Tears and Trenches, Blood on Sunday

This past week, we ventured out on our second YAV retreat.  Last November, we spent a week together in the thick cloud and sudden sunlight of Donegal; this time, our destination was the North Coast (of the Giant’s Causeway and Bushmills Distillery fame).  We stayed together at Corrymeela Knocklayde, a house near the seaside town of Ballycastle.  Together we enjoyed three full days of conversation, wood fires, pancakes, and (something without which an outing in Northern Ireland would not be complete) hiking uphill in the rain.  I am constantly astounded by the fact that the higher you climb here, the more sodden the ground will be.  Ah, the wonders of the natural world.

An afternoon at Ballintoy Harbour

Thanks to some helpful American tourists, a group shot of the Dream Team.

Bathgate House taking in the view.

On the second day of the retreat, we drove a little over an hour to spend some time in the city of Londonderry.  Derry is the second-largest city in Northern Ireland, and it has been said that if Belfast was the heart of the conflict during The Troubles, then Derry was the pulse.  If you could get your finger on what was happening in Derry, you’d know exactly what was happening (or what would soon be happening) in Belfast.  The conflict in Derry is even present in its name.  If you call the city “Derry,” it’s assumed you’re a Catholic; Protestants apparently prefer to keep Britain in the forefront of their minds by calling the city by its full name, “Londonderry.” [Again, as I think I’ve said before, the terms Protestant and Catholic are not really religious labels—they’re shorthand for people’s political views.  Catholic implies that a person wants a united Ireland, while Protestant refers to a person who wants to remain a part of Great Britain.] During my first week in staunchly Protestant Ballybeen, I made the social mistake of saying “Derry,” and I was good-naturedly (but firmly) set right.  Either that or people will pretend not to hear you until you say the name “correctly.”  There is, thankfully, an Option C: calling the place Stroke City.  Infinitely diplomatic, but it still feels a little absurd to bring up “Stroke City” in casual conversation.  Whew.  Tough stuff for the American.

Derry is a predominantly Catholic city—and has been throughout The Troubles.  The small Protestant minority is slowly shrinking, and most live in one particular area of the city.  The “Catholic neighbourhoods” are in another area known as the Bogside, a place with murals proclaiming it to be “Free Derry.”  Even though The Troubles have officially ended, there is still tension in this city, and it comes to a head in different ways.  For instance, people living in a particular Protestant area might be wary of walking to the closest shopping center or McDonalds for fear that they’d be recognized as Protestants and beaten for it; instead, they’ll take a taxi to a more neutral area.  In the same way, someone from the Bogside could be beaten when walking through the Protestant neighborhood.

A Protestant neighborhood.  The sign reads, "Londonderry West Bank
Loyalists still under siege.  NO SURRENDER."

The city is also the site of Bloody Sunday—a civil rights march on January 30, 1972, that left 13 people dead.  It’s a controversial event, and I don’t pretend to know or understand all the facts about it.  But from what I’ve learned, the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association decided to march through the streets of Derry in the nonviolent spirit of Martin Luther King, Jr.—the Association was protesting the British government’s introduction of internment without trial.  British soldiers were on the streets that day, too, and at one point, they started firing into the crowd.  The soldiers claim that they were fired upon first, but however it started, 26 unarmed civilians were shot.  Thirteen died—over half of them teenagers.  Jon, the man who led us on a walking tour around the city, was there that day. 

A view of the Bogside from the city walls.  A prominent
mural there reads, "You are now entering Free Derry." 

During most of our tour, Jon led the way with his lanky frame and long stride.  He had a sharp glance and a ready laugh, and there was almost always a cigarette between his fingers.  As soon as he met us, he made this good-natured confession: “I smoke like a train.  You’d think I’d know better by now, but sure.”   But his humorous comments became less frequent as we came closer to the place where his friends died on Bloody Sunday. 

There’s a photo of Jon taken in the middle of the chaos and scramble of Bloody Sunday.  He’s crouching, trying to cross a street with one friend in front and one behind.  Jon survived that afternoon, but neither of his friends did. 

“That photo.  Still gives me the chills to look at it, so it does,” he admitted.

Later, we stood under the shadow of a concrete walkway, a flight of dark stone steps behind us and apartment buildings to our left and right.  Jon pointed to different places on the pavement, mentioning the men that died there by name.  He paused a moment and wiped the raindrops from his glasses.  “This place used to be a mess, but they’ve cleaned it up.  I’m glad.  Those young ones who come here to drink and break their bottles and spray words on the walls…they don’t have the respect for this place.  They don’t understand what happened here.”

I know I don’t completely understand it, either.  But at the Museum of Free Derry I heard the frantic screaming, the scrape-and-stumble footsteps of men and women trying to take shelter from the gunfire.  I saw a civil rights banner brown with blood and the dirty pavement where Michael Kelly died—he was only 17.  I saw the cemetery bristling with flagpoles and cluttered with new headstones.  I watched Jon grow quiet at the thought of it.

A cemetery on a hill overlooking the Bogside.

Regardless of how the violence began that afternoon, Bloody Sunday proved to be a great victory for the IRA.  The deaths caused by British bullets increased the organization’s status—and its number of recruits.  Jon put it this way: “No one joined this conflict because they thought it would be fun—a bit of a laugh.  If they did, they were mad.  No, most of us joined because of someone who died, something that happened.  The circumstances drove us to it.”

I don’t think that circumstances can shoulder all the blame.  I don’t think they can bear the strain of all the guilt and responsibility.  But I know that circumstances can be strong, and before you know it, you can find yourself swept up in the middle of them. 

But instead of sitting here, trying to untangle motives and guilt, maybe it’s better to turn the question on myself: am I caught up in my own circumstances?  Although I’m certainly not facing the same choices that Derry faced 39 years ago, what sort of things might my circumstances be pushing me to do?

"They don't understand what happened here."

Union Dues

The Canteen at Dundonald High
(photo courtesy of www.dundonaldhigh.co.uk)

During my first week in Dundonald, when I was reading over my weekly schedule for the first time, I came across an item that read, “Tuesday: possible support for Scripture Union at high school.”  Maybe you’re familiar with Scripture Union, but I had never heard of it before.  It almost sounded like a small independent country, or something that I could join that would guarantee me a 15-minute break every four hours and a few extra holidays.  Deciding that it would be better to keep these unintelligent reactions to myself, I decided to ask a couple people about SU, and I got a couple of vague answers.  So I went to the Scripture Union planning meeting and asked my question again, and I got a slightly less vague answer about an after-lunch club where kids can ask questions about Christianity.  I pictured myself as the awkward member of a panel or the person sitting behind a table with pamphlets and a bowl of sweets.  Yet again, I kept this to myself.  Another good life choice. 

After my first SU meeting, I began to figure out exactly what it was that I had signed up for.  Here’s the usual routine: I meet Johnny and Keith, two youth ministers from different churches in town, at the school around lunch time. 

[Side note: although I still don’t understand the ins and outs of the education system here, I know enough to tell you that a “high school” is not quite what it is in the States.  There is no such thing as junior high here; kids take an intense exam here when they’re 11, and that determines where they will spend the rest of their academic career until university.  Grammar schools are for those students who score well; high schools are mostly for those who don’t score as well.  It’s often assumed that most high school students won’t go to university.]

Anyway, the first thing that we do is make our way to the cafeteria (or canteen, as it’s called here).  We spend a few minutes walking around to the different tables, talking with the students and reminding them that they can come to the SU club whenever they’re finished eating.  Then we go up to one of the classrooms to set up.  The students slowly start to trickle in after about 5 minutes, and we just spend some time hanging out and talking.  Then we play a game, and we finish off with a short lesson about the Bible or Christian beliefs.  There are always sweets for the kids, too, as they leave.

It’s definitely a stretching part of my week, even though it lasts only about an hour.  It’s always a bit daunting when you feel like you’re fighting your way up the narrow walkways in the canteen and when you step in and interrupt people’s lunchtime conversations.  Sometimes there’s laughter, and sometimes there are just blank stares.  Some people mumble an excuse about having to go play netball right after lunch, while others just look closely at me and demand, “Say my name again.  Say my name with your American accent.”

But then they show up at the classroom door, one by one or in clusters.  There are the short but vibrant conversations.  There are also the times that I unexpectedly run into students in the shops; there are the girls that smile at me when we pass each other in Ballybeen.  There are the students that haven’t said a word to you but will suddenly stop you in the middle of the canteen, smile and say, “I saw you.  I saw you running past the bus stop.”  And slowly, week by week, friendships are formed in 20-minute intervals.

Don’t get me wrong: sometimes I feel like an afternoon will be a complete failure, that the students are just counting the minutes until they get their sweets at the end.  But other times there will be unexpected successes, like the time we all had a connect-the-dots competition or the time we just sat in small groups and the kids asked us any question that they wanted.  “What is God?” someone asked, and “Are you afraid to die?”

And I suddenly realize that, even though I often don’t feel prepared or competent enough for this, Scripture Union has become one of my favorite parts of the week.

Friendship Circles

Every Tuesday afternoon, I dash back from the high school to make it in time for the beginning of the seniors’ group at church.  If pressed, I would say that the official name of the group is “The Friendship Circle,” but there are definitely variations on the name.  Johnny, one of the youth ministers that I work with at the high school, will often give me a lift back to the church when I’m running late (which—plot twist—is most of the time).  He’s taken to calling it “The Circle of Trust.”  John, the man who leads the group, is our pastoral assistant who moved to Belfast from Zambia several years ago.  He has a ready white smile and his prayers are like poetry; he prefers to call his group “Friendship Circles”—which I have to admit, I kind of like.  It almost suggests a ripple effect. 

The group lasts for an hour and fifteen minutes, and no meeting is the same.  Sometimes guests come to speak about local outreach ministries, sometimes we get a lesson in the history of Dundonald, and sometimes things get a little competitive with a game of bocce ball.  But the one thing that never varies, the one thing that you can always expect even if the mountains were to crumble into the seas, is…(can you guess?)…tea and biscuits.  Always a wee cup of tea. 

And although the activities are fun, my favorite times are the spontaneous conversations over tea.   A few weeks ago, for example, someone brought up the war—not The Troubles, but The War.

It started with David, our minister.  He had gotten a call from the BBC, which is in the midst of making a program to preserve some of the memories and stories of those who were alive during World War II.  The BBC wanted to interview the members of the Friendship Circle.

“So,” David asked, rubbing his hands together, “how many of you were alive during the war?”

At first, there was nothing.  No response.  Then a voice, “Oh, give over, Shirley, we all know you were.” 

A pause.

“Well, maybe I was,” retorts Shirley, “but the last thing I’m going to do is speak to some stranger from the BBC about it.”

There’s an appreciative murmur.  “Aye, nor I,” agrees Dorothy, while Vera and Jean nod.

“But do you not want to tell your story?” asks David.

At first, Shirley’s not certain that she does.  But then she shifts in her seat and begins: “Belfast wasn’t the only place where the bombs fell, you see.  They dropped them as far out as Comber and Newtownards.  The night that the Germans flew over my house, I had a dream.  I dreamed that the planes were roaring over our rooftop and all the streets were burning.  I was fourteen, but still I woke up sobbing.  I ran to my parents’ room and pleaded with them to come to the shelter.  They argued with me, saying that they hadn’t heard any sirens, but I knew that the Germans were coming.  I knew it.  Almost as soon as we reached the shelter, the sirens started, and we could hear the planes.  They bombed our house.  I think we would have died if I hadn’t had that dream.”

Shirley has started something.  The stories come faster now, from different corners of the room.  Joan sits next to me, and she leans over to tell me about the time that she was running home from her friend’s house after curfew.  “Proper running, I was, along those winding country roads.  It was so dark that I had to turn on my torch.”  A blackout warden saw her light bouncing and flickering in the middle of the field, and she was hard pressed to convince him that she wasn’t signaling the Germans.  “Fined me a shilling, so he did.  Just for a bit of torchlight”

Others tell about sitting on stools in their shelters, their knees trembling as they waited for the sounds of the planes; another tells about trying to make it to a shelter after the bombing had started.  She clung to her mother’s hand as they jumped over the burning rubble in the streets.

I’ve spoken to people who remember the war—but this was different.  The people that I’ve spoken with certainly had a hard time, but they were living on the west coast of America.  The closest bombs fell in Hawaii.  That’s not to minimize these people’s fear and sacrifices and loss—but speaking to someone who has watched their neighborhood streets burn and seen Stormont painted black…well.  It offers a different perspective—a perspective that I wouldn’t have had if it weren’t for tea, biscuits, and friendship circles. 

Prosit Neujahr

Right after Christmas, we the members of Team USA had a week off, so we decided to do some traveling.  Jo, John, and Edward took on Brussels, Bruges, and Amsterdam; Adrienne stayed local; and Miriam and I went to Germany.  It’s an interesting choice, I suppose, since neither of us speak German, but fortunately, we had a good friend who was willing to help us out. 

Amy spent almost the entire week with us, introducing us to some fine German food, villages, and friends.  She shared her home with us and showed us where she works.  Amy, the best part of the trip was without a doubt spending time with you, whether we were watching Betty und ihre Schwestern or eating meat off the bone at a medieval restaurant.  Thank you for an incredible trip.

My first view of Germany, courtesy of an Aer Lingus window seat.

We've been awake for almost 24 hours, but we're still
inordinately excited to see Gutenberg.

Castle Braunfels (and yes, Dad, this is the namesake of
that city in the Lone Star State that you are doubtlessly
thinking of right now)

We went to Köln for New Year's, and this is the sight that
greeted us as soon as we stepped outside the train station.

Inside the cathedral

And we thought there was a lot of snow in Belfast...

The Germans sure know their Christmas

and their ice cream.

Belfast under Snow

Christmas Lights Outside City Hall

Also around Christmas, Belfast was blanketed in white.  The snow stayed on the ground for an unheard-of amount of time—apparently, the city normally gets the “gone by morning” sort of snow.  But this snow stayed morning after morning, and it was beautiful against the brick houses and green fields; snowmen appeared in the gardens, and people were sledging (sledding) all across Stormont Park.  We even had a white Christmas.  Most of the time, I thoroughly enjoyed the snow…but to be fair, that’s probably because I didn’t have to drive in it.

Bathgate Drive in the Snow

My Skylight View

Snow in Ballybeen

Miriam Takes in the View

Christmas Day

View of Ballybeen Estate from the church

It has been a long time since I’ve posted, and I apologize.  I could blame it on my time management skills (or lack thereof), but you’ve all heard that tired excuse before.  I’ll just be honest and say that after things started back up in January, it’s like I blinked and here we are in the middle of February.  Maybe you feel like that, too. 

But while I’m at it, I’ll also apologize for the awkward cluster of posts that will follow.  It seems that I can’t just do one post at a time like a normal person.  To catch you up to speed with what’s going on here, I’ll also have to go back a few weeks…to, like, Christmas.  Yes, Christmas on Valentine’s Day.  The holiday magic never stops. 

Right, here we go.

I realize that I wrote a post about Christmas Day and another concerning my Christmas activities, but a lot of you have asked me what I actually did on Christmas.  Well, some of my friends here asked me to join their family for the whole day.  They picked me up at 8.30am, and right from the very beginning, I felt completely at home.  I helped wrap some last-minute presents, watched Home Alone on TV, and even curled my hair in the mirror in their front room.  We went to church together in the morning—it was a short service that mostly consisted of the kids showing off their Christmas presents and pieces of chocolate flying around the room.  Then we went home and ate a beautiful four-course Christmas dinner (thank you, Gayle, Wilma, and Kathryn!).  Later we opened presents and spent some quality time talking over the sticky toffee pudding and waffle berry delight. 

Later that evening, another family of friends asked me over for a little Christmas cake and a couple games of Perudo—a game based on probability that you might have seen in Pirates. 

Like so many other times this past year, people here have reached out to be both friends and family to me, and I really cannot find the words to say how grateful I am.  Over the last six months, God has continuously showed me His care by bringing these friends into my life—and by revealing that an important part of service is realizing that others serve you much more that you could possibly serve in return.

Yes, we are wearing paper crowns.  And yes, the general
reaction is one of disbelief when I say that the Christmas
cracker tradition has yet to take hold in the States.