Let me preface this post by saying that I do not know much about Irish history.  Everything I do know either came to me tangentially through my classes in English History, or through museums like the one I visited in Belfast.

That said, I do remember, even if only vaguely, the Troubles.

For those who don't know, broadly speaking the Troubles refer to a series of conflicts between armed paramilitary groups and their political aspirations for Northern Ireland.  The two primary groups involved were roughly separated along religious and political lines:  The Irish Republic Army, mainly Catholic, and the Ulster Loyalists, mainly Protestant.

Of course, to someone living in a country far removed from the UK, the Troubles were a hazy, foreign concept, one that I didn't and still don't fully understand or appreciate.  The news stories reached us on occasion:  a bombing in the street, an activist murdered, prolonged rioting.  Even now, we hear about the odd spate of violence, though it rarely breaks the screen of other world issues desperate to be heard:  the Ukraine, Syria, Palestine just to name a few.

When I was first wandering the streets of Dublin, I noted several separate, small demonstrations with protesters holding signs demanding justice for Gerry Conlon.  I didn't know what it was all about, and I neglected to take a picture - though if I had, it would have been disingenuous, a mere curiosity rather than actual interest.  Only belatedly did I find out that Gerry Conlon, who died June 21, 2014, was a member of the "Guildford Four," a group of people wrongfully convicted of IRA bombings who were - after prolonged campaigns - eventually released and their convictions overturned.

I found this out in Belfast, overhearing a conversation at the table next to me.  I mention this source because it happened that several conversations I overheard in my stay in Belfast revolved around this and other issues relating to the Troubles.

You might think, given how recent the Troubles were, that these mutterings and murmurings were dark or malicious in nature, that they carried with them a nasty undertone of hatred.  If anything...they all sounded weary.

There was sadness there, yes, but it had not been warped into revenge.  It was a general malaise that said, in a quiet subtext, "maybe now we can get on with our lives."

I talked to the lady who ran my B&B about my impressions.  She nodded emphatically, and told me of how travel within the city was once restricted, with curfews and military-run blockades in place.  Attacks - from both sides of the conflict - were totally unpredictable.  Gunfire could be heard from time to time, punctuated by the odd explosion.

She told me that if I really wanted to get a good idea of what the troubles meant to Belfast, and to Northern Ireland, I should go to the Ulster Museum.  They had an exhibition of work based on and from the time of the Troubles.



Unfortunately, I can't post any pictures here from the Exhibition.  A copyright ban on photographs was in place (understandably) as most of the work was either recent or on loan.  All I can tell you is that it was one of the most powerful exhibitions of art I have ever seen in my life.  There was no judgement there.  No "taking a side."  It simply stood up, invited me to share in the crisis, and left me to make my own decisions.

One mechanical sculpture, an accordion hooked up to a picture of Bobby Sands, an IRA member who went on a hunger strike and perished in 1981.  The accordion, when activated, plays a single, off-tune note, creating a general atmosphere of unease and discord.

Another metal sculpture depicts a woman caught in a bomb blast.  The metal is rippled and warped, heart-wrenchingly communicating the concussive effects of an explosive device.  Her face is obliterated, covered by her dress as it flaps up, almost smothering her.

One room held a movie that showed several scenes cut from a small glade.  The images seem to show the aftermath of some great struggle:  empty shotgun shells, bullet holes in trees, and a campfire hastily extinguished, still crackling as the last log dies out.

I don't know if I've ever been more effectively convinced of the healing power of art than at that exhibition.  The images, though dark, represented for me a kind of catharsis.  Here, they said.  Look at what happened.  Acknowledge it.  Remember it.  Learn from it.

As a Canadian, I don't think I'll ever fully understand or appreciate the Troubles and how they affected people's lives.  Our own separatist movement, though at times violent (the October Crisis and the FLQ) never approached the level of civil conflict that was seen in Northern Ireland.  I don't as such feel qualified to pass judgement on the Troubles, and the future of the republic and the union.

I do know, however, that when I arrived in Glasgow from Belfast, I found a dirty city, with bottles smashed in the streets and filth in the gutters.  Somewhat perplexed, I asked the hotelier there what had happened.  With a weary sigh, he explained:  "The Orangemen parade.  We're always very wary this time of year.  Many people have...strong feelings about it."

He was not the only one in Scotland to mention the Protestant marches celebrating the victory of their army over the Catholics at the Battle of the Boyne.  Like in Belfast, I heard many conversations, and had some myself.  Unlike Belfast, however, the tone was different.  It wasn't punctuated by sadness.  It was punctuated by resentment.

I think it would be incredibly naive to suggest that Belfast is completely free from its Troubles.  That may be just as well.  With the memory, and the scars, still fresh, there is a chance to learn, and to heal.

And now, some stray thoughts...