Ali's reminder of the September 1992 bomb at the Forensic buildings in Belfast takes me back. (Diary of a reformed workaholic.) We'd moved into a brand new house that very day - like her, a mere 150 yards from the vehicle that exploded with the biggest bomb in Northern Ireland's history - an estimated 2000 lbs.
Picture the scene: There were three of us in the house; dad, standing on a step ladder, facing a window the size of the wall as he fitted a curtain pole above it; mum, standing in front of the stove joking about trying not to blow us all up - I'd persuaded her (against her better judgement) to have a half gas stove - and me, standing with my back to dad, getting the curtains ready to hang.
No one else seemed to know we'd moved in, so we weren't evacuated. We didn't know there was a security alert. All the windows were open and the heating on to "warm the house up" and help the plaster dry out.
We'd made great progress with box emptying and my brother had taken the dog back to our temporary home as her kennel hadn't been moved to the new home. It was time for a cuppa. Cue mum - "I hope this stove doesn't blow up on me".
She turned the gas on, hit the "ignite" button, the room went dark, the rumble started, the windows shattered, and by the end of the roar I thought the gas stove had lived up to her expectations and I'd be repacking my stuff to move back overseas at dawn.
It took a while to work out that everyone was still alive and intact. Dad had been blown across the room and winded as he slammed into the wall. Despite facing all that glass during the blast, he didn't have a scratch on him. A miracle? Absolutely, especially when we realised next morning that half the engine casing of the bomb carrying vehicle had landed just six feet from where he'd had been standing.
Windows (including newly made curtains - grrr) were sucked out (why was dad blown away from the windows?), frames buckled, the roof lifted and mercifully resettled in the same place, glass splintered all over the garden - not, thankfully, on the brand new carpets. Nerves were shattered, many homes destroyed - but not one person lost their life. A neighbour, attending his first choir practice in our church, (100 yards away and directly in the line of fire,) still claims it took just one line of him singing to bring the house down - literally. I love Belfast humour.
In the darkness, we debated where the back door was. We couldn't quite remember so I headed to the front door and tripped on the (forgotten) steps in the hall - much needed laughter all round. We hadn't been in the house in the dark before.
Friends rallied - including Ali's now husband - helping to make temporary repairs and trying to keep the rain out until morning.
Looking back, it was a grim final act to our experiences of Northern Ireland's "Troubles". On the way, we'd had a close relation murdered by a coward hiding in a hedge; we'd had to move rather quickly - with local "encouragement" - from a previous home (we were the wrong religion apparently), we'd had a car blown up - it was parked beside a car bomb, and as a child, nights too numerous to count were spent trying to sleep on other people's sofas while the army dismantled some nutter's lunchbox full of explosives yards from our front door.
For all those years, the other cheek got turned so often, we were practically rotating. Sometimes, I'd like to shout that in reality, when I look back, it's been a struggle to forgive, particularly when the "coward in the hedge" is still happily wandering about enjoying the sunshine.
I was chatting with a friend recently about the benefits or otherwise of a South African style truth commission in Northern Ireland. To be really honest, I'm not sure I want to hear the gunman's version of the truth - I'd rather he had a first hand practical lesson in justice, then I might listen.
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