1999 by Morgan Llywelyn Page A

republicanism was duly noted by members of the international press corps who had remained in the north. In their reports they chose to ignore any positive aspects of Belfast and Derry. The pictures they transmitted to the outside world were of nervous British army patrols, furtive IRA Volunteers darting from one street to another, rolls of barbed wire, bombed-out buildings, cruising armoured vehicles, and heaps of rubble. Focusing narrowly on those elements created an image of total war: photogenic and highly dramatic. The vast majority of northerners, the decent people on both sides of the divide who abhorred violence, were left out of the equation entirely.
    Northern Ireland became the newest stop on the media crisis tour—Vietnam, the Middle East, Latin American guerrillas, and Euroterrorists 2 —that kept people glued to their televisions and advertisers buying more airtime.
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    Isabella Kavanagh’s voice crackled down the telephone line. “You come home right now, Barbara, as soon as you can get on a plane. I won’t have my only child living in a war zone.”
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous, Mom; Ireland’s no such thing.”
    â€œI know what I’m talking about, young lady. Night after night on the nine o’clock news they show…”
    â€œWhat’s happening in a very small area in six counties that call themselves part of the United Kingdom,” her daughter interrupted, unaware that her phraseology unconsciously reflected the influence of Barry Halloran. “If a couple of towns in New England were having riots you wouldn’t call America a war zone.”
    â€œBut everyone knows how violent the Irish are, they’re always fighting in bars. That’s why I want you here with me.”
    â€œYou never wanted me with you before,” Barbara countered.
    â€œOf course I did, you’re my daughter.”
    Barbara began to shiver. The little alcove at the end of the hallway was the coldest part of the house, with the pervasive chill of dead air. “Be honest, Mom. Most of the time we don’t even like each other.”
    â€œThat’s a dreadful thing to say. I don’t know how you can be so cruel when I’m…”
    â€œSo sweet and kind to everyone?”
    â€œDon’t be sarcastic, Barbara, it’s unattractive in a woman. I’m only trying to help. Give me one good reason why you won’t listen to—”
    â€œI’ll give you a damned good reason!” Barbara shouted at her mother. It was the only way to make her listen. “I’m not going back to America because I’m marrying Barry Halloran!”
    â€œShould you not wait to be asked?” drawled a voice from the other side of the curtain.
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    An assignment for An Phoblacht * had taken Barry into the city that morning, following a restless night. Even through closed doors he could hear McCoy coughing in his room. A deep, rasping cough; frighteningly familiar.
    At the newspaper offices Barry had told his friend Éamonn MacThomáis, “I’m worried about Séamus. He has a hell of a cough and no colour in his face, but the man’s as stubborn as a boulder in a muddy field. If the cancer has come back he’ll never admit it. He’s determined to go north if it kills him and there’s no way I can stop him. One morning soon, I’ll wake up to find he’s gone.”
    MacThomáis was a dozen years older than Barry, a small man with bright eyes and an elfin smile. He was the sort of person others liked at first sight. He was also a patriot; a republican to his fingertips. “I know how you feel,” he told Barry, “but I can understand why Séamus wants to get back in the war. I’d go myself, except I’ve been told I’m more valuable where I am. It looks like I’m going to be made editor of the paper.”
    â€œÃ‰amonn, that’s great news! No better man.”
    â€œIt’s