Nicene #7 Belfast

Belfast: What Are the Walls For?

Nicene #7

For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate;

he suffered death and was buried…

—

The peace wall is covered in messages.

Schoolchildren.

Tourists.

Visitors from places Ryan has never been.

People travel halfway

around the world

to look at a wall

built because neighbours

were afraid of one another.

His son presses a hand

against the concrete.

“What’s this for?”

Ryan looks up.

The wall is taller than he remembers.

Or perhaps that is because

he is standing beside it

with a three-year-old

who still believes strangers

are potential friends.

“It’s a long story,” he says.

The boy nods

and runs ahead.

Ryan remains where he is

for a moment.

The answer feels too small

for the question.

Most mornings begin before sunrise.

Tea and toast.

The radio on low.

A quick kiss for Emma

before the drive across East Belfast

towards the factory.

The cranes stand over the docks

as they always have.

Samson and Goliath.

Part of the skyline.

Part of the city.

The shift starts at seven.

Machines hum.

Forklifts reverse.

Men talk.

Football.

The price of heating.

Whether the politicians know

what they are doing.

Whether anybody knows

what they are doing.

Lately the conversation

often turns to immigration.

A few weeks ago

there was a stabbing.

The details shifted

depending on who was telling the story,

but the anger spread quickly.

By teatime

everybody had an opinion.

By evening

social media had decided

who was to blame.

Some of Ryan’s mates

went to a protest.

The protest became a riot.

Videos appeared online:

burning bins,

police vehicles,

young men with scarves

over their faces.

The sort of images

Belfast knows too well.

Ryan stayed home.

Not because he thought

everything was fine.

He worries about housing.

About whether his son

will ever afford

a place of his own.

About jobs.

About a world that feels

less secure than the one

he was promised.

These worries are real.

But he also knows

what it feels like

when people talk about communities like his

without ever setting foot in them.

He knows what it feels like

to hear working-class people discussed

as though they are a problem.

The factory finishes at four.

Most evenings

another job begins.

Ryan delivers takeaways until late.

Curries.

Pizzas.

Chicken boxes.

Night after night

he crosses parts of Belfast

older generations crossed

more carefully.

Past murals.

Past churches.

Past new apartment blocks

and boarded-up shops.

Past rows of flags

still hanging long after summer

has ended.

By the time he gets home

his son is usually asleep.

Some nights he stands

outside the bedroom door

for a moment,

listening.

The small sound of breathing.

Before becoming a father

he never knew

how much love could feel

like worry.

His granda says

parenthood changes

the shape of your fears.

Ryan thinks

he might be right.

His granda is eighty-three.

Bad knees.

A memory full of names.

Some belong to friends.

Some belong to people

whose photographs ended up

in newspapers.

One Saturday afternoon

they visit him.

Tea is poured.

Biscuits appear.

The television mutters in the corner

while conversation drifts

towards the past.

Bomb scares.

Army checkpoints.

The sound of helicopters overhead.

The strange normality

of living alongside fear.

His granda shakes his head.

“I thought we’d have sorted it by now.”

Ryan knows

he isn’t talking about politics.

Not really.

His granda stirs his tea.

“You know what the problem is?”

Ryan waits.

“Everybody still thinks

they’re the good ones.”

The old man shrugs.

“Always starts there.”

Before they leave,

Ryan’s son points

at a cluster of flags

fluttering from lamp posts.

“Why are they there?”

His granda laughs.

“That’s another long story.”

A few weeks later

Ryan finds himself in church.

Not every week.

Most weeks

life gets in the way.

But becoming a father

has unsettled something in him.

He wants his son

to have something

he never really had.

Not answers.

Something deeper than that.

A story large enough

to live inside.

The congregation is ordinary.

Teachers.

Tradesmen.

Retired couples.

Young parents

trying to stop children

escaping from pews.

Nobody seems to have

everything worked out.

That helps.

Then the Creed begins.

For our sake

he was crucified

under Pontius Pilate.

The sentence catches him.

Pilate.

An actual name.

A real governor.

A reminder that this happened

somewhere.

Under someone.

In the middle of history.

The reading is from Luke.

Pilate blames the crowd.

The crowd blames Jesus.

Religious leaders

blame troublemakers.

Rome blames everybody else.

Nobody wants responsibility.

Everybody is looking

for somewhere else

to leave the burden.

Ryan thinks of Belfast.

Then he thinks

of factory conversations.

Social media.

Election campaigns.

The endless search

for somebody to blame.

And suddenly

the cross looks different.

Jesus standing

where blame gathers.

Caught between competing tribes,

competing stories

and competing powers.

A man nobody wants

responsibility for.

Outside,

rain taps against the windows.

His son is colouring.

Emma is singing.

A woman lights a candle.

The ordinary holiness

of ordinary people.

Driving home afterwards,

they pass the peace wall again.

Rain streaks the windows.

The city lights blur.

His son is half asleep now,

head tilted against the car seat.

Ryan looks at the wall

sliding past beside them.

Concrete.

Steel.

Decades of fear.

Decades of memory.

Decades of people

trying to keep safe.

He thinks about his granda.

About the lads

who went to the riot.

About the families

who arrived in Belfast

looking for a better life.

About his son.

The stories he will inherit.

The stories he will question.

The stories he will make his own.

At a red light

Ryan glances in the mirror.

The boy is awake again.

“Da?”

“Aye?”

“What’s it for?”

Ryan looks once more

at the wall.

Then at the road ahead.

Belfast shining in the rain.

For a moment

he thinks about all the answers

people have given over the years.

The flags.

The walls.

The funerals.

The speeches.

The certainty.

Then he thinks about his son.

About the city

he hopes he will inherit.

Not perfect.

Just kinder.

A place where belonging

doesn’t require an enemy.

The lights change.

Traffic begins to move.

The wall falls behind them.

“I don’t know, son,” he says.

The boy seems content with that.

Soon he is asleep again.

Outside,

Belfast keeps breathing

in the dark.

And Ryan wonders

what stories

should be handed on,

and which ones

can finally be laid to rest.

Rev’d Jon Swales