For the past six years, the tall, burly Conway has raised his voice again and again to conciliate the Protestant and Roman Catholic foes whose hatred goes back three centuries.
More than 1,300 have died in the terror, thousands more have been injured—and the embattled Conway has become a casualty too. Last month the 62-year-old cardinal was ordered to rest for six weeks because of what his doctors called "cardiac strain."
Considering the implacable strife, his illness is little wonder. Some three million Catholics live in the Irish Republic. Ironically, their cardinal hangs his red hat in bloody Ulster, at the Cathedral of St. Patrick in Armagh. The 500,000 Catholics in Northern Ireland are outnumbered two-to-one by Protestants, who have dominated the state since William of Orange's victory at the Boyne in 1690. Conway is the spiritual leader of a Catholic population demanding civil rights long denied them by the Protestants.
His approach throughout the turmoil has been both pacifistic and pragmatic. The terrorist Irish Republican Army Provisionals want North and South reunified within the Republic—no matter what the price. "I happen to believe in a united Ireland—eventually," the cardinal says. "But it can only come when the majority of Irish, on both sides of the border, want it." He denounces hotheads of all persuasions, sometimes directing particular wrath at the IRA. "Their campaign of terror," he declares, "can't bomb a million Protestants into a united Ireland."
Conway's most important work, though, has probably been his low-key diplomacy as one of the few negotiators with contacts in all camps. "I meet regularly with my Protestant colleagues," he says. "Not long ago I sat in my parlor with a Protestant bishop and we had a problem—what to do about two American clerics who were flying here to 'help bring us together.' "
Because his accessibility leaves him open to criticism from every quarter, Conway has had to become skilled at verbal thrust-and-parry. "I always seem to have something unpleasant to say to my guests," he explains. "I ask British army officers about Republican prisoners of theirs whom I have seen covered with bruises or disoriented by interrogation. They don't like to have to chat about that. Protestant politicians want to talk about peace, and I switch to 'more jobs.' And my Catholics get uneasy when I ask them to deny sanctuary to the bombers."
The cardinal was born the son of a painting contractor in Belfast, and etched in his memory are the Protestant nursery rhymes that belittled Catholics and parades designed to intimidate them. He thought of becoming a doctor. "I guess I just wanted to help people," he says, "and at 15, I decided the Church here had some hard years ahead, and I wanted to play my part." He was ordained in 1937, and after a career as an educator, became a cardinal in 1965.
Conway's mastery of the common touch—he's more likely to shake hands than to extend his ring for the traditional kiss—has served him well, and his sense of humor helps keep his battles and exalted station in perspective. Walking in the cathedral grounds one day he spied Barney McManus, its sacristan (or sexton), and recalled a story: "I stopped a local lad once for a chat. He obviously was a little confused about my identity, so I pointed up to the cathedral and asked him if he knew who the big boss there was."
" 'Sure I do,' the boy said. 'Barney McManus.' "
Saved by the Bell Reunion
The hookups, the meltdowns, the memoires
The case reveals what was really going on what they think of each other now!
