[Editor's note: This exceptional account of our correspondent's encounters with Irish Republican leader Martin McGuinness was written in June 1998. Footnotes appear in bold, inside brackets [#]. Readers are advised to read Roger's work in issues #1 and #2 for further information. -SeeingRed]

Last summer is, for Ulster, ungodly hot … temperatures up to maybe 75 or even 80 degrees. And there is sunshine--a commodity normally in very short supply in this part of the world. I am one of 40 or so North American Irish solidarity activists who are in Derry to act as observers during the Apprentice Boys' march--a triumphalist, and often violent, procession by British Crown loyalists through Irish nationalist neighborhoods.

This morning around 8:00, our hostess, Martha (the republican movement billets their international guests with comrades who have space) tells us we're invited to a clandestine meeting with a leader of the movement … then whispers, "it's Martin--don't tell anyone though."

In an hour or so, two young women from the tour have rolled out of bed and joined us in the kitchen for an Irish breakfast with all the trimmings. In another hour we are out the back door (a little delay--Corky, the border collie wants to go and has to be locked into the fenced garden) and begin the half hour walk to city center.

There is a brisk salt breeze off the Foyle as we cross the park and cut between the rail yard and the Traveling People's campground[1]. We come out behind the Spar store[2], cross the parking lot and come out onto Bishop Street Without the Walls.

We have hit Bishop Street right by the Brandywell [3]Che Guevara mural. Martha tells how they created the mural in March--all the children from the 'hood painted on the project. Women from neighboring houses join us and there is a lively discussion of the April 27th commemoration of Che…what republican bands played, who the speakers were "and weren't the step dancers foine?"

Then up the street again. One of the Yanks, anxious, asks "Aren't we going to be late? we only have ten minutes." The reply: "don't worry, luv; yer in Ireland now."

The narrow street is lined with 18th century cottages and shops. Soon Martha stops us at a cottage built on the foundations of a pre-Christian tower and the elderly lady who owns it starts showing us architectural details. (We are 15 minutes late now and the Yanks can't keep their eyes off their watches.)

Two more blocks and the Walls are in sight. There is the sudden smell of baking bread and Martha is into the bakery, having a chat and picking up croissants for the office. To our left is a four-story high-rise apartment block--nationalist, the building front decked with orange, white and green bunting. Across the narrow street, a building that looks like a castle, a British flag flies from a crenelated tower.

The fronts of both apartment blocks are marked with paint splashes and soot scars from petrol bombs, the hulks of three burnt-out cars sag to the pavement. "Those? oh, from the riot last week; when the Orange [loyalist] march was forced down Garvaghey Road and the town just exploded."

The street is lined with what were the 17th century townhouses of the rich. They've been converted into shops, pubs, and offices. Vendors and street musicians crowd the sidewalks and lunch-time crowds spill over onto the pavement. The occasional van or black taxi moves at a sedate pace through the pedestrian traffic. On our right, the Bookworm: "Oh, ye have to see it, the grandest bookstore in Ireland!"

Forty-five minutes late, the Yanks' impatience cannot be contained, so no detour. We cross the Diamond, pass the ugly war memorial (where the loyalist marchers will riot on Saturday), then the brownstone bulk of the Guild Hall and are out into William Street. Another narrow lane lined with 18th century brick row-house, again, the ground floors converted to commercial use. Martha's office is down on the right and we must stop in and meet the staff, look at the desks and computer terminals, admire the new paint and draperies, and learn which pub is "our local" (and serves the best Scots pies in Derry) .

The Yanks don't stay for coffee and croissants; and instead head off for the meeting . . . "it's the big half-timbered pub at the end of the street, takes up the whole left hand corner."

And there it is, a half-timbered front taking up the west corner of a busy square. There are maybe a dozen tables on the sidewalk, umbrellas bright. Three are taken up by other Yanks, the others are empty: Sean and half a dozen hard-faced lads turn away the lunch trade. I sit down with Bobby, Chris, Sue and Jenny and order a pint and a sandwich.

I'm done with my second pint when the black taxi pulls up in front; four lads in trench coats emerge, check the scene, and then Martin is across to the tables. "Chris, Bobby"… a grin to the rest of us…"and where are the rest of the Yanks?"

"Ah," comes the answer, "they're waitin' upstairs in the meetin' room…"

"Jaysus," says Martin, " don't they know they're in Ireland?"

A waitress hurries up: "And what will ye be havin Martin?"

"A liter of spring water, luv… and a couple pots of tea and a sandwich tray, for the lads."

We'll be havin a tea laid on fer everyone, upstairs…, I think, slipping into it.

"Right, then", says Martin and points to the boarded-up windows and flame scars on the third story, "Did the Orangemen get down here then?"

"Ah, never!" the young woman replied. "The Brits were trying to get down the street with their armored cars and some of the lads tipped over an Ulster Bus, for a barricade like. When the jeeps began to push it away, the lads threw petrol bombs, the bus burned and exploded. The police ran, there was burning bits all up and down the street. Oh, it was grand!" [4]

Martin roared with laughter, hooked his suit jacket over his shoulder and then started into the pub.

This Yank, nervously, asks Martin if it would be OK to tape his speech. A frown and a severe tone: "You wouldn't be a journalist then?"

"Nothing I do for a living," I say. "I will try to get something published in The Militant. Not the one Eamon McCann publishes in Dublin; the one Pathfinder Press puts out in New York."

With a quick nod, Martin replied, "Awright then, but be sure ye turn yer machine off, before the Q&A…. tape recorders put some people off."

The meeting is about 100 people--big for a clandestine one it strikes me later. Yanks from the tour and local Sinn Fein activists pack into the upstairs dining room of the pub. Windows are shut and curtains are drawn for security. There is a rising heat and the smell of beer, cigarettes, burned wood and sweating humanity.

Martin, a man who looks very much like a younger Colm Meany, gets to his feet and begins to speak…first softly and in Irish, welcoming the foreign comrades to his town, and then with rising volume he outlines Sinn Fein's strategy in the ongoing negotiations, the perspectives for the mass street struggle against the Orange marches, the meaning of Sinn Fein's recent electoral successes. In spite of the discomfort of the room, Martin holds his audience securely as he lays out the republican strategy for the next period.

Afterwards, the first question comes from an elderly Irish-American: "What about our POW's in the USA and the deportees?"

The answer is a long explanation of back-stairs diplomacy with the White House and the State Department…the assurances given, the promises made -- all ending with "…and so we are about 90% certain that the POW's will be released and that the deportations will be ended--it is simple justice… But then I never met a man that I trusted less, than your Mr. Clinton."

It's Sunday, April 19th, nine months later and Philadelphia's Irish community is celebrating St. Patrick's Day. I'd been told that Martin would be leading the United Irish Societies' contingent and made arrangements to go along and take a few photos. It was a sunny but cold day and four Pathfinder [Press] supporters were setting up a literature table by the Art Museum, the starting point for the parade. I had just sold my first Militant when a familiar voice, Derry accent, said, "two of the current issue and two subscriptions, comrade…one for the Mill and one for Parnell Square." A few minutes later and I'd been invited to the press conference after the parade…

I was issued a hand-written press pass and set off with the United Irish Contingent. It was the most political and militant St. Patrick's Day since the Hunger Strike struggle, back in 1981. Every contingent marched behind banners demanding British withdrawal from Ireland, the release of political prisoners.

The parade's slogan was "St. Padrig, bless the United Irishmen of 1798 and 1998." The theme float featured re-enactors dressed as United Irish volunteers--complete with pikes--and others dressed as IRA volunteers--complete with assault rifles. Another re-enactor, dressed as St. Patrick, stood on a plywood mountain and blessed the freedom fighters. (For some reason, the Philadelphia Inquirer really disapproved, editorializing that the day was meant for beer drinking and fun.)

Thousands of supporters of the Irish struggle lined the parade route to cheer Martin McGuinness. I had some questions I'd intended to ask during the march, but I was walking with an elderly Irish-American plumber who wanted to talk. The ould fella regales me with tales of his son-in-law's deeds of daring as a volunteer and gave me practical suggestions on how to get things through customs controls. I take it all with a grain of salt until a couple blocks from Independence Mall and the ould fella says, "look--there they are now! Aren't my grand daughters lovely?"

On the other side of the police barricade, a young couple with two little red-haired girls: the mother another red-head, the husband a dark young man wearing a camouflage uniform and a beret…his empty left sleeve pinned up to the shoulder.

The little girls are yelling "Granpa!, Granpa!".

And Martin halts the parade . . . embraces the parents and carries the children. I end up with Granpa's camera, taking photos of the family with Martin.

The contingent reached Independence Mall and dispersed a few minutes later. I decide to get over to the Omni Hotel a bit early--maybe get a chance to ask a few questions, maybe score a cold drink.

The Omni is a very posh joint, lobby full of dark mahogany and polished brass, liveried staff, and marble (or maybe faux marble) walls. Then, in the middle of all this glitter, I get a chance to ask Martin a couple questions . . . because we both emerge from the "Gents" at the same time.

First I ask what the perspectives were for the negotiations. As a preamble he gives a detailed explanation of how the world media serves capitalist interests and how, as a consequence, the Irish struggle was distorted by the American press. He spoke with great concentration and conviction, and as he spoke a small crowd gathered around us--a crowd of business people and politicians, dressed in formal attire.

Then to the hard answer: "The question is, will [British Prime Minister] Blair rise to the occasion and stand up to the Orangemen? If he does, there will be agreement. If not, the struggle goes on." A short pause and then …"Even beyond May, and whatever agreement comes, the struggle will be carried on to a 32 county republic…a decade seems a likely time frame." (During this last bit, the local Irish Northern Aid [U. S. Irish solidarity group-ed.] guy turns very pale and begins plucking at Martin's sleeve, I think concerned that Martin would frighten the gathered rich folks.)

Then I asked Richard Johnson's question (Rich is an Irish POW held at White Deer detention Camp in western Pennsylvania--a family friend and a pen-pal.) ". . . Should I start packing, or will I be here a while more?" A big beaming smile on Martin's face, rather like the sun rising, " Not our lad Richard, out in White Deer then is it?"

Then a return to concentration: " I hope that he will be packing his clothes, but that very much depends on what Tony Blair does." A hand shake and Martin is whisked off to a closed meeting with the various politicians,

The press conference an hour later was a big one, with all the local media there. As in Ireland, the speech was a set piece that Gerry [Adams] and Martin had used in other venues; the excitement was in the question-and-answer session. Most of the questions focused on the details of the Stormont negotiations and are no longer especially relevant.

However there were two questions that still have immediate relevance, both from reporters from the local Irish media -- one from the Irish Voice, one from the Celtic Mirror. , the reporter a supporter of O' Bradigh's party, a split from McGuiness's Sinn Fein)

Q. : "Haven't the nationalist people seen through the betrayals of the Adams' leadership and aren't they turning to the true republicans of Republican Sinn Fein? "

A. : " We do enjoy the overwhelming support of the republican people--that is proved by all the election results. You have to accept that we keep winning the elections by larger and larger margins. The people who you speak for are very good people, who, regrettably, have chosen to exile themselves to the margins of the revolutionary struggle."

Q (Irish Voice): " Do you think the Orange marches and the whole marching season might destabilize the peace process?"

A. : "This obviously concerns us, this creates pressure on the ground. Allowing the Orange Order in nationalist neighborhoods is equivalent to permitting the KKK to march in Harlem. I hope the Orange Order takes a step back from the brink. There are a small number of contentious parades, a dozen out of a thousand some, that go through nationalist areas. We want them to stop those parades and work with the rest . . . to build a peaceful future."

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Footnotes:

1. The Brandywell is a working class republican neighborhood, stretching from the banks of the Foyle, up the hillside towards the walled city.

2. Spar shops are a chain of convenience stores, like 7/11, only with rather different stock items…loose sacks of potatoes, bricks of peat, horse care products…

3. Traveling People, a nomadic social layer, rather like Rom in pre-Hitler Europe…mostly involved in horse and cattle sales. These people are objects of a special oppression by right-wing forces in both Irelands. The nearby camp site was vacant, because the extended family was in the South for the Dublin Horse Show.

4. The importance of the Orange marches was made really clear when the RUC forced a Junior Orange Order march down Garvaghey Road this past Saturday. The cops attacked the nationalists and four hours of rioting ensued, several dozen injured on both sides and a serious blow against the Good Friday accord delivered. My guess is that we should be expecting many more of these provocations before the elections. I believe that the RUC [and maybe the British army] are attempting to spark a return to civil war.

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