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In the summer of 1963, with nine school friends I drove from Belfast to Greece in a tiny minibus, with all our camping gear on the roof. Our route took us through Britain, Belgium, West Germany, Austria and Yugoslavia. Waking on the fifth day, we found two of our number feeling unwell. We struck camp quickly and headed for the next town, Skopje. On the outskirts, our curiosity was aroused by a steady stream of dishevelled people, some on foot, many on carts drawn by bullocks. These people seemed to have all their worldly goods with them, for the mound of possessions on the carts was often topped with a small TV. Some miles further on, the road surface was buckled and fissured, almost impassable. We arrived into Skopje a few hours after a major earthquake had struck, leaving almost a thousand dead, horrific casualties and many thousands of homes destroyed. The streets were filled with people in distress, many of them injured, many of them in the throes of bereavement. Despite the chaos, we quickly found someone who could interpret for us, as well as help for our sick friends. The kindness and support extended to a bunch of Irish schoolkids by relatively poor people in the midst of their own crisis should be an inspiration to us now. Every time I see the TV footage from Kosovo, I am reminded of that summer and feel compelled to help those people in whatever way I can. To this end, I busked outside record shops all over Ireland during June and July, while publicising The Calm After The Storm. The good people of Ireland enabled me to hand over a cheque for over £2,000 to Amnesty's Kosovo appeal. Thanks to every single person. |