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."