The Negotiator

by George Mitchell

  Heather and I were married on December 10. I left the Senate on January 2, 1995, and was sworn into my new position one week later. In early February I was in Northern Ireland for what was scheduled to be five months. It turned out to be five years.

  * * *

  I. This led to an unusual experience. Some contributions were received after the goal was reached, so the checks were returned. Most donors were pleased that I had set and kept to a limit. But, to my surprise, I received quite a few phone calls from donors angry that I hadn’t accepted their contribution: “What’s the matter, Senator, isn’t my money good enough for you?”

  Northern Ireland

  OMAGH

  As the late Saturday afternoon breeze quickened, sailboats large and small made their way into Northeast Harbor, a small village on Mount Desert Island off the coast of Maine. The guests on the porch of the grand home overlooking the harbor basked in the warm glow of the sun as it dipped slowly toward the mountains in the west. I was scheduled to speak to them later in the evening, but, unable to focus on the present, I sought out the host and asked to speak as soon as possible. “I’m sorry,” I explained, “there’s a problem in Northern Ireland, and I’ve got to get back to my cottage to take some calls.” It’s hard to give a good speech when your mind is three thousand miles away, but I did my best to conceal my haste to leave.

  The first call had come just before Heather and I left to drive to the event from the summer cottage we had rented that August. The overseas connection was bad, the news worse. What little I understood was deeply disturbing: “A bomb . . . many killed . . . will call later.” An agreement had been reached four months earlier, on April 10, 1998, Good Friday, ending two years of negotiation and many centuries of conflict. It had been approved by the voters in a referendum in May by overwhelming margins in the Irish Republic and Northern Ireland. After more than three years of effort, the negotiations I chaired, involving the British and Irish governments and ten political parties of Northern Ireland, had concluded in agreement, and the people had added their approval. Now, just a few months later, on August 15, men of violence sought to undo all that had been accomplished, using the only arguments they had left: murder, death, destruction.

  There had been three and a half years of seemingly endless negotiations, argument, disagreement, killing, near despair. Then, on Easter weekend, it had all ended suddenly in a way that few anticipated: with a peace agreement. Now that peace was threatened. Or was it? As I raced back to the cottage I was nervous and worried. Could it all have been in vain?

  It also was a warm Saturday afternoon in Omagh, a medium-size market town in the western part of Northern Ireland. On this as on other Saturdays, as they had for centuries, people came from the surrounding towns and villages, from Killyclogher and Gillygooley, from Dromore and Carrickmore, from Fivemiletown and Sixmilecross, to buy and sell, to shop and swap, to visit, to see and be seen in one of the most ancient and pleasurable rituals of life in every human society. Just after two-thirty in the afternoon the first of three warnings was phoned in to a local television station. But there was confusion about the precise location, and the police, believing that a bomb had been placed at the local courthouse, began moving people away from that building. Many ran or walked down Market Street, on which many shops were located. What they did not know, could not know, was that they were racing toward the bomb. On Market Street, about four hundred yards from the courthouse, a maroon Vauxhall sedan was parked. It had been stolen that day in Ireland, its license plates replaced by Northern Ireland plates, packed with a five-hundred-pound bomb and driven to Omagh, where it now sat and waited for its victims. As the people raced toward and around and past the car, some of them brushing it as they ran by, it exploded in a huge burst of flame and thunder and hot flying metal. Those closest were mowed down like stands of grain by a giant scythe, and suddenly there was blood and burning flesh everywhere. After a moment of stunned silence, as the flames came to life and the smoke rose, the shrieking and crying and moaning began. Then came the gasps and tears and curses of those who, unhurt, first came on the grisly scene. Then came the sirens and the ambulances and the medics and those who tried to help, to comfort, to save.

  When the grim accounting was completed twenty-nine people had been killed and nearly three hundred injured, many of them horribly and permanently maimed. A small group of dissidents who called themselves the Real IRA was responsible. They were opposed to the Good Friday Agreement because it did not provide everything they wanted: an immediate and full British withdrawal from Northern Ireland and a fully united Ireland. Even though the Agreement had been approved by 95 percent of those voting in the Republic of Ireland and by 71 percent in Northern Ireland, the men of violence wanted their way, 100 percent. When they didn’t get their way they responded by killing and maiming innocent men, women, and children.

  In the horror of death and destruction on the narrow streets of Omagh was laid bare the utter senselessness of sectarian violence as a way to solve the political problems of Northern Ireland. It hadn’t worked before, and, once again, it didn’t work now. It did not spark the reversion to sectarian conflict the murderers so badly wanted. To the contrary, the people and political leaders of Northern Ireland, stunned and horrified by the carnage, came together in opposition to continued violence. First Minister David Trimble, a unionist, joined with Deputy First Minister Seamus Mallon, a nationalist, in condemning the barbaric act and pledging to revive the effort to resolve their differences through democratic and peaceful means, not through violence.

  Within days I received a call from the White House asking me to join President Clinton on a visit to Omagh to meet with survivors and the families of those who did not survive. A week later we were in a municipal recreation center in Omagh packed with hundreds of people. The mood was somber; it was a time to grieve. The president and Tony Blair, prime minister of the United Kingdom, spoke briefly and were well received. Then we were asked to meet separately with individual survivors and families. In a corner of the room I talked with several of them, one family at a time. I had been through other grieving events before, but none so laden with tension, sorrow, and the sheer number of people present. It was a long and warm evening, moving and unforgettable. I had been in Northern Ireland for nearly four years and I identified with these people. Although I had not previously met any of those with whom I spoke, I felt I knew them and their neighbors. Two especially moved me.

  Michael Monaghan was thirty-three, with dark hair and an open pleasant face. He had to work to contain his emotions as he described to me his visit to Omagh that day with his wife, who was pregnant, their eighteen-month-old daughter, and his wife’s mother. Three generations of women from one family, wiped out in a single, senseless moment. I could not match his restraint when he told me that his two-year-old son, Patrick, asked him every day, “When’s Mommy coming home?”

  Claire Gallagher sat erect, her hands folded in her lap, her long fair hair flowing over the white dress she was wearing. Fifteen years old, a tall, aspiring pianist, her attractive face was largely concealed behind two huge white patches that covered the gaping holes where her eyes had been. Both had been destroyed in the blast. She reached out for my hand, tentatively and slowly. I placed my hand in hers and she held it tightly through our conversation. Calmly and steadily, as though we were old friends, she talked about her life, before and after. I could not see her eyes, as she could not see mine, but I felt that I could see her soul, and the soul of Northern Ireland: strong and brave, badly hurt by sectarian violence, but determined to leave the bitter past behind.

  When I left Northern Ireland three months earlier I had no idea when, if ever, I would return. I had come home to my wife and new, young son, never dreaming that within three months I would return to a Northern Ireland in mourning. As I eased my hand from Claire’s grip and stood, drenched in sweat and emotion, I realized that my ties to Northern Ireland never would be severed. Her parting words reinforced my f
eelings: “Keep going, Senator. You can’t let the peace process fail.” Michael Monaghan had said almost the same words to me earlier, as had others with whom I spoke. In their moment of greatest grief their thoughts and words had been with others who they hoped would not have to go through what they were going through. I am and always will be an American, and proud of it, but a large part of my heart and my emotions forever will be in Northern Ireland. I didn’t know how or when, but I knew I would return.

  The opportunities came before and after Omagh. In early July 1997, I had received an honorary degree from the Queen’s University of Belfast, Northern Ireland. I’ve received more than fifty honorary degrees, all of them meaningful and for which I am grateful. But none means more to me than Queen’s. The ceremony was brief but warm, marked by the reading of a thorough and thoughtful citation prepared and read by one of the university’s law professors. Two years later, in May 1999, to my pleasant surprise I was invited to serve as chancellor of the university, a largely honorary position. I served with great pleasure for ten years. Established in 1845, now serving seventeen thousand students, the university plays a crucial role in the life and development of Northern Ireland. My position as chancellor enabled me to return to Northern Ireland several times each year, and with each visit I learned more and more about the history and people of Northern Ireland. I was filled with regret in January 2009 when I was required to resign as a result of my appointment as President Barack Obama’s special envoy for Middle East peace.

  In the summer of 1999 I became deeply involved in Northern Ireland yet again. On July 15 I was in London, at Buckingham Palace, to receive a knighthood from Queen Elizabeth, a tribute to my prior service in Northern Ireland. My knowledge of British protocol is limited, but my understanding was that, since I am not a British citizen, the designation bestowed on me was purely honorary. Nevertheless the ceremony was memorable and gratifying. The queen was extremely gracious. We reminisced briefly about her visit to Washington in 1992. After meeting with the president she had addressed a joint session of Congress. As I had with Nelson Mandela two years earlier, I cohosted a luncheon in her honor in the Capitol. I introduced her to the other senators around the table, one of whom was Robert Byrd. As I pointed toward him and mentioned his name I told the queen, “Senator Byrd is a keen student of British history and can recite from memory the name and date of rule of every one of your predecessors.” The room was crowded and noisy; Senator Byrd mistakenly thought that I had asked him to recite, so he began, starting in AD 500. After he got through about a half century of kings and dates the queen politely interrupted and, with a smile, said, “Oh, Senator, they were all long before my time.” Byrd took the hint, smiled, and thanked the queen for coming to visit, and we sat down to a pleasant lunch and a discussion filled with talk of British history. Now, seven years later, we were with the queen in her palace. My Scottish Canadian wife and her mother, Shirley MacLachlan, were particularly impressed, as was my sister, Barbara, who accompanied us. Shirley had a pleasant chat about her hometown, Montreal, with the queen. I told the queen that Barbara’s birthday was the next day, and the queen warmly wished her a happy birthday. Barbara was so impressed that she has since stopped recognizing her birthdays and now refers only to the one that she and the queen of England celebrated together.

  By a highly unfortunate coincidence, on that very day the Northern Ireland Assembly, which had been established pursuant to the Good Friday Agreement, collapsed. So rather than attend a celebratory dinner, as planned, I spent the evening receiving telephone calls from officials from Britain, Ireland, and the United States. Within twenty-four hours I had talked with the prime ministers of the United Kingdom and Ireland, Tony Blair and Bertie Ahern, and agreed to their request to return to Northern Ireland to try to put the process back together. By the end of the next day I had met with David Trimble, then the leader of the Ulster Unionist Party in Northern Ireland, who happened to be in London; I also talked by telephone with other party leaders. From then until December of that year I was fully reengaged. Thankfully this effort took months, not years. By the end of the year we had managed to patch together an imperfect but ultimately successful solution to a very difficult and complicated series of issues. Many more years of effort were required on the part of the people and political leaders of Northern Ireland to resolve those issues, but they have kept at it and the process has moved forward. It is still a work in progress, as differences, disputes, and occasional violence continue.

  For the survivors and the families of the victims at Omagh the tragedy endures; the confusion that preceded and immediately followed the bombing continued in the aftermath. Only one man was convicted of a criminal offense, and that conviction was overturned on appeal. Although four men were held liable for damages in a civil trial, to this day no one has been imprisoned for a crime that took twenty-nine lives and permanently damaged hundreds of others.

  ANDREW’S PEACE

  Late in 2011 I received a telephone call from Trevor Birney, an independent television producer in Northern Ireland. I had met him once before, when he interviewed me in London in connection with a documentary film on Northern Ireland that he was producing. “Have you made your return trip to Northern Ireland with Andrew?” he asked.

  I was surprised by the question, so I paused before answering. “No, not yet.”

  “Have you thought about it?”

  “No. Not lately.”

  “Well, if you’re willing to make the trip now I’d like to make a documentary on it for the BBC. We would locate some of the sixty-one children born in Northern Ireland on the same day as Andrew and try to line up visits with them for Andrew and you. Would you be interested?”

  There was another, longer pause. “Gee, Trevor, that would be really nice, but I have to think about that before answering. I don’t know if the time’s right. And I have to talk to my wife and children.”

  “Will you do that and call me back?”

  “Okay, I’ll talk to them and think about it, and then I’ll call you back.”

  The conversation brought back some emotional memories. In one chapter of my book Making Peace, I described the profound effect my son’s birth in 1997 had on me and my work in Northern Ireland:

  On Thursday, October 16, Andrew MacLachlan Mitchell was born. He weighed seven pounds fourteen ounces at birth. He was healthy. We were happy. Heather had some problems which required her to return to the hospital a few days later, and this delayed my return to Belfast, but it meant we were able to spend a few more days together.

  Late in the middle of one night I sat watching Andrew sleeping. I began to imagine what his life would be like, lived, as it would be, almost entirely in the twenty-first century. I then started to think about how different his life would be had he been born a citizen of Northern Ireland. I wondered how many babies had been born in Northern Ireland on October 16. What would their lives be like? How different would those lives be had they been born Americans? I picked up the telephone and called my staff in Belfast. After getting a routine briefing, I asked them to find out how many newborns had been delivered in the province on October 16. It didn’t take long to get the answer: sixty-one.

  For the next several days, the thought stayed with me. It was with me as I got up late on another night to comfort Andrew. Heather and I had such high hopes and dreams for our son. Surely the parents of those sixty-one babies had the same hopes and dreams. The aspirations of parents everywhere are the same: for their children to be healthy and happy, safe and secure, to get a good education and a good start in life, and to be able to go as high and as far as talent and willingness to work will take them. Shouldn’t those sixty-one children in Northern Ireland have the same chance in life that we wanted for our son? Could they get it if Northern Ireland reverted to sectarian strife? There would always be the risk of babies being torn from their mothers’ arms by the sudden blast of a bomb. When a mother sent her children off to school in the morning there would always be the n
agging fear of random violence, the chance that she might never again see them alive. Why should people have to live like that? This conflict was made and sustained by men and women. It could be ended by men and women. And I knew those men and women. They were there, in Stormont. I had been with them for a year and a half, and I was now determined to stay with them to the end. I was also more determined than ever that these negotiations end with an agreement. For the sake of those sixty-one children, and thousands of others like them, we had to succeed. All of the doubts I had about my role in Northern Ireland vanished. No matter what, I would see it through, all the way to an agreement.

  I felt an overpowering urge to touch my sleeping son. I picked him up and held him close for a long time. He couldn’t hear me, but I told him that for him and for his sixty-one friends in Northern Ireland I was somehow going to get this job done, and when I did I would refer to it as Andrew’s Peace.

  I ended the book with these words:

  The Good Friday Agreement was, for me, the realization of a dream that sustained me for three and a half years, the longest, most difficult years of my life. After the agreement was approved, I talked with several of the men and women who had negotiated it; we were all overcome with exhaustion and emotion. As we parted, I told them that I have a new dream.