The Politics of Belfast Paranoia.

     I was taking a short-cut through the downtown parking lot when I saw them coming towards me. In America I wouldn't give it a second thought. But this was Belfast, and fear immediately gripped my gut. Rather than turning and running, I picked up my pace and veered left, remaining outwardly calm and trying to show no outward sign of fear. None of the four men made any moves toward me. As I passed within uncomfortable distance to them I forced myself to look at one of them. I saw no hatred on his face or fear in his eyes, only a ‘is there something wrong with you buddy?' look. And, for the first time in my life, I knew paranoia.

     It remained vivid as I awoke in the relative safety of my suite in the Europa Hotel and I knew exactly when the nightmare had begun - my second night in Ireland, when I'd stopped with friends in a West Belfast pub to enjoy a few pints of Guinness and a se sion of
traditional Irish music. While there I decided to call a friend from Bangor, County Down. Stephen knew I was coming to Ireland but didn't know exactly when. He'd become a 'policeman' since I'd last seen him in America. A policeman, just like my dad in Cleveland had been.         
   Two friends with me that evening were Tomas, a Sinn Fein Councillor, and his spouse. Because I was having difficulty dialing
Stephen's number, I came back to the table to ask for help. My Irish friend was eager to help and I was certainly grateful. After picking through the American and British coins I held out in my palm, he dropped the appropriate ones into the slot and dialed the number in Bangor. He listened for a moment then handed me the receiver. "You're connected," he said with a smile, and then returned to the table. The call went unanswered on the other end and, returning
to our table, I sensed a change in everyone. Tomas and his spouse were ashen-faced, as if they had just received some earth-shattering news.

    In my absence, my American co-traveling friend at the table had informed them the phone number he'd dialed was to the home of a member of the Royal Ulster Constabulary (R.U.C.), Northern Ireland's 'police force.' They were terrified and shocked that I knew an R.U.C. man. I had been to their home and could betray their internal security. My political education had taken a sudden new direction during this, my second night in Ireland. An unnatural uneasiness came over me.

    Nationalists in the North of Ireland are, simply put, at war. Their targets?  The British Army, economic structures and loyalist paramilitaries. And, because of innumerable injustices inflicted against them over the years, I learned that anyone wearing either uniform is an enemy, including my friend from Bangor, the young man who had stayed at my home in America. They've learned to hate the British Army and R.U.C.  uniform and the man wearing it and I learned the Irish Republican Army (IRA) is the only entity Nationalists truly trust to protect them.

     Later in the week Stephen and I met at the Crown Bar, across from my hotel. He'd changed little since I'd last seen him except he now sports a mustache and he's married. His spouse, who must remain
nameless, was a charming hostess. We drove to their neighborhood where I was given the grand tour. Stopping first for a sandwich, we then pub-hopped, having a few pints of Smithwicks together as we caught up on each other's lives. I also told him, without naming names, what had happened in the Falls Road pub in West Belfast. It was déjà vu - my friend and his spouse became ashen-faced. They,
too, were terrified and shocked that a nationalist might know their name and telephone number and possibly even be able to find out where they lived. The rest of the evening for me was 'double-think' before speaking. For example, while discussing President Clinton I found myself whispering the word Republican; in the North of Ireland it means a supporter of Irish Nationalism. And in Bangor you won't find any.

    Most unionists/loyalists, including the upper echelon of the R.U.C., equate membership in the Sinn Fein political party with membership in the IRA. Therefore, by extension, anyone associated with Sinn Fein condones IRA violence. When innocent men, women and children are killed by bombs, unionists/loyalists feel outrage, the same outrage Nationalists feel when innocent Catholic men, women and children are killed by the R.U.C, the British Army or loyalist paramilitaries.          

     Obviously, I'm not calling either of my friends by their real names but suffice to say they are both Gaels. Tomas is a man who, through a stilted political process, is attempting to better the lives of his family and people. And because of that, he's a target.

     Stephen can be best described as fun-loving and apolitical; the kind of young man that would rescue a kitten from the tree where it's stuck.  I fear for both my friends. Many Sinn Fein Councillors, who aren't even paid, wear heavy body armor under baggy clothes. All have party-provided, elaborate security in their homes. It's not unusual for them to be shot at or murdered in their homes, in front of their children. Sometimes even their children are murdered.

    
 I'm afraid Stephen's work will eventually make him hateful and blindly prejudiced. I'm also afraid because, like Tomas,he,too, is a target. It's no wonder I had the damn nightmare.
I now wonder if either of these two friends or their families will ever trust me again when I go back to Ireland.

      You can bet I truly understand what freedom is. 'God save Ireland!'

2011 Postscript. I have since returned to Ireland and found vast changs had taken place. For example, the R.U.C. has been re-named Police Service of Northern Ireland, and they now actively recruit Cathlics (even though Catholics now mistrust them for being PSN).

I traveled with an American Congressman during this first trip. We met leaders of the north Ian Paisley and the then-U.S. Ambassador to Ireland Jean Kennedy Smith, sister of John F. and Robert Kennedy.