"She is the Belle of Belfast City..." - ebienelson
I'm living in Belfast, Northern Ireland for a year. I'm volunteering at Public Achievement, a Belfast-based nonprofit that works with young people in divided communities.

Going...Going... Gone.
Thiensville, United States
My alarm went off at 8:30 this morning. I always confuse my alarm with my text messages, as they have the same tone (not on purpose; my phone is a piece of a crap and I can do nothing about this). So I rolled over, thinking "who did I forget to say good-bye too that is freaking out so bad they have to text me at 8am?!"
Days like this, leaving on a big adventure, people often (ok, always and constantly) ask if you're excited. Well, of course I'm excited, but do you know what kind of day I'm in for today? One and a half hours driving to O'Hare, another hour waiting for my flight, two hour flight to Newark, three hour layover in Newark, six hour flight (overnight) to Belfast. It can be a little exhausting to be excited that whole time!
But of course, I am, and nervous, and scared, and apprehesive, and curious, and ready. I could probably find a reason to say that I feel almost every human emotion there is right now, except perhaps anger. But, give me time.
To all of you I haven't spoken to or couldn't quite connect with in time (Lexi, I'm sorry! Worst game of phone tag EVER!), know that I am thinking of you. Each of you are part of who I am, so you'll never be far away. For those of you who wish you could come with me, I hope you read this blog and see my pictures and are happy, and know that it's never too late to begin your own adventure.
Lots and lots of love and nervous hugs,
Liz(zy)
written by  ebienelson on January 19, 2009 from Thiensville, United States
from the travel blog: "She is the Belle of Belfast City..."

I Should've Packed Hair Products
Belfast, United Kingdom
This morning I had a job interview with Deloitte in Belfast to be a Technology Integration Consultant. Long boring story short, the guy figured out quite quickly that I hadn't a clue what I was talking about. I don't think they'll call me back.
After the much bullshit-ed through interview, Tomás and I had lunch and went shopping, because I needed hair stuff (yes, I know, I've never felt so high maintenance in my life as I did this afternoon). I remember when I was packing to come here, someone (ahem, Mom, ahem) who said "Don't bother packing hair stuff like shampoo and product, you can probably buy much cooler stuff there." Well, no, Mom, not only is their selection smaller and exceedingly focused on hair 'putty' that I can only imagine makes one's hair look crustily emo-esque and greasy, but it's much more expensive. At home, I use Tresemmé volume spray (about $3), Sunsilk Smoothing Serum (about $3) and Suave hairspray (about $2). Good lord. First of all, here it's not Tresemmé volume spray, it's volume gel-spray putty nasty junky stuff, and it's more than 3 pounds, which is about $5. So, for all the things I want, plus the hairdryer and straightener, it was nearly $60. I guess I have to choose between eating and looking good.
Other than that, I'm lovely. It's chilly and rainy (shocking, I know) but I'm quite happy to be here. I took a black taxi into town this morning (p.s. I love how everyone here says 'town' to indicate going into the city centre, much like when people in England referred to London as 'town' no matter where they were or in New York, 'the city'). It's a really cool system because it's almost like a bus, only much faster and smaller. You wait at the side of the road, and when a black taxi with a white plate comes by you stick out your hand. If they have room they stop, you get in, they take you to Castle Street in the city centre and it's only 1 pound 30. Quite lovely and nicer than a bus. Made me feel very Belfast-y.
So. I don't have to get up tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. Pretty excited about that since I'm quite tired, though not quite as jet-lagged as I expected. Not sure when the next time I can post is, since we don't have internet at the apartment yet and I don't start work til Monday. Patience!
written by  ebienelson on January 21, 2009 from Belfast, United Kingdom
from the travel blog: "She is the Belle of Belfast City..."

I Spent the Whole Taxi Ride This Morning Trying to Think of a Clever Title But I Couldn't.
Derry, United Kingdom
Yesterday, Tomas and I went to Derry with his organization for the annual Bloody Sunday commemoration/civil rights march. This year, the theme was the war in Gaza, and so nearly everyone on the march was carrying Palestinian flags in solidarity with their suffering (very interested to see how I'll get mine through US customs). Derry is a very cold and windy place, so we were freezing the whole day. The march started up at Creggan, which is perched on the hill high above the Bogside. We then wound our way down the hill towards the Bog, which gave way to some spectacular views of Derry and the river and the surrounding countryside. Naturally, my camera battery died after about the 5th picture I took of Tomas and his Starry Plough flag, so the rest of my pictures of the march are on my BlackBerry and I haven't yet figured out if I'm able to transfer them to the computer or how I might do that. Suggestions?
We ran into one of Tomas's friends and nipped away from the parade and went into this family's house with about 10 other people. She fed us each a bowl of soup and bread and we were in and out in about 5 minutes, perfect timing to join back up with the parade before our friends noticed!
Driving back was almost as interesting. We went with Tomas's friend Donal, who from what I can figure is around mid-40s. We had gotten off the highway in North Belfast for him to get petrol next to an area called Mount Vernon (where I may be observing some groups), whose main attraction is a gigantic mural perched above a soccer field featuring a masked man with a gun that says "Mount Vernon Volunteers: Ready for Peace. Prepared for War." It's lovely. As we drove down through the neighborhoods en route to the Falls Road, Donal told us about where he grew up and where/when he got his "first proper beating for being a Catholic" (his words, not mine). He grew up in an area that was much more mixed than it is now, around Tiger's Bay. He was beaten up by a gang of Protestant boys when he was 4, and the lady who owned the shop outside of which he got beaten gave the boys some icies after they beat him up.
We then drove right through Tiger's Bay, and without so much as a warning, Donal said we were now in New Lodge, which is a Catholic area. No peace wall. No fence. No nothing to separate the two communities (as far as I could tell), but a change from a DUP office on one street to St. Somebody's primary school on the next. Apparently this area (with no surprise) was one of the deadliest during the Troubles. Around 500 Catholics were murdered along one stretch of road, the Cliftonville road, also know as the Murder Mile or something like that. We drove past a police station and Donal mentioned (ever so casually, the way someone in America might mention they'd eaten at that restaurant they'd just passed, not so good food) that his brother had been "put away" - i.e. arrested - for trying to blow it up.
It was pretty surreal. You hear all these stories about how things like that happened to people - neighbors being shot, family members beat up, people burnt out of their homes - but it has a very different taste when you're sitting in a car with a man who's experienced nearly every aspect of the Troubles. It gains a very real human face. It makes you afraid. I felt a very real sense of relief as soon as we turned onto the Falls Road, because West Belfast is much more insulated, and there's fewer little onclaves of different communities, making it much more homogenous. I feel safe there. I think that after hearing Donal's stories, I would feel less safe in North Belfast. It's not necessarily that I would feel unsafe in a Protestant community, so much as the fact that interface areas (where Protestant and Catholic communities intersect), tend to be the most violent. In West Belfast, in Andytown, I can be almost 100% certain that every person on the street or in the shop is from the same community - my community now - and that I don't have to worry about there being any flairups. You can see how that kind of mentality very quickly leads to entrenched sectarianism. I think it also applies on the Protestant side. For me, at least, as I said, I would be fine in any community. But according to Tomas, there's still real possiblities at flashpoint areas for Trouble to arise (again, why I wouldn't want to live in an interface community as much). For example, on his way back from a meeting a Derry a month or two ago, he and a few of the guys he was with from the IRSP (Irish Republic Socialist Party) went into a chipper called Bridie's in Drumahoe. Now, Drumahoe is home to a lot of policemen. Apparently, Tomas and his friends got some very, very frosty looks from the people inside, because they were wearing IRSP badges. That's why when we stopped there for Donal yesterday, Tomas told him to make sure he wasn't wearing anything that would identify him with the Catholic/Nationalist community.
And yet, you go out to a pub and you see and hear people from both communities interacting absolutely fine - people that have been friends for years. You wonder why there's such a difference between these people and the people in Tiger's Bay who have alarms in their homes going directly to the paramilitaries, or the people who yell sectarian slurs at each other during old Firm matches (when the Rangers play the Celtics in Scotland; Tomas is taking me to the conference final match next month and I made him promise to glue me to his leg because I'm slightly terrified).
It all gets very muddled, and there's not clear cut answer, though certain people on either side will tell you there is, and it usually involves some variation of kicking "those f*****s the hell out."
It made the Derry march interesting. While it obviously was about commemorating Bloody Sunday, in which 13 innocent civilians were gunned down by British paratroopers during a peaceful civil rights march, it was also about Civil Rights - something that, one would think, all people would support.
written by  ebienelson on February 2, 2009 from Derry, United Kingdom
from the travel blog: "She is the Belle of Belfast City..."

Conossieur of Warm Liquids
Belfast, United Kingdom
I have become an eternal seeker of warm things. I spend quite a bit of time hunting for my next hot coffee, burning hours sitting in La Boca consuming gallons of free hot tea. I even spent 2 pound 50 on a hot chocolate at the Europa Hotel on Saturday, to stem the flow of the ever present wet chill in Belfast. "Would you like tea or coffee?" is the often the first question asked of you when entering a new place. My reply is always "Oh, coffee would be AMAZING." I clutch my ceramic mug, trying to pull every inch of warmth from it. Friday, at a meeting, I was served lukewarm coffee. I couldn't believe it. This climate demands steaming hot coffee and tea, especially because no one seems to know how to turn on the regular heating indoors. I am a connossieur of warm liquids. And I need another cup of coffee.
Ah, that's better. Anyway, it has come to my attention that no matter where you are, no matter how much you love what you are doing, weekends are never long enough. This Saturday the weather was actually quite lovely, especially for Belfast in February and especially given the crap-tastic weather we'd been having lately. Tomas had to work all day (shocker, I know) so I made plans with Zulema, the Spanish EVS intern at Public Achievement. We met at St. George's Market at 2pm, not realizing that was actually when it closed. She had a friend with her, Udi, who was visiting from Barcelona, and we also met Noemie, who is Belgian (!). After sharing 2 pig sandwiches (literally, the spit was right behind our table; I had to concert really hard on not thinking about exactly where my delicious sandwich originated from) we went to the Europa Hotel, because Zulema had heard there was a free jazz concert. Well, I guess there was... if you mean 4 old guys in a hotel bar. They weren't too bad, actually. We were the youngest people in the place by about 30 years, easily. We also met up with Clarisse, an EVS intern from France, Milos, EVS from Poland, and Musti, who's from Turkey. Musti annoys me. He's one of those who just won't let it go that I'm here of my own volition and not getting paid. I swear to God, the next person who says to me "What, you're not getting paid? WOOOOW" I'm gonna smack them. Seriously. Back off, already.
After the 'concert' we went back to Zulema's for dinner (after much deliberation from myself; Musti was annoying the crap out of me and I knew Tomas had a break from 6-7 before he started working the concert that we had intended to go to. Eventually I decided that while I was tired of Musti, I was REALLY tired of sitting around in bars waiting for Tomas. So, there ya go). We drank wine, her Catalonian friend Udi made tortilla patata, more EVS people came, pan tomate was made along with soup and potato gratin by Abdi (from France), and before you knew it, there were about 15 people there, from about 7 different countries - Spain, France, Italy, Belgium, Ireland, Turkey, Poland, America, and Armenia. Holy. Crap.
It was so amazing, like a big dysfunctional family. We were the younger, alcoholic version of the UN. Only with less shouting. Ok, maybe more shouting. My favorite person of the night by far was Cailin (pronounced Cahl-yeen), who had just returned from EVS Israel, and who actually lives right up the street from me in Andytown. Fantastic! We have a ton in common and I'm really excited to have a friend that doesn't require a taxi ride to get to. Yay.
At about 10pm Cailin, Jo (from Belgium, we spoke Flemish together!) and Alessandro (Italy) all got in a taxi and went to the John Hewitt, because I was supposed to meet my friend Rebecca at 10:30, and eventually Tomas. Somehow we managed to get a table, which is in itself an absolute miracle on a Saturday night at the Hewitt. It would be like going to the Library on a Saturday night and not being hit on by a pretentious frat house jock nasty cologney man. Near impossible, right? Yeah. We had a really good time, aside from Jo and Cailin getting into a pseudo-political discussion, which would be fine aside from the fact that Jo is super dramatic and was flailing her arms about and practically shouting and making everyone uncomfortable... enter Tomas, and the gay guy he works with Anthony, whom I love! Whew. Everything was much better after that. Tomas brought Anthony, Anthony's boyfriend Matt, and Nicole, another girl he works with, to the pub. So Cailin and Nicole and I had some girl time (yay! I have girlfriends!), so next weekend I won't have to depend on Tomas for my social life. That, I think, will be a huge step in my feeling like this is really my home, to feeling independent and in charge of my life here. I don't like to be or even just to feel like I'm dependent on Tomas. He's been really fantastic, but I didn't come here for him, I came here for myself, and I need to stay true to that.
So after the Hewitt closed at about quarter past one, Cailin, Nicole, Tomas and I went back to the Castle (aka our apartment) and had rum (sidenote: Megan, you know what this is all about. Also, Tomas decided not to throw out your mattress, because Nicole slept on it and said it's amazingly comfortable). Went to bed at half past 4, and did absolutely nothing yesterday. Lovely.
written by  ebienelson on February 9, 2009 from Belfast, United Kingdom

My First Security Alert
Belfast, United Kingdom
This morning on the way to work, I experienced my very first Belfast security alert.
I was in the black taxi with Tomas, and as we we neared the roundabout at the Glen Road (only the second one from our house on the trip down the Andersonstown/Falls Road), traffic was suddenly backed up. Tomas turned around (he, unfortunately, was in the crappy facing-backward-pull-out seat) and asked the taxi driver what was going on. Here, I have re-enacted it for you:
Tomas: Here, what's going on mate?
Driver: What?
Tomas: What's going on?
Tomas: With the traffic, mate, what's going on with the traffic?
Driver: Oh, security alert, down by, uh, offa the Springfield Road.
Tomas: What for?
Tomas: What's the alert for?
Driver: Where? Down the road, not sure exactly...
Tomas: No, WHAT.
Driver: Oh right, what, I don't know. Suspicious objects, probably.
Tomas: Aye, three dead clowns.
We got through the roundabout at the Glen road, and inched down past the park and the City Cemetary, and as we got to the intersection at the Whiterock road, the taxi driver went through the roundabout, and then, instead of going straight, swung around at the last second (as black taxi drivers are want to do) and went right, down through the back streets off the Falls. We weaved our way through the streets and then came back up to the Falls past the Whiterock road, and came up finally on the other side of the Springfield Road, where we could see police directing traffic. But the road was still backed up. So he went back through the side streets (the very narrow tiny sidestreets, might I add, so much so that I often thought we're gonna sideswipe that car parked on the sidewalk and I'm going to end up in the driver's seat of the other car) and finally came up on the other side of the Culturlaan. Looking back through the window, we could see that the block the Culturlaan sits on was completely cordoned off and there were a few police vans parked across the road, a few of the cops standing about. Then occurred an apparently typical Belfast conversation that I had never witnessed before:
Tomas: It's the Culturlaan?
Lady Sitting Next to Me: There's no cars parked outside, so it musn't be a car bomb.
Tomas: Suspicious objects outside the Culturlaan. They must've found some Ulster Scotch speakers.
Later, when I got into work, I mentioned the back-up to Caoimhe, who also lives in Andytown. She said her 'wee nephew' goes to school just beside the Culturlaan, so she phoned him and asked what was going on. Apparently, it wasn't the Culturlaan at all (which I never really thought it was, it's a rather benign place, at least for West Belfast. I mean, plop the thing down on the Newtownards Road and you'd have trouble, but it's smack in the middle of Republican West Belfast. No problem.) It was the Beehive, which is a pub just across the road. Apparently, someone got killed there.
So there you have it. My first real authentic Belfast experience. Now, for all of you at home, it's your job to calm down my parents and assure them it's not dangerous here. They're probably freaking out. I think I'm safer here than in Murderapolis...
written by  ebienelson on February 10, 2009 from Belfast, United Kingdom

The Wool Over Our Eyes
I'm about to write a somewhat controversial blog post. Perhaps not controversial, but asking questions that most people around here would not ask, and I feel there are very important. I also feel that these are things to consider for anyone out there following what transpires in Northern Ireland. Everything is not as it seems.
I've heard Tomas say to me many times how safe the area is that we live in. One night we went for a run together, and he left the apartment door unlocked. Most nights it's dark when the taxi drops me off on the Andytown road, and as I walk up through the alley, I remind myself that this is a safe neighborhood, and though I might've felt threatened walking through a similar area in America, I needn't feel that way here. Even last night, as I passed a group of young men in hooded sweatshirts, I didn't feel as urgent of a need to take countermeasures, like crossing the street or pulling out my apartment keys and placing them between my fingers like makeshift weapons.
But lately, there have been a lot of reports on the BBC about attacks and robberies, particularly in North and West Belfast, that I find troubling (though I will come to how much or how little I now trust the BBC later). In the BBC, these are said to be mainly robberies and assaults in the course of robberies. Some of the most recent ones are targeting the elderly, which is especially awful. These reports bring two somewhat related issues to my mind: first, the troubling representation of the motivations of these attacks in the media, and second, why these are attacks are taking place in what's always been safe territory .
On the BBC's Northern Ireland page today, the main article is about a man shot dead by masked men in a neighborhood in Derry. The headline reads: "Dissidents Blamed for City Murder - Politicians have blamed dissident republicans for the murder of a man in Londonderry Wednesday." The article then goes on to say that it's suspected that drugs were involved (as they so often are, according to the BBC, whenever 'dissident' republicans are involved...). Further down in the article, we find out exactly WHO has decided that it was these so-called 'dissident' republicans: DUP Assembly member William Hay. According to him, "That is worrying because you still have organisations out there who think the only way they can solve the problem of Northern Ireland is by killing someone and taking the law into their own hands.They don't have any respect for law and order themselves."
And, lest you think that I am completely biased and do not give weight to the other side of the argument, here is what the Sinn Fein representative for Derry, Raymond McCartney, had to say about the incident. Notice how little it differs: "The people in this city have overwhelmingly shown their support for the republican project as it's going forwards, and if these people are trying to step in to fill any vacuum which they feel exists then they have had their answer. So if this is coming from a group that calls themselves republicans then there is no support for their actions."
Really?
I, personally, know many people who would severely disagree with that assessment. Who would even vehemently disagree with the label of 'dissident.' In their eyes, they are the ones who are continuing to carry on the republican ideal, they are the ones who didn't sign up to an agreement that cedes control of the island, and compromises the constitution of the Republic, and recognizes, for the first time in republican history, the British government in Ireland by participating in the parliament of what they see as an illegal partition - to them, those who signed that agreement are the 'dissidents.' It has become a curious juxtaposition to observe. If one group in power says that the other is carrying out illegal activities motiviated by money and drugs, this disenfranchises them from what they view as their own ideals: republicanism. It prevents the general public from making their own judgment. It makes 'republicanism' the sole purview of one specific group, which cannot be infringed upon, and anyone not in that group who purports to be a republican simply cannot be, and moreover, they are probably a criminal. In this, the motivations of Sinn Fein and the DUP are remarkably similar, and though they are 'enemies,' they are getting a lot out of a not-so-inconspicuous symbiotic relationship.
Second. And probably what I would get most in trouble for saying. Think back, those of you who are familiar, to the nature of nationalist communities during the Troubles. The RUC was largely unable to enter many nationalist strongholds. Where did the law and order come from? How did these communities stay safe? There's one very simple and controversial answer: the IRA. They were nearly as heavily involved in policing their own communities as fighting their enemy. There was a much lower level of petty crime during that period (and no, you're right, I haven't any verifiable figures at the moment to back that up; I know I've read it, but take this as my journalist acknowledgement that I'm not giving you a concrete fact at the moment, and get off my back). Why the rise in neighborhood crime nowadays? People aren't getting blown up or butchered by rival paramilitaries with the same frequency (or at all, really), but elderly people are being held at gunpoint and robbed in their own homes, young women have been raped on the Queen's campus, and homes are getting burgled with shocking regularity and disregard. Why?
The police service in Northern Ireland is still hotly contested and incredibly controversial (I really need a thesaurus, 10 points to whoever can suggest a new word for controversial for me, thanks). They still encounter gangs in many areas they try to act in. They aren't a strong presence in most (nationalist) communities. What used to be there, that took the place of an effective police service, is the IRA. The IRA acted against 'anti-social behaviour,' as it's known here. Whether you agree with their methods or not, and most don't (kneecapings, punishment beatings, etc.) it's hard to argue against the fact that petty crime has gone up since the decommissioning of the IRA. I don't think a young man should lose the use of his legs because he is severely misguided and engages in activities that are illegal, but I would also like to retain the safety I feel in Andytown. I can only assume that there are others out there who feel the same way.
This is important. So much of what the world now knows about Northern Ireland has a rosy sort of a glaze over it, huddled in the 'success' of the peace process and the supposed transition to a post-conflict society, swathed in triumphalism and phrases like reconciliation, hope, peace, moving forward, moving past...
I'm not saying there hasn't been progress. Obviously, there has been a tremendous effort and society has transformed in many significant ways. I wouldn't be able to live here safely if that wasn't true. All I'm saying is that, as one person said so succinctly to me when I was here in July, "Northern Ireland is a post-violence society, not a post-conflict society." There is still fear, there is still struggle, and there are still so many who feel disenfranchised and left behind. How can Northern Ireland truly become a "post-conflict" society until these issues are addressed?
written by  ebienelson on February 11, 2009 from Belfast, United Kingdom

These Streets
I have several things to talk about today, most of them about the challenges and annoyances of this past long and busy week. But first.
Today, I experienced another Belfast first. Or rather, a Belfast impossiblity, an urban myth... that's right folks, you didn't think he existed: The Cautious Taxi-Driver.
I swear, we sat at the Kennedy Way roundabout this morning for a whole 3 minutes. That's a whole day in taxi-terms! I mean, I like not being killed by crazy reckless driving as much as the next person, but I almost felt sorry for this guy. Obviously no one sent him the memo about how you apparently have to be near suicidal (or homicidal, I suppose) to be a Belfast black taxi driver. I sense an intervention may be needed here. This guy obviously suffers from some serious confidence and lack-of-a-God-complex issues.
Anyway, back to business. I have groups three days a week, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Tuesday nights are my group in the Westland, a very Protestant conclave surrounded by nationalist communities in North Belfast. It takes place in a community center, and the young people are the youngest Public Achievement has ever worked with, ranging from (by my amateur judgement) 8-12 years old, all girls. Generally, they have been the sweetest and easiest of all my three groups. It's been a lot of fun to work with them. The first session we (Zulema and myself) were there, 3 weeks ago, one girl grabbed my arm as we were leaving and said "I don't want you to go! I like you!" An incredibly sweet introduction to my PA coaching career.
Oh, it's all been downhill from there. Not necessarily with this group, though this Tuesday's session was a bit more challenging as Zulema was away in Denmark and naturally the girls picked that night to be rambunctious. How kind of them. But my other groups are a bit more challenging, particularly in St. Gerard's on Wednesday afternoons.
St. Gerard's is a a special-needs school in far-West Belfast, in Whiterock, which is basically straight up the hill from where I live in Andytown. When I say special needs, I generally mean ADD, ADHD, and a few kids with mild autism. We're specifically trying to use more of my personal arts-based strategies with this group, as writing and traditional learning is not their forte. It's been extremely challenging, which I suppose shouldn't come as a surprise. This past Wednesday was our second session with them. It started off pretty well; we played the Name Game that I learned at Homestead Drama with Mrs. McCain (thanks Mac!) which seemd to go over pretty well. Then we broke into smaller groups, and I was leading a group with three boys: Francie, Fra, and Ciaran. Fra is the smallest boy in the class, very sweet, lots of energy, but generally very well engaged in the activites. Ciaran is very quiet, and often has to be "coaxed" (read: forced) by the teachers to participate in activities. We were doing an exercise called the laundry process, in which the young people were looking for pictures and words in magazines that represented something in their community that made them feel angry, sad, bored, or that they wanted to change. It was difficult from the very beginnings. Curse those teachers, we asked them to bring in old magazines, and for some unknown reason, they didn't think to check if these magazines had half-naked pictures of girls in them, which, of course, they did. Now. Imagine trying to get three 13 year-old boys to focus when there's pictures of Britney Spears in a bikini floating around. Almost impossible. Honestly though, Ciaran and Fra weren't so bad. It was Francie. That kid was determined to hijack the entire process, talking over me, asking inane questions about Britney, not listening, saying stupid things to the other boys, etc. You get the picture. It was made even more frustrating by the fact that when really talking to Fra and Ciaran, I could get them to engage somewhat in the activity. Granted, they only thing they would cut out were footballers, which wasn't really the point, but it at least stimulated a conversation about sport, staying fit, and whether there were enough opportunities for them to play sports in their communities. This made it that much harder when Francie would deliberately talk one of them away from me. I tried so hard alternately to engage him, to ignore him, to ask him to stop, and even to ask one of the other coaches for help.
It's extremely discouraging when something like this happens, especially when you've no real experience coaching. It become really hard to remember why you're there, and to remember that most likely this is not about you at all. These are kids from extremely disadvantaged backgrounds who obviously already struggle in school settings. You know that they have issues. You knew ahead of time that it would rough. But it's still hard to prepare yourself for something like this. And then something happened that reminded me not only of why these kids were struggling, but also of how much they needed a opportunity like PA.
Francie had been misbehaving all day. Ciaran was quiet, but manageable. As we were cleaning up the room from our group activity, Ciaran was taken into the corridor by the teacher and absolutely screamed at. Top of the voice, angry gestures and pointing screamed. By his teacher. In front of the entire class, and us. Afterwards Francie was also yelled at quite vociferously. I know that he was being difficult all afternoon - believe me, if anyone experienced that, it was me. But the way he was yelled at really shocked me. It was just so unnecessary and over the top - almost violent. But really, Ciaran is the one I'm worried about. He's already very quiet, and you could just see the anger and frustration in his face after the teacher yelled at him. Personally I didn't witness him doing anything particularly disruptive or awful, so I don't know exactly what the teacher's reasons were. But I'm concerned. Yelling at him isn't helping. I'm afraid he's withdrawing more. Ciaran's teaching isn't helping or educating or nurturing him. She's oppressing him, as far as I can tell. And when I got him to talk about football, I couldn tell there was more there than a withdrawn, misbehaved kid who hated school. He plays on a football team. He really likes to play and training with his team, his friends. He can talk intelligently about these things, if you give him a chance. And this is really what PA is trying to get at, to get young people to feel like they have a say in what happens to them, to give them a chance to talk about what matter to them to help them work through and throw off the different forms of oppression around them (especially my project, which is literally based on the Theatre of the Oppressed).
As much as I get frustrated with young people, which anyone who knows me knows that I do, I want someone like Ciaran to have a chance to not get screamed at. I'm still not convinced that I'm the best person (or even the least bad person) to try and help him do this, but I guess I'm giving it a go.

Claustrophobia
I remember having a discussion with Anita, my New Zealand friend when we were studying in Belgium, about the size of countries and how it affects the mindsets and feelings of people living there. Anita asked me how I could live in a place so big - didn't I feel lost and out of touch with the people around me? Everything is so spread out. She said that in New Zealand, you're never too far away from the coast. It's almost cozy. I had never really thought about it before, whether living in a big country had an inherently different feeling than living in a small country, and how that affected the people. I mean obviously, you may not have a close affinity with someone living in Alabama because they're farther away... but does that affect you as a person as well? How much of a difference does really make?
Now I understand how different it is living in a small place compared to a big space. It's almost as if the space your lungs can expand to occupy is mirrored by how small the country is (or vice versa). Just thinking about America and rolling fields and big skies makes me unconsciously take deeper breaths, whereas bringing my focus back to Belfast and Northern Ireland, I feel my shoulders slouch in a little bit, as if I'm subtley making room for all the people gathered around me in close proximity.
I feel somewhat claustrophobic here, of late. I miss open spaces, I miss distance, I miss being able to stretch out my hands knowing I won't hit someone. Or a wall. I don't know if that distance makes us more distant as people in America. I think perhaps it does. There is, after all, such a vast distance between myself and someone from Texas, or Seattle. Sure, there plenty of differences here between people from Belfast and people from rural Fermanagh, and even from people from the South. But are they closer in mindset? Are they really one big community? Are we not?
I can understand how Cailin gets frustrated with living in Belfast and consistently running into people she knows. Just this Saturday I met her and some of her friends at Bar Twelve in Botanic Ave to watch rugby. When I walked in, I saw Rebecca and Claire. Suddenly we realized we all knew each other... we just didn't know it. Belfast is the definition of a 'small world.' Sometimes I really like it, because especially for me, it's safer to know that people know each other, that I have a good chance of all my friends already being friends. I think Tomas likes it too. He literally seems to know almost everyone; we can hardly walk into a place without him knowing someone. And in many ways, I'm looking forward to being known as well, especially in Andytown, so that when I'm waiting for the bus, people don't think they have to let me get on first because they can see I'm a foreigner and assume I don't know where I'm going or what I'm doing (I usually do, though).
This weekend we're going to Donegal with Megan. I don't know if it's because I've been working hard and feel like I need a vacation, or really truly am feeling the manifestations of closeness and claustrophobia, but I can't wait to get out of the city. I want to see the countryside. I want to run down a street and not be afraid of being hit by cars, I want to smell fresh air, I want it to be quiet enough to hear my own thoughts.
So maybe Anita's right. Or maybe, it's just about what you're used to. She can't imagine living in a place so big, too big, to really know all of it, and I'm having difficulty living in a place so small.
written by  ebienelson on March 5, 2009 from Belfast, United Kingdom

When it's Almost Spring in Belfast
I know what everyone wants me to talk about in this entry. Probably wondering why I haven't brought it up since it happened. Honestly, the reason is that I'm not entirely sure what I want to say about it.
On March 7, the Real IRA, a splinter of the Provisional Irish Republican Army, shot and killed two British soldiers as they retrieved a pizza from a deliveryman outside the Massereene army barracks in Antrim, about 25 minutes northwest of Belfast. Forty-eight hours later, another IRA splinter group, the Continuity IRA, killed a police officer as he responded to a call in Craigavon, a town about 40 minutes southwest of Belfast.
[shameless plug, the preceding summary was excerpted from an article written mostly about me by the lovely Megan Hupp in the St. Patrick's edition of the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel]
Since then, there's been a 'security crackdown,' which in my experience so far has meant getting stopped in a taxi going home up the Falls Road and it getting searched, and having an increased amount of helicopters circling overhead.
It has also meant an increase in the rhetoric of politicians condemning the attack and firmly placing the 'dissidents' not only outside of the peace process - where they place themselves anyway because they don't agree with the direction it's taken - and outside of any kind of dialogue, steadfastly refusing to engage with those with differing opinions on any terms.
Do I agree with the violence? Absolutely not. Do I understand why it happened? Yes. Look, all you have to do to understand is read some of the statements from 'Republican' leaders (read: Sinn Féin, whom these attacks are REALLY indicting, not the Unionists) to understand the kind of dispossession, detachment, frustration, and anger experienced in some segments of the traditional republican populations. There's also talk that there's absolutely no support for these factions within the Republican community - then how do they have safe houses to disappear into afterwards, how did they have the space to plan the attacks?
The current political climate and the normalisation of the separation of the 2 main traditions here created the space for this violence to occur.
Another factor in this is the ombudsman's decision to reintroduce the SAS to Northern Ireland. I haven't the finger-typing power at the end of a long work day to explain the whole thing, but if you're interested, read 'The Dirty War,' by Martin Dillon. Excellent expose of British and IRA tactics during the Troubles; very disturbing. It leads you to wonder where this latest round is heading.
written by  ebienelson on March 23, 2009 from Belfast, United Kingdom

Remember When
I actually have a lot of things to catch up on, which I have been planning to do, but first I need to do a little reflection. I'm going to try not to be negative, and remember that the whole purpose/inspiration of this entry is that I used to be this way too, and there's nothing wrong with it and I really need to not judge...
Right now we have an American intern in our office, which, if you remember, was how I first came to Northern Ireland and got involved in Public Achievement. I mentioned in an earlier post how meeting him reminded me of how naive I used to be, how morbidly fascinated by the murals, the sectarian slurs, the legacy of violence. It was then that I first felt like I was beginning to belong here, because I no longer had that constant feeling of being on the outside looking in.
But there are times that I find his naivete quite frustrating, and I want to shake him and tell him to open his eyes. I think this is often what happens when one comes on a program bent on 'neutrality,' which I now believe is incredibly artificial. I've felt this way before. Little comments like "My friends ask me, 'so, how is Ireland?' and I think, 'well I'm not really in Ireland..." or right after the attacks, "Oh, my program director cried talking about how horrible it is, everyone back home is freaking out..." He still lowers his voice and practically whispers words like "Shankill" and "Ian Paisley" and "IRA." As if he's breaking wind in church. Or if by saying one of those words more often or louder than the others, he might somehow betray some inner hidden feeling or opinion that he has been bound not to feel. Like somehow, if you're not staunchly neutral, you couldn't possibly engage with intellectual facts in the 'right' way.
I think the only reason I can make the observations and judgements and feel justified in doing so is because I was there once as well. I whispered words. I chatted up people in pubs about 'the Troubles.' I was wary of coming out too on one side or the other. I avoided areas and people that were too easily recognizable as on one side of the divide; people with whom associating might mean that I actually had a thought, an opinion, or was capable of my own intellectual judgement (which, by the way, I am).
I worry that this whitewashing not only of people's feelings but also of pure fact is putting a muzzle on intelligent and necessary political discussion. Politics should always be under the microscope. Always. The moment we stop talking, discussing, and debating these things, no matter how accepted they may be, is the moment we as democratic human beings sign our own death warrant.
written by  ebienelson on April 9, 2009 from Belfast, United Kingdom

Helicopters Overhead
A day without a security alert in Belfast has become a day that I feel lost.
Why?
Because nearly everyday there have been security alerts in Belfast, ever since the Monday about two weeks ago when they began burning cars and hijacking buses all over North and West Belfast, including off the Suffolk Road, which is just up the road from me. That day, all branches of the number 10 bus line stopped running up the Falls Road into West Belfast. Those of us who live there were left only with the black taxis, as there was no guarantee that privately run taxis would take the risk of driving up the West. I've never seen the line for the taxis so long. It took me nearly a half an hour to get a taxi, and even then I had to take a Glen Road taxi instead of one that goes up the Andytown Road, so I still had to walk a ways from where I was dropped.
Ever since that, there have been helicopters circling over West Belfast, droning on incessantly over the noise of the TV, watching people move, watching people stand still, watching the movements of life in areas of 'dissident' activity. They have not yet passed into the back of consciousness, like they did for people in the Troubles, when the drone of the helicopters became like birds chirping or the wind blowing - white noise in the background of every day. No, I still notice their noise, still feel under the microscope when I look out my living room window to see one hovering almost directly above my apartment. I still wonder who they're looking for - whether they're right that that person lives in my neighborhood; maybe I've seen them? Who are they? Why are you watching them? What gives you the right?
The anti-terror laws in Britain (as well as in the Republic) are some of the most draconian laws in the Western world, and, I would argue, given the recent reports of violence at the G20 protests in London, the United Kingdom is one of the most violent societies in the world. And yes, I know that there is genocide in Africa and car bombs in Iraq and Pakistan. But the violence of the British state against its citizens is shocking, and shockingly covered up. It is normalized. Expected. And yet, when a Downing Street aide writes a nasty rumor-filled email about political rivals, all hell breaks loose and suddenly, the wrath of 'the British people' comes down upon him. Where is the wrath against the beatings of peaceful protestors, the oppressive laws, the strangling of people's voices and the inability and unwillingness of the media to tell true stories? Where?
Whether it's violence with guns and batons or violence of words, society here is filled with it. People who used to believe the same thing are now throwing the full weight of their violence at each other, condemning each other for losing 'the way,' no one listening, everyone shouting, no one loud enough to be heard above the din unless they pick up and gun, and that's why people do it. To be heard. It's so hard to be heard.
Politics. Politics is violence.
written by  ebienelson on April 14, 2009 from Belfast, United Kingdom

Its Own Little World
This morning Bronagh and I were talking about different places we would like/would not like to live in Belfast. I had mentioned that Tomas and I were considering moving to the Lower Ormeau in South Belfast, which is closer to town and sits nestled along the banks of the Lagan River. It's a really lovely area, and even though rent would probably go up, we're both quite keen to make the move. Bronagh was telling me that she and her husband, who live in Glengormley (about as far north of town as Andytown is west) and would like to move farther down the Antrim Road in North Belfast. Her concern was that in North Belfast particularly (though really in all of Belfast generally) there are a lot of interfaces; lots of little pockets of neighborhoods of 'different' people living side by side, and not always easily so. Tomas's brother lives off the Cavehill Road in North Belfast, which tends to be quite Catholic, and is within walking distance of the Westland, the Protestant enclave where I have a group. I think that's one of the reasons why I like Andytown - in West Belfast (apart from the areas where West and North begin to merge, as Bronagh pointed out) there aren't really any interface areas. It is very inclusive on itself, which may or may not be a good thing inherently, but it does make it a bit safer area to be, especially at night.
All of this made me think of my new group up in Skegoneill, which is also in North Belfast. We had our second meeting this past Monday, where we began to talk about issues that mattered in their community. Their youth leader mentioned graffiti, and how some of it could be considered art but a lot of it was just sectarian slurs scribbled over the side of someone's home. They said that it was especially odd and unnecessary in their area, as many of the residents would come from mixed families. However, they also told me there have been a lot of attacks recently at the roundabout at the top of the street. Apparently, Skegoneill is an interface area as well. The roundabout at the top of Skegoneill Avenue is a flashpoint where Skegoneill meets Glandore, and there has also been talk about building a new 'peace line' on the other side next to a new housing development. They would be, as one young person put it, "in a wee corner."
They offered to take me up to the roundabout and show me around the different graffiti sites they were talking about. As we walked up the sidestreet from the community center to the main road, we came upon a group of young guys, and the youth leader spoke to one of them, calling him Chris (obviously I've changed his name). Chris was the name of the guy they had been telling me about who'd gotten attacked by a group from 'the other side' a few weeks back. He still had some bruises on his cheeks and forehead, and he showed the youth leader the progress on the scar on the base of his neck. The exchange went something like this:
Theresa (name also changed): Ach Chris, how are ya?
Chris: Not too bad, better.
Theresa: Let me see.
Chris: Ah it's getting much better in the back (turns his head to show her). It was about 20 of 'em, just jumped me, like.
Theresa: Aye, you've got to be careful.
Chris: Aye, we got 'em back this weekend, so we did. Was 20 of us this time an only 'bout 4 of them.
I'm sure you can imagine how difficult it was for me at this point not to allow the shock and horror in my mind to appear on my face. I'm not even sure I succeeded. It was so flippant, a part of normal social interaction... but if I thought that was disturbing, there was more to come.
We came to the end of the street (about 20 feet from where we met Chris), crossed it, and stood on a 3-way corner not far from another group of young people standing by a car in front of an apartment building. We hadn't walked far from the community center, maybe 100 yards total, so I wasn't sure why we were stopping.
"This is it here," Theresa said.
There was a small raised circle painted white in the middle of the intersection - the roundabout. Further down the street was Glandore, and then the Antrim Road. Back the way we'd come was Skegoneill, and then the Shore Road. This wee place was, according to Theresa, where youths from the area would come - after, of course, having their drink behind the adjacent apartment building - and shout slurs at each other, and possibly get into physical altercations.
"I live in that building," one of the girls said to me, pointing to the one that Theresa had just referenced as the drinking station. "Top floor."
Me: So, does the violence in the area affect you? Does it make it difficult to get home at night?
Lucy (name changed): Nah. We don't get involved.
Brian (name changed): We just around the back of the building.
Me: Do you think this is a safe area:
Brian: Well, we wouldn't walk down through Glandore, like. They'd jump you.
Me: Is this something you have to deal with everyday?
Lucy: No, not us.
Brian: We just don't go over there, like.
I think my astonishment in this instance came not from the fact that there is weekly violence - viewed as a form of entertainment to some - but the fact that these kids, aged 15, didn't seem to think or see how the violence affected them. That to me, this kind of thing wasn't normal at all, that of course if someone fighting regularly outside your front door forced you to changed your habits, it affected you. But this is normalised here. It's not good - that's not what they're saying. But it's not out of the ordinary. It doesn't put a kink in everyday life.
Except, it does. How could it not?
What I would love is for this group to choose to do their project on the murals or graffiti, or violence. But it seems to me that when we talk about issues, they bring up sectarianism and violence because it's what they think adults and youth workers want to hear. It's what we want them to talk about, what we want them to want to change. And part of me really can't get over the idea that they wouldn't want to change it.
I'm afraid that for some people here, violence has become so normal, so everyday, that it's boring.
written by  ebienelson on April 22, 2009 from Belfast, United Kingdom

Different Rules
Last night, Tomas and I stopped at the chippy in Andytown and ordered 2 fish and 1 chip. I wanted ketchup. He hates ketchup. So I said, just put ketchup on mine, thinking they would put it on the chip portion of my fish and chips. Now. Tomas knows that ketchup goes on chips. He also must've known that that's not what was going to happen. Yet, he said nothing. So when we got home and opened up our packages, my fish was on stop of my chips, sopping wet with ketchup. Ketchup. On FISH. The chips underneath were completely dry.
I don't understand! Who in their right mind thinks that when someone asks for ketchup, they mean on their fish? Why would I want that? I was extremely upset. Not even so much that there was ketchup on my fish (I think I was more upset that my chips were dry) but that I seemed to not know the rules in this place... Tomas acted like 'of course they were gonna put it on your fish, what did you think?' Like there was some kind of secret fish-and-sauce code to whichI hadn't been given the key.
It's really frustrating, even with small things like this, when you don't understand what's going on. Really, it's the small things, the little understandings that make you feel like you belong to a place. This really made me feel like a totally ignorant outsider, in its own small seeming inconsequential way.
The next day, however, I got my first taste of what it's like to be on the inside here. I went with Sean, my line manager, to meet our new HECUA intern, Ben. Sean brought me along since I had been a HECUA intern myself, obviously. So I asked Ben what they were doing, what stuff they had seen, to see if the program was still largely the same. It was so weird, hearing him talk about how they'd been to Derry, and how after our meeting they were going up the Shankill and the Falls to see the murals... it made me remember the time when I was a new HECUA student, the first time I had been to Belfast, how I (and everyone else on the program) had been fascinated by the conflict and its everyday manifestations, and had it on our minds everytime we talked to any one from here. Now I was looking at it with much different eyes, and it was odd to hear him talk about these things that were relatively normal (though obviously not as normal for me as for people who grew up here) and a part of daily life as if they were something to be discovered in a morbidly fascinating museum exhibition.
I mentioned this to Sean after we left Ben, and he said that it was of course different for me now that I was living here - Ben was on the outside looking in, whereas I was now more on the inside, looking out.
I realized that he was right, and it was the first time I'd felt that way since being here.

"What's That You Say?"
Did you know that in Belfast, your pants are your underwear? As in, the pair of what I call pants that I put on over what I call underwear, here is actually... underwear. This has caused me an enormous amount of confusion over the past few months. For example, I got a free massage the other day, and when leaving me to change the girl said, "Just go ahead and leave your pants on, you can take off everything else." My pants? What a crappy massage that would be! But no, pants are underwear. Underpants. So don't come here and tell someone you like their pants (even if you do), for they will likely look at you like some kind of sexual predator, if not severely misguided weirdo.
But misinterpretations of language can extend well beyond seemingly innocent things like pants vs. panties vs. underwear vs. trousers. Any word can be bent to mean what the speaker intends. A word that to one person stands for something good and worthwhile for another signifies the extreme depth of evil and darkness. People can shout the same words at each other, each meaning something different, until two communities living side by side no longer understand one another, if they ever did.
Human rights. I had always thought it would be difficult to find someone in the Western world who could look me in the eye and with a straight face tell me that human rights weren't something positive, something everyone could agree upon, a good place to start when no other political solutions seem viable. But today, I learned that there are some people that believe the idea of human rights doesn't apply to them - not only does it not apply to them, but they see the spread of the value put on human rights as an affront and a threat to everything they believe in.
I've always thought of human rights as meant to be universal - they're not to be applied only to on group or another. One group claiming their human rights does not necessarily disenfranchise another from theirs. It's not like pie, where there's an infinite number of slices, and if you shout loud enough Grandma might give you a bigger piece than your little cousin. It's not like the policeman has to hit a certain amount of people, so if he doesn't hit your neighbor because your neighbor complains about his human rights being violated, the policeman's not going to come and hit you to fill his quota. So why, if one group of people is drawing attention to the fact that they are forced to live in squalor, demanding that their fundamental human rights are met, can you not stand up and do the same?

Knowledge is Power
As many of you have noticed, in recent months the tensions simmering below the surface in Northern Ireland since the signing of the GFA in 1998 have been boiling over with more and more regular occurrences. A few weeks ago, a Catholic cross-community worker, Kevin McDaid, was beat to death by a mob of up to 40 people just steps from his front door. In the wake of the attack more like 10 people have arrested, and condemnations have flowed from both sides of the divide - though admittedly more strongly from some than from others. Once DUP Councillor from Coleraine stated that the tricolor flags erected in the mixed neighborhood by Catholics were designed specifically to 'provoke a reaction from the Loyalist community, and unfortunately, they got one.' I don't know about you, but I find this highly disgusting and on par with the grossest acts of violence perpetrated by the state against its people. Inciting others to hatred seems nearly as horrific as wielding the baton or broken bottle yourself and using it against a defenseless man out searching for his children on a night of rising sectarian tensions.
While the communities in the north of Ireland struggle to come to terms with these senseless acts of violence, and renew efforts to work on meaningful solutions, a new element has entered the mix.
Paramilitaries have long used journalists in order to take responsibility for a particular act or operation or to pass on messages, counting on the protection of being a journalistic source. This protection, obviously extended to other confidential sources beyond paramilitaries, whether it be policemen, soldiers, or others within society who wish to remain anonymous for whatever reason, allows journalists to expose, to examine, and to shed light on matters that would otherwise likely be hidden from the public eye. In many of the crime shows on American TV, the journalist is almost always made out to be a weasel protecting a scumbag drug dealer form police prosecution just to continue getting information or a 'big story.' Here in the north of Ireland, the ones often being 'protected' by journalistic confidentiality are members of the remaining paramilitary groups (and make no mistake, they're there - just because the BBC says someone was shot in a "paramilitary-style" attack does not mean it was a real paramilitary). This is precisely the case right now.
The journalist who received the confirmation from the Real IRA that it was responsible for the shooting deaths of two soldiers in County Antrim in March is being taken to court in an attempt to force her to give up her sources. She is of course fighting this - she says she will go to jail rather than reveal her source - and journalists from around the world are rallying behind her, as well they should.
Freedom of the press is an essential piece of a democracy. Without it we are liable to become a state in which the media is merely a mouthpiece for various political interests - indeed in the U.S., it is arguable that we are already halfway there. If this journalist gives up her source, what does that say about the integrity of the media in the UK? Or any democracy, for that matter? Are all our democratic, rights-based principles a big show that we use to bully other countries, a big golden stick we wave? Why is it that we campaign on behalf of those in third world countries whose rights are being abused if not disregarded completely, and yet we are the quickest to take away the rights of our own people for their own 'protection'? In the name of 'justice?' It is a slippery slope, and one we must be extremely wary of starting down.
On a side note, I am simultaneously discussing with my mother on Skype the change in the Irish-American community. We were one of the most vocal supporters of the Irish all along, and yet we walk about saying 'that's all over, over there now.' I know that from the outside, it DOES look like it's all over - but it's not. I want to encourage the Irish American community to educate themselves, to maybe pay a little more attention, to ask more questions, not to talk the 'party line' for granted. If we supported Ireland so vociferously, I would like to think that it was for a reason, and I would also like to believe that that reason still exists. People with family from Ireland owe them that much, I think. Perhaps investigating things, you won't agree with me - and that's fine. But it saddens me that so many people don't understand how difficult it still is here, how every word and every step has to be calculated. That's not a post-conflict society, it's a post-violence society. It's a step, but it's not the whole 9 yards. It's not about religion, it's about politics. The Irish American community needs to become aware again.
written by  ebienelson on June 15, 2009 from Belfast, United Kingdom

If We Are the Future, Why Are You Complaining?
Thiensville, United States
Lately I've been rather disturbed and annoyed at the portrayal of young people in the NI press. What troubles me most of all, is the way the media strips young people of their agency, attributing any political actions to the undue influence of older people who 'should know better' and should not 'use' the youth to stir up trouble that no one wants.
What I want to know is, who decided that those youths didn't take up their posters and placards out of their knowledge and experience? Who says they are politically and socially awake enough to know when they're getting a bum deal and want to do something about it? Who decided that since they're doing something unpopular and controversial, they must have been put up to it?
Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't see much of this demonizing happening outside of Northern Ireland. Granted, I'm sure that there are some truths in the assertion that young people who didn't live through the Troubles have no real concept of what they're getting into, and may not have any experiences behind the slogans they're shouting. Some even allege that members of so-called 'dissident (don't even get me started on how that word has become a dirty word) groups actually use young people to stir up riots and attack police, and then take over when things get ugly. This is, after all, what the ever-so-wise media is saying about the three-day riots in Ardoyne surrounding the Twelfth of July.
So now, not only are young people often painted as hoods who are up to no good, who only hang around and get drunk, anything they might do as far as political action has been taken away from them as well. It's hard to find the line in NI in anything, and I'm sure this is no different. How do we tell which of these young people are demonstrating because they have a firm belief in something, and how many are rioting as a 'recreation' or because they're being provoked by older members of the community with memories of the Troubles? Many people say it doesn't matter, simply because so many young people have no first hand experience of the Troubles or the Civil Rights movement, therefore they have no idea what they're really shouting about, they're just shouting because of all the stories they've heard their parents and grandparents tell about shouting. Can that really be true?
In the United States last November, Barack Obama was elected president largely on the back of the votes of young people. As a young voter, I remember some (mostly Republican) people telling me that my views (and therefore my vote) was misguided on certain issues because I wasn't old enough to have those experiences or to know any better, and when I was middle-aged, I would understand why voting this way was such a dumb thing to do.
Now, pardon me, but I can see just as well as anyone that some things in this country - health care, education, foreign policy, war - are royally screwed up. So I think differently than a middle-aged person does. Yes. I don't have as many experiences as them. Yes. That makes my vote stupider and less educated? Nuh-uh. (Although, funny enough, while working on a campaign at work this year to lower the UK's voting age to 16, I came across an article that instead argued that the voting age should be RAISED to 35...)
My point is this: Young people have views. Legitimate views. Some of them come from experience. Some of them come from our parents. Some of them come from our own minds and consciences. Put it this way. A good friend of mine was a staunch Republican when we met freshman year at the University of Minnesota. About a year later, he was a converted Democratic (though a moderate one). This past summer, he went all over the country as a canvasser for Barack Obama. His parents are still Republicans.
Maybe young people in NI are more influenced by their parents than by experiences. Maybe they're influenced by education. But maybe, just maybe, they are able to see how sucky things really still are in a lot of places, and it makes them mad. It should.
And here's the thing: Just because a view goes against the prevailing wisdom of the government, doesn't make it wrong. Especially if it comes from someone under the age of 25. Hell, sometimes I think it's just because we're the only ones with enough energy to get really, really pissed off.
And that makes us really, really motivated.
After all, if youth are the future - why are you complaining about what we want to do with it?
written by  ebienelson on August 27, 2009 from Thiensville, United States