While the renewed police inquiry into the Kingsmill massacre has thrown up more questions than answers, the political explanation for what happened remains the same.
The killings were part of Britain's long history of fermenting sectarian violence in Ireland and they reflect the enthusiasm of many Irish to engage in civil war on Britain's terms. The inhumanity of neighbour killing neighbour is a constant theme in Irish history and one which has allowed the British (including Tony Blair) to claim the unlikely role of peace-keeper.
But while there is nothing new in Irish history, the emerging Kingsmill story highlights three recurring themes in modern northern politics: the desire by those in power to conceal the truth about the past; the role of the press in establishing the truth, past and present and, most significantly, the failing argument that the unpalatable past should not be allowed to disturb the political comforts of the present.
I remember Kingsmill well. On that January night in 1976, I was observing a meeting of Newry and Mourne District Council, as part of my research into public sector decision-making. I can still see the horror on the faces of the decent men and women who served as councillors, as the awful news filtered through. They were making politics work while, just six miles up the road, the brave men who would accept nothing less than "Brits Out" were murdering their constituents, in the name of Ireland.
Forty years ago, those councillors were engaged in their own peace process, while violence raged around them. They did not need gestures of reconciliation or a new way of doing politics. They just got on with their duties. At the same time, the Reavey family, Alan Black and the families and friends of those murdered at Kingsmill lived their lives with quiet dignity, in the face of the most appalling circumstances. Despite the fine words of the past 18 years, their suffering continues.
For the men of war, 1976 was yet another "year of freedom" in which the Provisional IRA's promise of a united Ireland would finally be delivered. If their campaign was war, then Kingsmill was a war crime and thus no different from the British army's murders on Bloody Sunday and in Ballymurphy.
In investigating a war crime, it is odd that the RUC and PSNI should take forty years to identify a palm print related to the killings. They have only now allegedly attributed the print to a man whose fingerprints were taken several times during that period, which suggests that perhaps not as much has changed in policing as we had hoped.
The PSNI's apparent attempt to censor this newspaper's coverage of this development reflects the notorious Special Powers Act, which allowed Stormont to prohibit the circulation of any newspaper for any specified period.
The civil rights campaign overthrew the Special Powers Act when others were beginning their campaign of violence, which led to Kingsmill and other sectarian slaughter. While it is sobering to witness echoes of that legislation almost half a century later, it is heartening to see this newspaper's commendable stand in defence of press freedom.
Some argue that we no longer need newspapers, because we have instant online access. But much of what is online is inane and inaccurate. The past week's developments make newspapers more necessary than ever.
Although the chief constable eventually dropped his case, his initial behaviour raises many questions. Was he acting alone and, if not, what (or who) prompted him to take this action? Did he consult the minister for justice or the chair of the Policing Board? In the absence of a legal argument for his case, would it be reasonable to ask if it had more to do with politics than law?
The argument that nothing should be said which might threaten relations between SF and the DUP has its limits. We reached those limits this week.
The councillors in Newry and Mourne that bleak January night largely represented the SDLP, the UUP and Alliance, the three parties which now make up Stormont's opposition. The two parties which were the most vocal proponents of opposing sides in the sectarian war are now the government.
Last week, the government's chief constable tried to prevent this newspaper from publishing information about Kingsmill. This week that same government curtailed the speaking rights of the opposition.
We are living through what appears to be a specifically Irish version of George Orwell's Animal Farm. Events in the past week suggest that there are plenty more chapters yet to be written.
