Teaching the Troubles at NHA: Derry Walls

Dave and Saul in the Bogside

Looking out at a Protestant neighborhood from within the Derry Walls

Our experience of Derry (a town called "Derry" by the Catholic Nationalist majority and "Londonderry" by the more historically powerful Protestant Unionist minority) was most epitomized by two contrasting celebrations this evening after a full day of planned activities, when we wandered the length of the walls of the old city, where the apprentice boy defenders of the Protestant William of Orange held out against a siege of the armies of the Catholic James II in 1689. The annual Apprentice Boy parade, which celebrates the event with a march of well-dressed Unionists, had taken place earlier in the day, and a helicopter still circled in the air above us to make sure everything was alright.

As we came down from the walls and strolled the fortified medieval streets, we passed a building beside the Siege Museum, where a lively party was taking place. A group of skinheads and smaller men in beefeater-like uniforms stood guard outside, casting a wary eye on us as we walked by. We had come inside the walled-in old city to talk to the Apprentice Boy Parade celebrants, but the message of "Strangers, go away" rang out clearly, so we wandered outside the gates and into the Catholic streets to Paedar O'Donnell's, a pub just outside that was recommended by Gleann Doherty, our Bloody Sunday tour guide from earlier in the day.

As we opened the doors of the pub, a woman jumped up and danced a jig with each of us--and with those who came in just after us--as a traditional music duo played from the corner. The jig seemed to be the price of admission, a way of saying, "Are you down for the craic tonight?"

I saw these contrasting experiences as a warning: those who build walls to keep others out live only fearfully and stiffly even after the high walls are in place, while those who are walled out can relax, and are still capable of great fun. Though, to be fair, the Apprentice Boys celebrants do come here from all over the world, while the crowd at Paedar O'Donnell's is mostly fairly local.

Gleann Doherty was ready for us at our hotel when we arrived in Derry. He is the youngest son of Patrick Doherty, who was murdered at age 31 by British paratroopers on the 30th of January in 1972 during the event remembered as "Bloody Sunday." Patrick was only seven months old at the time, but being the child of a civilian murdered in one of the pivotal events in his country's history has informed his identity and his love of history. He runs a small business called Derry Guided Tours and almost everyone in the Bogside Catholic neighborhood seems to know him. He was frequently greeted as he took us to the key sites of both Bloody Sunday and the Battle of the Bogside (a three day riot that began on today's date in 1969 and led to a long-term occupying force of British troops in the city).

What was mostly an easygoing and friendly tour of the Bloody Sunday streets became tense just once, as we digressed from the path at William Street, where water cannons once pelted marchers in 1972, toward the Rossville Flats where marchers were shot at that time. A group of four skinhead-like fellows were standing guard outside an extremist Nationalist society among tremendous wall murals. Dave instinctually knew to ask Gleann permission if he should take photos at this spot. "Maybe not here," Gleann said in his understated manner, as his eyes told us he was a bit worried about the situation.

While large crowds of Protestant Apprentice Boys beat drums and paraded loudly within the nearby castle-like walls, we took a short break from our tour to meet Gleann's sister and other Catholic women who were setting up tea and jam and scones in tents for their own multi-day celebration, the Feile, within the outdoor area of the housing estates of the Bogside. Two young red-headed girls step-danced joyfully while we had our snack and were interviewed by the ladies about our perceptions of the Bogside as a place.

Gleann did a great job fielding Saul's constant questions and digressions

Palettes stacked for a Catholic bonfire under an overpass in the Bogside

Tires and other debris stacked for a Catholic bonfire

Gleann went above and beyond the initial hour and a half tour, bringing us to a bank in City Centre to buy British Pounds and then giving us a short preview of tomorrow's tour--the inside of the city walls--to satisfy my curiosity about the Apprentice Boys.

I insisted that we go see the parade, so Gleann zipped up his bomber jacket to hide a shirt that he thought might give him away as a Catholic (it was his company's shirt and it included the word "Derry" instead of "Londonderry"). We walked together to the square at the center of the walls neighborhood and watched as various marching bands of the Apprentice Boys societies paraded past us, looking serious and purposeful and quite martinet.

As Gleann walked us out of the walls and down the hill back into the Bogside, he confessed that he had never stood so close to the Apprentice Boys parade in his life. It took two teachers from thousands of miles away and from an entirely different culture to finally bring him to a parade that happens every year within a kilometer of the neighborhood that has been his lifelong home.

Gleann dropped us off at the Museum of Free Derry, an incredible collection of artifacts related to the Civil Rights movement in Derry that thrived between 1968 and 1974, and was indelibly marked by the violence of Bloody Sunday. In the lobby, Dave apologized--as an American--for Trump. I pointed out that the North had a very similar figure in Ian Paisley. "But Paisley was never plannin' on blowin' up the world, was he?" the counter woman replied. I had to give her that one.

I went through the one-floor museum relatively fast the first time, planning to sweep through a second time, until the power of a short documentary (about the families of the Bloody Sunday victims getting acknowledgement that their departed were innocent thirty-odd years later) rendered me incapable of taking in any more. I locked myself in the Museum restroom in order to catch my breath, until I could get my bearings again.

In the late afternoon, before the incidents at the Siege Museum and at Paedar O'Donnell's, Dave and I walked back into the Bogside by ourselves and talked to some young boys stacking palettes under a highway bridge for a bonfire. A boy with a heavy blister on his lip pointed up the hill toward the walls, "They are Protestant and we are Catholic," he said as a way of explaining, "and we're gonna make a big bonfire." He politely answered our questions until an older boy of maybe sixteen (who seemed to be the make-shift foreman of the operation) came over and pulled him away from us, scolding him for slacking on the job. We said our goodbyes to them, and the younger boys were quiet while the older boy gave us a barely perceptible tough guy nod as if he spoke for the whole group.

We walked on to the nearby Gasyard Centre, a beautifully designed building that serves as a sort of a YMCA or a community center dedicated to improving the life of the citizens of the Bogside. An entire family was manning the main office and front desk--wife, husband and daughter. The husband explained to me that the wife was the boss of the place and he was the hired hand. "That's the way it goes in my house too," I explained. "The sooner ya' learn it, the better it'll go for ya'," said the wife who's the Director of the Center.

The family then sent us into the next room to see an exhibit of photographs detailing the life of the recently deceased former IRA man and Peace Agreement hero Martin McGuinness. The photographs were lovely, but there were no captions posted to explain anything. One had only the image to go on, and you either knew the supporting characters around McGuinness or you didn't. The man watching the room wasn't of much help in this area.

As we walked home along the overpass, a group of male Bogsider teenagers passed us. We said hello, but they all pretended we were invisible. And maybe, as middle-aged foreigners, we truly were.