An on-the-scene report by PT Editor Annie Murphy Paulfinds that the
psychological hurdles to peace may be higher than the political
barriers.
What you notice first about Derry is the rain. Even in summer,
nearly every day a chill drizzle falls from a low-slung sky--drenching
the brilliant green grass, running in rivulets down the steep streets,
swelling the rolling river Foyle. It seems to have saturated this city,
soaking the gray stone of which so much of it is built; the houses, the
churches (there are so many churches), the walls of the old section of
town, erected hundreds of years ago by the English to keep the Irish
out.
Like the rain, evidence of the troubles is everywhere and seems as
commonplace. Murals and monuments to the slaughtered cluster on street
corners. The stone buildings bear the scars of bombings past. Graffiti,
like gashes, score every wall with angry demands for the army to go away
or for prisoners to be brought home.
Residents regard the violence in their midst with weary
resignation. Days before an inflammatory march that would eventually end
in an armed standoff, people expressed only exasperation. "I don't know
why they can't just have a quiet parade that doesn't bother anybody,"
said one bed-and-breakfast proprietor, serving up an "Ulster fry"--eggs,
sausage, bacon, black pudding, white pudding, grilled tomato, mushrooms,
fried potato-bread. "But this is Northern Ireland, and we can't do
anything without a squabble."
The calm acceptance of the extraordinary can easily jar the
visitor. Crowds part for a passing guard, machine gun clasped to his
chest. Mothers push baby carriages around the fenders of armored cars.
Occasionally, the contrast verges on the surreal: during a World Cup
soccer match in July, the pubs were full of Protestants cheering lustily
for England's team. Elsewhere, Catholics were rooting just as vigorously
for England's opponents, who happened to be Argentinian.
But perhaps the most startling juxtaposition of the ordinary and
the extreme is found in the high fences built between houses in the
country's more volatile areas. A common sight in Belfast, they are twice
as tall as a man, and look like the barriers put up along American
highways to shield homeowners from the sight and sound of traffic. In a
euphemism George Orwell might have treasured, they're known as "peace
walls." Erected to protect residents from vandalism and violence
committed by the other group, they are, according to a Belfast Community
worker, "poison" to the people who live near them, blocking the sun and
serving as a constant reminder of threat.
Even higher than these physical hurdles are the emotional and
psychological barriers between the two communities. Protestants and
Catholics have developed a code to distinguish one from the other that is
"fantastic" in its subtlety and complexity, says psychologist Ed Cairns
of the University of Ulster: "What sort of car you drive, where you go
for your holiday, how you pronounce certain words," all mark you as a
member of your group. Where you were educated is another giveaway:
Northern Ireland's elementary schools are almost completely segregated,
and the Catholic ones are usually named after saints. Your name and how
you spell it is another reliable sign: Brendan is a Catholic name, while
William is a Protestant one; McGuiness and Maginiss are Catholic and
Protestant spellings of the same surname. Even how you curse reveals your
religion. "If you use Anglo-Saxon swearwords, you're probably
Protestant," notes Cairns, "and if you say 'Holy Mary, mother of God,'
it's not hard to figure out what side you're on." Psychologist Tony
Gallagher, of Queens University in Belfast, notes that since there aren't
any inherent physical differences between the two groups, and relatively
minor cultural differences, "in a sense, the people of Northern Ireland
have deliberately invented them."
This unspoken code is part of a careful politesse that prevails
among Protestants and Catholics who must work, study and dwell side by
side in a crowded country. "It's considered impolite to ask directly
about someone's religion or discuss related matters unless you already
know the person belongs to your group," says Gallagher. Residents follow
poet Seamus Heaney's advice--"Whatever you say, say nothing"--according
to Cairns, who adds, "It's why we talk about the rain so much." Such
mannered avoidance of sensitive topics preserves a degree of peace--but
at the cost of an open exchange of opinion. Discussion of politics and
religion occurs only with those who will confirm and amplify the views
each side already holds.
The practice of dividing people into "us" and "them" is so deeply
ingrained that it's almost unconscious. "It's as if there's a computer in
the back of the head of every, person who lives in Northern Ireland
that's programmed to work out what side another person is on," said
Cairns. "The program runs so smoothly that you don't even realize it's
happening. You just do it." It's so automatic, in fact, that Cairns
claims he only notices it when it makes a miscalculation. "A colleague
was telling me a story one day, and he said, 'As my old Presbyterian
granny used to say...' Before I could stop myself, I said, 'You have a
Presbyterian grandmother?' and he said, 'Yeah, why shouldn't I?' It was
only then that I realized that I had already resolved that he was
Catholic."
Tags:
armored cars,
baby carriages,
black pudding,
conflict,
ethnic,
fried potato,
fry eggs,
gray stone,
green grass,
grilled tomato,
home residents,
peace,
political barriers,
potato bread,
psychological hurdles,
religion,
river foyle,
rivulets,
squabble,
steep streets,
stone buildings,
verges,
violence,
white pudding,
world cup soccer
