Volume is such an integral part of communication that we sometimes overlook it. Since arriving in Ireland, however, I’m reminded just how important it can be.
Last week, on various occasions as I toured the Republic, at least a dozen people asked about the study I was about to pursue. One example serves to illustrate what had become a typical exchange.
As I awaited the bus from Dublin to Derry, a fellow traveler to another city (a kind-faced Irishwoman in her late 50s) sat beside me on the rain-covered bench. We soon struck up a friendly conversation. The mellow, easy-paced lilt of her accent revealed she likely hailed not from Ulster, but from rural Leinster, the southeastern region of the Emerald Isle. As conversations often do, ours began with topics like the weather and the questionable reliability of public transportation, then flowed into talk of our respective homes and families. Our tone was light; our comments and laughter at one another’s witty sarcasm fully audible by anyone within thirty feet of us.
Eventually, though, she asked the reason of my trip to the North. When I told her it was to study how the people of Derry are working to move beyond the Troubles, the feel of our conversation instantly shifted.
She drew in closer to me, placed a maternal hand on my forearm, and lowered her voice to a near-whisper. “Oh, my dear, sure Peace is a noble thing to be studyin’…but let’s pray we’ve really seen th’ end of all the bloodshed. I mean we jus’ doan know, do we? I was only a girl when th’ terrible row started up, but I’m here to tell yeh it started up in no time aht’all. And it ken agin, if a few o’dem are after gettin’ a vangeful notion in dehr heads.”
Time and again, when strangers learned my purpose in the North, this process had repeated itself. Their volume would drop and they’d lean in close, as if talk of the Troubles was not something to be heard by casual passers-by. Here in Derry, those hushed tones often can be reduced to utter silence, as some folks don’t seem to be comfortable even acknowledging the past out loud.
And yet, across this city’s history, the volume of the situation hasn’t always been a whisper, nor has it been silent. Indeed, the roar of the cannon along the bastions, the angry sermons and protests, the concussion of bombs, the squeals of ambulance sirens, the screams of people shot or beaten…these have been anything but quiet. Hate, mistrust, fear and anger can produce a cacophony.
I’m hopeful that this fragile, budding Dialogue of Peace we're witnessing can find that its voice can be loud enough to compete.
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