It must have been around 1995 that my father was labelled a traitor publicly by a well-known MP for his efforts to talk to Sinn Féin in the name of peace. I was so proud of his efforts; as far as I am aware he was the only member of the Ulster Unionist Party who at that time was making such efforts. 

I didn’t really think anything of the comment. I had enough problems of my own as young teenager who didn’t feel particularly like I fitted in anywhere. 

I first found out about the sign that had been placed at the end of our street through some friends. Obviously my parents had tried to hide it from me. It probably would have been better if I had never found out. 

‘Roy Garland is a traitor to Drumbeg and Ulster. We will never speak to Sinn Féin/IRA’. 

This was followed up by an apparent paramilitary who lived locally telling me repeatedly that my father should be shot. It must have been clear that this upset me because I remember him trying to reassure me that it wasn’t me who he didn’t like; it was ‘just my dad’. 

I remember defending my father, telling him that if he didn’t like my dad then he didn’t like me. But I fully believed that he would be shot for a long time. I was really frightened; so scared that something would happen that I didn’t speak to anyone about it. 

I was afraid that I would make things worse by attracting attention to the whole thing, and I didn’t want to tell my father lest he be deterred from what I realised even then was vitally important work. 

This was by no means the only such comment I received, from this individual or from others. I remember hearing the words ‘lundy’ and ‘traitor’ a lot when I was growing up. 

I remember one particular instance of hearing it from a football coach, of all people. I remember scoring three goals during training and still didn’t get picked for the team, walking home in tears dejected.

Seeing his name written on our local bonfire was particularly traumatic.  To say I questioned my own identity was an understatement.  I didn’t understand, and didn’t want to. 

I remember one of my first glimmers of hope was seeing the loyalist murals ‘Conflict or compromise’ and ‘Prepared for peace, ready for war’. No matter how slight, this was an indication to me as a young teenager that loyalists may be willing to move towards peace. 

When I later saw loyalists backing the peace process, a lot of them became my personal heroes. The efforts of Gusty Spence, Gary McMichael, David Ervine, and others should never be forgotten. Peace would not have been possible without them. 

I remember my father going to Stormont the night of the Good Friday Agreement. I could sense the excitement already. In his words, ‘the atmosphere was electric’. It felt electric. 

For a long time I held a grudge against the MP who labelled my father a traitor, and the people who subsequently subjected myself and my family to intimidation and abuse. 

However, in more recent years I have learned that if we expect others to show forgiveness and move forwards then we must be prepared to do so ourselves. That doesn’t mean it will always be easy. 

In many ways my father paved the way for others to follow. He will never be given the credit he deserves for his efforts to move forwards, and for many other courageous efforts he has made during his lifetime. But in the eyes of his son, and his family, he remains a hero.