The Color Beneath

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The controversy astounds me. At first glance driving along the interstate my overwhelmed senses strain to take in all of the city -- the rich sense of culture found in the simplicity of a tall glass building situated just steps from a gothic stone cathedral whose mast stands high in the skyline leaves my mouth gaping. The mountain-top crowned with the name Napoleon's Nose for it's striking resemblance to a human nose (Napoleon's or not I couldn't say!) and the giant yellow cranes that hang triumphantly in the distance are only some of the distinguishing factors. Driving through the city on the freeway I'm reminded of how I once heard about a city under duress here. But like the international news in America, we are through the city and onto a new place before any of the questions can even be imagined.

It was finding a parking spot with the least chance of grand theft auto or vandalism and then riding on the big red bus tour, shivering on my cold seat on the top level where I began to understand how indoctrinated the city is with violence.

I envisioned the Belfast Murals to be on par with an exhibit at an outdoor museum. Located outside the city center where tourists could come and marvel at the terror of war from history. I saw the war in Ireland as separated from Ireland -- I could not have been more wrong. The murals are scattered along city sidewalks and passageways as casually as potted plants sit on windowsills. The eerie ghosts in masks with guns lie silently on the walls and ironic messages of hate and violent anger masquerade in bright colors and cartoon-like style -- appearing so friendly a child might smile. A dilapidated school house raked with bullet holes wobbles feabily where a strong building of education used to stand. A wall covered in hope, anger, frustration and fear -- words and pictures strewn about like splatter paint on a canvas divides a portion of the city. It divides people of Protestant and people of Catholic beliefs.
What was once a majestic city building erected by many hard-working hands and good intentions of wealthy politicians now crawls with rats and agony as grass and time grow over the marble steps and cold air sits still behind broken windows and broken dreams. Abandoned fountains and concrete junk yards enlighten me to the idea that this piece of history can hardly be isolated to a text book because it's underlying diviseness still finds homage in many niches throughout the city.

Talking with Daniels dad Paul about his experience growing up I couldn't help but make strong connections with the book I am reading about the Vietnam War. In my book the narrator sees her village be attacked by foreign people as a little girl and she feels a strong need to defend her home. It didn't matter who was right or wrong or who had morality or Karma on their side, when your community comes under attack you don't have the luxury of abstaining from the fight. Paul depicted his childhood similarly in that bars where he used to spend time and buildings where he used to enter got bombed -- to walk the line in the middle was to stand like a deer in the headlights without hope of running away.

I have to add, that despite the heaviness I found in my heart after touring the city from a bus, the city was beautiful and the archiecture was truly admirable. For the average American tourist clad in blinders and quick-dry pants the violence might seem distant and when left to stroll through the shops and drink espresso and perhaps try an Ulster Frye, Belfast will seem like the peaceful cosmopolitan city I invisioned.

To cover a red wall with white paint is to always see the color beneath.

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