Behind the curtain
UNITED KINGDOM | Tuesday, 26 May 2015 | Views [99] | Scholarship Entry
IRA RULES.
Big letters on the rooftop, like a warning to make you think twice about to enter this neighborhood down the hill.
Colored house walls with huge paintings. One shows a man with a gasmask. The other people running from soldiers. I arrived at the city a few hours ago, with some free time from my job as a ship photographer. My eyes wander over to a corner pub. Gold letters on slightly toned windows tell me the name -Bogside Inn-. Two guys stand in front, a cigarette in one hand, and wild gestures with the other. They are laughing loudly about something I can not follow. It is 4 in the afternoon and they already seem really drunk. Related to the early closing times of British pubs, not such a big surprise. I walk along, trying not to catch their attention by looking in another direction. But with my camera and backpack I obviously do not belong here.
By the moment I pass the pub on the other side of the street, the guys stop their conversation. “Hey!” yells one of them, harshly in my direction. “What are you picturing?” I stop. Insecure of answering, thinking walking faster would be a better idea.
"Come over!” shout the other one, this time in a friendly tone. Every sense tells me not to, while my curiosity let me cross the street.
The two introduce themselves with a heavy Northernirish accent. The older one ask me if I have any clue from this area. I negate. He is probably in his end 50s, with short messy salt and pepper hair, wearing a fishermans sweater and blue jeans. The smell of his booze surround me in a second.
With a toothless grin he says, “Come inside! I have to show you something!” He push the curtain away with what seperated the inside even more from the outside world. The room is filled with a smell of sweat and beer.
In the back corner we stop in front of big, framed photographs. He points at them and says “This is Bloody Sunday. The Brits teared down a peace demonstration in 72. They were armed. We weren't.”
I notice the picture with the gasmask. But this time it is a real photograph, hanging there like a witness of time in black and white. Gooseskin runs all over my body while he continues. “The soldiers killed 14 while we tried to flee. Now they colored the walls outside. But we won't forget it anyway."
Sometimes history hits you hard, draws you back in time and becomes real within a second.
On my way back to the harbour, just a few meters away from the pub there is a big sign:
You're now entering Free Derry.
Tags: 2015 Writing Scholarship
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