Hansard

I thank my colleague Alasdair Allan for bringing this important debate to the chamber.

For those who are listening from outwith the Western Isles, this might be the first time that they have heard of the Iolaire tragedy, despite its being the worst peacetime British sea disaster since the Titanic and its devastating impact on the population and morale of those islands. Today, we are bringing that tragic new year’s day 100 years ago to the fore and highlighting the moving remembrance that is taking place.

Two months after the end of the great war, leave was granted for many to return home. On hogmanay 1918, the Iolaire set off from Kyle of Lochalsh at 7.30 pm. At 1 am, the ship was sailing too far east for reasons that we still do not fully understand. Lights on the beasts of Holm warned of danger, but the ship failed to turn. Her momentum pushed her forward and, as a gale took hold, she failed to change course. Instead, she carried on full steam ahead into the pitch-black night and struck the beasts of Holm at 2 am on new year’s morning. More than 200 men died, including 174 from Lewis and seven from Harris. Seventy-nine survived and 40 were saved by the heroism of John Findlay Macleod, as we have heard.

The islands’ contribution to the great war was considerable, with 6,172 men from Lewis serving in the armed forces. That is a source of pride for an island of just 29,603 souls in 1911. However, losses were heavy. From the 51 houses in the village of Leurbost alone, 32 men were killed or badly wounded in the great war. Eleven more would be lost on the Iolaire, which sank less than one mile from safe harbour.

What is most upsetting about the disaster is that, having survived the horrors of war, those young men drowned as their families gathered to welcome them home to communities that had missed them sorely. A third of those who were lost on the Iolaire would never be recovered, but many bodies that were given up by the sea were washed up on Sandwick shore. That sight haunted those who saw it for the rest of their lives.

The tragedy impacted on islanders for decades. Morale was shattered and mass emigration followed.

John MacLeod, the author of “When I Heard the Bell: The Loss of the Iolaire”, which is a comprehensive account of the disaster, said:

“My grandfather ... who was a boy of eight at the time never forgot standing outside his door ... in the village of Cross and seeing the carts coming over the brae with coffins. Carts passing the house. Carts with one coffin, carts with two coffins, carts with four coffins. Coffins after coffins.”

Lewis ran out of coffins, and they had to be brought from Kyle. That detail encapsulates the scale of the tragedy on such small, close-knit communities.

A hundred years on, the disaster is now entirely out of human memory, but people talk about the Iolaire. A new generation of islanders wants to understand the pain that the tragedy inflicted and to know the men whom they lost and the grief that was felt by those who were left behind. Perhaps with the last survivor and the last child who lost a father now gone, people are finally free to revisit the tragedy and give it the commemoration due.

One particularly moving contribution to the centennial remembrance is Catriona Black’s animated film “You are at the Bottom of my Mind”, which builds from stories told in Gaelic from decades past by survivors and witnesses, and adds a traditional music score specially written for the creation. There are 25 hand-drawn frames for every second of the five-minute film. It becomes a moving painting of 7,500 drawings that was 10 months in the making. It is layered with photographs and films, such as the seaweed-covered surface of the deadly beasts of Holm and the gravestones of men who were lost to the sea. Those poignant details bring the artwork to life and remind us of the brutal reality of what happened that night. I encourage everyone to watch that film when it is broadcast on hogmanay.

We have recounted stories of bravery, grief and the sheer waste of human life. Now, a century later, we have a chance to remember and allow for the sharing of grief decades in the making.