Armagh Project 2015

A common theme in Irish spiritual storytelling is the appropriation of the old form the new. Historical figures informed old Gaelic myths. Gaelic myths were adapted by Christianity. Brian Friel’s play Dancing at Lughnasa adapts facets of pagan and Christian belief to share a new myth: the myth of material progress. In an Ireland suddenly on the cusp of industrialization and globalization, people dance for wireless radios instead of instruments in ceremony and respect for parentage is extended not in the interest of fulfilling commandments, but for the promise of a new bicycle. Invariably, this new faith leaves the vulnerable behind, like the old. Old artisans are traded for new machines. Soldiers are torn down by ever more complex weapons of war. Yet the drum ushering toward the new thing cannot be ignored and it doesn’t stop.

In a secular society, we think we can escape myth, but really we only replace them. Dogma is dogma, regardless of whether it came from Peter, Paul, John, and Luke or Adam Smith. Perhaps society cannot function without a communal understanding of the “end goal”. As the grip of fundamentalist Christian views began to slip in Ireland, a new set of priorities was inevitable. Friel’s Lughnasa is the lightning of optimism between the promise of that new faith in material progress and the reality, the expectation that things can get better and work out, that the next day can be brighter if we just listen to this new story.

At the feet of mossy tree trunks and crushed bluebells beneath my quaking knees, I am at the mercy of goddesses. I pray the witch was not right in her prophesy- that my life and the noble son I carry in my womb are not endangered. However, her word and magic is all I can depend upon, for I do not trust a soul in this house of O Connor. Ever since the day I’ve learned of my son and the return of Catherin, I’ve been haunted by a tapping behind the walls. Faithfully at nightfall the rapping breaks me into a running well of hopelessness; Goddess Brigid couldn’t heal this pain.  Even now in the solitude of this forest floor I feel the emerald eyes of Catherin watching me. My paranoia has brought about a desperate sweat in the damp wind. It covers me with grief.

Strong accents. Sunsets at midnight. Such huge hills in the middle of town. Everything but pubs and Dominos closing at 8 or 9. I expected the first one, but the others came from nowhere. Ireland is an odd place, different in the ways I didn’t see coming. But, the people are warm, the summer air is cool, and the food is great. It’s odd, but it’s very cozy here.

One of the most interesting aspects of Dancing in Lughnasa is Kate’s continual insistence in a more traditional Christian way, coupled with her belief that all decent people—especially her family—should agree with her beliefs and live the way she told them to, despite being surrounded by “pagans” and “savages.”

And they’re savages! I know those people from the back hills! I’ve taught them! Savages—that’s what they are! And what pagan practices they have are no concern of ours—none whatever! It’s a sorry day to hear talk like that in a Christian home, a Catholic home! All I can say is that I’m shocked and disappointed to hear you repeating rubbish like that, Rose!

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“ God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them.” (Gen.1:27). Why must we judge people by their outer appearance? We all do it, whether we intend to or not. Why must we hate people because they look different or believe something different? The only way this world is going to change is if we learn to accept people for who they are on the inside and not what we see on the outside. Growing up my mother and father decided the most important thing to teach my siblings and I was to not judge others for being different, but to embrace them. Being different from one another is a great blessing, as it makes the world a more interesting place to live in. It saddens me to even think how much hate was projected towards each other just because of different religious beliefs and upbringings.

. . .but I also didn’t see my Muslim neighbors dancing in the streets. They mourned in solidarity with those that lost, those that were in pain. Some knew loved ones themselves that were swallowed whole by the tragedy, gone forever.

Yet here we are, ten years later, and more than half (56%) of the U.K. thinks Islam (specifically referring to the faith and not extremist groups) present at least a not-insignificant threat to Western democracy.

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This morning I woke up with a stranger in my bed. My first instinct was to scream, which I did, then to throw something, which I managed to hold off on. For a minute I didn’t know where I was. But then, “Calm down,” he said, “it’s only me,” and I remembered it was Second Charming, on the run from his boring wife again. Sometimes I wish he came with a warning, like a giant candle that might slowly fill up the room with its light, so that I might remember he was there; that or a rooster, which would probably startle me more than a buck-naked man in my bed. It’d be nicer still if he’d think to get up and climb back out the window before I wake up, but I don’t suppose it’s any use asking for miracles. That’s the problem with being locked in a tower, you know: I’ve been taught a lot of things, but entertaining male guests was not one of them.

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God damn it why am I even here? She is dragging me along to another one of her hipster parties again. There is no one here I know, well except for curry moustache guy, but I don’t even know his name. GO SHAVE IT OFF! It makes you look like the Pringles man. Continue reading →

Just look at the world now; just look at the people in the streets! We might wish that this is good old Ireland, that it’s Ulster made anew. But it isn’t, it’s something completely different and it’ll continue to go that way, despite how many flags I hold in the marches. We used to be separate: my da worked in the mill, took Hamiltonsbawn to and from his home, prayed at St. Mark’s, and never saw any Catholics. And if he did, he’d look away and spit. But now I go up Hamiltonsbawn, past the abandoned mill, and work in an office in a tiny room with three desks. They’re Catholics that work in that room with me— my niece goes to uni with their children. My best friend fell in love, married, and died in Kabul to protect his Catholic wife from potential acts terrorism. We’re all integrated. There’s even Polish people opening shops in the square, and they’re Catholic, too! I found one of Maggie’s notes, something she jotted down before she got taken to hospital. It was a reminder to check on the hawthorne by the old well we used to walk to, before the troubles. She tied a cloth braid to the hawthorne, asking to end all this, asking that everyone would just get along and forget the differences of the past, leave it well enough alone. I had forgotten about that; I blamed them for her suffering. Yesterday, I go back to the spot, to that well where we’d sit under the tree and watch the wind play among the leaves and in her hair… The tree was gone, fallen during a storm I’d assume. Nothing was there, no sign of branches or debris; it must have been cleaned up. Only the large stump clawing up into a shredded trunk remained. I don’t know what to think anymore, other than: is this what she wanted? I’m not sure, but Ireland’s changed; and either I’m standing with the tide, or I’ll be swept away.

As I start to report on the separation of protestants and catholics in Ireland, I notice how many people act as though there is no rift anymore between the two religions. A catholic employee at our hostel mentioned that he has a Protestant friend. Many in the younger generation say that they do not treat those of the other religion any differently.

But, are they really living with the differences? Catholics and Protestants making friends with each other does not close the rift. Gates and walls still separate the churches. Flags and symbols still indicate religious affiliation on store windows. The color orange is still contentious.

Tolerance is not the same as acceptance. The road to Catholics and Protestants truly living and accepting each other’s differences may be a long one.