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Lyra McKee - Lost, Found, Remembered

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Lyra McKee Lost, Found, Remembered

Lost, Found, Remembered: summary, description and annotation

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A fearless investigative journalist and author.
PATTI SMITH

Determined, tenacious, intelligent, and honest in her approach.
ANNA BURNS
A fierce light, a formidable voice.
SINAD GLEESON
A memorial collection of writings by the murdered young journalist Lyra McKee - from viral articles to unpublished material - that celebrates her life, work and creative legacy: one that will live on.

When Northern Irish writer Lyra McKee was murdered in Derry in April 2019, aged just twenty-nine, she was survived by writings that had been read and loved by thousands worldwide. Compiled by those who knew her best, Lost, Found, Remembered weaves together the words that defined her reputation as one of the most deeply empathetic, politically urgent journalists of her generation.

Showcasing the range of her voice by bringing together unpublished material alongside both her celebrated and lesser-known pieces, it reveals the sheer scope of McKees intellectual and radically humane engagement with the world - and lets her spirit live on in her own words.

Lyra McKee: author's other books


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A fierce light a formidable voice Sinad Gleeson A fearless investigative - photo 1

A fierce light, a formidable voice.
Sinad Gleeson

A fearless investigative journalist and author. Beloved and trusted champion of the lost, marginalised and those, like herself, who have suffered growing up in a discriminatory environment a brilliant flame extinguished.
Patti Smith

McKee was a young writer who could reach into the eerie spaces of what had happened to us before she was born, to know the things that haunted us.
Eoin McNamee

Lyras writing was confident and stylish. She had a voice that rang true Lyra did not die for the cause of Irish freedom. Lyra was Irish freedom.
Susan McKay, New Yorker

Lyra transcended boundaries with her humanity, compassion and curiosity.
Ruth Dudley Edwards

The enduring lesson of Lyra McKees life is that an individual can make a difference. The enduring lesson of her death is that journalists determined to act as witnesses to history, running towards the sound of gunfire, take the ultimate risk.
Guardian

Lyra McKee represented the future, another country, a better one.
Irish Times

Everything Lyra did was informed by love for her region, for her community and for human rights She hoped so much for Northern Ireland, but she herself was that hope.
Independent

Contents

They say that for years Belfast was backwards and its great now to see some progress. So I guess we can look forward to taking boxes from the earth. I guess that ambulances will leave the dying back amidst the rubble to be explosively healed. Given time, one hundred thousand particles of glass will create impossible patterns in the air before coalescing into the clarity of a window. Through which, a reassembled head will look out and admire the shy young man taking his bomb from the building and driving home.

Progress, Alan Gillus

As a writer Lyra McKee was drawn to subjects that are usually met with silence. She wrote about growing up gay in Northern Ireland, the epidemic of suicide among her generation in Belfast, and in her book for Faber, The Lost Boys, she was investigating the unsolved disappearances of children during the Troubles. She could always see the imprint of the Troubles in the graves freshly dug for those too young to fully remember the conflict, and it is heart-breaking that a continuation of that violence cut short her life. Lyra McKee asked the right questions and reported on the things that matter.

In publishing this posthumous book, our intention is to commemorate her writing and magnify her voice. The book is curated into three sections: unpublished work in Lost, pieces that may be less familiar to the reader in Found, and the pieces that cemented her reputation as one of her generations most formidable journalists in Remembered. This book is both a celebration of her talent and a reminder of what we have lost.

Extracted from The Lost Boys author biography

I grew up in a conflict hotspot in North Belfast, off a road known as Murder Mile because of the number of people who were killed on it during the Troubles. The Cliftonville Road where I was born and reared is said to have had more casualties per square foot during the war than any other part of the country. Ive written extensively about the conflict because I know it so intimately. I witnessed its last years, as armed campaigns died and gave way to an uneasy tension we natives of Northern Ireland have named peace, and I lived with its legacy, watching friends and family members cope with the trauma of what they could not forget.

I dropped out of university aged nineteen. In 2006, I won the Sky News Young Journalist of the Year for a story looking at rising suicide rates in my native North Belfast. Ive been published in the Atlantic, BuzzFeed News, Mosaic Science, the Independent, and many other newspapers and magazines. In 2016, Forbes named me one of their 30 Under 30 best journalists in Europe. I have delivered newsroom training to journalists at newspapers including the Daily Telegraph and the Sunday Times. I have also worked for the Thomson Reuters Foundation, mentoring and overseeing investigations into financial corruption by Africa-based journalists.

I have spoken at events all over the world, including Techraking, a conference jointly organised by Google and the California Center for Investigative Reporting (CIR), journalism.co.uks News Rewired event in London, the International Journalism Festival in Perugia, Italy, and TEDxStormont in Belfast. In 2014, Letter to My Fourteen-Year-Old Self, a story describing my experience of growing up as a gay person in Northern Ireland, went viral. It was later developed into the short film Letter, produced by Belfast-based production company Stay Beautiful films. It has since been screened at a US film festival.

I know very well how the Troubles masked other crimes; how women, children and vulnerable people were harmed because child abusers and killers and men who beat their wives dont stop doing what they do because theres a war on. In fact, they carry on because they can because a police force and judicial system distracted by a war tend to overlook ordinary criminals. And sometimes, they carry on because the war has turned them into a protected species like an IRA or UVF member who raped women but was too valuable to the organisation to be punished and who was secretly feeding information to the security services and was therefore too valuable an asset to them, too. Lots of awful things are done in the name of winning wars, but they are eventually reckoned with when the conflict ends and the families of the dead speak up about their loved ones.

Lyra wrote this poem inside her copy of the anthology Slow Time when she was fourteen. She had submitted the poem with a letter to say that she hoped to be a full-time poet one day.

Time is running out

Day is reigning longer than night

I used to take refuge in the stars

Each one marking an hour of time

Six and a half, a snatched moment here and there

To confess a truth, hidden, like pink

Blossoms, in white Dalmatian snow

Now the stars brightness

Cannot be seen amid the suns brightness

And I must tell all, and hear the truth

Before the stars no longer mark

A passage of time that I can see during waking hours

Before I must be on my way

Confess these truths

Love, in its own language, means

Seize the day

This poem is taken from a collection Lyra wrote when she was thirteen entitled Changing with the Seasons.

Awaiting the Snowflakes

I had that dream

During the prelude season to autumn

She told me grave, bitter news.

The doctors may as well have shattered my heart

With one of their fancy surgical knives.

Our dreams, not only my vital organs

Were cut into tiny slivers.

A new house in the spring awaited

She only had till Christmas.

Away from the harsh realities of fantasy

I walked along the shore.

The dark, choppy waters

Mirroring my thoughts.

Thoughts residing at Gods mercy

Where I fervently prayed

For anything but her missing presence.

She was silent

Knowing not to bother me

Not knowing why.

My prayers were answered

Yet at the expense of someone else

Harbouring only a few weeks to live, I heard,

A pity she didnt have till Christmas:

The snowflakes had yet to fall.

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