HOSPITALS can evoke a range of emotions, from joy at a newborn baby, apprehension before an operation and relief at release, or the sad gathering of relatives and friends at the nearby morgue.

But trauma and tragedy have also stalked the corridors of the ultra-modern Daisyhill Hospital at Newry. Its dedicated surgeons, doctors, nurses and ancillary staff, especially ambulance crews, have been on the front-line of the `Troubles, since the new Medical Block was opened, 35 years ago.

The names of some victims spring to mind, due to personal experience. They include Kevin Heatley, the Reavey brothers and Majella O�Hare; the Rowntree twins and Martin McAlinden; Patrick Hughes, Messrs Ruddy, Anderson and McLaughlin (shot dead on Hill Street), Sean Sands from Glenn; Liam Prince and Joanne Reilly of Warrenpoint, as well as many from South Armagh.

Multiple casualties arose from bomb or gun-attacks at Narrow-water, Newry Customs Clearance Station and the local police station, as well as Kingsmills. Ambulance crews often literally had to �pick up the pieces.�

In contrast was the unique scenario, during the Newry March after Bloody Sunday, when wards were evacuated, while medical and nursing staff were on stand-by at the hospital, in anticipation of a blood-bath. About 60,000 demonstrators were heading for a seemingly inevitable confrontation with British soldiers, manning a massive barricade on the Camlough Road.

Mercifully, the Civil Rights organisers averted another catastrophe, by suddenly diverting the marchers down a side road into the Meadow estate, just 50 yards from the military presence, with General Tuzo personally supervising operations.

Among those observing the massive parade passing the hospital was one of the longest-serving and best-known members of the nursing staff, Sister Violet Durkan. She provided a link between the primitive conditions in the old Newry Workhouse, and the multi-storey Daisyhill Hospital of modern times.

Deeply involved in the local community, the now-retired Sister Durkan is President of the Old Newry Society, vice-chairman of the Newry Drama Festival, Chairperson of the Community Services Council, as a well as a founder of Carers in the Community, the Stroke Club and the Life organisation.

Aunt of S.D.L.P. leader, Mark Durkan, this dynamic and indefatigable lady was incandescent with anger at the decision by Newry and Mourne district council to drastically reduce funding for the McGrath Centre. She stressed its valuable contribution to the elderly and disadvantaged, and warned that it was threatened with closure by Christmas, - but more about that anon!

Sister Durkan recalled how, when she started as a nurse at Daisyhill Hospital in 1940, 100 years after the nearby Workhouse had opened, families were still split up on admission, with men, women and children housed in separate sections, - association was forbidden. Girls who became pregnant were disowned by their families, and deposited in the Workhouse, where they had to clean and cook, as well as wash the clothes, including the hospital laundry, without pay!

Newry�s first hospital was a small building near the Gasworks at Kilmorey Street. There were five beds, - four for fever patients, and one for accident victims. A Press report described �open sewers and stagnant pools; yards, lanes and alleys filled with putrefying heaps of matter. Four doctors succumbed to typhoid.� During the 1840�s an Infirmary, Fever Hospital and Workhouse were provided at Daisyhill.

The Plantation of the 1800�s resulted in thousands of people in the North being driven off their lands, and into the towns. A tax was levied on various parishes to maintain Workhouses for those displaced. Under the 1838 Act, the parishes were grouped into Unions, with the Newry Union also encompassing Bessbrook, Camlough, Clonallon, Clonduff, Donaghmore, Forkhill, Killeavey, Poyntzpass and Rathfriland.

The system in Newry Workhouse, the biggest in Ireland, controlled by a Board of Guardians, was meant to be harsh. Poverty was regarded as a crime, so those who were poor were regarded virtually as criminals. When opened in 1841, the Workhouse was designed to accommodate 800 inmates, in what was described as �a draughty, rat-infested, bare and barn-like building, without heat or light.�

In fact, over 1,000 people had to sleep on tiers of bunk-beds, or heaps of straw on the ground. Many died because of poor diet, and those who had no relations were buried in the grounds of the Workhouse, which were known as `paupers graves.` So many died that additional ground had to be acquired. Indeed, it was only in recent times that this scandal was uncovered.

Thousands of families had to spend time in such grim institutions. There was no Welfare State, so those on the dole had to obtain food and shelter at the Workhouse. Even those with a job had to rely on charity. Work was compulsory for inmates, with men having to break stones or tend the garden. Women were engaged in washing the floors, as well as bedding and clothing, not only of the workhouse, but also the nearby Infirmary and Fever Hospital.

Husbands, wives and children were kept in separate departments, with the gates locked. The only time they occupied the same space was during meals and Sunday church services. But even then, there could be no communication.

Some horrific reports came from the Chief Medical Officer, who described how �dysentery and infections of the chest are on the increase, due to the majority of those admitted being in a wretched state, many labouring under disease. The very crowded state of the workhouse, the absolute necessity for proper ventilation, and the straw necessary for bedding not being sufficiently dry, are causes for concern.

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