Northern Ireland

I have now had the opportunity to visit Northern Ireland twice. My first visit was through the study abroad program and was over the Halloween weekend. We spent the first night in Derry (Londonderry if you are loyalist) and thus the adventures began. The following is part of a reflective paper I had to write for history:

The tensions behind the people of Londonderry-Derry are seen immediately in the name of the city. Driving into the area, most of the signs for Londonderry were spray-painted or vandalized so only Derry was visible. History hundreds of years old is a sense of identity for both Catholics and Protestants, and in this case identity is as simple as the name of a city. The tension behind the name is not a thing of the past for the people in Derry. Talking with a college-aged friend, Christy, I had met at a pub, I realized how important names are for individual identity. Christy, having grown up in the Catholic ‘Bogside’ neighborhood refused to acknowledge the name Londonderry, and even claimed that there is no such thing as Northern Ireland, because it is one island and one Ireland. His viewpoints were developed from his experiences growing up in Derry, and were not specially packaged for our group as visitors.

The murals are a clear tourist attraction now that visitors feel safe in Northern Ireland, but the history behind them, the blood and tears that prompted them are still a part of everyday life for many people. Seeing the ‘Bloody Sunday’ mural in Derry is a moving experience that captures the chaotic murders that took place in 1972. I questioned whether this mural is a memorial to the massacre or a spot for tourists to take pictures and make a connection to the U2 song. My question was answered by John Kelly, brother of Michael Kelly, who died at the age of 17 by British gunmen. Mr. Kelly led a tour of a museum dedicated to ‘Bloody Sunday’ and gave his time to answer questions from our group. Coming from a man who had watched his brother die, it is impossible to say that the murals, bullets, letters, and other memorabilia collected in the museum were packaged for tourists. I stood where Michael Kelly was shot, and I saw where his mom witnessed the events not knowing that her son would soon be dead. The ‘Bloody Sunday’ shootings and ‘troubles’ are so ingrained in John Kelly’s life that it is clear history lives through him. The cause of Michael Kelly’s death was likewise directly influenced by 400 years of history between Catholics and Protestants in Northern Ireland. Although peace has made leaps and bounds, the ‘troubles’ will always exist through people like John Kelly, who have been shaped by personal connections with historical events.

After Derry we spent a day at Bushmills Distillery, which is the oldest “legal” distillery of whiskey in the world. A small tasting session was followed by a trip to Giants Causeway, a geological wonder made up of hexagonal rocks that form unique formations. Both sights were great, and although a little touristy they were part of the essential “Ireland experience”.

Belfast was the next stop, and arriving at 6:00 p.m. (the dark of night over here) I could tell we were in for an interesting two nights. Belfast Youth Hostel was located close to Queens University, but closer to a Protestant stronghold called Sandy Row. Immediately across the street from the hostel was a bar sporting numerous Union Jack flags and various loyalist flags of Ulster. For those that are not familiar with the symbolism of these flags, they can be translated to “Welcome to Protestant Country- Catholics Enter At Your Own Risk”.

(Mural at Sandy Row, about a five minute walk from our first hostel. Didn't see this one until the second time around. Yikes!)

The first night our group went out to celebrate a friend’s birthday, and in my infinite wisdom I wore the Gaelic Football jersey that I had on all day. Gaelic Football is part of the Catholic tradition so much so that it probably was about as smart as wearing a confederate flag into North Minneapolis. The very first pub we went to the entire group was let in while the bouncer insisted that I either take off the jersey or move on. I took off the jersey and wore my undershirt the entire night, a small price to pay all things considered. The next day we had a group tour of the city by bus, but the tour was poorly done and tough to hear. That night was Halloween, and everyone, I mean everyone, was dressed up and hit the streets. I was a Rastafarian. The people we talked to that night were either fun and outgoing or realized we were Americans and tried to get a rise out of us by pretending to be IRA (Irish Republican Army) or UVF (Ulster Volunteer Force) members. One such young man came up from behind me and pointed his toy gun (he was a cowboy) at my knees, claimed he was with the UVF and pretended to kneecap me. I knew this guy was trying to get a rise out of me, but it like having someone in any American city mock stab and mug you. Instead of playing along, I tried to ignore him and walk away, because this was right outside our hostel, and the Union Jacks were flapping proudly. As I began to walk away, this guy grabbed my fake dreadlocks hat, which at this point seemed like the best 10-pound purchase of my life and was an integral part of my costume. He danced away wearing my dreads, and as I began to walk after him to grab the hat, two of his friends dressed in hooded sweatshirts (the only two in Belfast not dressed in a costume) came up to me and insisted that I should not mess with this guy and that my hat was a lost cause. Mess with the guy? I had just been the victim in a fake kneecapping and now was missing my Rasta cap. I tried to explain this to these two ‘hoods’ but they insisted I turn away from my friends who was now shaking his dreads and belting out a Bob Marley song. Two middle-aged men had watched the whole incident take place and came over and grabbed it from the culprit and returned it to me. Needless to say that I was out of the scene of the crime ASAP. The next day was an early departure and my Northern Ireland experience was over. Until this last weekend…

(Queens University)

First and for-most I owe a thank you to my Irish relatives, who housed, fed, drove, and entertained my two friends and me this last Wednesday and Saturday. On Wednesday my friends David, Kyle, and I left Galway, which was consequently in the midst of severe flooding, for Dublin, which is usually about a three-hour bus ride unfortunately stretched to nearly four hours due to torrential rain. From Dublin we caught an hour-long bus to Newly, the nearest city to Rostrevor, the home place of my Irish relatives John and Veronica Murray and their five children. From the moment we got there we were treated with everything from delicious food to access to their washing machine, which was badly, BADLY needed. We had a slice of home with take out pizza while we watched Ireland play France in soccer match that will inevitably go down in history as one of the most controversial games in the history of soccer. If you have not seen or heard the outcry from the Irish soccer world, google or youtube Thierry Henry’s handball and the Ireland-France soccer match. This soccer game is on the same level as the Potato Famine or 800 years of English occupation to the Irish people.

The next day my uncle drove us up to Belfast on his way to work and we listen to the outcry of Irish soccer fans calling for anything from a rematch to a ban on all French goods. It was Kyle’s birthday, and we ended up walking around the city and shopping for cheap (for once! Belfast is an escape from the disastrous prices of the Republic of Ireland) clothes and food before going out to celebrate the big 21. The hostel this time around was about five blocks closer to Queens University campus, and this made all the difference in the world. We ended up meeting groups of students each night, both Catholics and Protestants, that showed us around town and invited us to house parties afterwards. During the day we walked through the Catholic and Protestant neighborhoods of the city and visited the Ulster Museum. Belfast was a totally different experience, the people were all friendly and we actually had time to explore the city. Belfast has something about it that is very likable. If Ireland is so well liked because of it’s “underdog” appeal, than Belfast is the “loveable loser” of the “underdogs”. I really enjoyed my time in the city and would still like to go back… Grad school at Queens?

After two nights adventuring Belfast, we were headed back to Rostrevor for more home cooking and creature comforts that are lost or ignored for the poor college traveler. My uncle John picked us up at the historic Crown Bar where we had a pint and watched a little Rugby, a sport I have caught on to since coming to Ireland, and headed back to Rostrevor. Rostrevor is one of my favorite Irish cities and it was great to stay with family, I feel refreshed going into the last stretch of my trip. That night after more food we headed into Rostrevor for live music and a couple pints, and although a couple songs at one pub were a little politically motivated, they were outdone by beautiful traditional music with a surprise twist of Sweet Caroline. The next day John drove us down to Dublin to catch our bus, which ended up saving us a very pretty penny. Thanks again to the Irish Murray’s, and I guess Belfast, it was a fantastic trip.

My writing is tailing off right now, as I should be working on papers and projects that have shocked me with a sudden sense of reality, especially stinging after six hours of classes just wrapped up. Not complaining, but I didn’t get to see the sun today. The next couple of weeks will be busy and I will try and update the blog, but might run out of time. I will be staying in and around Galway until the end of classes and then will travel back to Rostrevor for six more days before my departure. Many more stories to be told upon my homecoming.

Hope things are solid for friends and family back home,

Love,

JCM

(Clonard Monastery in a Catholic stronghold of West Belfast)