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Driving on the left involves more thought than I anticipated. Especially on the roundabouts (traffic circles), where I can’t tell who has the right of way. My hands hurt from gripping the steering wheel so tightly. I made it down to Portadown, roughly an hour’s drive southwest of Belfast and a predominantly Protestant town where generations of Orange Order members have marched. The scene there around the Drumcree Church resembles an outdoor festival. Children play near trenches dug by the British Army and the men make tea over their campfires. It is only one day into the standoff between the British Army and the Orange Order, but the Orangemen seem confident that they are going to be allowed to march down Garvaghy Road through a Catholic neighborhood. Many of the men are reluctant to speak with me when they discover I am American and, worse yet, a journalist. They demand I tell Mr. Clinton to quit funding the Irish Republican Army. Portadown, July 12
Today I woke to a heavy rain and the feeling that something was wrong. Over breakfast I learn of the three brothers who were murdered in their sleep. This news shakes everyone. I head back down to Portadown to find a much uglier scene at the Drumcree Church than earlier in the week. More trenches have been dug and police checkpoints have sprung up everywhere. Some of the Orangemen now disguise themselves by covering their faces with scarves. The other photographers warn me not to take photos of the masked men for my own safety. On the Garvaghy Road side of the barricade I watch a minister and a priest hold church services for a group of British Army paratroopers in a muddy field. I don’t recall ever hearing "Amazing Grace" sung as badly as I did that day. One soldier standing nearby defends his colleagues: "We are not known for our singing." Belfast, July 15
Earlier tonight I met up with Al McCombs and Stephen Sherlock, outreach workers with the Urban Programme, an organization that promotes reconciliation for youth and former prisoners. Several nights a week Al and his youth counselors cruise the streets after nightfall to talk with the adolescents and sell them on the benefits of the Urban Programme. When we approach the children, they don't bother to hide their beer or cigarettes, and they all know Al. Most of them come from families whose livelihood depends on government benefits, and even more have experienced the sectarian violence firsthand. Al looks older than his 37 years; this past year has been the most difficult. In January, his friend and partner in the Urban Programme, Terry Enright, was murdered while working as a doorman at a nightclub. Enright took youths from working-class West Belfast and exposed them to a different kind of adventure than they were used to. He took them kayaking, rock climbing and even skydiving. Al suffered a heart attack shortly after Terry's death, but he was back at work in no time, more determined than ever to create new opportunities for kids. When one child says she wants to be a nurse, Al shoots back, "Why don't you be a doctor?" The evening ends quickly for us when a fleet of Royal Ulster Constabulary armored vehicles flies by with a boy hanging onto the hood of one of them. Stephen yells, "Get your camera ready!" as we follow them to a dark dead-end street. The police hit the boy several times with their sticks before tossing him into the back of their vehicle. "That's enough," yells Al, but the officer tells us to mind our own business. I can't imagine what the boy did to be hit that many times.
Belfast, July 13 The parades take place without any confrontation. The only reports of unrest were when Orangeman started fighting among themselves after a parade in County Tyrone. I was impressed with the dignified protest organized by the residents in the Catholic neighborhood on Lower Ormeau Road in Belfast. When the Orangemen passed through the neighborhood, they found residents lining the sidewalks holding black flags and signs bearing only one word: Shame.
My last day is spent walking around Dublin in the Republic of Ireland. It feels so alive in contrast to the north. Families stroll through the streets with arms interlocked, and laughter drifts out from the pubs. On the plane ride home, I talk with a woman who traveled to Ireland from Connecticut with her sister, who is dying from colon cancer. Like so many Americans, they came looking for their roots. Her sister wanted to experience the Emerald Isle’s beauty and peace before it was too late. I could only reply that the most beautiful thing I saw was a glimmer of hope for future generations.
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