The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

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Location: Kilcullen (Phone 087 7790766), County Kildare, Ireland

Wednesday, December 07, 2011


Miss Arabia told me this afternoon over coffees in the Costa Cafe on Dawson Street that she favoured abortion and that she had helped a young Muslim girl procure one.
Immediately I said: "No, no, no, no."
Miss A said: "Are you against abortion?"
I said: "Yes. Of course I am."
Miss A: "Oh."
I said: "I thought Muslims considered life to be sacred."
Miss A: "In Islam abortion is okay up to four months of pregnancy."
I said: "I think I know more about the peaceloving religion of Islam than you do."
She said: "Only the Taliban and those sort of nutters think all abortion is wrong."
I said: "You're telling me only the Taliban agree with me?"
She said: "Yes. And maybe some people in Iran. Only the extremists."
I said: "I think you're wrong. I think Islam forbids abortion."
She said: "No, actually it doesn't."
I said: "If you thought the unborn child was a human being you would agree with me."
She said: "It's not a child. It's a foetus."
I said: "Foetus is just Latin for unborn child. People who support abortion are more comfortable using a Latin term for the children they kill because Latin sounds medical. But the Latin term foetus means unborn child."
She said: "To you maybe. To me, it's a foetus."
I said: "Can we admit that whatever is aborted is a baby who has not yet been born?"
She said: "It's a foetus and abortion is absolutely a woman's right. Listen. The girl I helped had no choice. She had no other way out."
I said: "She did have a choice. She could have given the child to me."
Miss A said: "She had to have an abortion. Her family would have killed her if they'd seen she was pregnant. You don't understand the sheer terror these girls have to live with."
I said: "If my family threatened to kill me unless I killed someone else, I wouldn't kill for them."
She said: "You don't know what you are talking about. You have no idea what it is like for a young girl in that situation. You cannot even imagine the horror she faced."
I said: "In 1973, an eleven year old girl in Dublin called Cynthia Owens was prostituted by her father and mother to a devil worshipping ring in Dalkey. She became pregnant. Her unborn baby was the son of a devil worshipper who had raped her. And still she fought for her baby's life. Still she tried to save her baby when the mother who had prostituted her sacrificed her baby to satan by murdering him with a knitting needle. And Cynthia Owens was eleven. And when she became pregnant a second time by the devil worshippers, she again tried to save her baby, and again her mother murdered the child. No matter what the devil worshippers did to her, they couldn't touch Cynthia Owens' soul. She cherished each of those babies and sought to save them. Each and every time Cynthia Owens wanted to save her babies."
Our conversation ranged on for some time.
Then we talked of other things.
Then we went up to Stephens Green where I had an appointment to feed some ducks.
Then we went to a Cafe Insomnia to discuss UFO's and the shroud of Turin and a book Miss A appears in, courtesy of her friend who is an author.
Then we said goodbye.
I wandered back to the Costa Cafe, purchased a beverage and ensconced myself in the corner by the window.
I was in relaxed enough spirits sitting with a hot chocolate and a James Thurber book enjoying the cacophony of the cafe at evening.
Suddenly tears began to pour from eyes.
The oddest tears.
Not great raking sobs.
Just tears.
Streaming down my face.
I sat quite still.
I asked myself, what's going on?
Instantly I knew that I was crying for the little Muslim child I would never know.
I was fullly aware that the tears were a gift from God to me.
I knew they were from God and did not fear them.
The booty girl I'd been ogling at an adjoining table a moment before eyed me curiously.
For long moments the tears for the child I would never know continued.
It would be more politically correct, more trendy, to pretend I cried also for his teenage mother.
I did not cry for her.
But when I stopped crying I knew what must be done.
We must establish a network of safe houses across Europe to help any girl in this situation.
And so it begins.


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