“[A] pair of dispassionate [IRA] gunmen were sent from Belfast. Before the killing, they summoned a priest. This was not unusual: there were certain priests in that era who grew accustomed to the late-night phone call. They would be summoned outside by gruff men who were about to perform an execution and asked to deliver the last rites. The act of killing itself had a ritual character, a practiced choreography…A bag is placed over your head. Your hands are bound behind your back. You kneel in the soft grass. Then you flop forward when the bullet hits your brain…”
- Patrick Radden Keefe, Say Nothing: A True Story of Murder and Memory in Northern Ireland
Patrick Radden Keefe’s Say Nothing is a remarkable book. It bills itself as a murder mystery of sorts, centered on the December 1972 abduction – and subsequent “disappearance” – of a widowed mother in front of her ten children. But it is much more than that. It is, in fact, a retelling of “the Troubles” – the sectarian conflict in Northern Ireland – through four distinct characters: Gerry Adams, the morally malleable political leader of Sinn Fein; Brendan “the Dark” Hughes, the deadly brigade leader of the Provisional Irish Republican Army; Dolours Price, who joined the IRA as a young woman and embarked on the type of celebrity-terrorist career that brings to mind Patty Hurst without the trust fund; and finally, Jean McConville, who may or may not have been a British informant, but was certainly murdered for no good reason. Each is memorable in their own way, their lives intersecting, often fatefully, in a web of violence, ideals, and memory far larger than themselves.
Say Nothing is elegantly structured, using the McConville murder as a narrative touchstone from which to embark on a larger exploration of the vicious, long-lasting, and incredibly intimate conflict pitting loyalists (mainly Protestants) who wanted Northern Ireland to remain in the United Kingdom, and republicans (mainly Catholics) who wanted it to become part of a united Ireland. This conflict was marked by kidnappings, extralegal confinements, torture, assassinations, and bombings.
In terms of sheer numbers, the violence in Northern Ireland was low-grade. The numbers I’ve seen put total fatalities at around 3,500 over a roughly 30-year period. In our own Age of Terror, those numbers – unfortunately – barely make you blink. (By way of comparison: the Omagh Bombing, carried out by an IRA splinter group, killed around 30; on September 11, 2001, al-Qaeda killed around 3,000).
In terms of viciousness, though, the Troubles still manage to shock and unsettle. This was a civil war pitting neighbor against neighbor. The violence was personal and every bullet had a name. When Jean McConville was taken, many of her abductors were recognized by her children, who saw them around for years later.
When I picked up Say Nothing, the things I knew about the Troubles – about Irish history in general – could fit into a pint glass. Indeed, most of the things I knew revolved around pint glasses. I think that’s important to mention, because part of my reaction to this book is a function of the thrill of discovery. With the exception of Adams, Bloody Sunday, and a couple of the IRA’s most famous bombings, I did not have a lot of foreknowledge about this subject. It is quite possible that a person who has studied these times before will be less enthralled.
That said, Keefe has still done an excellent job here. He is a consistently engaging writer with a really good grasp on what he is trying to do. He recognizes that the McConville murder itself can probably be covered comfortably in a long magazine article (and I believe it has been, by Keefe himself, in The New Yorker). Thus, he weaves the crime into the overall tapestry of the Troubles. But he never resorts to mere filler. Instead, all the different storylines inform each other. While there are some pretty long stretches in which McConville is absent from Say Nothing, Keefe never forgets her (or her children), and he is always returning to her final moments, gradually revealing certain aspects of it that he has uncovered (including, in the final pages, the possible identity of her actual shooter).
Keefe is also a dogged researcher and interviewer, and he has gone to great lengths to tell this tale right. His endnotes are extensive and reveal his efforts to get people to give up their secrets, in a land in which touts – informers or snitches – are still reviled. He tries extremely hard to remain unbiased, writing with a controlled sense of outrage about both loyalist and republican atrocities. There is no single villain here. Certainly, there is no unblemished hero. Both sides did appalling things. Undoubtedly, there will be partisans who say Keefe hasn’t told the truth, but that is to be expected. The “truth” is dead in an unmarked grave, and we are left with many competing remembrances. As Keefe demonstrates, many eyewitness accounts are at odds with each other and with contemporary reports; yet for the eyewitness, that account has become gospel.
For me, one of the best measures of a book is how often I am unconsciously bringing it up in conversation. During the week in which I tore through Say Nothing, I probably said the words “I’m reading this book called Say Nothing” a dozen times. And that’s not even counting St. Patrick’s Day, when I attempted to steer all bar conversations toward the ethics of political violence. Without ever indulging a lecture, Say Nothing has a lot of things to say about idealism and brutality; about national memory; and about which ends justify which means.
Say Nothing is in part possible because of a secret oral history endeavor called the “Belfast Project,” in which interviewers spoke with former IRA men and women, collecting their stories (and their crimes) and placing them under seal at Boston College. When word of the project leaked, prosecutors in Northern Ireland subpoenaed these records, and Boston College hastily complied.
What Keefe found in a lot of these reminisces is the concept of moral injury: the damage to a person’s soul for transgressive acts taken in the name of a cause. Many of these old fighters/terrorists felt betrayed by the 1998 Good Friday Agreement, because they sensed that the awful things they’d done had been done for no reason. In the end, all their efforts ended in a compromise that probably could have been attained without the bloodshed.
Yet someday, Ireland will be unified from top to bottom. Someday, the relatively recent history covered in Say Nothing will be old history. From that distant vantage, the answers to some extremely difficult questions will seem self-evident. It will be easy to shrug and say that the car bombs, the kidnappings, even the killing of a mother of ten children, were nothing more than minor speed-bumps on the road to unification. To that end, Say Nothing will serve as an important reminder of the terrible complexities of the Troubles. It is an indelible portrait of four participants living in a moral bog, where otherwise-decent men and women saw their choice as between killing a person and hiding their body, or killing a person and leaving their body on the street. It is a study of the cost of belief, to both victim and perpetrator alike.