A decade of peace has coincided with a disturbing spike in suicides among Catholic and Protestant youth
By KEVIN SPURGAITIS
It’s a drizzly May afternoon filled with the din of snack trucks and Gardai cars. Yet Philip McTaggart sits quietly in his North Belfast office, gazing absently at his pocketbook. His posture is loose and sinuous, his face placid with concentration. Then with his broad shoulders keeled ever so slightly, he removes his wallet’s contents and spreads them one-by-one across the table. Among his keepsakes are old fuzzy pictures of his son Philip — the first one showing Philip at an early age resting on his father’s shoulders. In another, he’s holding his baby sister up during his 15th birthday celebration. The teenager’s relaxed, devil-may-care attitude is evidenced in all but one photo — the last picture ever to be taken of him. “You see, there was something wrong with him there,” McTaggart sharply points out. “He just wasn’t happy. He was disconnected. In the end, my Philip was just trying to find his way through life and yet somehow he got lost.”
On April 23, 2004, Philip McTaggart Jr. hanged himself from a chestnut tree outside Holy Cross Catholic Church, in Ardoyne, North Belfast. He was only 17. Following Philip’s death, there was no excited knocking on the door, no opening of arms, no smothering of kisses. Instead, McTaggart and his family were closely investigated by police, coroners and insurance agents. Says McTaggart: “If someone dies of natural causes, from disease or because of an accident, people say, ‘Oh, this is terrible. God help the poor family.’ But the attitudes are somehow different if someone completes suicide.”
In the weeks and months after his son’s death, McTaggart wanted to be of some comfort to other Belfast families who had lost loved ones to suicide. Together with social worker Jo Murphy, he began hand-delivering pamphlets, and the positive reception led them to establish the Public Initiative to Prevent Suicide and Self Harm — known simply as PIPS — a project dedicated to the memory of McTaggart’s son, who was nicknamed Pip. McTaggart, at 44, is the chair of PIPS and volunteers his time as a counsellor. It has meant giving up his day job in the building trade.
Philip McTaggart Jr. was just one of hundreds of young people in Northern Ireland to have died unseasonably. His death was the first in a cluster of suicides in the Catholic community of Ardoyne. In all, 13 young men took their own lives here in six weeks — events that still linger over row houses like black plumes. Nearly a decade after peace broke out in the bitterly divided country, grieving parents are now asking a question that is neither Protestant nor Catholic: why?
Wondrous crags, luminous greens and wildflowers — Northern Ireland’s landscape has an almost mystic resonance. The capital city of Belfast also holds dear its rich heritage, with muck-and-brass architecture and moss-covered stonework. Former Catholic bishop William J. Philbin once described Belfast as “a city walled in by mountains, moated by seas, and undermined by deposits of history.” The sectarian conflict — the Troubles — raged here and in other parts of Northern Ireland for 30 years, resulting in more than 3,600 deaths and some 40,000 injured. It has now been 10 years since the Good Friday Agreement, which saw the formation of a joint Catholic-Protestant administration, including the nationalist party Sinn Féin. It has been one year since British troops withdrew from the country’s border area, completing a 38-year mission to keep watch over the Irish Republican Army.
Today, more than 1.7 million people live in Northern Ireland, according to the most recent Northern Ireland Census. Of the estimated 45 percent who are Protestant, the majority are loyalist, preferring that Northern Ireland remain a part of the United Kingdom. About 40 percent of the population is Catholic, many of whom identify themselves as nationalist and strongly favour a united Ireland.
The country is further down the path of reconciliation than many could have imagined, but the healing is far from complete. Suicide rates here have skyrocketed. A total of 242 people took their own lives in the country last year, according to the Northern Ireland Statistics and Research Agency (NISRA). In 2006, almost 300 people completed suicide — the highest number ever recorded in Northern Ireland’s history — compared to the low of 47 people in 1972, one of the bloodiest periods of the Troubles. But the numbers are likely greater because, as researchers point out, police in rural areas often report suicides as “accidents” to protect the privacy of relatives. NISRA also reports that suicide and self-harm in the country are most prevalent among young adult males. A higher number of deaths happen in urban areas, especially in the predominantly Catholic parishes of North and West Belfast.
To hear of suicide is chilling, numbing. First, there’s the event, then there are the echoes from this happening and then maybe acceptance. The stubborn core of suicide in Northern Ireland is as troubling as it is perplexing. This is a society that has been brutalized and traumatized by the years of violence. Depression and anxiety are widespread. And for all the success that peace and power-sharing have brought, they haven’t completely exorcized the North’s sectarian demons.
Deidre O’Neill’s brother John had been going through one of life’s rough patches. Nothing like a cluster of silver balloons could cure the charcoal mood he was in. Not even anti-depressants. According to O’Neill, he had been a call centre employee who garnered all sorts of prizes for hard work and leadership but had taking time off work for stress.
Then on Aug. 5, 2006, during a visit with his mum and siblings, John suddenly left the house, promising to return within the hour. He said he had to retrieve something from his home in West Belfast. But that hour turned into an entire evening, prompting O’Neill and her mother to go looking for him. Upon driving up his street, they found a flashing ambulance in front of his home. That’s when they learned that John had hung himself from the handle of a door leading to an attic space. Tucked away in his wallet were two handwritten notes: one for his partner, Ciara, and his four-year-old daughter, Caitlin, and the other for his parents and siblings. The letters were less angry than they were apologetic, according to his sister. He wrote that he didn’t feel happy and that he wasn’t living up to what he should be. He mentioned that he loved everyone and that he was very sorry.
“Johnny died just two days before his 24th birthday and it seemed he had his whole life ahead of him,” says O’Neill, her shoulders slumped and eyes softened. A tiny gold cross hangs from a dainty chain around her neck. “He was very proud of his young family, especially wee Caitlin, who he doted on and spoiled silly and often carried on his shoulders. Passing away, he has missed her very first day of school. Come to think of it, there will be plenty more firsts.”
O’Neill, now 32, still counts the months since John took his life. She decided to join PIPS as an administration officer in February. “To be honest, we don’t know what happened with John; there was nothing specific we could pinpoint. . . . “One thing is for sure: what happened changed our lives. . . It created a huge hole in our family that will never go away.”
“Why?” is always the hardest question to answer. In some cases, suicides can be linked to drugs, alcohol and solvent abuse. But in Northern Ireland, that’s the tip of the iceberg. The 2005 survey produced by Queen’s University in Belfast examined the long-term psychological effects of sectarian violence on society. Researchers found that a “considerable proportion” of the population experience “significant mental health problems,” which they partly attribute to Northern Ireland’s troubled past. Post-traumatic stress disorder, for example, is twice as common in Northern Ireland as it is in bordering counties. During the conflict, people’s coping mechanisms included a combination of “habituation, denial and distancing,” researchers noted. However, since the decrease in violence in the country, people have simply become less resilient to trauma.
A “national disaster” is how Gerry Adams, president of Sinn Féin and MP for West Belfast, describes suicide. “In my constituency, especially, recent suicides have convulsed local communities, exacerbating the sense of powerlessness that people may feel in their present realities,” says Adams, the Irish Republican politician who played an important role in the Northern Ireland peace process. “Part of the problem is that here in the north of Ireland, with the war over and people coming out from the trenches, there is less cohesion in particular communities. No longer facing threats and heavy militarization, neighbourhoods aren’t as tightly knit together as they were before. . . . But together, they suffer the events of suicide. Parents and peers feel guilty while the rest of the community worries about who will be next.”
This cycle of deaths has followed a familiar pattern, he says, with people living in the most economically deprived areas being most at risk. “Those academically unqualified have a greater difficulty accessing jobs in this new climate. . . . In Northern Ireland, like any other country where there has been great societal change, there is widening gap between the have and have nots, the blue-collar and white collar workers.”
Churches, once pillars of sectarian identity, are also caught in the currents of change. A decline in religious practice and a string of sexual scandals have helped to collapse what religious commentator Sean MacReamonn described as the “cultural scaffolding,” made up of “habit, assent, consensus, obedience [and] tradition,” within which churches thrived. A much more complex Ireland has emerged, one that is increasingly multicultural, diversified and secular.
Yet the churches still hold sway. It’s said that priests and ministers can still be found to-ing and fro-ing from parliament buildings. And during civil disturbances, it’s usually up to clerics to make sense of the situation. In 2001, Fr. Aiden Troy, the rector of Holy Cross Catholic Church and well-known civic peacemaker, witnessed one of the most shocking events in Belfast’s Ardoyne community and, indeed, in the North’s recent history. For several weeks in the fall, young children, parents and teachers going to and from Holy Cross primary school were subjected to taunts by Loyalist protesters. The placard and whistle protest, characterized by urine-filled balloons, pornographic posters and jeers about “Fenian whores,” arose following accusations that some Republicans had used the school route as cover to disturb surrounding Loyalist neighbourhoods. However, after several riotous weeks, Troy helped to bring the blockade to a peaceful end.
More recently, Troy has turned his attention to the problem of youth suicides. In addition to providing counseling, he engages young people whenever they come to get their travel papers signed — what he calls “the passport apostolate.”
“Self-esteem is quite low among youth and hope is sometimes lost,” he says. “In our post-conflict situation, their parents and grandparents may also find it difficult to live with this newfound peace. The days of vigilance to defend their area and to remain within the locality where everyone knew each other has passed. This new situation is leading to challenges to embed the peace and live in a more ‘normal’ way. One of these, of course, is suicide.”
Holy Cross is also where 18-year-old Barney Kearns took his life in February 2004, having attended the Requiem Mass and burial of his friend Anthony O’Neill, also 18 and a victim of suicide. After the funeral, the Kearns and O’Neill families went to a local club for food and drink. It was from there that Barney Kearns left, crossed the Crumlin Road and entered the Holy Cross grounds. A passing taxi later discovered him hanging from builders’ scaffolding atop the church tower.
“I quickly climbed up the scaffolding as soon as I was told about a body hanging on high,” Troy remembers. “All that could be done was to call out to the person in the hope that he might still be alive and assure him that help was on the way. . . . The emergency services arrived and with some difficulty recovered the body. On coming down from the scaffolding, a man approached me and asked what colour top the young person was wearing. I told him, and his reply was, ‘That is my son.’”
In the year before their suicides, nationalist gangs shot Kearns in both legs and forced O’Neill down a manhole for several hours. Former paramilitaries are now known more for violence and drug trafficking than advancing any political cause. Though they operate along sectarian lines, their victims are Catholic, Protestant or anyone else who stands in their way. Troy insists that these so-called punishment beatings had a devastating effect on the mental health of the two young men. As well, he alleges that hardliners on both sides are to blame for other suicides.
During the Troubles, the church helped to prevent society from going over the brink, but suicide and self-harm are different pastoral challenges, according to Lindsay Conway, the director of social services for the Presbyterian Church in Ireland. Conway says that the churches have moved on from the days when suicide was seen as both a sin and crime, when victims were even denied a sacred burial. The fear of eternal damnation that may have deterred suicidal people is waning.
“Today, young people are not coping at a level that is practical,” he points out. “They reach crisis an awful lot sooner than previous generations. When something bad happens to them, when somebody rocks their boat, it’s not chalked down as experience. It’s considered tragic in their minds.”
Conway continues: “This generation e-mails and texts until their thumbs wear out. But they’re not talking. They can’t say aloud, ‘I’m struggling — with school, work, relationships, sexuality.’ So there’s a desperate hopelessness there.”
Northern Ireland’s four main denominations have started to show a unified force, though. In February, church leaders discussed suicide with the country’s Assembly Health Committee. In a statement, clergy heads acknowledged that “churches have a clear role in the managing of this major social problem. It’s a process that begins with a funeral service, then a visit with a bereaved family and, in many cases, will continue for months and years.”
Rhonda Hill’s daughter Denise took her own life in September 2004. The 14-year-old, like many female suicides, overdosed on prescription pills. To her parents, Denise didn’t seem to suffer from depression, rather she was a “bubbly, happy-go-lucky girl.” As such, her death came as a total shock to her family and friends.
“We had no warning, no tell-tale signs,” Hill told the Irish News. “Following Denise’s death, we went through a phase of asking questions: why did she do it; why did I not see something; why did she not tell us — what do we do now?”
Following the death of her daughter, her 16-year-old son Joe attempted to kill himself three times. Says Hill: “Our son couldn’t cope with the loss and felt he should have noticed something was wrong. It took us eight months to persuade him to go and see a psychiatrist … we then kept constant watch, not living day by day but minute by minute.”
Frustrated with the lack of support services in the Greater Shankill Area — a predominately Protestant community — Hill and her husband, Michael, helped to set up the Greater Shankill Families Support Group. It was good to talk about her loss with people who understood. Only then did Hill realize that it was okay to laugh and not feel guilty. And most importantly, she knew her family wasn’t alone in a city — and a country — preoccupied with keeping the peace.
The spectre of violence is certainly not as stark as it once was. Yet the barbed wire remains, as does the 40-year-old Peace Line, the six meter-high wall of corrugated steel, concrete and chain link that zigzags through Protestant and Catholic communities of West Belfast. It’s outlasted the Berlin Wall although there is now talk about pulling it down, along with other barriers throughout Northern Ireland.
There is still the diverse array of political murals along the Catholic Falls and Protestant Shankill Roads. Off these thoroughfares, on the sides of shops and houses, Nationalist and Loyalist icons are immortalized and fallen brethren are honoured. Though, the more radical, hate-filled paintings by paramilitaries have been replaced with advertisements for junior football clubs, black taxis, home heating and, of course, suicide awareness.
There is still the marching season, between April and August. Tens of thousands of Protestant hardliners annually parade through Belfast and other Northern Ireland communities. On July 12, the Orange Order march commemorates the 1690 victory by the Protestant king, William of Orange, over the Catholic he ousted from the English throne: James II. The event used to spark tensions between its participants and Catholic bystanders. But in one sign of rapidly changed times, Catholic protesters now heave up anti-Orangemen placards instead of Molotov cocktails, allowing the “kick the Pope” bands to pass peacefully.
Not least of all, there is Féile an Phobail, also known as the West Belfast Festival. However, what began as a politically charged parade during the height of the Troubles has become a carnival filled with traditional Irish music and drollery. Sinn Féin’s Gerry Adams says: “A sense of Irishness, a sense of Republicanism, a sense of being from West Belfast are still very acute in my constituency. But if you’re a 16-year-old, you probably won’t have any real memory or consciousness of the Troubles. My own grandchildren have never seen a British soldier or endured house raids and arrests; gun battles and explosions. I’d say they — and the vast majority of people on both sides — have a genuine desire to move forward. All that’s a good thing.”
Progress is doable, Adam says, but it is not inevitable. Séin Feinn wants unemployment, education and leftover sectarianism pushed to the top of the assembly’s agenda. On the issue of suicide, it has long lobbied for a regional prevention strategy and, in September 2007, Northern Ireland’s Department of Health allocated more than £3 million to such a plan. More recently, the department put its weight behind a 24-hour suicide helpline.
Paradoxically, while the Northern Ireland Assembly goes through its growing pains, the issue of suicide is bringing Protestants and Catholics closer together. Squeezed between the two enclaves in North Belfast, PIPS provides counselling, family support meetings and self-harm workshops to people of all religious backgrounds and political stripes. As Philip McTaggart puts it, “We’re in the right place and everyone feels PIPS is theirs, which is important. Religion and politics is left at the door.”
McTaggart remembers giving solace to a former member of the Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC), which served as the police force in the country until 2001. British security forces praised the RUC for keeping order during the Troubles, but the nationalist community accused it of one-sided policing. On that day, the RUC man was simply someone needing help for a close relative. He wandered into PIPS carrying two big boxes of chocolates.
Atop a hill, in the rearward grounds of Holy Cross Roman Catholic Church, the winds come howling through the undergrowth. With a spiritualist’s gaze, McTaggart stands before his late son’s memorial, a shrine of withered bouquets, weather-beaten plush toys, holy candles and pendants, and faded pictures. A simple plaque is screwed into the chestnut tree on which the young man hanged himself. For him and other community workers, it’s been like an endless banquet of loss. But eventually, he admits, the tables will be wiped clean, the plates will be washed rigorously and the silverware scrubbed free of debris.
“These days, I feel a little happier with myself,” McTaggart says with a rueful smile. “I have to be as cheerful as I possibly can in order to make my wife and other two kids happy.” His son’s old chums seem happy, too. Some of them are married with children. Some still go to the discos and bars. Inevitably, McTaggart wonders what Philip would be doing today. Barbering? Bartending? Would he have a wife and children of his own?
“However much I’ve accomplished, I don’t think I’ll ever have complete closure. I don’t think anyone can after the suicide of a loved one because you’re constantly asking why and what if . . . those big questions. I’ll be doing that for the rest of my life, I suppose.”
Originally published in the United Church Observer, September 2008
