“Good thing I brought my bikini,” I say in a laconic way that makes your man laugh in spite of himself, sputtering his Guinness.
“Where are your plastic bullets?” shouts our friend at the TV. “If that was us protesting, do you think they’d use water canons? No! We’d get plastics!”
“You’re going to get your eyes opened,” says your man to me, shaking his head sadly.
“That’s what I came here for!”
Your man sighs heavily. “Just take care of yourself, wee girl.”
“I will,” I assure him. “Look, I came here for an education, not a holiday.”
After a moment, your man’s face breaks into a huge grin and I can see his eyes sparkle, even in the smoky haze of the pub.
“Holiday!” your man exclaims, suddenly. “That reminds me...what day is it, girl?”
In the dim light, I can just barely make out the date on my calendar watch. I giggle, a bit surprised at myself that I‘d forgotten.
Your man clinks his glass against mine.
“Happy Independence Day,” he says.
As an international observer, I have been assigned to Portadown to monitor the actions of the police and the army during “marching season,” the Orange Order’s annual ritual of celebrating their Protestant heritage by marching through Catholic neighborhoods, playing triumphalist songs and taunting residents. There are thousands of such marches all over the North, but Portadown is one of the most contentious and residents have asked for international observers to be present. In previous years, Orange marches have been “forced” down the roads, despite neighborhood opposition, military vehicles barricading residents into their homes while the Orangemen march unhindered. This year, however, they have been denied permission to march down the Nationalist Garvaghy Road and barricades have been erected to keep the Loyalists out. Orange Order leader Harold Gracey is on the news every night denouncing the barricades, and encouraging his members to keep up protests until they’re allowed to march down Garvaghy Road. Infamous terrorist Johnny Adair is quoted in the newspaper, vowing to “Kill a Catholic every day” until they’re allowed to march. I can just imagine what would happen in the U.S. if a KKK member were allowed to make a similar public declaration against our African-American community! It would make headline news worldwide and the U.S. would be denounced in the press as a racist nation. But this is Ireland, the land that civil rights forgot. Only a handful of activists are aware that such statements are being made.
I’ll have to admit, I was a bit worried about going to Portadown, mostly about having my camera confiscated, along with my observer notebook. We were warned ahead of time not to write down the names, addresses, or phone numbers of our friends, hosts or people we meet into our observer notebooks in case they are confiscated. Riding the van to Portadown, with some other observers, I studied my observer packet one more time, which states that it is illegal to photograph the face of any RUC or military personnel, it is “technically unlawful” to photograph any military or police vehicles, and it is illegal to photograph any police stations or army watchtowers. It is also illegal to write down the license numbers of any police vehicles. (Hmmm...is it just me, or does it seem like they’re trying to hide something?) If caught doing any of the above, the police can detain us for up to 48 hours. We are reminded that there is no such thing as freedom of speech in Northern Ireland, no Miranda rights, no Bill of Rights--at customs, they should just come out and tell Americans to leave all that stuff at home, along with your plants and animals! For some reason, we Americans are always surprised by the restrictions, forgetting that the North of Ireland is ruled by England--a monarchy, not a democracy. They can make up new rules as they go along if they want to, and our cries of “but that’s not fair” will do no good, even if we say it very loudly. I settled back in my seat and put the observer packet away, determined to enjoy the scenery. It’s a beautiful day--sunny and warm. We pass rolling hills and green farmland, but my thoughts stray to the days ahead and I try to decide which would be better to contact if I got into trouble--“60 Minutes,” or “Dateline NBC?”
One thing we learned in Observer training is to only write down unusual things, like police brutality, and not fill up our notebooks with the trivial details that happen every day. At first, it’s hard for an American to tell the difference! When my host first drove me to her house on Obins Street in the Nationalist section of Portadown, there were armed British soldiers crouched at every street corner. Now I don’t know about you, but where I come from, that’s unusual! My host and I had to walk past two of them to get to the front door. “Oh, wow,” I muttered under my breath, trying not to let on that my heart just surged in a fight or flight response. “If they get in your way, just tell ‘em to clear off,” she says, waving an arm at the soldiers as if she were shooing away so many pigeons. My eyes are glued to the sidewalk in front of me, as I walk briskly past them into the house, trying to imagine ever being bold enough to look at them, nevertheless shoo them away.
By the next day, I’m surprisingly desensitized, having seen children play among the soldiers, and couples sit on the front porch having tea as the soldiers walk past on patrol. I go out for a walk, determined to look one of them in the eye. I walk past one and give him a stern look. He’s surprisingly young, probably only 18, with blonde curly hair and a freckled face. His eyes meet mine, and he smiles, shyly, shifts his weight nervously, and darts his eyes away. He probably knows I’m American and that I don’t want him here, but I doubt that he understands why. This young man probably has no grasp of the political situation in the North of Ireland.
“Must seem pretty strange to you,” my host comments later, “to see all these soldiers in the street. So what do you think about all this?” I have to admit I think it‘s pretty awful.
“Ah, well,” she sighs, “We’d rather have soldiers than the RUC."
In case you haven’t heard of them, the RUC (Royal Ulster Constabulary) is the notorious military-styled police force for the North of Ireland. They have a long history of human rights abuses that continues to this day--just recently, a Nationalist youth was severely beaten by RUC officers for attempting to play football in a field near a Loyalist area. In an age when the U.S. is taking measures to make sure our police forces have the same ethnic makeup as the community, it is shocking to learn that the RUC is 90% white, male, and Protestant. Some are members of the Orange Order and most are thought to be in collusion with Loyalist paramilitary groups; when a Loyalist gang attacks a Nationalist, the RUC will stand idly by, as in the case of Robert Hamill, a Catholic Portadown man, who was beaten to death in 1997 for daring to go into the Protestant-controlled city center. The incident happened right in front an RUC mobile unit; nothing was done to help him. Lawyers representing the Nationalist community are regularly intimidated and assaulted by police officers, and two lawyers, Pat Finucane and Rosemary Nelson, were brutally murdered by Loyalist paramilitaries, after the RUC provided information to these groups as to their whereabouts. Activists around the world are hard at work campaigning for police reform in the North of Ireland.
I’m standing on my post watching a helicopter hovering overhead, trying to determine whether or not it’s hovering is in any way unusual, when I’m approached by my first RUC “charm officer.” I’ve been warned about his kind. “Charm officers” pretend to be nice people and engage observers into a “casual” conversation, trying to get us to tell them where we’re staying so they can harass those people after we leave. The only information we’re required to give them is our name and that we live in the U.S. I concentrate on the helicopter as the officer approaches me, thinking of all the people who have been beaten and killed by the RUC and their terrorist cohorts.
“Good evening,” he says. I shoot him a look, then back to the helicopter. He stands there, seeming not to know what to do. “Must be this guy’s first time out,” I think to myself. Finally, he stammers, “Uh...have you been to other places in Ireland besides this?” I tell him no. “Oh. There are lots of nice places to go...um...like the north coast. The north coast is really pretty this time of year. Or the west...” he trails off. I feel like asking him, “So, when the RUC disbands, you’re going to be a travel agent?” But of course, I don’t say anything. He’s silent for quite awhile, probably wondering what‘s so interesting about that helicopter. He stares at it, too. Finally he breaks the silence. “So...part of being an international observer is that you’re not allowed to talk to local people?” I tell him “that’s right,” thinking he’ll probably ask me, “Then what were you doing in that resident’s house for so long? Having tea, laughing and talking--and singing rebel songs! Don’t deny it, I could hear you all the way out here!” But he only says, “Oh. That’s too bad. Well, have a nice evening.” And he scurries away, probably glad to be done with me.
Over the next week, I’ll hear the same patter three more times from far more experienced, glib charm officers, but always the same script. “There are lots of beautiful places to go in Ireland, the North coast, the West...” the same vague references to places they’ve never been. One night I’m on duty with a military man who tells me, “They don’t know anything about Ireland. They take their holidays in England. They’re not welcome anywhere in Ireland.”
Every day, we observers and residents gather around the TV in the community center and watch the news of what’s happening outside our barricaded community. Loyalist bonfires burn an RUC man in effigy this year instead of their usual target, the Pope. It’s reported that a loyalist paramilitary was stabbed by one of his own; Loyalist paramilitaries, wearing black ski masks, shoot guns into the air, as if to taunt the IRA (The IRA has put it weapons “beyond use” and has allowed the inspection of their arms dumps. The Loyalists have made no such concession to the peace process). Johnny Adair is on TV rallying his followers, when a tiny woman comes up to watch beside me. The top of her head barely reaches my shoulder.
“I’m praying for him,” she says, indicating Johnny Adair. “I usually just pray for our community, but it’s a test of your faith to pray for your enemies, so I’m praying for him.”
“I will, too,” I tell her.
It’s surprising to Americans just how forgiving and kind the Nationalist community is, considering all that’s been done to them. A Protestant speaker on TV talks passionately about Orangeism and how not being allowed to march the “traditional route” is denying him his culture and heritage. “Culture and Heritage?” I exclaim aloud, amazed at the man’s audacity in making such a claim. Any student of Irish history knows how the English settlers mercilessly suppressed the native Irish culture and heritage over the centuries. The Loyalists, as I see it, really have no culture to brag about--their only culture is marching, taunting, and wearing an orange sash. They’ve rejected the Irish language, their children do not play Gaelic games or learn Irish dancing, they’ve rejected the lyrical penny whistle and the rich versatile bodhran in favor of the off-key fife and tinny Lambeg drum.
Every morning around 7:30, I’m aroused from my sleep by the Orange wake-up call--the nerve-wracking rat-a-tat-tat of the drum, clattering along down the street like a shopping cart with one bad wheel, and the insipid flute playing the same tuneless melody over and over. Every morning they march outside the barricade--which is about a long city block away from my front door. The first time I heard them I thought the Orangies were right on the front porch! The Orange Order motto surely must be, “If you can’t play good, play loud!”
I can’t get back to sleep, so I get dressed and make my way downstairs to the kitchen, where my host is making tea. “What is that song that they play every morning,” I ask her.
“That’s ‘The Sash,’ she tells me, “ ‘The Sash my Father Wore.’ The kids around made up new lyrics to it--they sing ‘The Hash my Father Stored,’ ” she explains, “because of all the drug houses in the Loyalist estates.”
“So, do they know any other songs besides ‘The Sash?’ ”
“They actually play quite a few Irish Republican songs, but with Orange lyrics, and they play religious songs. On Sunday, they play ‘Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus.’ ”
“Really!” I exclaim. “A song about Jesus? I’m surprised. Don’t they know that Jesus said ‘Love thy Neighbor?’ I don’t think he said ‘taunt.’
“Or ‘Kill one of thy neighbors every day until you’re allowed to walk down the road,’ ” she adds.
“Of course, we’re working off the King James translation,” I muse. “They must use the William of Orange translation.”
We sit at the table sipping our tea. “You know, don’t you, why they play ‘Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus?’ ” I have to confess I don’t. “They play it to wind us up, to taunt us. That’s the song the English played to taunt James Connolly when he was executed in 1916. He couldn’t stand up, you see, and had to be tied to his chair to be shot.”
We sip our tea in silence for quite awhile before she speaks again.
“It’s not about religion, you know,” she says, quietly. “I don’t care what a person’s religious beliefs are. I mean, if a Protestant wanted to sit here at this table and have tea and a wee chat with me, I would welcome that. But they won’t. They’re afraid of us--and afraid of what the Orangies would do to them if they tried to come over here.”
Unbeknownst to her, a Protestant is sitting and having tea with her. Though no one has asked about my religious persuasion, everyone assumes I’m Catholic. We all discuss openly the problems of “the Protestants,” me included, because the Protestants of Ireland have nothing to do with me or my understanding of religion. The Orange Order has pretty much infiltrated every nook and cranny of Irish Protestantism and turned their religion into something unrecognizable. The Catholics I talk to every day feel sorry for them, especially the non-Orange Protestants who just want to worship in their own way without having to listen to the rhetoric of the “fringe element” that holds them hostage.
“You know what we should do?” asks Brian (not his real name), an ex-Marine and Vietnam vet turned Socialist activist, as we walk to our observation post late one night. “We should take this town,” he says, surveying all the landrovers and military personnel. I give him a startled look. “I’m serious,” he explains. “The military’s got it all wrong here. Do you know the kids can’t go to the mall?” I have to admit I’m not following his train of thought. “These kids can’t go to the mall in their own town. They can’t go to the city center in Portadown, they have to shop in Lurgan.” As arrive at our post, an idea is finally starting to dawn on me.
“That’s right! In Alabama, during segregation the army didn’t barricade the blacks into their own neighborhood, they escorted those kids to school. The British military should escort these kids to town.”
“Of course, it’s not in their best interest to do something like that,” Brian explained. “They need to keep this conflict going so they can keep this training ground. It’s cheaper to train them in Ireland than somewhere else. Have you noticed how young these guys are? They’re not the same ones that were here last year. They’re new. The ones from last year are in Kosovo, or wherever they’re needed. The British train them here, then send them elsewhere.”
It’s a clear, quiet night. We’re on the 10:00 pm to 2:00 am shift and there’s a cold wind blowing. I’m wearing long johns, wool socks, jeans, a hat, a t-shirt, turtle neck sweater, another sweater over that, my denim jacket and observer jacket over all that. If you’re ever on sentry duty in the North of Ireland on a cold summer night, just wear all the clothes you brought, and you’ll stay warm enough! I survey our post. We’re right at the Craigwell barricade. The barricade consists of two tall towers on either side of Craigwell, overlooking Corcrain Street. The razor wire gate stands open, ready to be closed should Orangemen attempt to breach it. Atop one of the towers, two soldiers laugh and swing their flashlights around in a lively game of flashlight tag; on the other tower, another soldier watches them through his rifle sight! An RUC man strolls by us casually, whistling the complicated main theme from “Les Miserables.” Although I don’t let on, I’m quite impressed! Someday, when the RUC’s disbanded, maybe this one will find a career in musical theatre.
Craigwell is a pretty street, lined with nice townhouses that would rival those in any suburban U.S. neighborhood. We’re standing in front of one that has a “For Sale” sign in the neatly landscaped front yard. I notice that there are bullet holes in the plaster, and wonder about the poor real estate agent who’s going to have to sell this place. I entertain myself by writing an ad for the place: “Charming Craigwell townhouse, lovely front lawn, needs cosmetic repair (i.e. bullet holes); adjacent to barricade and just minutes from hostile Loyalist territory. Built-in security system (RUC landrovers parked on street).” When a resident comes out to give us tea and sandwiches, I mention the house and several others like it that I‘ve seen for sale on Craigwell. “How many houses are for sale on this street?” I ask him.
He contemplates this a moment.
“Actually,” he states, in all seriousness, “they’re all for sale.” He breaks into a huge grin. “In fact, you can have mine--just make me an offer!”
Brian comes up with a brilliant plan to get Americans to buy up all the property for sale and start a time share scheme for activists. He’s telling me all about it, when I remind him that we’re really not supposed to talk on duty because the RUC is listening to everything we say.
“Let ‘em,” he says. “Maybe they’ll get an education.”
And so, another brilliant plan is launched--the education of the RUC. We discuss everything we know on a variety of subjects--opera (Brian), theatre (me), the grape and lettuce boycotts (Brian), the works of Jerzy Kosinski (me), the U.S. education system (Brian) and website design (me).
We must have given the RUC some new “charm” material, because a couple of days later another observer told me that she was approached by a charm officer who, for once, was not working from the travel agent script.
“I’m thinking of designing a web page,” he told her. “and I’m trying to find a place to learn HTML programming.” She stared at him uncomprehendingly and told him, “I have no idea what you’re talking about!” HA! Wrong observer!
It’s a drizzly Saturday afternoon, and I’m doing my 3:00 pm to 7:00 pm shift with Brian again. We’re a couple of blocks away from “the tunnel” barricade, beyond which is the city center. Down a side street, another barricade blocks the entrance to Corcrain Street. There are several soldiers and army landrovers at the barricade. I’m notating the beginning position of all military personnel in my book when a drunken resident weaves his way up to me.
“Write this down,” he says, jabbing a finger at my notebook. “My mother hates my guts!”
His two buddies try to pull him away. “Come on now, Liam,” they say, struggling to restrain him. “Let’s go home.”
But Liam is determined that I hear his story and breaks free of his mates.
“Write this down,” he insists, getting right into my face. “My mother hates my guts!”
“See the thing is,” I explain to him, “I’m only supposed to write down what’s unusual. A mother hating her son’s guts...that’s not unusual. Now, show me a mother who thinks her son’s perfect...well, I’d write that down. That would be unusual.”
Liam stares at me blankly, weaving slightly. His mates steer him away, taking advantage of his sudden loss for words.
“Come on now, you’ve had enough. Sorry about that, wee girl. We’ll take him on home now.”
The trio hasn’t gone but about three steps when Liam suddenly gets his second wind. He shakes off the other two and comes charging back to me.
“What about that?” he shouts, waving his arm in the direction of the army down the side street. “Did you write that down?”
“Yes,” I assure him, “I wrote it down.”
“What do you think about that?”
“Where I come from that would be unusual.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Well...” I start out, figuring anything I’ve ever done for Ireland won’t be good enough in his estimation. “I write letters to Congress, the President, Tony Blair...anybody and everybody, asking for police reform and for demilitarization--”
“I’m going to do something about it right now,” Liam declares, fists clenched. “Write this down,” he says and strides off in the direction of the army! We watch him go for quite a few seconds before his mates start shouting after him.
“Hold on there, Liam, get back here!” his mates shout after him. “Are you after getting yourself killed?”
“Hey!” shouts Brian, in his booming ex-marine baritone voice. “That’s enough. Come on back.”
Liam stops and turns around about half way up the street and ambles back, probably wondering what took them so long to call after him! In the safety of our corner, of course, he’s full of bravado, telling us how he’d like to take them on, showing us his fists and bragging about “giving it to them.”
Finally, I say to him, “We don’t fight like that anymore.”
Liam gives me a questioning look.
“We fight with words now, and legislation, and agreements and contracts. We don’t use petrol bombs--”
“I’m not throwing any petrol bombs,” he bragged, showing me his meaty fist. “I’m going to give ‘em this!”
“Yeah, well, you know what happens if you do that? You’ll be shot dead in the street, it’ll be all over the news that the IRA broke the ceasefire, and the army will tell the whole world, ‘You see? We have to be here.’ Is that what you want? You want to give them another excuse for being here?”
After a few moments Brian spoke quietly.
“You know what’s better than this,” he said, making a fist. “A million eyes watching. Each one of us observers represents a community in the U.S. When this is all over, we’re going back home to tell everybody what we saw here.” He pointed to the army down the road. “They can’t hide behind their propaganda anymore. Their days are numbered and they know it.”
Liam pondered this thought and was finally quiet enough now for his friends to lead him away home.
I can’t help but think back to the day in Belfast when I almost forgot it was Independence Day, “We sure do take a lot for granted,” I remarked to Brian. “If we hadn’t gotten our independence, I wonder if there would still be Minutemen.”
“I’m sure there would,” Brian said, “Guys like Liam...wanting to take on all the rifles and tanks with their bare fists.”
“If we hadn’t gotten our independence--”
“--the countryside would look like South Armagh,” said Brian. “You going on the tour?”
“Of course!”
The day before I left Portadown, I went on a tour of South Armagh, the most militarized area of Western Europe. Besides being the most militarized, South Armagh is also one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen--rolling green hillsides, fields of heather, unexpected standing stones from the era of the druids right in the middle of a farmer's field! And then, rising out the beautiful landscape...watchtowers. Spy posts. A “police station” that looks like a two-story black dumpster right in the middle of an otherwise quaint village--or a set piece from a bad science-fiction movie accidentally dropped into the nineteenth century.
Since the Good Friday Agreement in 1998, the British government has put out publicity periodically that they’re demilitarizing this area, but from what I can see, there’s no sign of it. Miles of razor wire protects the watchtowers from...what? Sheep? Upon closer examination, we can see there are several generations of barbed wire and razor wire--ancient rusted layers reinforced by gleaming new metal. During our visit, the army is on it’s best behavior--there will be no helicopter flights while we’re watching, but reports compiled over the years show that there are over 200 helicopter flights per month into each spy post! Sometimes there are as many as 9 in the air at one time, flying as low as 30 feet. Animals are frightened into stampeding--sometimes straight into the razor wire, causing injury or death. The economic impact to farmers in the area is obvious--their land has been “stolen,” essentially, by the British government to build these towers in the first place, animals are killed or injured in stampedes, milk production is down because the cows are under stress from the constant activity; I ask our tour guide about the environmental impact, as well. “What is it doing to the land to have all this jet fuel in the air? And what about the watchtowers? In the U.S. we’re concerned about power lines causing radiation, and here are these spy towers listening to everything we say!” She says there is concern about radiation from listening devices and from infrared cameras. I can’t help but ponder the waste of British taxpayer money, as I think back to all the English friends I’ve had over the years who’ve come to the U.S. as “tax exiles.” The first time I ever heard the phrase “tax exile” was in reference to British citizens living elsewhere because they couldn’t afford the taxes in England. Now, as I look out over all the watchtowers, I think about all the spy cameras, recording equipment, all the miles of wire it takes to keep up this occupation of the North of Ireland and finally ask, “How much does all of this cost?” The figure allocated for fiscal year 1999-2000 would astonish my working class British friends--923 million pounds! I think about how many times I’ve heard from my English friends that places like Leeds, Manchester, and inner city London are like “a third world country;” I think about what a boost it would be to the economy and morale of both countries if the army would get out Ireland, starting with this beautiful countryside of South Armagh.
I arrive back in Belfast on Friday, July 14. Your man is waiting for me at the Europa Bus station and waves a newspaper to get my attention.
“You’re in the paper,” says your man to me, handing me this morning’s edition of “Irish News.” As we drive away, I read the article he has marked.
“ ‘An influential observer delegation inspected military facilities in South Armagh yesterday--’ actually, the influential people were there last week," I explain to him. "One of our congressmen, Donald Payne, was there last week and some members of the Canadian parliament. Our group didn’t have anybody especially influential...”
“So how was your trip?"
“It was great. I met so many people. Look at all these business cards I collected,” I say, digging around in my purse, finally producing a fistful of cards, wrapped in a rubber band.
“So what are your plans now? How are you going to use what you’ve learned when you get back to the states?”
“Well,” I start, my head reeling with all the things that have to be done. “I met some other women interested in doing an independent film--maybe a documentary about South Armagh or maybe an oral history project about the people who live in Portadown--my head is just swimming right now. And, of course, we have to keep writing letters about the RUC. Nothing good can really happen here until they leave. There’s so much work to do but if everybody just takes a piece of it--”
“There’s a bit of inspiration for you,” says your man to me, pointing out the car window to the Bobby Sands mural on Falls Road.
“Everyone,” we read together, “Republican or otherwise has their own particular role to play.”
“And this is a good day to start,” I say, pointing to the date in the newspaper, pleased with myself for remembering. “Happy Bastille Day!”
I settle back in my seat for the short drive back to my “home” in West Belfast, a bit sad to see my trip to Ireland coming to an end so soon--but excited, too, about taking my place in the adventure that lies ahead.
