At the beginning of February, Freedom Bookshop was firebombed. No one was hurt and not a single word was broken. In fact, the burning of words only strengthened links and empowered ideas. Funny how things turn out.
The lack of media attention was disturbing, but not surprising. Interesting waifs and strays heard via word of mouth. Activists blogged, tweeted, and txtd each other. And as a writer, I heard in a pub. I went to Facebook. I was livid. Then confused. I searched for reasons why this, above everything else at the moment, should bother me so profoundly.
I wondered whether my emotional self was translating oppressed whispers from my Irish blood. Or if my survivor self was looking for further sacrifices to appease her inner goddess of rage, or whether I just fancied causing trouble. My anger it seems was talking to someone quite small and gentle. Someone who likes red ribbons and hiding in bushes to…
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