Passions ignite...

It would probably be much easier, for you and for me, if every day could be filled with stories of "mass" and "crack" and other humorous tales. Unfortunately, I'm starting to discover, although the Irish people have a sense of humor unparalleled by most, there are something things in the North that are simply no joking matter.

I've just returned home from my first official Derry fish and chips and an afternoon at a pub watching County Tyrone play County Kerry in gaelic football. (Gaelic, which I imagine I'll talk more about in the future, is the Irish version of Aussie Rules football. A fast-paced amatuer sport that combines football, soccer, and rugby.) The game pitted an Ulster (N.I.) team against an Irish one so, naturally, most of the crowd sported Tyrone red. As the minutes wound down, it was hard not to get swept into the crowd cheering and chanting and singing Tyrone songs. It was amazing, I mused as I sipped my pint, that the crowd could go so wild for a team that wasn't even from their own county. For a team that didn't get million-dollar signing bonuses or endorsements from Nike. (All the athletes are actually unpaid for playing.) As thousands of fans stormed Croke Field in Dublin, I couldn't help but note the pure passion that the Irish have for their towns; for their neighbors; for their sports.

Earlier that day, however, we stumbled upon passion of a less than innocent sort. Ben and I actually started the day with mass at a local Catholic Church. As we wandered the city streets afterward searching for open shops, we stumbled upon a crowd of students from Georgetown. (Ben, I think I've said, is a Georgetown alum.) They were all studying in Dublin but came to Derry over the weekend. We tagged along as they finished their sightseeing and ended up walking along Derry's ancient walls.

My first glimpse of the lasting seeds of years of the Troubles came when we walked along the wall overlooking "Bogside," an IRA and Catholic stronghold. There, on the sides of buildings and homes, stood Derry's famous murals. One of the most haunting was a little girl standing in front of a pile of rubble as a plain, purple butterfly floated overhead. The girl was a memoir to a child killed in a Troubles-era bomb. The butterfly a hope for peace. But until peace is met, lore has it, the butterfly will stay empty. (As it is now.)

Along the cities walls, in fact, there are signs of the warring factions. IRA is painted across handrails and on dumpsters. UVF on others. There are remnants of paint bombs launched long ago and towering nets to keep out future trouble.

But the most chilling site was a loyalist neighborhood on one side of the walls. Prior to this day, I understood that Catholics lived on one side of the river; Protestants on another. Other than that, however, I had no indication where Protestants or Catholics lived. But this was different. The sides of the sidewalks were painted red, white, and blue, just as the Bogside community was painted green, white and orange. Two Union Jacks floated overhead and a store mural begged, "Loyalists still under siege. Never surrender." As we stood silently watching the neighborhood, one of the Irish boys in our group carved IRA into the stone and spit over the rail. Then, we watched as a tiny boy - presumably loyalist - practiced carrying his club up and down the sidewalk as he marched. Sometimes spinning it. Sometimes pretending to beat something. Other times simply marching.

It was then that I began to feel the same passion that echoed off the pub walls this evening. Although this time, insteaded of deep seeded rivalry, I felt deep seeded pain, anger, and mistrust. Rumor has it that the IRA is formally committing to disarmament this week and I suppose that will get much closer to convincing the world that the Troubles are over. But Northern Ireland, it superficially appears to this outsider, is far from healed.

Classes start tomorrow -- wish me luck!