRA Director of Operations. Explore his commitment to the cause, despite suffering, hardship, and disappointment in My Life in the IRA. Understand why these volunteers persisted against all odds, driven by a deep sense of obligation to the ideals of 1916. Immerse yourself in the journey of a man who saw his involvement as a calling, a way to give meaning to his life. Get a unique perspective on the Irish struggle for independence and be moved by this tale of bravery, conviction and regret.

Mick Ryan grew up in Dublin's East Wall. From an early age he was entranced by stories of Ireland's fight for freedom and he joined the IRA as a teenager. On 12 December 1956 he participated in the launch of the border campaign and, with the exception of two brief periods in prison, was active throughout the campaign. Padraig Yeates is an editor, journalist, trade unionist and author. He has worked for many years for The Irish Times and is the author of the Dublin quartet: Lockout: Dublin 1913, A City in Wartime: Dublin 1914-18, A City in Turmoil: Dublin 1919-21 and A City in Civil War: Dublin 1921-24.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Ryan, Michael

Leseproben

1
A Dublin Childhood,
1936–50

My mother was a native of Oldcastle, Co. Meath, but it was a place I seldom visited in my youth. It was Killary in Co. Meath, the birthplace of my maternal great-grandmother, and Collon in Co. Louth, the home of my maternal grandfather, where my siblings and I spent almost every summer holiday.

My father was Dublin-born and proud of it. His father and mother came from Golden, near Cashel, Co. Tipperary. They eloped in 1898 and settled in Dublin. My grandfather joined the tram company of William Martin Murphy, the notorious Dublin employer who locked out the workers in the infamous 1913 Dublin Lockout. My grandfather was one of the few inspectors who joined the subsequent strike. As a result, he lost his job and was thrown out of the company house in Dock Street, where he had lived from the time he became an inspector. The hardship endured by my father’s family because of the strike left its mark and he was never to forget it. My father had an abiding hatred for Murphy, as did thousands of Dubliners who had suffered terrible deprivation in the Lockout. He was only twelve when the Irish Volunteers and the Citizen Army made their brave revolt against British rule in 1916, but he became one of the casualties nevertheless when he was wounded in the lower left leg by a bullet or piece of shrapnel. The wound never healed properly. It caused him pain and gave him a limp for the rest of his life.

At sixteen he began work, selling coal door-to-door from a handcart. He later bought his own horse and cart and expanded his round, so that by 1932, at the age of twenty-eight, he was making a good weekly income and was able to marry my mother, who was eighteen at the time. He bought his house outright for £300. However, he was something of an enigma, on the one hand capable of deep sensitivity and sympathy, while on the other sometimes very cruel in his treatment of my mother. He became addicted to drink and would get fiercely angry when drunk, invariably taking it out on her. He would also have bouts of insane jealousy and accuse her of all kinds of infidelity.

I was born in 1936 and my memory of childhood was one of constant fear as well as deprivation. There was a permanent shortage of money to buy food, clothes and other essentials. Things were in short supply generally in the war years because of rationing. Together with my father’s abuse of drink, it made life seem almost intolerably sad for me, my five sisters – Eithne, Monica, Gertie, Gretta and Minnie – and my younger brother, Nicholas.

Coal shortages after the outbreak of war saw my father emigrate to England to find work. He earned good money, sending back enough for my mother to make ends meet. My memory of these years is vague, but I was certainly conscious of the war because of the blackouts, the shortage of food, clothes and money. There was the anxious wait for letters from my father and relatives in England, so we would know they were all right. More immediate news was hard to come by because very few people on our road had a radio. On the day of a big match in Croke Park, if the weather was fine, people with radios would put them in their front parlour and open the window so that neighbours could gather round to hear the commentary. We would generally go to our Aunt Molly McLean’s to hear the match or a play, and my uncle, John Geraghty, used to call regularly and tell us of the latest broadcast from Berlin by ‘Lord Haw-Haw’ (the nickname for pro-German broadcaster William Joyce, who was hanged by the British after the war). There was always an air of seriousness when there was talk of the latest developments because so many families had relatives in England or in the British forces.

There always seemed to be a wan twilight in the houses at the time, probably because of the blackouts and fuel shortages. Our cooking was done on a Stanley range in the kitchen, and Mother did wonders with our rations. Our diet was supplemented by the odd sack of spuds, a chicken or a few eggs that came from our grandfather in Collon. And every summer from when I was seven until I was fourteen I went to his house for a few weeks. The food, the freedom and security, along with the happy family atmosphere, made it seem like a paradise compared with home.

After my father’s return from England once the war finished, he began selling turf. It was mainly winter work, as most people who bought from the ‘bellman’ (so called from the bell that hung from his horse’s collar to announce his arrival) couldn’t afford a fire from May to October, and carried out in appalling conditions of snow, rain and sleet. From 1947 his limp began to give him trouble and he decided to invest in a motor truck that a ‘friend’ said he could buy for £100. The idea was that the truck could be used for other business when the winter fuel season ended. He had to borrow the £100 from a loan company in Castle Street at exorbitant interest, mortgaging our house as collateral. The truck never went right; it was old and in bad repair. He did get a few weeks’ work hauling oranges from the docks when the first big shipment arrived after the war. Then the truck just stopped. It took years to pay off the debt. I cried a lot in those days and was increasingly angry at my father’s behaviour and the wrong he had done to our family.

The worst aspect of his drunkenness and his treatment of us over the years was the fact that all the neighbours knew what was going on. For me this was a terrible source of shame and embarrassment, affecting almost everything I did or thought. Our poverty also meant that neither my sisters nor I could consider staying on in school. Even before we left, we supplemented his meagre social welfare payments (he had never paid social insurance contributions) by making a small handcart and buying loads of short pieces of wood from a local timber merchant. We chopped them into thin sticks at home and tied them into bundles for kindling. The load would cost about a shilling and we would get perhaps 120 to 140 bundles out of the load, which we would then load into our boxcar and sell door-to-door. We would all take a hand in the chopping and tying, but my sister Gretta and I usually did the selling. We sold some to local people, but our main sales were on the Howth Road and in Marino, which were well-to-do areas by our standards and where, I suspect, people bought from us as much out of sympathy as for the firewood.

It was hard work, but we had no other way of making money until we left school. It was always a thrill when the last bundle was sold and we could head home on a Friday or Saturday night, cold but with twelve or fifteen shillings to give to Father, who handled the money; he would then hand some part of it over to Mother. So, indirectly, he felt he contributed.

I don’t wish to give the impression that my father was intrinsically cruel. He had a hard life, the final blow of which came in 1948 when he developed gangrene and had to have his leg amputated. He spent almost a year in hospital and in a convalescent home. After that, his reduced mobility meant that he was no longer able to instil the same fear into us and I think he suffered remorse. Although he never referred to it, it came through in other ways. From the time of his operation until he died he was more like his real self – a man who was sensitive, loved music and literature, and was extraordinarily well read and informed on Irish history and international events. Needless to say, the experience of the truck, the way he was pursued by the loan company for repayments and the amputation of his leg left him bitter about life and society. It was certainly a factor in his hatred of capitalism, landlords and loan sharks, as well as his gradual conversion to socialism. He was also a romantic, and some of that he no doubt passed on to me.

***

As a child, I had a very tender conscience, the kind that leaves one in a constant state of anxiety. It made even the prospect of confession – never mind the event itself – a worrying experience. I was particularly apprehensive about my confession before being confirmed because it was a thorough investigation of one’s qualifications for membership of the ‘league of strong and perfect Christians’. I had had mental reservations when I took confession for my First Communion, but Confirmation was an altogether more serious matter and I was more aware of what a serious step it represented. That summer of 1947, I had helped unload thousands of oranges at Dublin port onto my father’s truck to be carted to the fruit importers. The sight and smell of so many oranges was delicious and a source of wonder to me and to the rest of the children of Dublin, who had never seen an orange in the flesh. In the process, I must have eaten dozens of them and given dozens more to my pals. But they were never noticed out of all those millions. I had been to confession every month for six months previously and had managed to avoid mentioning the business of the oranges; but conscience and fear got the better of me ahead of my confession for Confirmation. I went into the confessional expecting that my regular confessor, a quiet, friendly priest, would be there, but it was the parish priest, Father Browne, a gruff, loud-voiced, thick man inclined to deafness. I was nearly last in the queue and was petrified when I discovered he was in the box. I couldn’t move elsewhere, as the curtains were only partly pulled over and he could see me waiting. Showing a preference for one priest over another by leaving a queue was regarded as extremely unseemly.

So I started with a more than usually pious recitation of my sins, starting of course with the most innocuous. ‘I didn’t do the First Friday this month, Father.’1...