Opinion

Allison Morris: Respect to those who have told their stories for future generations

Gina Murray whose daughter Leanne (13) died in the Shankill bomb.
Gina Murray whose daughter Leanne (13) died in the Shankill bomb. Gina Murray whose daughter Leanne (13) died in the Shankill bomb.

We've all heard the phrase, 'the worst atrocity of the Troubles' but for the bereaved the day their loved one died, whether shot dead on a dark, lonely road or blown up along with many others in a well documented attack, that day, the day grief visited their door, was the worst, and understandably so.

It's now accepted that victims of the Troubles, from all walks of life, were failed comprehensively.

That failure was powerfully demonstrated this week in The Shankill Bomb, the BBC documentary covering the 25th anniversary of the atrocity that claimed the lives of nine shoppers, including two young children. IRA bomber Thomas Begley also died in the blast.

The team responsible for the documentary, presented by Stephen Nolan, deserve credit for such a powerful and poignant account of not just that day but that awful period's tragic events.

But the real respect must go to the families of those who lost loved ones, those who helped rescue victims from the rubble of the bomb and the paramedics, doctors and nurses who witnessed unspeakable horrors and who saved lives on that day.

Gina Murray's account of losing her only daughter Leanne, of seeing the little girl dead in a mortuary with rubble in her beautiful long dark hair, having spent the day searching for her among the wreckage and in the packed casualty departments of the two local hospitals, made for harrowing listening.

The vivid accounts of what victims and emergency services witnessed that day had clearly not faded despite the passage of time, an event that will follow many to the grave.

October 1993 was an appalling month, even by the standards of a conflict that claimed so many innocent lives and destroyed so many loving families.

The book Lost Lives, the definitive record of every man, woman and child who died as a result of the violence in Northern Ireland is a record of tragedy, some of the deaths listed in chronological order are well documented, names that are instantly recognisable, others forgotten victims, remembered only by those who loved them in life and death.

It is a book full of pain, with joined dots - victims often related to other victims, ballistics of guns often joining victims together in death, or those who were once behind the trigger before themselves becoming a statistic listed in a book of the dead.

The death toll of that awful month starts on October 5, with the murder of 20-year-old, father of one Jason McFarlane who was playing pool in the Derby House bar close to Twinbrook when gunmen from the deadly Shankill C Company burst in and shot him dead, injuring several others.

In a statement released afterwards the UDA said the death toll would have been higher only the gun jammed. Lost Lives states that earlier that day Mr McFarlane had gone to buy a suit for his wedding which was planned for St Stephen's Day.

His is not an instantly recognisable name, but his loss no less tragic for his fiancée and young child.

I could go on to list all 28 people who lost their lives that month, all of them someone's son, someone's daughter, someone's life, someone's love.

Remembering their lives is an important part of healing and as a journalist I'm often struck by the power of story telling, of acknowledging, of archiving for future generations.

The Shankill Bomb documentary, like No Stone Unturned that covered the Loughinisland attack, or Massacre at Ballymurphy or Unquiet Graves that covers the Glenanne series of deaths, all visual accounts that in the absence of any credible legacy mechanisms play a vital role.

They give victims a voice, they pay tribute to those who worked at the coalface of our emergency medical services and they leave a respectful account for future generations.

I had two small children in October 1993, I lived in Clonard, less than a five minute drive from Frizzell's fish shop. My house shook with the force of the blast.

In the days that followed there were more deaths, more funerals, more sadness, more loss, more despair. I really worried for my children's future as I watched the news footage of the funerals of children that had been robbed of theirs.

The darkest of times, may we never see the like of them again.