Today we visited the H-Blocks of Long Kesh. The easiest way to give you the backstory of this place…is the movie Hunger.
HUNGER

Well that is simply the trailer, and the movie is extremely gripping, as well as emotionally trying. Be warned, but I still highly recommend it.
So we visited today, and I remember feeling a chill run down my spine as we rolled up in the van. The first thing we saw, was a concrete wall, standing twenty-four feet tall, and laced, like lights on a christmas tree, with razor wire. The guard towers stood stalwart at equal distances along the wall, much like sad giants who had witnessed terrible woes inflicted on those who had graced Long Kesh with their presence. I remember that the first thing I said, when we drove up, was “there are ghosts here.” I don’t even believe in ghosts, but that is the feeling that swept over me as we got out of the van.

As we walked through the air-lock gates-double door systems for checking cars at points of entrance-it set in that this wasn’t a normal tour. I could feel the tension in the air, and you could just imagine guards stationed at each locked door, each tower, and each guardhouse. There was even a military pillbox outside of the front gate. The whole situation became even more real, if that were possible, when we stepped into the H-Blocks. These blocks are in the shape of an H:

These blocks were designed in America-eke-and built to accomodate 100 prisoners in four separate wings, with a conjoining recreation center, and two separate yard areas. Well as we know in America, the nicety of prison planning is not so appreciated by its inhabitants. The IRA prisoners would be brought in, in their minds as POWs, and instead be treated as common criminals. In protest, the men would refuse to don a prison uniform, and were instead stripped of their clothes and offered a blanket. This is how the term “blanket men” came around. The next step when the protest escalated was the “dirty” protest in which the men would defile their cell walls with excrement. They lived in these conditions for sometimes up to 16 years, and their cells would be routinely cleaned, only for them to proceed to dirty them up again. The purpose of these protests was that the IRA wanted political prisoner status for their interred prisoners, but Margaret Thatcher and the British government would not treat them as anything but common criminals.

When it appeared that both the blanket and dirty protests were not making any headway, the IRA escalated their tactics, and initiated a Hunger strike. The first attempt failed when one of their members succumbed to a coma, and the strike was called off. However, under Bobby Sands leadership, the IRA initiated a second Hunger Strike, in which teams of men would systematically starve themselves to death until the British government granted them political status. Bobby Sands, the main character of Hunger, succumbed to starvation after 66 days. Many men followed. But eventually, the British government quietly gave in and granted the IRA political status.

I think that the Hunger Strikes exemplify how a people who have made a resolve, say freedom from tyranny at all costs, will do whatever it takes to ensure that end. Bobby Sands for example, was convinced along with many others at Long Kesh, that their sacrifice would evoke change both in the prison system, as well as in the entire UK regarding Ireland. The men who died in the H-Blocks were convinced that they were stronger than the British government, and that eventually Northern Ireland could, and would be free.

How the men lived in those small cubical spaces, smeared their walls, and lived without any activities besides pacing their rooms, is beyond me. I was informed that when your mind is so set on a goal, you find the innate ability to zone out all of your surroundings, and all of the violence around you. This was the only way that they made it, their dream for a united and free Ireland.

“Our revenge will be the laughter of our children.”
-Bobby Sands

Today we visited what is properly known in Britain as Londonderry. Well the name depends on which side someone is on. The republican Irish call it Derry, because they are not comfortable with anything Protestant/Presbyterian/British there.

The feeling of sadness was palpable in the city. We entered at a point, “the river side,” where the English had originally built a fort, and took command of the valley. Over time, the Catholics were pushed away from the water, and down into the “bogside” where they remain today. After that small detour, I will proceed to explain the tangible sadness we experienced. As the class walked down the main street, we saw mural after mural which all depicted the tragic history of trauma and politics that has dominated the Northern Irish culture.

So this image, among others, sent chills down my spine. Both for the fact that the image, among others, had to be passed by every day, and because they reminded the people of Derry, daily, what the city had endured over hundreds of years. In the 1600s there was a siege, and then of course the Troubles, and even the past 20 years with the IRA and British fiercely contending for the Bog side. What will become of Derry/Londonderry, is yet to be known. But I have the feeling that the resiliency of the people will carry the city through it all, and hopefully, one day, the people of Northern Ireland will really know peace.

Within the conferences that we have attended in the past two days, I am coming to a conclusion that the people of Northern Ireland desperately want change. As outsiders, it is very easy to assume that there is too much hatred within the island, for people to even dream of a change for at least three or four generations. However, I have met, and heard people these past two days, who are fighting with all that they’ve got, to make sure that their children can live safe and happy, right now. I marvel at their courage, determination, and faith for a means to move past the sectarian violence. It is an awesome and powerful thing to see people, with their own stories of trauma, asking others to follow them, but with the intention of transforming their pain and distrust into one of peace and acceptance. One speaker, said something that really struck a cord for me;

“Until we stop pointing fingers, we can never hope to move past this. We must instead, recognize each other where they are, and move forward. And we must not wait, any longer, to do this.”

That was a rough quotation, but it still captures what she said.

“It was the best of days, it was the worst of days…”
-Charles Dickens

I think that part of this experience in the past few days has truly reflected the nature of this old city. As a tourist, one could naively meander through the streets, see different flags, and think nothing of it.  However, the past few days have been eye-opening in regards to how the people of Belfast truly live. Just yesterday, I observed how one of our new friends was completely uncomfortable walking through the neighborhood that our hostel resided in. This reaction is actually very common. I can only touch the emotional reaction, living in a rough part of Chicago, that Belfast citizens feel when walking down the street. The sectarianism is strong, and the people are still aware of it. Now, I do not want to paint the people as hateful, difficult, or rude. They are just the opposite, they actually love, and give graciously to us. I haven’t felt more welcomed into a country in my life (I’ve traveled a lot). But the problems that Belfastians have within their own communities are mind-blowing.

There are walls here that used to divide communities, in order to keep certain people within safe, and of course to keep other unwanted people out. These walls have been dubbed “peace walls,” but the connotation of peace is not readily available to the people dwelling near them. Apparently, some people have accepted the walls as a means of protection, and do not want them removed. Whereas just as many others, see the walls as a reminder of the Troubles that racked this city for hundreds of years.

I’m nervous but excited to see how people cope with this much animosity amongst them, especially when living at a time of peace. In America, we think of peace as something that is easy to comprehend and see on the streets. What we fail to note, is that even in our own culture, we are at peace, but we carry our grudges and our hostilities with us, over time, because our violence was limited. I’m not trying to go too far into our own history, but merely paint a picture of what it is like over here.

How does an individual, or a society for that matter, handle transference from outright sectarian war, to peace, and living amongst the same people they were raised to hate?

So when I first logged into this account, Sunday May 13, it said there were forty new posts! I thought I was well behind, even though I was the first student here, but that was not the case. All of the old posts from 2010 are here!

So I arrived early, and thus had to stay in a less than desirable hole in the wall. I say hole in the wall, because the only real perks to the Linen House are the cheapness factor, and the free wi-fi. I am currently paying 5 BP a night for my room, which I share with 4 other people (interchanging every night). So far I have shared the room with a couple from Iowa, a drunken lad from the area, and two norwegians who stumbled in last night at 3AM. Apparently there is no discretion for late check-ins here! I make it sound bad, but it has really been rather easy, and a cheap bed is highly convenient when you’re out all day anyway! I can’t deny that I am excited to move into the next hostel with my classmates. It’s always easier to sleep at night when you actually know who is in the bunk under you!

So, I decided to do a little bit of sight-seeing to pass the weekend. I went to Carrick-a-Rede to see some sights and walk a-or at least I was told it was famous-rope bridge. There were plenty of tourists there, so we can assume the legitimacy to the claim. Unfortunately, what they fail to tell you before the onset, is that buses are unreliable on the weekends. I came back to the base station to catch a bus on to my next stop, and instead found that there wouldn’t be another bus for three hours! I opted for a cab, considering there weren’t any other options besides walking, and made my way to the Giant’s causeway.

–I tried to upload a video here of crossing the bridge, but alas, fail. security reasons–

The giant’s causeway, is first and foremost, a sight well worth seeing. The story behind it, is “too long to tell” according to one senior Irishmen I met earlier. He told me it had something to do with a Scottish giant casting a stone at Ireland, and creating a lake, which angered the Irish giant, so he decided to build a causeway that would allow him to walk over and teach Scotland a lesson. Another story I have heard, was that there was a fight involving a woman-isn’t there always a fight when there’s two men and a woman involved?-and that the causeway was built for similar reasons. Wikipedia has a completely different story, involving fighting warriors, pretending to be babies, and the like, but how trustworthy is wiki?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giant’s_Causeway#Legend

I finally made my way back via train to Belfast, had been gone for 12 hours, and warily crawled into bed. Only to be awoken by the two gentlemen in the night. But why should I complain? I’m in Ireland! Cheers!