Notes from a Spinning Planet—Ireland (18 page)

“Be the solution you want to see in the world,” Sid reads. “Gandhi.”

“How about this?” I say. “So many tears, too many years, no more spilled blood, let’s learn to love.”

“That’s nice,” my aunt says.

“Here’s a good one,” says Ryan. “You all believe in the same God, so listen to him.”

“Amen,” I add to this. And Sid echoes my sentiment.

Then the driver shows us places where we can see traces of bombings, and Sid takes photos.

“Some thought we were done with all that,” he says as he drives us back toward the city. “But last week we had another.”

“The Orange Rose?” says Sid.

“Aye. Nasty bit o’ business, that was.”

“Can you drive us by?” she asks. “To get some photos?”

“I’m not sure I can get through there,” he says. “The street was blocked off just a couple of days ago.”

“I’m a journalist,” she tells him. “It’s for a story.”

He nods. “We’ll see what we can do.”

As it turns out, the street is no longer blocked, and he slowly drives past a brick building with sheets of plywood covering what must’ve been blown-out windows. Sid snaps a number of photos.

“Too bad,” she says as she leans back into the seat.

“Do you think this will ever end?” Ryan asks the driver. “Is there any chance for peace here?”

“Not unless all the loyalists pick up and leave,” he says. “And that’s not likely to happen.”

“I’m guessing you’re Catholic,” Ryan ventures.

The driver nods. “But I believe in peace.” He reaches for a photo of three young children that’s attached by a magnet to his dashboard and holds it up for us to see. “I grew up during the troubles, and I don’t want my family to go through that.”

“I don’t blame you,” my aunt tells him as she looks at the photo. “Cute kids.”

“Thanks.” He puts the photo back.

“Have you heard much about this new IRA?” she asks. “What they’re calling the
Real
IRA?”

“Aye. Everyone’s heard o’ them.”

“What do you think of their organization?”

He shakes his head with a frown. “No’ so much.”

“Do you think they’re serious?”

“You saw the Orange Rose,” he reminds her.

“Do you think they’re a very large organization?”

He seems to consider this. “I hope not. But I fear what they lack in numbers they will make up for in violence.”

“Oh.” I can see her making a mental note of this comment.

“And I hear they are a vengeful lot.”

“How’s that?” my aunt persists.

“There’s an old Irish saying that suits them to a
T,”
he says. “For every Irishman on the fire, there will always be another ready to turn the spit.”

“What’s that mean?” asks Ryan.

“In the case of the Real IRA, it means they will turn on their own if their own turn away from the cause.”

Sid actually digs in her bag for her notebook now and quickly writes these things down.

Before long, our tour ends, and we’re back at our hotel. Sid gives the driver a generous tip, and we all thank him for the informative tour.

“We have time to get some lunch before we head out,” Sid tells us. “How about something within walking distance?”

Ryan and I tell her about the pub we visited last night. “The food was great,” he says, “but the music was really loud.”

“They probably wouldn’t have music in the daytime,” I say. And so we decide to head back to the Ádh Mór!

“What does
ádh mór mean?”
I ask the waitress when she comes to take our order.

First she corrects my pronunciation. Then she tells me it means “good luck” or “cheers.”

“Kind of like that old TV sitcom,” Sid says.

The waitress nods, then actually sings a line from the theme song. “Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name.”

We laugh and even clap for her. Then she takes a bow, along with our order.

“So you favor the Catholic pubs in Belfast?” my aunt teases Ryan.

“How do you know it’s Catholic?” I ask.

“It’s just a guess. But establishments that use the Irish language are often republican and often Catholic.” She points to a green banner. “And that’s a pretty good clue.”

“What?” I ask.

“The color green. It usually stands for Irish republicans. And orange is for national loyalists.”

“Is that why the Protestant pub was called the Orange Rose?”

She nods, then frowns. “Sometimes I just get so angry at all this.”

“All this what?” I ask.

“Division. Strife. Violence. Hatred.” She shakes her head in disgust. “I’ve never particularly cared for the IRA or their methods.”

“You and my mom both,” Ryan says with a bit of impatience.

“It’s cost your family a lot,” she reminds him. “And lots of other people even more.”

“But you’ve got to see why they did it,” he tells her. “You’ve got to understand where they were coming from.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I thought I did. But I’m not so sure anymore. And to think that the RIRA is the offspring of the old IRA.” She lets out a long, jagged sigh. “Well, it just makes me sick.”

“They’re not the same organization,” he says. “The original IRA has agreed to the peace talks and the disarmament.”

“So they say.”

“You don’t believe them?”

“I don’t know. But I’m finding that the older I get, the less tolerant I am for violent activities of any kind.”

“Our country has some pretty violent roots, if you think about our own fight for independence,” Ryan reminds her.

“Yes, yes…I’m well aware of that. And in some ways our situation wasn’t much different from here.”

“Bloodier,” he says. “And what about the Civil War? That’s similar too.”

“I know, I know.” She rolls her eyes. “I guess I’m just saying I hate war and violence in general. Okay?”

“I know what you mean,” I agree. “It was so sad seeing West Belfast literally split in half by that ugly wall.”

“I keep thinking of that quote I read on the peace wall today,” Ryan says, “about believing in the same God but not listening to him. I think that might be a universal problem.”

W
e have just enough time to make it to the peace camp for my appointment,” Sid tells us as we’re finishing lunch.

“When’s your appointment?” I ask before drinking the last of my lemon soda.

“Three.” She signs the receipt for her Visa card.

“But its already after two,” Ryan points out.

“We’re fine,” she assures him.

It takes about fifteen minutes to get outside of the city, and then Sid heads north on the highway. After about twenty minutes of driving, she slows down and exits the highway. I notice that the sign where she turns off says Antrim, and I can’t help but reach from the backseat to nudge Ryan. He nods back at me as if he, too, has noticed.

“Where is the camp?” I ask.

“It’s just north of Antrim. As I told you, its on an estate that was donated by a wealthy family back in the early seventies. The wife was Catholic and the husband Protestant.”

“That explains a lot,” I say.

“It’s a beautiful setting,” she continues as she slowly drives
through the town of Antrim. “Located right on the lake so there’s swimming and boating and fishing.”

“Is that Lough Neagh?” I ask as I locate the lake on my map.

“That’s right. It’s the largest lake in Ireland.”

“It’s handy that the camp is so close to Belfast,” Ryan comments. “A short commute for the campers.”

“Yes,” she agrees as she turns down a narrow road. “And yet it’s like a totally different world up here. A real escape for the children.”

It’s not quite three when Sid parks in front of what appears to be a small castle. The sign above the oversized, carved wooden front door reads Peace House.

“This is it,” she says happily. “You guys feel free to look around while I go in to talk to the camp director.”

So we wander around the gardens surrounding the large stone structure. It seems fairly quiet and not exactly what you’d expect to find in a youth camp. But as we get closer to the lake, we begin to hear voices. And eventually we come across a playing field and some small stone cottages that I’m guessing are used to house the campers. When we reach the lakeside, with its docks and boats, we find kids all over the place.

“Now this looks more like summer camp,” I say to Ryan.

“Can I help you?” a tall, red-headed guy with a clipboard asks us. Judging by his accent, he’s not Irish. I’m guessing he’s an American.

So we explain why we’re here, and he suggests we go back to check in with the main office inside Peace House.

“It’s for security reasons,” he explains. “Glenda will take your information and give you nametags, which work as security passes.”

“No problem,” Ryan tells him, and we head back.

“Can’t really blame them for that,” I say as we walk across the big green lawn again.

“I guess. But who would want to hurt these little kids?” he asks. “I mean, they’re Catholic
and
Protestant, from both sides of the wall.”

“Remember what the taxi driver told us,” I remind him, “about how the RIRA will turn on their own.”

He nods. “Maybe. But it just doesn’t make sense.”

I want to say
duh
but restrain myself.

So we meet Glenda, the office lady, and tell her who we are and then fill out some forms. She gives us our nametags as well as a map of the estate.

“Enjoy your visit at Peace House.” She nods to the large lobby outside the office. “And you can look around inside as well. Just don’t go into any of the rooms marked Private.”

So we decide to explore the interior of Peace House, and although it’s obvious this place was once quite swanky, it’s fairly plain now. Other than some elegant chandeliers and a few carpets and paintings, it’s mostly furnished with institutional types of furniture.

“I wonder if the kids can slide down this banister,” I say as I rub my hand along its polished marble finish.

“I don’t think you should try it,” Ryan warns me.

We reach the top of the stairs and find that most of the rooms are private.

“Want to go up to the next floor?” I ask when I spot a smaller staircase at the end of the hallway.

“Sure, why not?” he says. “Might be a good view of the lake up there.”

Here we discover a large room that perhaps was once a ballroom. But now it appears to be an activity room with lots of tables and arts-and-crafts supplies. Then we go down another hallway that opens up to a round room with windows around nearly three-fourths of it.

“Check out the view,” I say as I go over to the windows and look out to see the bright blue lake surrounded by green grass and trees. “Wow.”

All along the bottoms of these tall windows are benches with cushions. “This has to be the biggest window seat I’ve ever seen,” I tell Ryan as I sit down and look around. “Awesome!”

Now I notice that the one section of wall without windows is full of bookshelves, and there are comfortable-looking chairs as well as oversized pillows and rugs all around the room. “This must be a reading room,” I say.

“I guess they need something for the rainy days here,” says Ryan as we both sit on the window seat and gaze out at the lake below us.

“It’s so cool that someone donated this place for a peace camp,” I say. “No wonder Sid and Danielle loved being here.”

“Yeah.” He nods, but he has a faraway look in his eyes. Like I’m not even here with him.

I’m guessing he’s thinking about his mom. Maybe even trying to imagine how it was when his parents were here so many years ago. For that reason I just sit quietly, not wanting to intrude on his space. We sit there for several minutes. Then Ryan seems to snap out of it.

“Sorry,” he says as he quickly stands. “I guess I was kind of zoned out.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s really nice here.”

We walk around the perimeter of the room and stop to look at a section of wall beside the bookshelves that has old photos hanging on it. Most are black-and-white group shots of young people. I’m guessing volunteer counselors.

“Look at this,” Ryan says with excitement as he points to one with “1975” on it. “This is when Mom and Sid were here.”

We both peer at the slightly fuzzy photo, and finally I think I spot my aunt. “Look,” I tell him. “That’s Sid.”

He looks more closely. “And that’s my mom on her right.”

I stare at these two girls, just a year or two older than I am, and I think how cool it was for them to give up a summer to volunteer here.

“Your mom was cute,” I tell Ryan.

He nods.

“You look a lot like her.”

He turns and smiles at me. “You think so?”

Now I’m kind of embarrassed. But I say yes and pretend to refocus on the photos.

We stand there for a while longer, and I’m a little uncomfortable, staring at a bunch of photos of people I don’t even know. Then something catches my eye.

“Look at this,” I say as I point to the photo that interests me. “This one was taken a few years after the one with Sid and Danielle. But wait. Don’t you think that could be Ian?”

I point to the tall guy standing in the middle of the back row.

“Maybe,” he says as he studies the shot.

“I mean, he’s obviously a lot younger, but look at those eyes, that chin. Don’t you think it could be him?”

Ryan points out a tall, dark-haired guy in another group shot, taken a few years later, that looks even more like Ian.

Ryan points at the date now. “Hey, that’s the year I was born,” he says slowly. “The same year my dad died.”

“Oh.”

“That’s so weird.”

“Do you think Ian was involved in the peace camp?” I ask.

He just shrugs. “I have no idea, Maddie.”

“But look at that guy,” I persist. “Seriously, doesn’t he look just like Ian?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I’m going to find out about this,” I say with a determination that surprises even me.

“How?”

“Maybe I’ll ask Glenda in the office,” I say “She looks old enough to have been here awhile.”

I practically run down the stairs now, avoiding the temptation to slide down the marble banister. Ryan is just a few steps behind me.