I can recall the days when I engaged in Irish dancing, keeping my arms stiffly at my sides while my feet danced to the rhythm of the music. My sibling and I used to take dance classes in a community centre just a short way from our original family home in Derry, established when I was a four-year-old and she was eight.
We resettled there back in 1982. Our new residence was a contemporary single-floor infrastructure, characterised by its dark, striped wooden design and comfortably soft carpets in the sleeping quarters. We were a pair of English lasses, identifiable by our distinct Surrey accents, and as part of our acclimatisation process, our mother decided to enrol us in Irish dance lessons within a stone’s throw of our home, in a place possibly named by a tongue-in-cheek god – Muff.
The dancing fascinated me, particularly how the free and brisk movements of the lower body were contrasted with the rigid upper-body form. The explicitly communicated, seemingly arbitrary rules, such as the stillness of one’s arms, intrigued me too. I admired the exotic dresses worn by the more accomplished dancers on competition day. The structured and ceremonial nature of the festivities, especially when we danced in unison, brought a comforting sense of security.
However, the sense of security was but a figment of imagination.
I matured during a period when Northern Ireland was embroiled in the Troubles; daily life was punctuated by military presence on school routes and weekend bomb threats leading to the evacuation of shopping centres. Derry was a city where judgments were made in hushed tones, as people tried to discern your affiliations, religious leanings, and loyalties. The city was, in essence, a monument to suppressed pain, bearing the scars of a long and deep-seated history of suffering.
I yearned to understand the current Derry, to retrace my roots to enable progress. However, upon my return, I found a city that was still standoffish, its residents wary. I was greeted by the customary damp and chilly weather.
A walk about the city’s walls was always shrouded in a sense of desolation, as if the cries of our forsaken ancestors echoed amidst the drizzle. My early recollections were monochrome and filled with rain. The things of nightmares weren’t mythical creatures beneath my bed but men in disguises.
It was a gradual realization that despite engaging in traditional Irish dance, I didn’t truly blend in; my accent was unmistakeably English. Over time, unfortunately, Derry’s dominant republican ideals overshadowed its London colonist identity. It earned the term “Stroke City” displaying the tacit separation It was during the summer that the Apprentice Boys displayed their defiant stance, as they processioned with “No Surrender” banners.
Visiting Derry after many years, was the first step in my promotional tour across Ireland and the UK, as I wished to honour my childhood home. Having left in 2004, returning after all these years brought back a mix of emotions. Even though there were disturbing memories from the past, the Belfast Agreement of 1998 brought a sense of peace. There was a longing to familiarize myself with today’s Derry – a journey backwards to move forward. My homecoming was somewhat unwelcoming and tense. The drizzle and chilly weather echoed my sentiments. The Bogside area hadn’t changed much except for the “You Are Now Entering Free Derry” sign that now occupied a traffic island. The burdensome string of historical events still hung heavy in the air, seeping through the pavement and dollar stores.
In the Richmond Centre, amidst several shut down shops, a new Starbucks had sprung up. The decision to return initially felt self-serving, considering the city’s limited disposable income, and locals not tending to be disposed towards spending their evenings at book readings. I had hoped to find a sense of belonging, feeling like I had earned the respect as a worthy narrative voice in a city with numerous challenging tales. Rather dishearteningly, out of all the places on the tour, Derry was the least popular. We were just about half full.
It dawned upon me that they never really wanted me back. Women who bravely kept hope alive, cleaned the destruction aftermath, swept up the shattered glass, and nurtured their families around destruction – they silently carried on. I confess I was mistaken. This got me thinking that perhaps Belfast would have been a better choice initially.
In Máiría Cahill’s revealing and emotional book, Rough Beast, she provides a raw, matter-of-fact perspective on the inner operations of the IRA, provoked by trauma and anger. As I was about to be interviewed by Vogue Williams, I sensed a real attachment just minutes before stepping onto the stage: an undeniable, invincible attachment. The most resonant cheer was my statement about my upbringing in Derry. The ambient mindset brimmed with comprehension and a proactive endeavour to bridge any superficial divides between us. Post-event, at the book autograph session, the numerous people who mentioned their affiliation with me or my family left me overwhelmed. I received embraces that relayed countless words and countless unexpressed gestures of empathy.
Particularly touching was the tight embrace from Mar Hasson, Sinéad’s mum, who stood as a shining example of a particular class of Derry women. These women endured the entire brutality – bombings, violence, losing their loved ones and in their survival and toughness have been the silent torchbearers of hope. Mopping up following a debacle, clearing away shattered glass, nurturing their brood amidst the scars of shrapnel attacks, these women persisted with life until it didn’t just continue but blossomed. I didn’t need to vocalise it, I experienced it. More than once, these fervent, wonderful women acknowledged me as “a true Derry girl”.
Healing is born not out of the wound but the scar it leaves behind. My day in Derry, filled with rage and sorrow, was the wound’s recurrence. It threw me back into the perplexing torment and melancholy of a misplaced child. But that evening, in the theatre, we symbolised the scar. A shared healing was experienced. Even though that scar was to be a permanent reminder of our past, it had its unique grandeur.
Elizabeth Day, an English writer and broadcaster, first shared these thoughts in her newsletter.