Our children must be brought up to respect each other
http://www.irishnews.com/features/our-children-must-be-brought-up-to-respect-each-other-1272836
Leona O'Neill reflects on this year's Twelfth of July and
how she strives to bring up her children to embrace other cultures
I'VE spent the
Twelfth of July in various places. As a reporter in Belfast I covered the marches, dodging bricks
and bottles when the inevitable disturbances started. I've been hemmed into my
street when I lived on the Lower
Ormeau Road and in north Belfast to allow the marchers to pass. I've
spend several Twelfths in the newsroom of The Irish News, the sound of the
flutes floating gently in the open windows, the aggressive rattle of the Lambeg
drum piercing the summer air. Other years I joined the mass exodus out of the
city to avoid all the fuss. I can't say that I've ever had a particularly
enjoyable Twelfth. Rightly or wrongly, in my mind it's always been something to
be avoided. I am not sectarian. I have many Protestant friends, some of them
with strong Orange Order connections in their families. I respect that they
have a completely different view to mine.
That's a beautiful thing, because if we were all the same,
and thought in identical ways, this world would be a very boring place. This
Twelfth of July I spent the day on a Donegal beach. The warming sun, the gentle
lapping of the waves on the shore and the sound of my children laughing were
the only glorious things to be had.
The sirens, the police, the bricks, the bottles, the
tension, the smoke, the fury and the destruction were a million miles up the
road in the place I consider home, north Belfast. A place where many of my
friends and family still live. We came home to vicious scenes on the news.
My oldest son, born and raised in the city but not yet fully
burdened by the pressures of the tragic history of the Troubles, asked what the
rioting was about 'this time?' I simplified it for him as best I could.
"They, the Orange Order, want to march down that road," I said.
"Why?" he asked. "It's their traditional route," I said.
"I suppose it's the road they always walk down and they are angry that
they are not being allowed to do so this time."
"Can they not just walk down another road to
home?" he asked. "It would save a lot of hassle."
"Indeed," I agreed, laughing at the innocence of his suggestion. A
friend later commented that she was so sick of Northern Ireland that she wanted to
take her young family out of here. We conversed that every year it's the same
thing, the same old broken record, skipping and playing the same tune over and
over. We get on our feet and this place and a minority of its people drag us
back down. Living in Northern
Ireland is like being on one of those
roundabouts in the kids' playground. You're happy enough sailing around at a
nice pace then a bullyboy comes along and spins it too fast. As you hurtle
around at a sickeningly high speed, you desperately want to get off but you're
afraid to take the leap, so you just hold on tight and hope it blows over soon
so you can get back to sailing along again. Events that take place here can
alter even the most optimistic perceptions into thinking that this corner of
the world is a horrible, heartbreaking and hate-filled place.
A place and problems
that our children - yours and mine, regardless of which flag or none you stand
beneath - do not deserve to inherit. A tiny minority make it that way. However,
a bigger majority stand together to hold back that tide. Within hours of the
trouble in north Belfast Twitter was abuzz with MyBelfast tweets - people
declaring their love for the most vibrant, feisty and beautiful of cities.
That made me smile. I hope I can bring up my children to
respect other traditions and embrace other cultures. I hope they can sympathise
and empathise. I hope they know that they don't have to be perfect, that being
good enough is just fine. I hope they be decent and kind to their fellow human
beings - regardless of their colour, creed or beliefs - and to never let hate
build a home in their hearts.