We had almost made
the circle. My family and I started our vacation in Dublin City, Ireland, a
thriving, bursting-at-the-seams kind of place, with young professionals and
expensive European cars. We hopped from Dublin to London where we discovered
more opulence. Wealth oozed from every street, storefront, and passerby. Our
hotel overlooked the Marble Arch, and through it many a Lamborghini, Ferrari,
Bentley and Aston Martin purred its way toward, I’m sure, a swanky address. We
left London impressed by its culture, scenery, and extravagance. We took the
Caledonia Sleeper overnight from London to Inverness, Scotland. We toured
Scotland, which in its own right is on the upward swing, then headed over the
waters back to Ireland, this time to Belfast.

We disembarked
from our ferry ride, hailed a cab with a driver who had obviously read volumes
on Muslims, Iraq, and the conflicts between east and west. His comments were
intelligent and insightful, and I left the cab feeling a little deflated from
my own lack of study and knowledge.

We checked into
Benedicts, a small but beautifully renovated hotel known for its prime location
in Shaftesbury Square. We had dinner in the main dining room. The food was
excellent, the atmosphere warm and inviting with polished oak and pine
flooring, and everyone on the wait staff was friendly. This hotel could be
situated in Dublin, Edinburgh or London, but it was in downtown Belfast, a city
which, not long ago, was on the “travel at your own risk” list.

We had twenty-four
hours in Belfast, and we wanted to see as much as we could. We took a walk by
the Crown—a beautiful pub with a veritable cache of colorful tile, glass, and
wood. I’ve read that during the Troubles this landmark survived forty-two
bombings. This is the pride of Great Victoria Street, still operating today. We
walked around the city taking in the sites, but instead of the brisk pace of
Dublin or the affluence of London, the streets of Belfast were more somber.

And then I learned
that sixty percent of Belfast and Northern Ireland’s population is on
government assistance. That’s huge. Many buildings are boarded up, traces of
the English occupation hovers heavily over the streets.  My family and I were in Belfast April 3rd,
one day later Denis Donaldson,  a
former IRA guy turned spy for the English, was murdered in Donegal. I grew up
in the 70’s and 80’s. I remember watching Bobby Sands on hunger strike, then
watching as the media announced his death. To know this country fully would
take years of study and research. We had been in Belfast only a few hours, but
already a picture formed in my mind of a country occupied and struggling to
keep pace with its southern neighbors.

When we first
docked in Belfast we told our taxi driver we only had a short time in the
city.  His advice: “If you only do
one thing while you are here—take the Black Taxi Tour.” He gave my husband a
card. “When you’re ready,” he said, “give this number a call.” The next day my
husband made the call and within ten minutes we had our tour guide with his black
taxi, and off we went to understand a little bit more about the history of
Belfast.

Ian, our driver,
with his thick Irish accent, was, I am guessing a former member of the IRA. He
explained that this tour was not one-sided. He would give us both accounts of
the conflict so we could formulate our own opinions—much like the
Palestinian/Jewish struggle—you have to be there, know the people, see the
devastation to understand the pain of both groups.

Ian showed us many
points of interest: the Crown (which we had already walked by), the hotel
Europa—the most bombed hotel in Belfast, the Titanic Memorial near the House of
Parliament, then the actual site where the Titanic was built. We were
interested in everything, but I knew what I had come to see and I asked, “Where
is the mural of Bobby Sands?” 

Ian laughed.
“Alright,” he said. “We’ll see it, but first a little history.”

The lesson begins
with the uprising of 1916. Ireland has been fighting with the British for 800
years. The strife became even more pronounced with William of Orange, but the
1916 uprising was the catalyst for Irish Independence. 1916 saw intellectuals,
businessmen, and ordinary people trying to win back their freedom.  Freedom was gained in all but the north
of Ireland. What I am seeing in Belfast is a struggle to breathe the air of
independence and to reap its rewards. Belfast is gasping.

We drive along
with Ian into the Protestant/Unionist/Loyalist neighborhood of Hopewell
Crescent in Lower Shankill, where murals decorate walls and buildings. It
begins to drizzle but we step out of the car. In front of us is an alarming
mural of a man, wearing green, orange and black fatigues, black stocking mask
and gloves, holding an uzi with his sites trained on us. Written above his head
in black letters is UFF Member. As we walk from one side of the mural to the
other, the point of the gun follows us. 
It is rather eerie--like being hunted. On a building to the right of the
uzi is a larger than life picture of Jackie Coulter, who was killed in 2000.
The mural reads: In proud memory of Lt. Jackie Coulter. Coulter was shot down by the UVF (Ulster Volunteer
Force). Ian tells us of the UVF, the UDA, the PUP, the IRA, and those are only
a few of the players in this bitter game.

We continue
through this neighborhood in West Belfast gazing at pro-British, pro-monarchy
murals.  Ian tells us that some of
the Irish Protestants are fiercely loyal to the crown, more so than even the
Protestants in England.  I wonder
why anyone would stay in a country where they feel a loyalty elsewhere.

Now we are driving
up Shankill Road, still on the Protestant side of the Peace Wall.  This corrugated steel and cement
structure reminds me of the Berlin Wall. 
It is incomprehensible that a civilized Western country could still have
such a monument to division. But here it is covered with graffiti and drawings
posted by people from all over the world.

We turn the
corner. Now we are on the Catholic side of the wall.  We are in the Clonard community and visit a red brick alcove
where a Celtic Cross stands a few feet in front of a black chunk of marble.
Colorful wreaths and flowers decorate the base. This memorial to the Clonard
Martyrs is in memory of innocent people gunned down by British soldiers.  Names and ages are etched into the stone.
There is a child as young as four and so many others. It is a sobering sight. I
find my chest tightening and I have to step away. 

There are murals
everywhere.  On Bombay Street a
mural of Gerard McAuley reads, Never Again. On we drive to see a mural of a
revolver with a statement about her majesty’s government in bold letters, Collusion
is not an Illusion. We see more and more
depictions of martyrs. Now we drive past a wall with drawings of the men who
are the central characters in the so-called Troubles. It reads: This
is dedicated to the ten brave hunger strikers who sacrificed their lives in
1981. Their cause is our cause,
freedom . . . The struggle goes on still.  

Finally we drive
along Falls Road and there it is. The mural I came to see and pay homage
to.  At twenty-two years of age I
watched along with the rest of the world as a young man died. I didn’t
understand why someone would starve himself to death. What cause would be worth
your life?  Bobby Sands believed
freedom was worth every breath, and he gave up the most precious gift in the
world to prove that point.

Now at the age of
forty-seven I thank God for people like him.  I see freedom—whether it is freedom of speech, freedom of
religion, or the pursuit of happiness—to be the most important aspect of human
existence. Without it we are mere cogs in someone else’s wheel.

While Belfast
still moans in birthing pangs, I truly feel this man made a difference.  He must have. Bobby Sands was elected
to Parliament but he was held at Long Kesh until the day he died. I’ve read
that 100,000 people attended his funeral. I can’t remember a world leader
anywhere having that kind of power. Here is the spirit of true grace. On his
mural one line stands out: our revenge will be the laughter of our children. As we drive out of the Falls Road neighborhood, I
look back at the green rolling hills that sit above the city. There is beauty
in this place. More murals line the road, people chat with one another, and the
shops seem to buzz with life. But inside our black taxi no one says a word. For
four Americans, who have lived a sheltered life, this trip has opened our minds
in a way nothing in our country ever could.