Fergal Keane

Saturday

Fergal Keane

Old Ireland lives on in a frozen Christmas swim

From our UK edition

On Christmas morning the entire village will gather on the beach at the end of the main street. I think the ‘main’ is probably superfluous here. There is really only one street with a series of small roads and paths stacked above it on the hill of Ardmore. If you were to stand at the Storm Wall, just above the beach, you would see a hundred or so hardy folk dressed for a sweltering summer’s day and waiting for the order to charge. The more obviously hungover, the elderly and sick, and the plain cowardly gather around the table of soup, tea and whiskey organised by the local members of the Irish Countrywomen’s Association.

Saturday

Fergal Keane

‘They come at two or three in the morning’

From our UK edition

Rangoon The first few rows were taken up by the more ostentatiously pious of the congregation, elderly women mostly and a few schoolgirls wearing last year’s Holy Communion dresses. To their left, sitting in front of a statue of the Virgin, was a phalanx of nuns wearing the starched and forbidding habits long ago abandoned by their trendier sisters in the Western world. Behind them sat middle-aged husbands and wives, the latecomers and the doubters, and your correspondent, sweaty and portly and dressed unbecomingly in T-shirt and shorts, the necessary uniform of the foreign reporter posing as a tourist in totalitarian Burma.

Saturday

Fergal Keane

The sweet contagion of freedom will outlast the bloodshed in Burma

From our UK edition

Burma is awakening from a nightmare of greed and repression.  Fergal Keane meets a family on the Thai-Burma border whose tragic story is Burma's story but remains optimistic about the chances of the Burmese desire for freedom ultimately triumphing over the junta.  Mae Sot, Thai-Burma borderThe family had come from one of the villages along the border and their story of life and death came from the heart of Burma’s tragedy. They had crossed to Thailand because they did not have the money to buy medicine in Burma. Under the Generals’ rule healthcare in Burma exists only for the rich or the friends of the regime. The country has more malaria deaths than India, whose population is 20 times bigger.

Saturday

Fergal Keane

Diary – 14 July 2007

From our UK edition

Hong Kong It is very good to be back. So good that I can ignore the horror of the summer weather. The humidity suffocates and is only relieved by sudden and violent downpours. But these are minor irritations in a city that is back to its best. The economy booms and the shops and restaurants are full. I watched a pro-democracy march and was reminded of the glorious fractiousness of the Hong Kongers. No power on earth should pick an argument with them. It is a passionate nature which can occasionally find expression in unfortunate ways. Take the case of Mr Kwok who finds himself very nearly eyeless in Kowloon. Six years ago Kwok was set upon by his girlfriend Ms Po who in the midst of a romantic tiff tried to gouge out his left eye with her finger. As a result he lost the sight of the eye.

Saturday

Fergal Keane

Ireland’s laureate of Christmas

From our UK edition

Paddy Kavanagh died with Christmas only a few weeks away. The poet was taken down by a virulent bout of pneumonia, aided and abetted by his addiction to strong drink. He had once cuttingly remarked that the ‘standing army of Irish poets never fell below 20,000’. His death robbed the country of one of the very best of them. Kavanagh had battled alcoholism all his adult life. But by the end of November 1967 he had lost any strength for the fight. He died at home in County Monaghan, among the little hills of the Irish borderlands, in the very place where he had written his magnificent ‘A Christmas Childhood’. It is the finest poem ever written about Christmas, a hymn to simple faith, conjured from the memories of his childhood on a small farm.

Wednesday

Fergal Keane

‘See dogs eating bodies in the rubble’

From our UK edition

Qana There was no smell of death. The dying had taken place too recently. When I arrived they were still pulling corpses from the collapsed building. The first I saw were two young brothers of the Shalhoub family. If you have ever watched sleeping children carried to their beds late at night, you will have some idea of the scene. The dead children of Qana looked as if they were in a deep slumber. The shock waves of the explosion had collapsed their lungs, suffocating them in the rubble. I saw one whose mouth and nose were stuffed with sand. The only sign of the violence done to them was a trickle of blood from the noses of a few and several dark bruises where masonry had crashed on to their flesh. I counted five child corpses being carried out in just ten minutes.