Pete Hamill - Piecework

But what about the Protestants in the North? They represent at least 60 per cent of the population of the six counties, and their leaders have vowed to fight if they are forced into a union with the South. If the British pulled out tomorrow, as the Belgians once pulled out of the Congo, wouldn’t there be a bloodbath?

“I think there’d be a violent reaction, for understandable reasons, from some of the loyalists,” Adams says. “The reaction from loyalist paramilitaries, or what we call unofficial paramilitaries, would be fairly minimal, because they are small forces. The hard reaction would come from the official paramilitaries: the RUC and the Ulster Defense Regiment, which is kind of militia. We maintain that they are actually British forces, and it would be the British responsibility to disarm and disband them.”

Adams says it is crucial for Irish nationalists to assure the loyalists that they want them as part of the united Ireland, with full civil and religious liberties. But a separate Northern Ireland state, or statelet, independent of both Britain and Ireland, is “no go.”

“I think, at the end of the day, that people only fight, and only use physical force, when they think they are going to win, and when they have something very meaningful to fight for,” Adams says. “That’s what sustains the republicans. The Unionists, too, think they are going to win, and they think they have something very worthwhile to fight for. But they’d be fighting to persuade a power [the British] that’s withdrawing, not to withdraw. And what would they be fighting for? A 2 1A-county statelet?”

In June 1983, Adams said: “The ordinary Protestant needs reassurances and full guarantees of civil and religious liberties. But they cannot be expected to move away from their position of marginal privilege while there is no reason to do so. The British prop is what maintains this privileged position. It is the prop which created and maintains the sectarian division. Only when that prop is removed will Protestant, Catholic and dissenter be able to sit down and work out their own destiny.”

Adams obviously believes that the old dream of a united Ireland will come to pass, perhaps not soon, certainly not easily. But eventually. On this winter afternoon, he lights a small cigar, glances about the cramped cold room in Connolly House, and smiles.

“It’ll come,” he says. “I might not see it. You might not see it. But a united Ireland will come.” He pauses. “Would you like some tea?”

NEW YORK POST,

August 12, 1971, and February 4, 16, and 17, 1972 (parts I-FV);

NEW YORK DAILY NEWS,

March 17, 1985 (part V)

BEIRUT, LEBANON

The apartment house was on the Avenue du Gen. Charles de Gaulle, on a cliff at the edge of the sea and its whitewashed facade was stained by the cold steady rain. I asked the cabdriver to come in with me, but he glanced out at the sea, and puffed on a cigarette and said he would wait in the cab. He turned off the lights of the 1971 Impala and kept the motor running. It was very dark.

The entrance to the 10-story building was around to the side, and more apartment houses climbed away behind it, each positioned for a clear view of the sea. There were lights showing in some of the windows, with wooden screens pulled down to the floor of the balconies. A few blocks away was the ruin of the St. George’s Hotel, destroyed two years ago in the civil war.

In the old days, this was one of the wealthiest sections of the city, with apartments renting for as much as $2,000 a month. But then the civil war happened and, when it ended, not many people wanted apartments in Beirut. So the owners kept them off the market rather than rent for less than the accustomed price. Then Israel invaded southern Lebanon and almost 265,000 refugees began making their way to Beirut. Some of them had guns.

One of them was standing right inside the door as I walked into the lobby. He was about 19, with a dark face gullied by acne. He was wearing a dirty dark-green uniform, and he was holding a submachine gun.

He said something in Arabic, barking out the words, and looking menacing. I smiled and slowly put my hands up.

“Press,” I said. “Reporter. I’m an American reporter.” He was very nervous and so was I. Then he shouted something over his shoulder, and another young man came out of the shadows from where the elevators must have been. His boots made a clacking sound on the marble floors. The first kid put the nose of his machine gun against my belly.

“What do you want?” the second one said, in faulty English.

“I am a reporter,” I said, as quietly as possible. “I want to talk to some refugees.”

“Reporter?” he said.

The first one took the tip of the gun away and started searching me. He found my wallet. There was a press card inside.

“For a newspaper,” I said to the second one. “In New York. Here’s my press card.”

“In New York?” he said. “Are you Jew?”

“Irish,” I said. He blinked.

Then the first one found my money clip. It contained some Lebanese pounds, some Italian lire, some dollars: a perfect roll for a spy. He showed it to the second one. They spoke quickly in Arabic.

“If you want to see migrants, you need to help them,” the second one said.

“With money?” I said. My hands were at my side now.

“Yes. Money,” the second one said. A huge truck groaned along the boulevard and the first man stepped to the front of the lobby and looked out. He kept moving the machine gun from one hand to the other.

“Of course,” I said, nodding at the money. “Take all of it.”

The second one had slung his gun over his shoulder, with the barrel pointing at the floor. He seemed relieved that he wouldn’t have to take a shot to get the money. He jerked his head, indicating I should follow. He said something to the first young man, who went back into the shadows. The elevators weren’t working, so we walked up two flights. He produced a flashlight from some where.

“You’re Palestinian?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Were you in the south during the fighting?”

“Yes.”

“What was it like?”

He shrugged. “Soon we go back.”

We stopped on the second floor and he led the way down the hall. He knocked on a door: bop-bop, bop-bop, bop. Something heavy scraped on the tile floor behind the door and then it opened. I could smell dampness and human beings and babies. The door frame was shredded where it had been smashed open. A chain hung from a sprung lock.

I couldn’t see anything in the apartment, but the young man said something in Arabic and a small oil lamp was lit.

“No electric,” he said to me. “They stopped all electric.”

My eyes adjusted to the dim light, and then there seemed to be people everywhere. An old man, with a beaked nose, a dirty white shirt, and a dark vest came forward. Behind him was a girl about 18, a woman in her 60s, and others: two boys about 10, a boy about 14. Somewhere in another room a baby was crying.

“Ask them how long they’ve been here,” I said.

“Three days,” the young man said, without asking. He said something in Arabic, apparently explaining who I was. They all started talking at once. I could see now that we were in a living room area, and people were asleep on two couches and on the floor.

“They want you to write about them,” the young man said. “They have been in a bad time for a week. They come from Burj al Shemali. They were bombed by airplanes. The Jews destroyed all their homes.”

Yes, there were some PLO commandos in the village, but they had all left for the south the night before the bombing. The Israelis bombed them a second time and four people were killed, including the husband of the teenage girl. That was when they decided to leave. No, they were not all related. They had joined the other refugees on the main highway for the north, and crossed the Litani River. It took them two days to walk to Beirut. They had left everything behind, cows, clothes, food. On the way north, they lived on oranges taken from plantations.