For the children's sake, we must not return to violence
'The citizens of the North have grown accustomed to peace': members of the public take part in a trade union peace rally at Belfast City Hall yesterday
The police officer stood in the afternoon sunshine outside a busy high street supermarket. His demeanour was as pleasant as possible for someone with a rifle strapped across his chest.
Which, to be honest, is not particularly pleasant.
A PSNI colleague, similarly armed, his torso bulky from the flak jacket, was positioned on the opposite side of the street.
Behind him was a shop crammed with St Patrick's Day cards, party favours and bunting. Green, white and orange, glinting in the sun rays -- the colours representing both traditions on this island.
Halfway between them, a female police officer held up her hand in the middle of the road to flag down traffic. A queue formed as she asked drivers for identification, a revolver at her belt.
Pupils in navy or brown blazers, just released by the school bell and heading for the sweets counter at the front of the supermarket, paused and nudged one another. Their fingers stopped tapping out text messages on mobile phones -- unmistakable proof of their surprise.
But they weren't disconcerted. Youth is rarely knocked out of its stride. It was their parents' age group which was unsettled. Mothers with shopping bags quickened their pace, and chivvied lagging children to keep up.
The little ones stared openly, especially the boys. "Are they bad men, Mammy?" piped up one small fellow in a pair of trainers with light-up soles, eyes like saucers as he studied a rifle.
"No, these are good men," she answered. But she caught him up in her arms to hurry him away.
I followed them with my gaze, noticing how the boy remained transfixed, twisting in her grasp to look at the rifle for as long as possible.
It reminded me how, when I was a child during the Troubles, guns on the streets were no more eventful than traffic lights or parking bays. They were part of my routine world.
But it was a jolt to see, through the eyes of young children, these uniformed men carrying rifles along a shopping street. To think there was a possibility, however remote, that they might inherit my warped version of normality.
The road check on Tuesday afternoon, one of many across the province this week, took place a few feet from the Omagh bomb site. A dramatic heart of glass sculpture marks the spot. The shops have been rebuilt, and townspeople are willing to walk past there now -- for years, they crossed over to avoid passing by directly.
Dissident republicans carried out that carnage in 1998, just as they claimed -- trumpeted -- responsibility for the recent killings of a policeman and two soldiers.
Just when you think it's safe to go back in the water . . . just when you think people can harbour no doubts about the benefits of peace.
For the past decade, a police service on high alert, weapons openly displayed, has not been a feature of life in this Tyrone market town -- or in other communities around the North. Its citizens have grown accustomed to peace.
Naturally, they like life better that way. They prefer discussing holiday plans, or their children's exam results, to the daily routine of wearily condemning some new atrocity. Nobody enjoyed Northern Ireland's notoriety on an international stage. Not unless they were truly warped.
Later that night, at a social event (because life goes on, even when alarm enters the equation), I ran into Joe Byrne, the gregarious local man who is chairman of the SDLP.
He mentioned stopping into a barber's shop for a trim earlier in the day, and how eight people were straight over to him looking for reassurance.
A tall order, given the uncertainty.
They wanted to believe the killings were isolated incidents and not a return to form. People were at pains to put across their message to him -- to anyone who would listen. They do not support the refusenik republicans. Indeed, they feel betrayed by them.
Obviously there is some backing for these dissidents. But what constitutes support? Can it really be defined as, at most, a few hundred hardliners across the North with its population of a million?
Around 10pm I started off for Dublin, passing police officers with submachine guns crouching in the hedgerows. As you do.
I found myself scanning radio stations for news headlines, instead of listening to the audio book I'd borrowed from the library.
Who needed the Regeneration trilogy when something more immediate than World War I was happening under their nose?
A bulletin mentioned the age of one of the suspects arrested. Just 17.
It reminded me of all the boys recruited early for war -- any conflict you care to mention. Cannon fodder in the trenches.
Just before the border at Aughnacloy, a series of blue torchlights dancing on the road pulled me over. Another PSNI patrol.
One of them inspected my licence, fingers clumsy as he opened it. He handed back the document and waved me on, shivering in a gust of wind.
I hesitated, engine idling. "Are you all right?" I asked. I didn't mean was the cold bothering him. I'm not sure what I intended. Maybe just to make human contact at a disturbing time for everyone.
He looked taken aback, before nodding. "Stay safe," I said. Teeth glinted in the darkness: he was smiling back.
I can't imagine this exchange happening before the Good Friday Agreement. But I can't imagine going back to the way it used to be, either.
mdevlin@independent.ie
- Martina Devlin
