Real peace is not just about devolution and power-sharing

THERE is a cruel irony that Martin McGuinness passed away the day before a terror attack on the Houses of Parliament.

The sight of bodies on the ground, of ambulance crews rushing to deal with the consequences of violence – all this will stir memories for anyone old enough to remember the Troubles.

For three decades Northern Ireland was notorious for the terrorism which brought sorrow to so many.

The IRA may have presented itself as an “army” but its victims included hundreds of civilians, and the carnage unleashed in its bombing campaign suggested that its commanders had scant concern for human life.

All too often, watching the nightly news meant seeing families sitting sobbing on a sofa, as they expressed grief and bewilderment that a loved one had been killed.

Often, they would plead that there would be “no retaliation”. They did not want another gunman, claiming to act in their name, to take another innocent life.

Mr McGuinness and his fellow proponents of the armed struggle professed to champion values of freedom. They portrayed themselves as the defenders of the republic envisaged by earlier generations of rebels.

But it was clear their campaign of violence was destroying the country they claimed to be fighting for. Each murder deepened the divisions between Catholics and Protestants and made reconciliation less likely.

They policed their neighbourhoods by mutilating those considered undesirable. The bombing of shops and factories snuffed out the livelihoods of workers from both communities. Thousands of young people left Northern Ireland to study and never returned.

These counties of Ireland have been plagued by sectarianism, bigotry and prejudice for generations. The gerrymandering by unionists to deny Catholics democratic representation is a scandal that will never be forgotten. But the IRA campaign was a disastrous way of addressing hatred.

It represented the refusal to learn the lessons of the civil rights movement which had powerfully countered discrimination in the United States. Martin Luther King had demonstrated the power of non-violent protest. He had shamed bigots, mobilised millions of people against racism and won the moral argument with epic political consequences.

Trade unionists and Irish nationalists who grew up a stone’s throw away from Mr McGuinness were determined to bring an end to discrimination. They confronted angry mobs and showed the world the intensity of the prejudice that beset Northern Ireland.

But the Provisional IRA did not look to Gandhi or MLK as role models to follow. Instead, it revived the tradition of armed conflict, seeking to carry on a centuries-old campaign to purge the island of Ireland of British rule.

The hunger strikes demonstrated the fierce commitment of IRA members to their cause. They showed they were willing to die for their beliefs: other “volunteers” were ready to kill for it.

The mythology which sustained the IRA was portrayed in murals, painted on the ends of terraces. The broadcasting ban meant the voices of Sinn Fein spokesmen were not heard. Instead their words were voiced by actors.

There seemed an incredible gulf between the romantic aspirations for a peaceful Ireland and the carnage unleashed in atrocities such as Bloody Friday and Enniskillen.

Mr McGuinness and Gerry Adams became the highest-profile advocates of armed republicanism. As the men at the forefront of Sinn Fein, they spoke for those behind the balaclavas. For families across Northern Ireland, there was a simple wish that republicans and loyalists alike would stop the killing. But the hope that the cycle of violence could be broken seemed to fade with each new instance of slaughter. However, the likes of the SDLP’s John Hume refused to abandon faith that peace could be secured. He staked his credibility on talks with Mr Adams. Such efforts helped fan into life a peace process that led to the astonishing spectacle of Mr McGuinness becoming education minister and then deputy first minister. What made this truly mind-boggling is that he ran Northern Ireland with Ian Paisley, the proudly fundamentalist preacher who saw himself as the defender of a Protestant people.

It had once seemed incredible to think that the two men might even say hello to each other. As the two most powerful politicians in Northern Ireland, they laughed so much in each other’s company they became known as “the Chuckle Brothers”.

One Welsh politician told me he considered this the clearest example of the movement of the Holy Spirit he had seen in politics. It certainly looked like a miracle.

Anecdotes slipped out of Stormont of Mr McGuinness’ personal warmth and his acuity of insight. There are plenty of people who now tell stories of his acts of kindness. The man who was once infamous for leading a ruthless and murderous campaign was now well-known for his love of cricket and fishing.

It would have been wonderful if he had admitted it was a ghastly mistake to opt for terrorism. As with Mr Paisley, there’s the sense that he possessed incredible powers of leadership that could have transformed Northern Ireland decades earlier if he had put his energy into reconciliation.

Northern Ireland is haunted by the fear that yet another group of men and women will feel they owe it to those who went before them to pick up the gun. They may believe a peace that falls short of a united Ireland is a betrayal of those who fought in the Easter Rising, the Civil War and the Troubles.

Mr McGuinness spoke of his IRA membership as a source of pride but he acknowledged the suffering that both communities endured. In describing so-called “dissidents” as traitors he showed that, for him, the war was over. The real peace process is not just about power-sharing and devolution. It is about the change that takes place in hearts that once burned with anger.