No-one was ever neutral about Francis Hughes. To republican grassroots he
epitomised the defiant, militant spirit more than any other IRA man of his
generation.
"He fought them every day he lived and he fought when he died," Christy
Moore sings in The Boy From Tamlaghtduff. To unionists, he was the devil
incarnate, a callous murderer of decent, honourable men.
Many thought jail was too good for Hughes. They rejoiced when he died on
hunger-strike. A film about his life, The Time Has Come, will be made in
the autumn.
"Maybe with the signing of the Good Friday Agreement, now is the time to
tell the story," says Hughes' brother Oliver. That's ridiculous. Why is now
the appropriate time for this narrative and not 10 or 20 years ago? What has
changed?
What magical transformation occurred in April 1998? How could the signing of
a document - rejected by most unionists - make it any more right or wrong to
tell Hughes' story?
Oliver Hughes is spouting peace process poppycock. His brother was "a
product of the system", he says. Francis Hughes was most certainly not a
victim, nor did he see himself as one.
Unionists won't suddenly empathise with him after a trip to the cinema.
Anyway, Hughes wouldn't have given a damn what they thought. His was not a
world of tolerance and reconciliation. It was one of uncompromising
political fundamentalism.
I'm not against this movie being made. I'm opposed to censorship across the
board. But I hope it will portray Hughes accurately, and not in the
soft-focus light that suits the Sinn Féin leadership.
Hughes killed up to 30 members of the security forces. "He was the sort of
man who would shoot a few policemen on his way to a meeting to plan our next
attack on the police," recalled a fellow IRA man.
Any attempt to depict him as a tree-hugging, tortured soul - reluctantly
driven to armed struggle with a heavy heart - would be a total
misrepresentation.
Hughes was captured after a gun battle with the SAS. He had lain in a ditch,
seriously wounded for 15 hours. Even when in great pain himself, he was
completely ruthless. His first question on seeing a relative in hospital was
"How many did I get?"
He didn't write poetry or short stories or do any of the activities
currently favoured by PR-friendly Provos. His recreation, before
imprisonment, consisted of drinking sessions in Donegal.
Once, he captured a Garda car, stripped the occupants of their uniforms,
tied them up, and presented his hostess with a police whistle as a trophy.
Had Hughes lived, it's difficult to imagine Gerry Adams turning to his host,
in the White House or Downing Street, and saying "Ah, let me introduce you
to Francis."
