"Youâ??re a Brit, arenâ??t you?â? It was an accusation. His face was twisted, angry and only about six inches away from mine. I was backed against a wall outside a drinking club in west Belfast, and two of his friends stood on either side. This is how it begins, I thought, starting to panic. It ends with a beating in a lock-up garage. Or worse.
It didnâ??t, of course. Within less than a minute an older man had said something and the three youths laid off, sauntering away without a word: next time it really might be an undercover British soldier. I knew what a â??Britâ? was, all right. But I had never been called one until I arrived in Northern Ireland to cover the war there in the 1970s.
Read Full Article »