Adventures of a Member of the Diaspora in Occupied West Belfast

I’m a first generation immigrant born in Aotearoa New Zealand to an Irish couple, both of whom were born into actively engaged Irish Republican Families.
Ma’s dad worked in the Irish health department, he became a Quartermaster in the Irish Citizen Army. He was captured with weapons, arrested, charged, and imprisoned.
Whilst in prison he served 23 days on hunger strike. His health was forever compromised.

Da’s family had a long history of republicanism, that led to his two older brothers having to escape to America whilst being hunted by the merciless “Black and Tans”. He never saw them again after he emigrated to Aotearoa New Zealand. Had I been born in either the war zone, or the Free State, I seriously doubt I would have survived my 20’s.

When I was 21 the 1981 hunger strike was underway by the 10 brave men in the occupied 6 counties jail, you know, like one of those gulags where world renowned journalist Julian Assange is being publicly tortured to death as I write.
I remember watching Ma walking around the house weeping, “What must their Mamies be going through”. She knew what they were going through, as she had watched her mum go through the same trauma.
One by one those heroic comrades starved to death whilst the monster Margaret Thatcher ignored their simple demands to not wear a prisoners uniform and be treated as political prisoners as was their right under the Geneva Conventions.
The mid-eighties rolled around, and I set off to Ireland to make some sense of it all and to show some solidarity.
Dean Parker a NZ playwright and fellow member of the H Block Committee in NZ gave me the address of some comrades affiliated to the Irish Republican Socialist Party and I was off to witness the war.

An incredible aspect of the war was how people maintained their sense of humour, Irish gallows humour was everywhere to be found in the occupied 6 counties.

One evening I was invited to have drinks at The Felons Belfast and arrived promptly on time to occupy a table for four, all my mates were ‘fashionably late’. Shortly after two gorgeous young women entered the bar and asked if they could share our table !
Who was I to deny them a seat in their own pub!
The Felons provided jobs for the partners and families of prisoners and much of the profits went to the prisoners fund! Innovative bunch these Paddies! Another thing I learned was that many of the Glazing companies were owned by the ‘RA’, another source of funding. Blow them up, sell them more. All war zones are ‘gamed’ by someone.

One thing led to another and these two young revolutionaries invited us to their home for another drink. I said I didn’t have anything to bring and they laughed and said “We’ll get Take Outs”. We left with booze from the bar and made our way in a cab to Ballymurphy !

The “Murph” was famous for a slaughter carried out by the British Parachute Regiment in 1971. That slaughter led to both the INLA and the PIRA having their own brigades evolve in this one tiny suburb in the conflict zone.

When I entered Edie’s home the first thing I saw was a framed Irish Tricolour flag with a beret and gloves centre piece, hanging on the wall. This is something given to the families of our fallen volunteers. Remarkably Edie’s husband and I were born on the same day with the same first name. It kind of freaked us all out ! Kevin Delaney had died when the bomb he was transporting prematurely detonated ! R.I.P. comrade.

We had a great night and around 4am I set out down the hill towards the Falls Rd and then ‘home’ on Donegal Rd. At this time in our history you couldn’t walk 1000m in Belfast without ‘bumping into’ a Brit patrol. One soldier would search you whilst the others trained their guns on you. To have half a dozen soldiers pointing guns at you in anger is disconcerting, more so because I could see the fear in their eyes! These young Brits were perpetually in fear whilst on patrol.
I was first stopped near the top of the White Rock Rd, put up against a wall, frisked, hassled, slapped around, kicked like a dog and released.
Not long after I reached the Falls Rd, hung a left and walked past the off-licence opposite the Rock Bar as a dude was carrying boxes of booze from the pathway adjacent to the establishment and loading them into an Austin A40!!!
He offered me a bottle of Whiskey, I declined politely and shuffled another 20m and turned right onto Donegal Rd, wondering wtf was going on!
As I walked down Donegal Road a Saracen and two armoured Land Rovers raced passed me, 3 soldiers in the turrets all training their Steyr assault rifles on me.

They flew passed me and when they got to the intersection with the Falls Road they stopped in a road block formation.

The plucky wee Austin A40 bounced off the side of one of the Land Rovers and was screaming, slowly, down the road towards me, the Brits immediately opened fire spraying automatic weapons fire down a residential street, in my direction. I heard the A40 being perforated with bullets as it ‘sped slowly’ towards me. I saw sparks fly off the vehicle and the road indicating that they were using “Full Metal Jacket” ammunition. Note to self and others, never use an Austin A40 as a getaway car! Note the message on the Land Rover below. Informants were called ‘Tout’s’, we were betrayed by many informants.

I instantly dived onto my hands and knees in an adjacent pathway and I could hear bullets going through the foliage near and above me. I’m uncertain if they were trying to kill me but if not they were lousy shots because my position was a long way from the illustrious Austin A40’s path down the road. These monsters were spraying bullets down a residential street, it was common behaviour from the occupying forces.
I crawled to the doorway of the house and tentatively knocked on the door whilst still on my hands and knees, pretty much in shock! The curtain moved, the occupant had a look around then opened the door, reached out a huge hand, grabbed my collar and dragged me into his house and closed the door.

Then in an incredibly thick Belfast brogue he asked this startled kid “Who are you, what’s going on and why are the Brits shooting at you” Reasonable enough questions I suppose lol.
I told him my name, where I was staying and who with. He laughed and replied “Oh, you’re the Kiwi I’ve heard about, make yourself at home.” Then with fingers pursed to his lips he whispered “The Brits will be at the door any second, don’t say a word, don’t move a muscle”. All the while my heart rate is through the roof and my chest is heaving !

Nekminit pounding on the door and in a broad Cockney accent the Brit, silhouetted through the glass door, rifle and all, yelled “Open up or I’ll smash the door down.” All the while my ‘host’ has his fingers to his lips and mimes “Say Nothing, Don’t Move’.
The Brit hung around for a moment or two and then was called back by his commanding officer in the Saracen and they drove off.
My host offered me a whiskey and a sleeping bag and I was invited to sleep on the couch. Even though I was only 50m from my home it was suggested that I lie low until later in the morning. I gratefully accepted the hospitality that put them in danger.

I woke up a few hours later with a small girl asking “Mister, who are you, why are you sleeping on our couch”. If you want an idea of what the Belfast kids are like check out Becky and multiply her militancy by 100. I once heard a woman ask an 11 yr old what she wanted to do when she left school. She replied “I want to join the IRA and drive the the Brits out of our country”. All the children in war zones are traumatised. No soldier, nor civilian returns from war uninjured.
On multiple occasions I watched Brits use kids as “Human Shields”, another war crime.

I was generously given breakfast, we retold the story to the neighbours and I went ‘home’ where I was questioned on the nights action.
Later that day I was told that I was invited to a party in the adjacent St James and all the booze was ‘on the house’. Can you see where this is going?
Remarkably the stoic Austin A40 had escaped the clutches of the Brits and whilst some of the loot had been ‘spilled’ as the car was ‘perforated’ much was saved and I was invited to imbibe and share my version of events. It was fascinating to see the camaraderie that these people developed during the war.

Not long after this ‘incident’ I was at the funeral of a young INLA volunteer in Strabane who had been shot whilst on ‘Active Duty’ by a Brit sniper. I took 3 of my IRSP comrades down in my car for the funeral.
The Brits searched the car in the morning, removing the seats, the carpets and the door linings. When they were finished they walked away leaving me to put it all back together. ‘Community building’ that’s referred to apparently!
We jumped in my German registered VW Golf and set out for Strabane. Whilst still on the Falls road smoke started coming from under the hood and I stopped at the adjacent petrol station knowing they would have a fire extinguisher to put the fire out. The bastards had put some flammable material on my manifold and it caught fire as planned when the car heated up. One of the many reasons the Brits were hating on me was the Provo’s were bumping off Brit soldiers regularly in Germany so they didn’t like seeing a German car in the Occupied 6 counties!

We arrived at the Catholic Church in Strabane where the service was being held and being a bunch of ‘Commies’ we didn’t enter the church but remained on the doorstep.
That night footage of the funeral was shown on the BBC, the British Bullshitting Corporation.

Whilst filming myself and my comrades at the doorstep the Brit’ announcer said “Leading Members of the INLA refused to enter the church”. The INLA was the military wing of the Irish Republican Socialist Party Many thanks to my comrade Ray Collins for the above musical summary.

When the ceremony ended we hung outside to chat with the other mourners. All the while the funeral attendees were surrounded by Brits brandishing assault rifles, choppers over head, Saracens and armoured Land Rovers all around us whilst we were mourning the death of a young volunteer. Shot by these very same people.
Ma saw the clip on TV in New Zealand and recognised me, tracked me down through Dean Parker, got my number and called me with money she couldn’t spare and said “Son, Ireland doesn’t need anymore Martyr’s you know”. It freaked Ma out that I was back in the war zone, angry as fuck and being assaulted by the Brits.

The four of us got into the Golf and went to leave and were pulled over within 100m of the Church carpark. We were separated and interrogated individually. A Brit officer pulled me aside and said “WTF is a Kiwi electrician doing over here hanging out with known terrorists”. I replied “Rubbish, I’ve only just met you”. He instantly lashed out and punched me in the sternum. I thought he had collapsed my ribcage! Before he could assault me again another Brit touched his shoulder and said “Bob, too many cameras”!!!
When we left, the one person in the car who I didn’t know well, went ape shit at me for provoking the Brit. He said “What have you been told to say when being interrogated? STFU. All they need to do is shoot you and then they slip a ‘short’ into your belt and say, “He went for his gun”, end of investigation.”

I did a lot of growing up in the occupied six counties. I was fortunate to meet such caring people who kept me out of trouble and didn’t take advantage of my youthful anger.

Many years later I had the honour of naming a road in Aotearoa New Zealand after Patsy O’Hara, one of the INLA volunteers who died in the 1981 hunger strike. I’ve written about that here; My Tribute to My Comrade Patsy O’Hara and His Family
After this ‘adventure’ I returned to my home in Ashaffenburg in Bavaria and within days I was pulled over by a ‘Plain Clothes” police vehicle. The German cop or spook walked up to the drivers window and said, “Welcome back from Belfast Kevin “, in perfect English. He walked away without waiting for a reply, pure intimidation.

Ireland divided will never know peace;

Patsy Marron, continuing the struggle as seen here when she was 92yrs old.

After I left the occupied six counties, I went to Gibraltar to help a friend’s computer company install computers at a new bank.
I had to walk over the footpath where Mairead Farell, Dan McCann and Sean Savage were murdered in cold blood by the British SAS on March 6th, 1988. Mairéad was shot in the back along with her comrades Séan Savage and Daniel McCann, as they walked unarmed. Britain always denied that they had a “Shoot to Kill” policy with us Irish Republicans but the evidence is clear.

Sean was shot 18 times. “Farrell, Watson said, “was hit by five bullets to the face and neck and three in the back. . . . Danny McCann was shot twice in the head and twice in the back.”

Executed in a public street when they could have easily been arrested. Gone but never forgotten comrades.
18 BULLETS HIT IRA MAN, GIBRALTAR INQUEST TOLD

Tiocfaidh ár lá , our day will come. Ireland divided shall never know peace.
I’m posting this on the 25th anniversary of the execution style murder of Mairead, Sean and Dan. R.I.P. comrades.

About Kevin Hester

I'm an anti-imperialist, environmental activist and blue ocean sailor, who is passionate about the earth and all it's inhabitants without favour. Brace for imminent impact as we bare witness to the non-linear unraveling of the biosphere and habitability disappearing for most if not all complex life on the only habitable planet we know of. To quote President Niinistö in North Russia: ‘If We Lose the Arctic, We Lose the World’. Folks we have lost the Arctic.