Originally Posted by
chalice
From my living room window, as I write, I can see, slash-daubed in white on the gable wall of the opposite house, the acronym "FTPIRA". Fissured across that in red is an imposing "FTH HOODS WILL BE SHOT". The former describes copulation with a paramilitary organisation. The latter represents much the same thing, this time the recipients being adolescent car thieves. From my bedroom window, at night, I can hear, like some insane cockerel, the staccato screech of tyre on tarmacadam. I see, emerge from streetlight to streetlight, short, spiky hurling-bats crutching tall men. From my bathroom window, as I wash my hands at the sink, I can see the parish priest's new house, suitably dimensioned and very nice indeed too, thank you very much. Adjacent to that is the church. Behind it is the primary school, named after an Irish Christian martyr who earned a particularly excrutiating beatification.
As I scan the headlines in my morning newspaper (less a rag, more a chamois), I meet, "Police criticised over UDR murder probe"; a sixteen year old bone of contention.
"Assembly poll 'in November'"; renewed speculation that the assembly elections could be called in November. Well, the SDLP and Sinn Fein are calling for it anyway.
"Loyalists warn children"; children as young as eight have been singled out by loyalist paramilitaries in South Belfast's Village area with leaflets warning of the consequences of "anti-social activities".
Inside the Holy Cross Primary School debacle rages anew and the rest of the paper is smattered with a new spate of death threats on varying levels of both institutions. All of this is so familiar as to be overlooked. I nestle myself in the sports pages.
As a prerequisite to fair employment in this city, you are asked to endorse your religious persuasion (just to ensure everyone is treated equally, you understand). To educate your children, you must either stuff them into archaic pigeon-holes or isolate them with gaelaige, hobby-horse romanticism. Integrated schools smack of tokenism and pedestal their charges while celebrating the gulf between them. To hold conversation is to modify the fervour of your convictions to accomodate the farrago of taboos which vary from mind to mind. Political correctness is a sublime, sacrosanct imperative. Don't tell me to take the moral high ground with my childrens' education. How lofty. I have no choice. I'm not going anywhere soon, not on my budget. My kids are neither brainwashed nor redeemed nor hardwired nor rootless. They are realistic and encouraged by my partner and myself to respect and explore all beliefs be they similar to or diverse from their own.
Politicians, here, are either verbose or demonstrative. They resort, having failed in penetrating their counterparts' sensibilities, to muck-slinging and personal jibes with their bully-boys standing arms-crossed in the recesses. Other ephemeral parties fizzle in to ignite fuses and whimper out again. How sad it is when noble discourse descends to school-yard ejaculation.
I forsee no future for Northern Ireland.
Paramilitarism, nicely funded now by contrabands, armed-robbery and protection rackets will proliferate and harden. The Nationalist people will never endorse the police force because their wounds are still fresh and are reopened with each new allegation of collusion. Children will never be taught independently of politics or religion. Both communities will become further entrenched in petty squabbles and syntax. More innocents will die. Mistrust will be sprung like traps in the minds of each new generation and there is no going back. I'm sure Britannia is feeling the onus of this old ball and chain. Well, it's heavier than she thinks and grows with each frigid day.
I expect nothing from Ireland. I am grateful to have lived and learned.
I will instill the same gratitude in my children.
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone.
All's changed, changed utterly.