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Stories from former BVSers in Northern Ireland and Ireland
In December of 1971 it was my privilege to be invited to Belfast for an "Information Seminar" - an event cosponsored by the Conference of European Churches and the Irish Council of Churches. Following the seminar, I just managed to get through a road block in time to visit an evening youth club at the Shankill Methodist Church. Afterward I was fortunate enough to talk for some minutes with the pastor, the Rev. Harold Good (still an active church leader in N. Ireland) who asked me about the possibility of receiving a BVSer to help with youth activities in the Shankill area. I was delighted by his interest, and told him I was quite sure we could find someone, but didn't know how soon. Fortunately, after just a few months, a volunteer was indeed found, and was soon on his way to Ireland. His name was KEN SMITH. While much appreciating all other BVSers we later sent to N. Ireland, I always felt that we could not have found a better first volunteer than Ken. Intelligent, discerning, sensitive, diplomatic, soft-spoken, and a good listener - that was Ken. Just the person to pioneer and prepare the BVS trail in N. Ireland. Ken arrived in late spring of 1971, and began working at the Agnes Street Community Center. Thanks so much, Ken, wherever you are. All our best! Apropos of today's "obsession with terrorism," I close this brief writing with the following quotation (an excerpt) from a very introspective and meditative letter by Ken Smith - sent from Belfast, dated July 9, 1972. He reflects his experience against a biblical theme. "What do I really seek among the masked men with truncheons, the bombed-out pubs, 'the terror by night,' 'the destruction that wasteth at noonday,' if not a
- Dale Ott — Dale Ott was the director of the Brethren Service office in Geneva, Switzerland from 1966 to 1987. Still in Geneva, he wonders what "retire" means, especially since that word does not appear in the Bible! Apart from struggling with this question, he keeps busy with walking, reading, writing, sending opinions to newspapers, and discussing "forbidden" subjects like religion and politics. Belfast was a life-changing and galvanizing experience, the benefit of which I owe to Chuck Boyer, who allowed me to go, and to Dale Ott, who encouraged me along the way, and to Brethren Volunteer Service for making possible. It is difficult for me to speak of the importance of Belfast and its people for my life in any other way than in terms of profound gratitude, an overarching emotion which I will probably always carry toward that place and those who live there. One person, Alfie Midgley, with whom I became friends from the start, perhaps best personifies what I was given there. Alfie had been a shop steward and labor organizer in a time and place in which working people were easily divided. He was a youth worker at Agnes Street Community Centre when we met. One of the achievements of which he was most proud was that of having organized his shop floor, through a process of discussion, so that all production bonuses from ownership were shared equally by all the workers. Alfie had a memory. History was a part of him and he of it. He could recount strikes and labor rallies broken, literally, by the waving of the Union Jack by a sectarian opportunist. When you spoke with him about things that mattered to him, you got the sense that you were talking to an entire people. Alfie was a radical. He had friends on both sides of the divide who stubbornly insisted in the necessity of establishing a new, decent order of things. Alfie had hope. I lived and worked with Alfie at a time when things were bleak, indeed. The gunmen and the car bombers had made the communal divisions seem insurmountable and eternal. But Alfie spoke out of a certitude that they were neither. Alfie lived for change. He had learned that it was possible under circumstances equally as difficult as those in which I came to know him. Alfie taught me to respect the capacity of disadvantaged people and to look at things from the long view. During my years in BVS, I kept hoping to catch up with the great Brazilian teacher and liberation thinker, Paulo Freire, whom I kept just missing in various parts of the world. He and Alfie were shoots from the same stalk. Neither believed that experts and teachers were repositories of knowledge. Instead, they both believed in leaders, who animate the people around them to think, speak, and act. They encourage people to identify their problems and take action to address them. They understood and respected the capacity of those who are overlooked, marginal, and excluded to disclose important, world-changing truths. In Freire's words are mirrored the wisdom that Alfie taught in his own way: liberation is mutual. "In order to have the continued opportunity to express their "generosity," the oppressors must perpetuate injustice as well. An unjust social order is the permanent fount of this "generosity," which is nourished by death, despair, and poverty. That is why the dispensers of false generosity become desperate at the slightest threat to its source. "True generosity consists precisely in fighting to destroy the causes which nourish false charity. False charity constrains the fearful and subdued, the "rejects of life," to extend their trembling hands. True generosity lies in striving, so that these hands -whether of individuals or entire peoples - need be extended less and less in supplication, so that more and more they become human hands which work and, working, transform the world." - The Pedagogy of the Oppressed I came home from Belfast determined to replant myself where I was from. In the thirty years since—building housing, developing shelters, organizing tenants, working with exploited new arrivals to our land—I have seen our harsh North American society move in the direction of manufacturing more poor and vulnerable members, persons to be excluded, institutionalized, or repressed from our collective awareness—at home and abroad. Despite all this, I do not dismay. Gratitude keeps me going. — Ken Smith was the "pioneer" BVSer (1972-74) in Northern Ireland and served at the Agnes Street Community Centre in Belfast. Today he is the director of the Delaware Housing Coalition, a non profit organization that does advocacy and organizing around low-income housing issues.
Memories of a very important period in my life ...can it really have been that many years ago? So much happened in Belfast. In spite of the "troubles," life was simpler and it was easier to live the simple life there; I would love to go back to that. I went to Belfast to serve... but found that I was very often the one served. Living and working in Belfast through BVS truly was the beginning of an opening up for me on many levels. On a people level... living in Belfast was very much about people. The people of Northern Ireland are ordinary people filled with many contradictions. More important, however, is that they are an incredibly beautiful people with wide-open hearts and a unique sense of humor. On a spiritual level... in this land full of sacred spaces, I became consciously aware of how deeply I am connected to the earth, attuned to nature, and how this relates to my spiritual life. On a work level... I had the privilege of working with some amazing people and incredible groups, who dared to try some radically new and different approaches to resolve the "troubles" in Northern Ireland. I worked directly for two groups - two groups from opposite ends of the spectrum. My first project was working for the Irish Council of Churches, an ecumenical group that is part of the World Council of Churches, with members from all the Protestant denominations and a close working relationship with the Roman Catholic Churches. It was inspiring to work at the ICC Office and watch this group carefully follow formality and convention... yet at the same time they were prepared to recognize and work on pertinent issues of the day, digging deep into the cause and effect of these matters. It was during this time that Rev. W. J. Arlow conceived of and dared to organize a meeting between church leaders and some of the most wanted IRA (Irish Republican Army) members. In addition, Rev. Arlow, after that meeting, continued to meet with the paramilitary leaders on both sides—at great risk to his life. Rev. Arlow was very courageous and forward thinking and he was later named Canon of Peace by the Church of Ireland. It was very meaningful to be working in such an office. An important part of the office was meeting people and making endless cups of tea and coffee, which I thoroughly enjoyed. But it was the activities of the Irish Council of Churches and its subcommittees that made this experience such a rich one for me. After working for a group of clergymen, it was quite an experience to return to Belfast, after a brief time back in the States, to work for a totally different group - the New Ulster Political Research Group (NUPRG) a research group for the Ulster Defence Association (UDA). The NUPRG came into being because a few leaders in the UDA recognized that "violence was not getting the results for which they had hoped". It was amazing (and indeed hopeful) to hear one of the core beliefs of peace activists expressed by a paramilitary group. Key representatives of the UDA convinced the organization to take their men "off the streets." Under the guidance of Glen Barr, they then formed the NUPRG, spent 18 months in research, and developed a viable plan to resolve the "troubles." The NUPRG drew up a possible constitution and a bill of rights for the people of Northern Ireland. This constitution, based on consensus politics, called for negotiated independence for Northern Ireland - in which the loyalists would give up the link to the Crown and the republicans would give up the dream of a united Ireland. Thus, there would be no "winners" and no "losers" in this very detailed and carefully thought out plan. BVS was approached by the NUPRG to see if BVS would provide a secretary for their office. Through a long and careful process, the Church of the Brethren/BVS chose to support this endeavor. They agreed this was an opportunity for the Church of the Brethren to put its beliefs on pacifism into action. I was deeply honored when BVS, in turn, asked me to be that secretary. For me, too, this was about putting my personal beliefs on pacifism into action... and so I returned to Belfast. There were similarities and many differences in working for the NUPRG Office. In this office, contacts made could be very critical and having an American in the office was an asset, as this lent credibility to the neutral stance of the NUPRG. Therefore, just "being" there was an important part of this job. This was an incredible time for me... it was a time of testing my beliefs and understanding in a way I would never have thought possible. I came to admire these men "of violence" who now were putting their lives on the line in a very different way. By the very plan they were presenting, it was essential for them to talk to and work with the other side, thus putting their lives at even greater risk within their own organization, as well as the opposing ones. The NUPRG met with and were supported by a wide range of groups and a large number of people. Unfortunately, the British Government refused to talk with them, even after repeated requests, because of their connection with the UDA. Consequently, their members eventually became discouraged... and sadly their people began to shift back towards their original stance. Personally, I can't help but draw some very strong parallels to our present crisis. I firmly believe that all parties involved in conflict situations should be involved in discussions and their voices all need to be heard. For without open discussion and contact between all parties, how can there be any real or lasting solution? During my years in Belfast, I also had the privilege of working closely with Mairead Corrigan and Ciaran McKeown, two of the founding members of the Peace People. The Community of Peace People also stand out for having dared to explore untried paths, and under their leadership, the Peace People were courageous enough to seek answers to vital issues not generally touched by peace groups. The story of peace groups in Northern Ireland, however, would not be complete without mentioning that there were many groups and individuals working very diligently for peace. It was just that during the time I was there, the Peace People were working from a different perspective than most of the other groups. Local and community projects were one more aspect of my life in Belfast. The house I lived in became a community house owned by VSB (Voluntary Service Belfast), so I was involved in VSB, as well as BVS. We operated a small arts and crafts program from the house for the youth of our neighborhood, as well as frequently having VSB short term volunteers and BVSers first coming to Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland stay with us. On occasion, we took part in weekend outings for mixed groups of Catholic and Protestant young people. Through this and other avenues, I was privileged to be involved in the community in a number of ways. The Corrymeela Community was one of those avenues. Corrymeela is a non-sectarian group made up of religious leaders, lay leaders and young people involved in a number of community programs geared towards resolving problems and promoting peace; being part of that group was an enriching experience for me. So, the community work was another important part of my life in Belfast... it helped me keep in contact with people and in touch with their needs. I made and drew on a large circle of friends... many of these friendship have remained strong even though many years have passed since then. Living and working in Belfast made a huge impact on my life. In some ways, I found my roots there. I can only hope that I gave half as much as I received during my years in Belfast. - Ruby Stickel — Ruby Stickel served in Belfast from 1974-1976 and 1979-1981. Ruby was recently employed at the Department of Labor and Industry in Harrisburg, PA and has just retired. She will pursue her long time interests of holistic healing and environmental and peace work activities.
John Lawlor was a gentle man; he knew what it was to go to hell. As he lay on the couch, I studied his unassuming features: the shock of white hair, small rotund belly, slender legs in loose-fitting trousers and the deep crows feet at the corners of eyes that when opened radiated joyous life. I wondered how a man who exuded such peace could have ever suffered such horrible trauma. Belfast, Northern Ireland, was again troubled this night. Outside the door of the Lawlor home, the quiet streets of Ligoniel village were fractured with sounds of rioting. Sporadic gunfire exchanged with the British army barracks down the road, tense shouts of voices I did not recognize, and an all-pervasive tension that hung over the neighborhood created an air of surrealism in this otherwise peaceful living room scene. The small coal-burning fireplace glowed warmly as I listened to John's deep but quiet breathing. Just off the living room, in the tiny kitchen, I could hear May washing dishes and clearing up after the evening meal. I don't know where the boys were, upstairs I suppose. As I sat quietly, alone with John, I tried to see into the darker recesses of his mind in an attempt to imagine that horrible morning not so long ago. John and his fellows, as on many mornings before, were taking a tea break from their underground cable laying. The Quonset hut was filled with laughter over slightly ribald jokes and the smells of sweat, propane heaters and over-brewed tea. These men were brothers: some Catholic, some Protestant, and all friends. John's closest childhood buddy was with him. Tommy McCaffery and he had kicked the soccer ball up against shop walls when they were but wee lads. Tommy and Eileen double-dated with John and May when they were kids. When Tommy wanted to learn to dance the twist, John showed him how: "Tommy, just pretend you're puttin' out a cigarette with one foot forward at the same time as you're dryin' your bum with a towel, the way ya would shine your shoes!" Tom would try it but his size and stature always made him look awkwardly funny and they'd laugh. They always laughed so much, these two, "Big Tom" and "Wee John." When May and John married, Tommy was there. When the boys were born, Tommy was there. When work was scarce and times were tough, Tommy was there. And John was always there for him. Yes, these men loved each other with an intensity that the whole community recognized. While I thought of their friendship, the lyrics of a Bob Dylan tune rushed into my head: "I love ya more than life itself, ya mean that much to me." Even if Dylan had been singing that song on the radio that morning, no one would ever have been able to imagine what came next. Suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, masked gunmen barge in through the door of the Quonset hut. The peaceable laughter stills. These men, with balaclavas pulled down over their faces, order the Protestants to kneel. John and others believe these terrorists to be IRA and imagine the Protestant brothers will be summarily executed, paramilitary style-with bullets in the backs of their heads. "Wee John" faints. When he comes to he is lying in pools of blood with the bodies of his Catholic mates, "Big Tom" among them. His Protestant friends hug him and try to comfort him and, like him, wish they had been the ones to die. My thoughts were broken by the sound of Brendan entering the room. Bounding down the stairs, in his nylon navy-blue anorak with fake fir collar, the fifteen year old headed for the door, trying to look casual but attempting to hurry out before anyone could stop him. "I'm jus' goin' out fer a wee while..." he said. Before I could even think, John-whom I had assumed was asleep-was in motion. He leapt, catlike, for the hallway door and barred Brendan's exit with every inch of his five feet, six-inch frame. With arms spread, clutching the door casing, he told Brendan, "No son of mine's gonna take part in the likes of that!" "Ah Da..." the boy protested, "I was jus' goin' out ta see what's happenin'!" The white-haired leprechaun, with a flame of determination in his clear blue eyes that I had never before seen, simply said, "Over my dead body, ya will!" Their eyes locked for what seemed an amazingly long time but was, in reality, only seconds. Brendan's shoulders slumped and he retreated up the stairs, disappointed but knowing there was no point in further debate. I'm still amazed at how John and May managed to raise five boys in such a microscopic house, under such adverse social conditions, and have all five turn out so well. Some people go to hell and never make it back. Those who make it back often turn out to be beacons of light for the rest of us. I think maybe John's beacon helped light the paths of his sons; he certainly made mine brighter. When I first met John Lawlor, in 1975, it had been two years since the sectarian murders in the Quonset hut. I was a twenty-three year old hippie kid who had serendipitously stumbled into Belfast and ended up serving as a volunteer youth and community worker with Brethren Volunteer Service, an outreach ministry of the Church of the Brethren. John's four younger boys, Sean, Brendan, Mickey and Tommy, were members of the youth club in the predominantly Catholic neighborhood of Ligoniel where I lived and worked. Paul, the oldest son, was of working age and spent most of his time away from home. John and his family were some of the first people of Ligoniel who befriended me. During our nearly three years together I came to feel as though I were part of their family, indeed, like an older son. I spent a lot of time in the Lawlor home, and I had many intimate conversations with John and May. Many times, late at night, after the boys had gone to bed, the three of us talked. Sometimes John broke out his bottle of Irish whiskey and handed it to May. She poured a bit into glass mugs, mixed in brown sugar and hot black coffee, then slowly poured rich double cream over the back of a spoon, the tip of which was barely touching the surface of the coffee. This way the cream floated on top, separated from the steaming hot, dark, delicious elixir below. As we sat, sipping the hot liquor, we shared more than Irish coffee. Sometimes they counseled me, patiently listening to my petty trials and tribulations. Other times, I was present to them and listened to their story. It was during moments like these, when I came to truly know and love John Lawlor. After the massacre and Tommy McCaffery's murder, John struggled to choose life. He drew back from friends and family; for many months he became impotent and could not make love to the woman he loved so dearly; his marriage nearly collapsed. Work became unbearable and whiskey was too often his best friend. In my own life struggles over whether to choose non-violence, life or death, I have remembered John Lawlor. He was a man who had ample reason to hate, to blame, to fear, to give up, to choose death, to escape into alcoholic stupor. And yet, he chose life. On numerous occasions I heard him counsel his sons never to give in to hate, always to love their fellow human beings. "Whether he's black, white, red, yellow or blue-Protestant, Catholic, Hindu or Jew-if ya can't look a man in the eye and see he's your brother, then yer in the dark, boy; sure ya are now!" John spoke on behalf of the connectedness of all human kind. Henri Nouwen, one of my favorite theologians, said that we all have a choice about how we live our lives. We can live in the house of fear: blaming others and grabbing what we can out of life and hoarding it. Or, we can live in the house of love: recognizing our common brokenness with the rest of humanity, even our perceived enemies, and choosing to share willingly what gifts the creator has given us. John Lawlor chose to live in the house of love. He reconnected with his community and his family. John once again became active as a youth leader and helped give life to the neighborhood through volunteer activities. Sunday night dances at the Parochial Hall were joyous occasions, thanks to John and his "mates." Rather than seek revenge and take life from others, he chose to give life. Rather than escape into the death of paranoia and separation, he chose to reach out and live. People loved John because he loved them. I will never forget John Lawlor on that night when Brendan came bounding down those stairs-and what he stood for. While some in our city were being overwhelmed by fear and anger, John refused to allow himself or his loved ones to be sucked into the spiral of violence. I look at the political/social fabric of Northern Ireland over the past years and I ask myself: "What is it that makes for peace?" Yes, the strife is not over; there is much peacemaking yet to do. But there have been significant changes and Northern Irish friends tell me that, overall, there is less tension, less violence and more justice. So, what is it that has made for peace? Political leadership, negotiations, economic change, paramilitary and military actions and concessions are all part of the story. However, I believe that, ultimately, it has been the actions of people like John Lawlor that have truly made for peace. It is John, and people like him, who have said: "Enough!" People who have stood their ground in the midst of chaos and offered a sense of order. People who have decided that they will not participate in the destruction of life around them, even if their own lives may be taken from them. People who, like A.J. Muste the Christian peacemaker and social activist, have said: "There is no way to peace, peace is the way." I've seen these people in Northern Ireland. I've seen them in war-torn Sudan, in East Africa. I've seen them in the rural landscape of Southern Oregon-wherever there may be strife of some kind or a threat to one's sense of personal security. During times of war and intense nationalistic fervor, when the masses were ready to kill and destroy anyone they perceived as their "enemy," I have seen these other people, these John Lawlors. These people of conscience are precious gifts to the rest of us; they create for us a picture of what might be; they give us hope and tell us that we do not have to hate any longer; we do not have to live in fear. In fact, if we are to live at all, we must choose to live in love. Since leaving Northern Ireland I've seen John Lawlor once and talked with him by telephone once. We've had very little written correspondence; both of us have become overwhelmed with the daily challenges of raising a family. However, I feel as though we have never been apart. If we made contact tomorrow, it would seem as if there has been no separation of time or distance. I will one day tell him how grateful I am to him for being present to me in my life. Why have I not done so before now? Perhaps because I am, only now, the age John was then. Perhaps because, only now, do I have children the age that John's were then. I look around me and I see a society full of people who seem to fear, people who are afraid that they might lose what little they think they have: security, material wealth, physical well being or youthful vitality, perceived power. I myself struggle between a desire to live on the edge, giving myself to others-and a desire to be comfortable. John Lawlor is one who chose not to retreat into comfort and self-absorption. One, who chose not to live in fear, obsessed with "them and us" mindsets. One who seemed to say: "I love ya more than life itself, ya mean that much to me." May I never forget my common brokenness with the rest of humanity and my connectedness with all creation. And may I never forget John Lawlor, a man whose heart is as big as life itself.
- John Jones — John Jones and his wife Margaret are co-managers of Camp Myrtlewood, a Church of the Brethren camp in southern Oregon. John served as a BVSer from 1975-77 at the Ligoniel Youth Club. Margaret, originally from Switzerland, was in BVS from 1974 to 1977 at the Agnes Street Community Center. While at the Youth Club John "taught crafts, worked with seniors, and whatever else came up. One of the best things I did on a regular basis was get out of my house on Tuesday nights so that a group of young mothers could move in and do pottery - and have their own space."
But life was certainly different with the level of security that existed 1983 to 1985. Fairly early in my assignment I remember getting used to being frisked and having my bags checked before entering a store or the downtown areas. This was confirmed when I took a trip into the Republic of Ireland (which is a separate country) and waited to be frisked/have my bag checked. When it didn't happened I remember there was once a time I would have been uncomfortable with being frisked and having my bags checked. There was another occasion when I was having dinner with a friend, when the waitress ran to the table, said something, and my friend ran out of the restaurant. I was baffled, and tried to pay the waitress. That's when she told me there had been a bomb threat and told me to leave. I worked in Belfast along the Peace Line. This was a large metal wall separating Catholic and Protestant Neighborhoods. I felt comfortable crossing the line because I knew there would be no question once I opened my mouth and my accent was recognized. People were very friendly. Yet being new to the climate, customs, and language was a challenge. I remembering having a head cold which lasted for months. I also had difficulty understanding the language, even though we technically speak the same language. It wasn't until I had been there a year, when many of my friends started saying, "I never liked an American before." It was about this time I started to love my friends and experience in Northern Ireland. I knew it would be difficult returning to the USA. I missed home and missed my family, yet I loved living in Belfast. It was hard leaving, and for years I had dreams of being in Belfast with my friends. - Peg Gibble — Peg Gibble worked in Belfast with the Family Center for a year, and then with the Irish Council of Churches as well as with Corrymeela in her second year. Today she lives in Elgin IL and is a licensed clinical social worker. For the last fifteen years she has worked at the Elgin Mental Health Center, and has for thirteen years worked as a counselor in private counseling. Peg is a single parent of three children. I got your letter to former BVSers in Northern Ireland and Ireland and figured it was time to get off my duff and send greetings. I don't know if I can add any memories except getting pregnant a few months into my service at Conflict Mediation Network. You and everyone at CMN were so kind to me. I wonder how the organization and individuals are doing. Also, what's up with you! My baby born in Belfast is now 10. Theo's sweet and searching - with a little bit of naughtiness because that just seems important when one is 10. Will is 8 and funny. I don't think he's eaten any animals (except for eggs in cake) in his life. His brother on the other hand.... We're getting ready to move to Virginia. Steve's going to work at the University of VA in Charlottesville. I was ready to move to someplace else in the world but he likes the USA. Fort Wayne has been a good place and I have grown. I think making it to Louisville (CoB annual conference) might be difficult but I'd love to see you. Maybe something will work itself out. I'd love to go to Belfast! Thanks for keeping me on your mailing list! Love, Amy Coursen
Before leaving for Northern Ireland, an esteemed professor of Peace and Global Studies at Earlham College, Tony Bing, gave me the following advice: "Don't drink, and if you do drink, don't talk politics!" A few weeks later, my first night in Belfast, Gil (another BVSer) takes me into this bar on the Falls Road. "Don't tell Kristin I brought you here, she would kill me!" A few pints later someone asks me what I am doing in Ireland, "what, you work for the Peace People?" It didn't take long for Mr. Bing's advice to go out the window, everyone weighed in on the IRA, the Republic, the Loyalists, and what they all thought of the Peace People, which wasn't much. It was Northern Ireland 101, not that it did me any good. The only thing I specifically remember was trying to get some guy to trade coats. I guess I'll start with the barn I lived in for one of the years I was there. No insulation, no plumbing, a small electric heater; the barn was surrounded on three sides by lush green cow pasture and set just behind the vegetable garden. Everyone thought I was a bit odd for actually wanting to live in the barn and they were right, it fulfilled a strange fantasy I'd had for a while. The animals made a lasting impression on me; we had geese, goats, chickens, ducks, a donkey and a pony. Taking care of goats is a good way of serving penance for crimes committed in past lives; they also teach you humility. Somehow every morning Clover managed to either kick over the bucket of milk I just got from her, or stick her nasty goat-poop covered hoof in it. I still have a vivid memory of Rebecca getting away from me one day. Before I could catch her, she had nipped in half the majority of young trees an international work camp had planted the week before. You would think that she'd just go to the closest one and start eating it. Nope, she ran by each one just stopping long enough to bite it in half. If I was ever feeling down all I had to do was go watch the chickens, they would always crack me up. If you've ever hung out with a group of free-range chickens, you know what I mean. They are just so goofy. Every animal had a distinct personality (animality?). Someday I hope I can have the opportunity to live in a place where I can take care of farm animals again. When I was a volunteer at Kilcranny, Anne Cummings ran the place. It took me a while but I really grew to appreciate and respect Anne and her work at the farm. Kilcranny had the reputation in the community for being a weird vegetarian commune. (The longhaired hippie wanna-be living in the barn didn't do much to convince people otherwise). Anne was the antithesis of weird veggie commune and worked very hard to convince the community and world that Kilcranny House was a legit conference center. (Although there was the time when I returned to the farm from a day off, earlier than expected, and found Anne sunbathing in the garden, topless. I only caught a glimpse of her from the back as she flew into the farmhouse.) After as while I came to realize that Kilcranny was about balance and extremes coming together. Anne and I in some ways represented that. I wanted to grow organic veggies and create the perfect compost heap. Anne wanted to run a successful business and be respected by our patrons. Kilcranny needed both of these elements to succeed. I recently heard that Anne isn't running Kilcranny anymore, and I have a hard time imagining the place without her at the helm.
Then there was the time I was walking home after a late night in Coleraine. I was cutting through our neighbor's cow pasture when I got the chilly sensation of being followed. When I turned around, not 20 feet away standing frozen in her tracks was one of our neighbor's cows. I think she really thought that I couldn't see her and that she was sneaking up on me. I swear every time I continue to walk, she started also, matching my pace exactly. It really started to freak me out, so finally I turned around and walked backwards the rest of the way home, as she stood frozen in the middle of the field, confused, wondering how her prey could have slipped away from her like that. To this day whenever I do a job resume, I include "able to outsmart cows." Northern Ireland represents so many things for me. I hope I get the chance to go back someday. - Dave Meredith — Dave Meredith served in 1992-94 as the second BVS volunteer at the Kilcranny House farm in Coleraine, Northern Ireland, which at the time was connected to the Peace People movement. Today he is the Community Recreation Coordinator for the City of Richmond (IN) Parks and Recreation Department, where he runs the city's largest free summer camp, shows free outdoor movies, coordinates classes, workshops, and clubs. "Yes, it's a pretty cool job, but what I really want to be is a fireman."
I was the first BVSer at the Peace and Reconciliation Group, a peace group in Derry/Londonderry, a city in the northwest of Northern Ireland. After a year of preparations, my coworkers and myself were facilitating our cross-cultural (Protestant and Catholic) youth group to go on a 10 day exchange to Germany. It was the first exchange our group had organized. By the time we went on the exchange I had worked for a year in Northern Ireland and was versed in the nuances that make up life there—what colors it's OK or not OK to wear, where to say the full name of my city (Londonderry) and where to say the shortened version (Derry), where to take a black taxi and where not to... I knew this. But in one word I realized that I was no onlooker, neutral party sitting on a fence, trying to help "them" bridge their differences-I had come smack-dab into the reality of my own prejudice. The incident: well, it's a long story culminating in me calling a young man in our cross-cultural youth group "sectarian." This is the equivalent of calling someone in a diverse group a "racist." My utterance of one word in this situation was enough to jeopardize my project's history of cross-cultural work, not to mention endangering the success of the exchange trip to Germany we were about to go on. Really. The young man's parents (I had unknowingly said this to the stepson of a prominent local politician) called the next day to threaten to take him out of the program, and to spread the word that we were cross-cultural in name only. I made apologies to the young man, to his parents, to the group, and to my coworkers. In my studies on the process of intercultural education I keep running up on the idea of the experience of intercultural interactions as a process, rather than an end—especially our awareness of this process and our interactions. This incident, in full door-hit-me-on-the-butt way, knocked the self-serving, American peacemaker right out of me. I wasn't the altruistic youth group leader, but true participant in this experiment that we were undertaking. I didn't have the answers, I wasn't sure of the questions, but I was there. Participating. Sharing. Making gigantic mistakes. Learning something in the process. The exchange to Germany went brilliantly, by the way. The young man held no apparent grudge against me and even formed a cross-cultural romance with a young woman on the trip. Mostly, we learned a lot from it (such as not to take youth that are of legal drinking age on early morning outings). PRG has its third BVSer now? — Mysti Roberts first went with BVS to Poland to teach English in 1996 but transferred after a year to the Peace and Reconciliation Group in Londonderry/Derry (1997-98). Today she is in St. Paul MN in graduate studies in "experiential education," which she says is a "fancy-schmancy term for 'learning by doing,' or hands-on activities, field trips, service projects, and educational exchanges. I returned in September 2001 from nearly three years of Brethren Volunteer Service at the L'Arche Kilkenny Community, in the Republic of Ireland. I felt led to be a part of this residential community, where assistants from various countries share daily life with the adult core members with developmental disabilities. While the community is a service provider, consisting of three houses and two workshop areas, it is also a faith community in which those who work and live together nurture and support each other. For most of my time in the community, I lived in a house called "An Siol", which means "the seed" in Irish. The core members who opened their home to me were Helen, Mary, Paddy and Joseph. Through their close presence, I also recognized God touching my life. It was not in big, life-changing ways, but in smaller moments, looks, words, or songs. As we tried, with the other house assistants, to live peaceably together, there were points of struggle, of clashing personalities and moods. But there were also times of laughing, fun, singing and prayer. Without these moments of sharing our joy and faith in life, we couldn't have made it through the harder times. I am so grateful for my friends, through whom God's love has been made real to me. Janice Gibbel (Janice wrote recently: I am now working! In March I got a job as a program specialist in an adult development services program. It is in a day program for adults with mental retardation, which offers prevocational and community living skills training, and recreation and leisure activities. I have a caseload of maintaining the paperwork for half of the clients in the program, but am also involved in the daily group leading of small groups in each of the three areas - vocational, comm. living skills, and rec. and leisure. So it's been a lot to learn, but a good mix of interaction and paperwork.)
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