Irish tensions - a personal experience
by Paul O'Donoghue
Sunday, April 7 is the 80th anniversary of the 1916 Easter rising in Dublin against British rule--it led to the splitting of Ireland into the independent Republic of Ireland and the still British-controlled Northern Ireland. The rising is one of the most revered occasions in republican history and is celebrated annually by Irish people everywhere. Patrick, an American friend, recently told me about an experience he had in Northern Ireland:
Ten years ago, when he was
18, he visited Ireland for the first time. He traveled around the country
visiting ancestral places and looking up relations. He wanted to see what
was going on in the north and with some trepidation went "up there." He ended up in Derry--the
second largest city in Northern Ireland and a historical old place, the
scene of many a battle. The city is 75 percent nationalist--meaning that
roughly 75 per cent of the people don't want to be part of the United
Kingdom but rather, want to be re-united with the Republic of Ireland. It was in Derry that the
civil rights movement of the late `60s was transformed by police baton,
boot and bullets into an armed conflict, the latest installment of an
800-year-old struggle against British rule. It was in Derry on Bloody
Sunday in January, 1972, that British paratroopers murdered 13 people
during a peaceful demonstration not far from the old gray walls that have
encircled the city from the 1600s.Those walls, dark and
ominous, stand about 20 feet high. Down below, little red brick houses
cluster together in tight rows. Claustrophobic 17th century alleyways lead
hither and yon.Along the parapets, amid
the ancient cannons, the "security forces" observe and patrol. British army
soldiers and Royal Ulster Constabulary, the police force of Northern
Ireland, walk warily with machine-guns at the ready. Crouching soldiers in
the firing position observe people through telescopic sights mounted on the
barrels of their rifles.In 1986, when Patrick was
in Derry, the war between the British armed forces and the IRA was in full
swing. One night he and a few friends went out on the town drinking. Later
they went to an Indian restaurant near the old walls. The food was great
and the owners very hospitable. They all had a marvelous time. It was very late, when they
left the restaurant. But not before he and two friends bought several
bottles of beer. They headed home for the historic Bogside--named for the
swampy land outside the walls, once the only place that triumphant British
loyalists allowed Derry nationalists to live. They meandered toward home
in the dark along the alleyways near the old walls, talking and laughing.
At 18, Pat was having the time of his life. Tucked under his denim jacket
he had two bottles of beer, as did his companions. They moved sometimes in
single file, sometimes abreast, depending on the breadth of the lanes and
alleys. Pitch black. Quiet and dark.Just then two policemen,
one on each side of the street, simultaneously rounded the corners about 50
yards ahead, machine guns at the ready--an RUC patrol. Fear on both sides,
as they approached one another. Pat and company, heads bowed, speeded up
the pace and passed the policemen. Reaching the corner that the policemen
had rounded, Pat recoiled from a blow to his stomach. Winded, he looked up
and came face-to-face with an RUC woman carrying a submachine gun which had
inadvertently prodded him as she had turned the corner.They stared, startled, at
one another. No words, only looks, and then they passed on, scared. A few
yards away on the opposite corner stood another policeman. He looked for a
moment and also passed on. Pat's companions were behind him. Still no
words.Then the explosion.
Puuuccchhhhhhhhhhh. Glass breaking on the street. Unmistakable. Pat flung
his arms up and froze, expecting to die. He knew immediately what had
happened. Still holding his arms up, he waited. Nothing. Nothing. Slowly,
he turned his head around. The others also had their arms up. At the feet
of one of his friends, reflected in the streetlight, beer fizzled and
winked on the street amid the shattered glass of the broken bottle.A few yards down the
street, the police with their guns had turned, too, and were looking toward
them. Silence. Silence. Then the police continued on, moving noiselessly
along the sides of the street and fading into the shadows. Paul O'Donoghue is a graduate student in broadcast journalism.