Reflection: Unheard Voices

In late September I went to a screening of a documentary called "Unheard Voices." It was created by the WAVE Trauma Centre with the help of the Centre for Media Research from the University of Ulster. The documentary includes interviews with six people who lived through the Troubles and either lost someone or were injured themselves. The documentary is presented in a series of short stories, each lasting about five minutes. There is no music, there are no fancy cinematic effects.  It is raw and piercing and heart-wrenching. As an audience member, you are invited into the lives of people who are still suffering as a result of the Troubles; the interviewees share with you some of their most personal experiences. One woman agrees to allow viewers to watch as she visits the parking lot where her brother was killed years ago, just as he was leaving the hospital after having seen his newborn child. As a viewer, I felt intrusive, like I wasn't supposed to be watching this moment or that I shouldn't be allowed. But the wonderful thing about this documentary is how involved the participants were in the making of the film. They were given the opportunity to choose, amongst all their footage, the five minutes that would be shown to the audience. This woman chose to show us this profound and sorrowful experience.  The directors and producers were keen to make sure the process of sharing the stories of these people was a community-wide and holistic effort. Unlike many other documentaries, in which participants have little control over what is included or left out of the film, these participants were allowed to copyright their stories, so that they could "have ownership of their stories in a public sphere." I think this was a crucial and meaningful action to take because the storytellers should be in control of how their stories are related to others. This, I think, is how those who have suffered can begin the process of reconciliation.

We were able to meet two of the participants from the documentary tonight. I sat right behind a woman whose son was killed after six shots were fired into his back. It was an incredible and horrifying to watch her watch the documentary. I've never interacted with anyone who has been so affected through violent conflict. I was so struck by how ordinary she was, which was unsettling. I couldn't help but think: that could've been me; it could've been my mom, my grandma, my sister. And the fact that she was sitting right in front of me made watching the documentary all the more powerful. I commented later on how thankful I was that she was brave enough to share her story, and that she was so willing to share it with complete strangers, like me. She was asked by another audience member if storytelling helped at all with the healing process. She said it did, but that it is impossible to ever rid yourself from the grief of losing a child. Another audience member commented that he thinks storytelling is one of the best ways for a community to acknowledge the terrible effects of a conflict. It is most critical, he said, for the story to be shared with young people, so that events like those of the Troubles won't occur again.

I was sitting with three other students from Magee who had accompanied me to the screening. We were the only young people in the audience, so we were asked by the panel to share our thoughts about the documentary. None of my friends would say anything, so I spoke up, which is something I hadn't planned on doing because I had been crying the entire time, and I was still choked up. But I felt obligated to comment, so I struggled through some sort of answer, broken up in embarrassing sobs, that we really appreciated the documentary and that it had a great effect on all of us and that we would really like to show it at our home universities, etc, etc. My comment wasn't nearly as articulate as I wanted it to be, but I guess it turned out alright.  I was given a copy of the DVD to show at Juniata in the spring, to help share their stories abroad.

Glenveagh National Park, Donegal

Driving through Glenveagh National Park

Just got back from a day trip to Donegal, a county in the Republic of Ireland only an hour west of Derry.  We rented, sorry, "hired" a car (which I drove--safely--for about 200 yards, before giving up) from the airport and drove to Donegal in pursuit of Glenveagh National Park.  The appeal?  Entry is free. Scenery is jaw-dropping.  No predicted downpours.

Hannah is relatively familiar with the Letterkenny area, so she took us to the birthplace and abbey of St. Colmcille (Colombo).  He was one of the Twelve Apostles of Ireland and founded a number of monasteries, including one in Derry.  His birthplace is marked by a large classical celtic cross that overlooks a beautiful pastoral landscape; it's accompanied by a wishing rock too!

St. Colmcille's birthplace

Then we headed over to St. Colmcille's abbey.  It was built in the 16th century, and is still frequented by apparent followers.  There is an active (well, at least, recently) shrine inside the ruins that's decorated in a variety of [interesting] offerings (rosaries, shoes, mini boxing gloves, etc).  There was a graveyard just next to the abbey that was lined with spectacular juniper trees that were gnarled and handsome.  A holy well--perhaps used for baptisms?--was nearby as well, still holding water, and probably still holy.

The ferruginous wishing rock

Then we headed over to St. Colmcille's abbey.  It was built in the 16th century, and is still frequented by apparent followers.  There is an active (well, at least, recently) shrine inside the ruins that's decorated in a variety of [interesting] offerings (rosaries, shoes, mini boxing gloves, etc).  There was a graveyard just next to the abbey that was lined with spectacular juniper trees that were gnarled and handsome.  A holy well--perhaps used for baptisms?--was nearby as well, still holding water, and probably still holy.

St. Colmcille's abbey

Juniper tree in the graveyard

                                                                          

The holy well

We made an effort to go straight to Glenveagh National Park afterwards, but ended up driving right past the entrance (twice) and along the outskirts of the park.  Lucky for us because the drive was incredible.  We left from rolling hills of pastureland and ended up engulfed in a sea of golden grasses.  The scenery, the colors, the weather...it was too much to handle; it was too perfect.  How lucky we are to be alive and able and aware! We coasted along a lonely road through massive hills of gold and granite rock, stopping for a quick bathroom break.  We wandered around in a field (the grass was quite high, no one could see us) and came across the crumbling foundations of abandoned houses (circa early-mid 1800s?).  It was a quiet and lonely place, but not eerie.  I felt happy to appreciate the hard work that someone had endured to build a house from stone and a roof from thatch that was probably lost in the field where I was standing.   

Rolling golden hills

Abandoned houses

We made it to our final destination around mid-afternoon. Unfortunately we found out that all the trails and interesting attractions (the castle and surrounding gardens) were only accessible by a park bus that cost 2euro/person.  All of us had pounds, and they didn't accept Visa! (note to the park: why don't you take visa you ding dongs?).  Matt and Hannah were kind enough to loan us their only euros which could only transport the two Americans to the other side of the park.  Thank you guys so much!!  We are forever indebted to you (literally).  The drive to the castle grounds takes you along the edge of the a large, clear lake (Lough Veagh), similar to the lake I envisioned at Hogwarts.  Lough Veagh is nearly fully enclosed by towering hills; the same hills that were once covered in oak and birch are now scattered with remains of forest foliage.  The castle itself is impressive, but its history is not nearly as inviting.  Its original owner, John George Adair, was a total douche bag, responsible for evicting nearly 250 families from the homes in the surrounding area in 1861.  Apparently his wife was nicer.  

Walking the grounds of the castle, which included several luxurious gardens, and the surrounding trails, was definitely my favorite part of the day.  Gina and I hiked all the way to the top of a hill behind the castle so we could see almost the entirety of Laugh Veagh, and much of the park itself.  It was a steep walk, but well worth the effort.  I had a nice spiritual connection with someone/thing while I was laying in the lengthy heather and moor grass.  It was lovely to sit so comfortably and absorb the beauty around me.  I felt so honored and appreciative to enjoy a common heritage with such a stunning area.  

Enjoying the view of Laugh Veagh and Glenveagh Castle

                                      


                                    

Weekend(s) in Review

It's been two weeks since my last update.  (Whoops).  A lot has happened.

First, I'll finish relaying my London experience.  On Frances' day off, we went to the Sherlock Holmes Museum and Platform 9 3/4!  It was a misty, moisty morning, and for most of the afternoon we enjoyed a classic London drizzle.  The Sherlock Holmes Museum was amazing.  Firstly, because Frances and I got in for 2 pound less than the cost for adults (yes, we lied and said we were 16, but we're alway mistaken for that age so we might as well take advantage while we can...hehehe).  Secondly, the house--probably dating back to the 1880s or so--is entirely furnished with antique gadgets and trinkets that would've been absolutely necessary for a 19th century detective.  Literally, floor to ceiling, there were myriad magnifying glasses, scissors, storage vessels, books, pipes, miniature potion bottles, tweezers, feather pens, hats etc.  There was also an odd collection of preserved animals and insects; the worst was a huge snake sitting in a window sill next to a giant boat in a bottle.  All of the items in the house were purchased at auctions, and (best part) you could touch them (!), well, most of them.  A lot of you know I have a horrible aching to touch things when I'm in museums, so this place was my tangible paradise.

We trekked through the rain (in our thin tennis shoes and block-colored rain coats) to Kings Cross Station; obviously, we were in pursuit of Platform 9 3/4!  Frances got to ask (quite seriously) how to find Platform 9 3/4, which was a riot.  It's located in a remote section of the train station, which makes sense I guess, because it can get pretty crowded with tourists.  But we were lucky; there were hardly any people there!  We ate a picnic lunch right across from the trolley that's disappearing into the wall.  We got to watch as people trickled in and out to take their pictures underneath the famous sign.  It felt pretty awesome to be there.  Since I've read the books, visiting Harry Potter related areas has been a serious life goal, and now I can tick it off!

That night we left for Colchester, where Reg lives.  Reg's parents are lovely and very welcoming, but what really made me feel right at home was being introduced to Reg's dogs, who are essentially the British versions of Gus and Rex!  One is a huge greyhound named Alphie who looks more like a gazelle than a dog, and the other is a miniature daschund name Izzy!  I couldn't believe it.  Those dogs were so amazing; an unexpected comfort and extremely entertaining.  Colchester is such a cute town.  The streets are narrow and are lined with lampposts that have flowers hanging from them.  There are lots of little tea shops and thrift stores and restaurants.  We went to Colchester Castle (a Norman Castle built on top of Roman ruins) for an afternoon.  Reg's dad works at the castle so we got an exclusive tour!  We go to go on top of the roof, which meant climbing up the spiral staircases (windy and creepy) and crawling through tiny doors (no problem for me!).  We could see the entire town from the roof top which was so neat!  We had Indian food for dinner that night (always a good choice) and then headed over to a club called Yates, a "proper Essex club" according to Reg.  All of the girls had really fancy clothes on and a lot of make-up (too much).  So Frances and I stuck out like sore thumbs, not only because we were wearing jeans and t-shrits, but because we apparently we look really "American" when we dance.  Ah well, it was still really fun.

The next weekend was super lame.  I just did work because my attempt to rent a car for the weekend to explore Donegal and the west coast failed miserably.

BUT! I got the car for this weekend! Off to Donegal and beyond!