What Brings You To Derry,
Then?
by ASHLEY DRESSER
“What brings you to Derry, then?” the cashier asked. She had
noticed me carefully examining each of my coins for their
correct value in preparation for her announcement of the total.
I stared at her, suddenly frozen by a query that had been
repeated to me almost daily since my arrival in Northern Ireland
and nearly twice as much prior to my U.S. departure. It was
intended to be an entirely harmless question, no doubt, and she
delivered it so, in that plucky, uplifting Irish tone that
invariably tugged at my heartstrings.
Yet this time, her accent brought me little cheer. The weight of
the past few days in this foreign land bore down on me with
suffocating precision. I could not bring myself to muster out
the standard reply of “Peace and Conflict Studies” without
feeling vomit creep into the back of my throat. I wanted to tell
her the truth, but it was a truth that I did not want to admit
to myself, and, besides, the supermarket check-out line was
certainly no place for matters of the heart.
I
had dispensed lofty vindications to those back home on why I
wanted to study abroad in Northern Ireland. It was the only
place I could come to terms with the realities of terrorism
without being in danger as an American. It was a way to seek out
the message of peace in a country where it is both precious, yet
so precarious, and bring it home with me. Lastly, it was a new
method of understanding the oppressed. I had seen those stricken
by poverty, but I had never witnessed the afflictions of war.
There were whispers of other desires as well, but these were
more personal and carefully hidden. I was running away from the
battlefield of my parent’s marital catastrophe, closely
augmented by the fall-out of a recent relationship. Somehow, I
harbored the belief that a country so marked by inexplicable
hardship and pain held the answer of how to heal the wounds of
my own small tragedies.
Furthermore, all my life I have yearned to be a part of
something grand and meaningful to the world. There are many
driven spirits out there, but for every one, there are ten or
twenty others consumed by indifference. I had unscientifically
determined this to be an entirely American trait, fueled by
certain economic and social pressures and the idyllic lull of
security and prosperity for all. I was convinced that if I
traveled to a place where conflict was a reality and not just
played out glamorously on a movie screen, that I would find
throngs of people pulsing with compassion and concern for the
world…My kind of people.
Predictably, as with most ideas entertained at the youthful age
of twenty, my notion of complacency as indigenously American
turned out to be foolish and naïve.
The Bloody Sunday March that took place on January 30th
was a poignant introduction to both my time in Derry and my
studies of The Troubles, but it quickly proved to be nothing
more than a gilded façade of the truth. People of all ages
showed up to remember the innocent that were killed by British
gunfire in 1972. Still more watched silently from their windows,
yet few seemed to really take its purpose to heart. The
youngsters paraded around in their punk attire, eagerly belting
out IRA chants to any TV crew within earshot. They seemed
emboldened, not by the Irish question, but by the general
prospect of rebellion. My university friends were “full on
drink” from the night before and slept through the entire march
without an intimation of guilt. Mothers and fathers pushed their
children in strollers or propped them on their shoulders, I
suspect more for the educational aspect of the event than from
any desire to foster some sort of revolutionary ideal. Notable
leaders from both Sinn Fein and SDLP culminated the march with
fervent speeches, but interest was scattered at best. The crowd
departed quickly, hardly acknowledging the ominous Bogside
murals as they passed on their way to the pubs.
Later, I confessed my disappointment of the political atmosphere
in Derry to my friend Conor. He is a fellow student at the
University and a Dubliner of slightly republican leanings. He
shared his reflections with me over a cup of tea.
“The Troubles have destroyed Derry… I work in a homeless center
for rehabilitating alcoholics, and almost every one of them is a
product of our past. My friend’s brother was shot and killed
walking home from school when he was 12 years old. There are so
many stories like that… People don’t want to deal with it now.
Peace is good,” he quietly affirmed. “It is our only measure of
happiness.”
A
glossy sadness came over his eyes then, but just as briefly as
it appeared, he suppressed it, adding, “We still want to be a
part of Ireland, but we are tired of paying the price with
blood. Britain would be willing enough to offer up the six
counties, but they know that would result in a terrible civil
war. Enough people have died. So we just sit here…miserable, but
alive.”
In
the news, Northern Ireland has often been portrayed as a shining
example of peace after strife. I have found a much different
reality. Most of the students do not seem to care either way, as
long as they are allowed to socialize, shop, and live as youth
are entitled to live. They even jokingly refer to the armored
police cars as “Paddywagons,” as that is “where they throw the
Catholics.” But ignoring the problem does not mean that it has
disappeared.
One day I filled out a job application for a minimum wage
position and there, staring back at me in bold print was the
question, “Are you Catholic or Protestant?” My cheeks burned at
the audacity of such an inquiry, and I had a fleeting desire to
return to my homeland, where we pride ourselves on equality and
justice for all, if at least in theory.
The beeping melody of the check-out line pulled me away from my
labyrinth of thoughts and I found the cashier looking at me
expectantly. Oh right, the question. What brings you to Derry
then?
“I
guess…” I started. “I guess I wanted to fall in love with a
revolutionary.” And a revolution as well. There it was: the
truth, in all its idiotic and youthful naiveté. There was no
revolution here and if there was, it was one without an answer.
The cashier startled a little, but then let out a hearty laugh.
“Oh, aren’t you a dear!” she exclaimed. “All you’se coming to
Derry when all we want to do is get out! Well – good luck to
you!”
I
picked up my groceries and walked out miserably into the Irish
mist, feeling as beaten and tired as those who had lived here
their whole lives.
© Ashley Dresser,
2007
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