Gaining Perspective in a Belfast Taxi

by Janet Clancy-Feliciano
On the morning of January 2, 2016, I found myself in Belfast, Northern Ireland, exploring the streets and visiting St. George’s Market. The vendors there seemed relaxed and friendly this chilly, rainy morning, as did those of us perusing their booths. Two young women played guitar and sang songs by Simon and Garfunkel as people sat sipping their coffees and eating their crepes, chatting together while their bundled up children danced to the music. You could see your breath in the air, but the mood was warm.

By lunchtime, I was hailing a cab to take me to the airport to catch the shuttle to Derry. Like the people at St. George's Market, the short, silver-haired taxi driver was gracious and friendly. He was older, maybe around 65 or 70 years old. He asked me about my morning and we nattered on about the market and where I'm from and how fast 2015 went by. His right hand was nearly covered by a large dark tattoo of some type of bird. He asked me why I was headed to Derry. I told him I was studying peace-building and I'd be staying in Derry for a while to do so. In that moment, his demeanor completely changed.

Our eyes locked as he looked at me in the rear-view mirror. He practically demanded to know why I would leave Belfast to do my studying. Why would I study only in “Londonderry”? He was incredulous, saying, “You’ll only get one side of the story there, you know.” The rest of the short ten-minute drive was filled with the driver telling me about how he had been shot in the leg in one of the conflicts. There hadn’t been any use in filing any charges because, “You could go to court four times for the same crime and get four different outcomes. Justice was never served and it just wasn’t worth it.” He told me to watch for road signs during my bus trip. The signs that say “Londonderry” would have white paint covering the “London” part. This is how the nickname “Stroke City” came about, he explained – from the white stroke of paint over the “London” portion.

The taxi driver shook his head, comparing my studying in Derry to someone who might spend all her time only in the American South studying the civil war. He made it very clear: there are two sides to every story and by only going to Derry, I would only get one side of this one. His exasperated voice and continued eye contact with me in the rear view mirror while he drove sent a powerful message that the Troubles in Northern Ireland are indeed still simmering under the surface of a delicate and fragile peace accord. A great number of people in this city continue to live with their own vivid memories of very real violence and conflict from the not too distant past. My eyes were opened.

As we pulled into the shuttle area, he seemed to morph back into the friendly taxi driver I met at the beginning of our drive. In a fatherly way, he told me where to go to get my ticket and how much it should cost. He cautioned me not to step in the puddle as I got out of the car and he pulled my suitcase from the trunk. He thanked me as I paid the fare, and with a sweet smile said, “Okay, off you go. Have a safe trip, Love.”