Where the Bodies Are Buried

Kannu

A very long article about the ira and Irish terrorism and the killing of a woman. 

Terrorism, after studying it for so many years, has made me a very cynical person. I don't trust governments. I don't trust ideologues. I don't trust people who wrap themselves in religion. Ever. They are all bastards. Look at USA. The great fighter against terrorism was and is still funding terrorism. It's a giant con son. 

And it's the ordinary people who suffer for these ideologies and religious leaders and politicians. Bah!

On a brighter note I'm going to Manchester today to teach for a full day at the university on product management. Totally different topic eh? But that's going to be fun. Teaching Chinese bankers. Who don't speak English. Via an interpreter. It's extremely challenging and difficult as you lose all feedback mechanisms. Very very tiring and painful but fun. 

Love

Baba

Where the Bodies Are Buried
http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/03/16/where-the-bodies-are-buried
(via Instapaper)

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Clockwise from top right: Dolours Price; Gerry Adams; Jean McConville and three of her children; I.R.A. men at the funeral of Bobby Sands; Divis Flats, the Belfast housing project from which McConville was abducted. CreditClockwise from Top Right: Press Association via AP (Price); Peter Marlow / Magnum (Adams); Press Association via AP (McConville); David Caulkin / AP (IRA); Judah Passow (Divis Flats)

Jean McConville had just taken a bath when the intruders knocked on the door. A small woman with a guarded smile, she was, at thirty-seven, a mother of ten. She was also a widow: her husband, Arthur, had died eleven months earlier, of cancer. The family continued to live in Divis Flats—a housing complex just off the Falls Road, in the heart of Catholic West Belfast—but had recently moved to a slightly larger apartment. The stove was not connected yet, so Jean’s daughter Helen, who was fifteen, had gone to a nearby chip shop to bring back dinner. “Don’t be stopping for a sneaky smoke,” Jean told her. It was December, 1972, and already dark at 6:30 P.M. When the children heard the knock, they assumed that it was Helen with the food.
Four men and four women burst in; some wore balaclavas, others had covered their faces with nylon stockings that ghoulishly distorted their features. One brandished a gun. “Put your coat on,” they told Jean. She trembled violently as they tried to pull her out of the apartment. “Help me!” she shrieked.