MISSIONARIES ADD IMPETUS

At the close of World War II, pioneers were sent from England to small towns in Northern Ireland. In 1946, at the convention in Edinburgh, Scotland, some of these pioneers approached the Society’s president to ask if they could attend Gilead. “Yes,” he answered, “if you promise to return to Ireland.” Five sisters kept that promise.

The arrival of missionaries from the Watchtower Bible School of Gilead in 1949 speeded up the work. Maurice and Mary Jones, who had done much of the spadework, welcomed these workers. Two missionary homes were established, one in Dublin with Brother Jones’ help, the other in Cork. The 1950 Yearbook commented that it took much hard work to free someone from the spiritual darkness that enveloped so many, especially since they had never seen a Bible. “The people,” it said, “are fearful to let go of the traditions so long cherished, and so the progress is such that it needs much tact and patience.”

The newly arrived missionaries covered huge areas on foot and on their bicycles, often while being subjected to verbal and physical attacks. And they toiled late into the night to cultivate gently whatever interest was found.​—Compare Hosea 11:4.

One of the early missionaries, Elsie Levis (formerly Lott), recalled how she was mentally prepared for conditions in Ireland. “Before we left Gilead,” she said, “Brother Franz told us that next to India he considered Ireland to be the most difficult assignment in the world. Because of the attitude of the Catholic Church, he felt that it was the toughest Catholic area in the world.” She did find it to be difficult. “But,” she continued, “we felt, also, that the people had been battered by political and religious forces, so we were just concerned for the people because the people themselves, underneath all the hostility, were very nice.”

MISSIONARIES BREAK CATHOLIC BARRIER

Catholic mob action was a constant threat that hovered over the missionaries like a storm cloud ready to burst at any moment. So as not to arouse the suspicions and then the wrath of the neighbors, the missionaries would work separately while in door-to-door service but in sight of each other. Prior to leaving the missionary home for service, each one would rehearse hand signals or shoulder shrugs with her field partner for that day. These signals would become a silent warning of an approaching mob.

Mildred Barr (formerly Willet, now at Brooklyn Bethel with her husband, John) remembers starting out in field service one day on her gray motorcycle. Her dark-brown split-hide panniers, or saddlebags​—packed with her field literature, lunch, tea flask, and galoshes—​were draped over the bike’s rear fender. She and Frieda Miller rode into a Catholic area of Dublin. Once in the territory, they separated and parked their bikes in different locations, making sure the bikes would be out of the sight of householders but close enough for them to reach in a run if they needed to make a fast getaway.

Mildred chained and padlocked her bike to a railing and began door-to-door witnessing. She recalls: “I was speaking to a very interested woman when all of a sudden her eyes opened wide and her mouth dropped. I asked, ‘What’s the matter?’ No answer, except the stare of fear. I turned around and faced a mob of eight or nine women blocking the gate of her house. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Frieda giving me the hand signal, but it was too late. Other women were racing toward the house. I knew I could not get through the gate, so I bolted across the householder’s garden, dashed across the next-door neighbor’s garden, and jumped a wall, scrambling toward my bike.

“By now Frieda had started her motorcycle; mine was still padlocked. I unlocked it and hopped on the bike’s seat, but my bike wouldn’t start. I had the spark plug in my pocket! So I stuck the plug into the engine, kicked the starter again, and off I went. But not soon enough​—and this is what everyone laughs about to this day. A woman brandishing a mop ran up from behind. She thrust the mophead down through a street sewer grating. As I was pulling away she swung the mop. Out from the mophead flung sewer slime that covered me from the top of my head all the way down my back. When I caught up with Frieda, she said: ‘Boy, Mildred, pyu-u-u! When we get home, don’t you go into the house!’

“When we arrived back at the missionary home, she told the other missionary sister what had happened. They laid newspapers out near the garden for me to walk on and they bucketed me with water. Oh, for days later, everyone lent me their perfume. Nevertheless, eventually quite a few people did come into the truth from that section of Dublin.”

Bridie Casey remembers another incident in Dublin. She was with one missionary in the field ministry when a Catholic woman told them they were just beating their heads against a brick wall. The spirit of those missionaries was reflected in the brother’s reply. “That may be so,” he said, “but at least some of the stones in the wall are beginning to move!” Yes, the missionaries became a battering ram that cracked open the walls of Catholic control incarcerating the honesthearted Irish.

MOB ATTACK NEAR LIMERICK

Although the people in Ireland were basically friendly and hospitable, religious leaders were still able to spur some of them to violence. On May 13, 1956, one missionary, Stephen Miller, was traveling in field service with a new publisher in a rural area in the west of the country. Suddenly he and his companion found a mob blocking their way. They jumped on their motorcycle to escape. But the mob followed them in cars and finally trapped them on a dead-end road.

The mob, led by a priest, closed in on Brother Miller. One of the bullies punched Brother Miller on the chin. Then the mob stripped him of his literature and burned it in the center of the little village of Cloonlara near Limerick.

Later, at the court trial, the bias of the judiciary was underscored. The priest and eight other rabble-rousers were exonerated. The bully who hit Brother Miller was found guilty but set free. Then Brother Miller and his companion were bound over to keep the peace on sureties of £200 each. What a travesty of justice! The court excused the mob and punished those attacked! Although the city of Dublin was improving in its treatment of the Witnesses, many rural areas still stubbornly clung to their medieval viewpoints and actions.

[Picture on page 95]

Seven of the original missionary sisters who came to Ireland in 1949 are, left to right: Mildred Willett (now Barr); Bessie Jones; Joan Retter (now Miller); Joey Orrom; Elsie Lott (now Levis); Ann Parkin (now Carter); Barbara Haywood (now Steffens)

[Pictures on page 98]

Olive and Arthur Matthews (inset), along with Olive’s brother and his wife, used this 13-foot-long caravan during the “God’s Way Is Love” booklet campaign in 1953