Reflections Following A Worrying Incident

John Lindsay writes of an attack on his home in Derry.

When the first hammer blow hit the window, I didn’t realise that the noise that I was hearing came from inside the house.

When the second blow came, I realised what was happening, and thought: “Bloody hell, this is going to be a drag having to get the windows fixed again“.

The third blow brought a shower of glass over where I had been sitting; I’d got up to find my phone and to start dialing 999. I stepped out into the hallway, listening to the operator asking me which service I required. I could see the silhouette of a man striking the glass on the door. It was only at this point that I began to feel afraid. Not just afraid, terrified. I screamed. The man let out an incomprehensible roar, and I heard footsteps running and the gate opening. They weren’t trying to force their way into the house. They were not trying to kill me this time.

This wasn’t the first time that the house had come under attack. Four months earlier, in December, there had been an almost identical incident; windows and the glass in the door smashed by someone wielding a hammer. I hadn’t been at home that time, it was one of the very few times that I had visited a friend during lockdown. Neighbours called the police, who didn’t come out until the next day. When I saw the holes in the glass I wondered whether they had been caused by gunshots. The police, somewhat dismissively told me that they hadn’t.

When the guy from the Housing Executive came out to board up the windows, he showed me how his hammer fitted exactly into the indentations in the glass. That was reassuring. He had better people skills than the police that came out that day.

The 999 operator told me that the police would be out with me as soon as they were able to. They were out within half an hour. This time they were courteous, although they were honest about their chances of finding the culprit or culprits. They were close to zero. They told me that they had cars patrolling the estate, but the streets were empty. In a moment of refreshing candour a police officer confided that the large number of vehicles were sent out for their protection, not for mine: “We’re not well liked in Ballymagroarty”.

It had crossed my mind, whilst waiting for the police, that the attack could have been intended to draw them into an ambush. I sent out messages to a couple of friends to tell them what had happened. I decided against telling my daughters that night. That could wait until the morning. The friends called me, and having them on the end of the line was a godsend.

I also made a decision. I was going to go public about what had happened. Keeping quiet hadn’t worked the last time. The people who did this were going to hear my side of the story; if they wanted to give their side they’d have to talk to somebody. I sent a message to a local Facebook news group, asking them to withhold my name until I’d had a chance to explain to my daughters what had occurred. I didn’t want them finding out about it via Facebook.

In my message to the news page I described the attack as “almost certainly sectarian”. It seemed a fair enough presumption. I’m a Protestant, living in an almost entirely Roman Catholic estate. I’m also outspoken. Well meaning neighbours had advised me to turn it down a peg, bearing in mind where I was living. The day before, UVF attacks on Catholic homes in Carickfergus had been reported in the press. It would hardly have been surprising if someone had decided to return the serve.

My use of the word “sectarian” caused a tsunami of comments. There was near universal condemnation of the attack, but many of the comments were angry in a different way. At this point in time my name had not been attached to the incident. A few people presumed that, as I was living in Ballymagroarty, I must be a Catholic who was accusing Loyalists of having travelled across the city to single out my home for attack. That scenario was of course extremely unlikely. I must be looking to move house and hoping that the S word would get me extra “intimidation points”. I’d probably smashed my own windows to enable such a move. A few people pointed out that there are some Protestants still living in Ballymagroarty, and the “sectarian” moniker could mean something else.

This produced a different, defensive, response, “Ballymagroarty people aren’t sectarian” several people averred. “There’s a great sense of community in Ballymagroarty. No one cares what religion anybody is”. That this community had produced people who would attack a person’s home wasn’t important, they wouldn’t attack someone’s home because of their religious persuasion. Once morning came and I’d let family know what had happened I went back to the thread and let it be known that it was my house that had been attacked. Quite a few people had commented how much of a mess my house was in in the pictures that I‘d sent in earlier, so I added another picture, looking out of the broken glass towards the garden, of which I’m quite proud.

I pointed out that, whatever the motivation for the attack may have been, attacking someone’s home is a shitty thing to do and asked anyone who saw someone come home that night with shards of glass on their clothes to pass that information on. I expressed solidarity with anybody else who’d experienced a similar attack. Messages of solidarity, sympathy and offers of help came in. Most people are fundamentally decent and are appalled at the thought of an attack on somebody’s home. The protestations that this could not possibly have been a sectarian attack continued though, the tone altered somewhat now that they could put a face and a name to the person whose house had been attacked. “You, of all people should know that your neighbours in the Ballymagroarty aren’t sectarian.

Maybe it’s someone you have pissed off” one man told me. In a sense I’m sure that he’s right. I don’t think that I would have been targeted if I’d kept my head down and never spoken out. Someone else suggested that I had been targeted because “The man comes from Wales, maybe he thinks he was targeted because people think he’s English.

I did indeed grow up in Wales, but I was born in Belfast, to an English mother and Scottish father, and I’ve never considered myself to be anything other than British

Another person volunteered that perhaps the attack had happened because she saw somewhere on Facebook that I supported Rangers Football Club. The police asked me if I could think of anybody who had any reason to want to do this. It’s interesting how this question focuses the mind. I honestly couldn’t think of anybody that I’d fallen out with in the weeks before the event. Longer term it’s a different story. I’ve offended loads of people. I’m a contrarian and I throw myself into arguments. I’d stood in the Assembly elections in 2016 and 2017 on a Cannabis is Safer than Alcohol ticket. I’d lambasted the groups carrying out ‘punishment’ shootings and called for them to be exposed and prosecuted. I’ve read diatribes denouncing me as an anti-republican defender of criminals, a drug addled Zionist who likes to go to parades and talks to animals. More recently I’ve expressed views about, for example, the Union and the Northern Irish Protocol that some may feel that someone living in Ballymagroarty should not hold, and certainly shouldn’t say out loud. Of course I’ve pissed people off.

Community workers came to see me the next day. They were matter of fact and helpful in terms of fast-tracking repairs (new glass for the windows would take a bit longer than usual, something to do with Brexit). They were also able to tell me that three people were involved in the attack. Witnesses saw them running away from the scene. They put me in touch with Base 2, a Belfast based crisis intervention project, who could ask questions of “armed groups” about whether they had sanctioned what had happened. I’m not sure whether I’d believe anything that such groups might say, and I’ve certainly no intention of entering into negotiations with them about terms under which I might be ‘allowed’ to continue living in my home of twenty years. Nonetheless hearing their response might clarify my situation.

Other people made contact. Victims of similar incidents on both ‘sides’ of the community, wanting to offer support and to compare notes. Some of their stories were horrendous and heartbreaking, much, much worse than what had happened to me. I counted my blessings. People wanted to express support and empathy that they were afraid to express publicly. People from the Protestant community seemed to have far less trouble understanding and accepting my perception of what happened (am I sectarian for saying that?). Someone else (a Catholic) offered some insights about how majorities can be blind to the lived experiences of minorities they interact with daily. Another person gave me some fascinating insights into the early history of Ballymagroarty; how it had been intended as a model ‘mixed’ community, how that dream had briefly seemed possible until a small number of people decided to intimidate families of the ’wrong sort’ from their homes. I’d heard fragments of these stories before, whispered by older people who had been amongst the first to move into the estate. The vast majority of residents had been appalled by what happened, some had close friendships with the families forced to leave, but few people in Ballymagroarty talk about these events. Why should they? They happened a long time ago. To talk about the expulsions would also sit at odds with the estate’s self image as a community where neighbours help each other out. That self image is largely true, but it isn‘t the whole truth.

⏩John Lindsay is the author of Brits Speak Out - British Soldiers impressions of the Northern Ireland conflict (1998) and No Dope Here - Anti-drug vigilantism in Northern Ireland (2012). He stood as a candidate for Cannabis is Safer than Alcohol (CISTA) for Foyle in the 2016 and 2017 Northern Ireland Assembly Elections.