No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.
NELSON MANDELA
I WAS BORN in Derry City, Northern Ireland, a beautiful border town in the North West of Ireland. Yet throughout my childhood, my town was filled with tension and violence that began when I was about eight years old. I grew up in the midst of a war that became known in Ireland as “the Troubles.”
Ours was a story of neighboring people wanting different things and being unable to find common ground. The Catholics desired independence from the United Kingdom, hoping to become part of the Republic of Ireland (Republicans); while the Protestants wanted to remain a part of the United Kingdom (Loyalists). Both sides harbored animosity, distrust, and prejudice toward each other.
When the violence between the communities began to escalate, the British army arrived. But before long, it became clear that those sent in to establish peace became an army of occupation, and the conflict only increased with their presence.
As children, we would sometimes get detoured on our way home from school because of bomb scares or gun battles. We learned from an early age to hide behind cars and walls, quickly becoming little experts on telling how close the gunfire was. If it was a loud crack, you better take cover quickly; if it was more muted, you were probably safe for the moment and could continue on your way home.
We lived on the same street as John and Pat Hume. John was one of the great politicians of the day and was instrumental in bringing peace to Northern Ireland, and went on to win the Nobel Peace Prize. My mother and Pat became great friends, and their young daughter Mo was named after my mother.
Not long after my beloved mom passed away, I went to the cemetery to put flowers on her grave for Mother’s Day. It was chilly and damp, and the wind blew sharply on the hillside where she was buried. I had bundled up in my favorite red woolen cape, with fake fur trim, to protect me from the sharp chill in the air. I was with my Auntie Ruby, my mother’s only sister, and we brought with us some beautiful pansies, my mother’s favorite flower.
But when I returned how my eyes have burned
To see how a town could be brought to its knees
By the armoured cars and the bombed-out bars
And the gas that hangs on to every breeze.
Now the army’s installed by the old gasyard wall
And the damned barbed wire gets higher and higher
With their tanks and their guns, oh my God, what have they done
To the town I loved so well.
Phil Coulter
My eyes were filled with tears as I placed this small offering by her tombstone. Her absence in my life had broken my heart, and as we stood by her graveside, I missed her so desperately I could hardly breathe. I longed to hear her laughter and the sound of her voice calling my name. I ached to feel the warmth and safety of her arms around me. I didn’t know if my mother could see me, if she could see the flowers I had so carefully selected for her. I longed to have her back.
My auntie’s hand was on my shoulder when we heard the first loud gunshot. We both dropped to the ground instinctively, but this area of the cemetery offered no protection. A wide, lonely hillside on a cold afternoon. And here I was, wearing a bright red cape.
My aunt pulled me to my feet and we began to run to see if we could find a large gravestone to duck behind. The shots rang out, and we saw a few others running for cover in the area around us.
“Get down, get down where you are!” a man yelled at us, seeing my bright red cape and realizing how much of a target it made me.
My aunt pulled me to the ground, just as we both smelled a scent like burned hair. She covered me with her body as we lay on the cold, wet earth, praying for protection and hoping that the battle would end.
Finally, the shooting stopped, and after we were certain it was over, we cautiously picked ourselves up off the ground and embraced in gratitude. Then, with my hand tight in hers, Auntie Ruby hurried me down the hill toward the safety of home.
As soon as we opened the front door, I ran to our kitchen, tears streaming down my face, to find my dad.
He held me close as my aunt told him what had happened.
He rubbed my back, calming me down. But then he grabbed the hood of my cape and said, “Ruby, come look at this.”
And there, on the fake fur trim of my hooded red cape, was a large singed hole where a bullet had narrowly missed my head.
“Oh, thanks be to God,” gasped my aunt as my father nodded. “Yes, thanks be to God indeed.”
Years later, when Della heard that story, she said, “There were angels watching over you that day, baby.” That is for sure.
Growing up in such troubled times planted in me the desire to work toward creating peace in the world.
The River Foyle divides Derry; and as the Troubles escalated, the communities on either side of the river became more and more segregated. It broke my heart to see our town split in two. So much anger and fear and sadness and loss on both sides. But my dad refused to give up hope. He always looked for ways to build bridges. He always spoke of tolerance and love. He taught me that we should reach out to each other in neighborly love and support.
You’ve got to be taught to hate and fear,
You’ve got to be taught from year to year,
It’s got to be drummed in your dear little ear
You’ve got to be carefully taught!
You’ve got to be taught to be afraid
Of people whose eyes are oddly made,
And people whose skin is a different shade
You’ve got to be carefully taught.
You’ve got to be taught before it’s too late,
Before you are six or seven or eight,
To hate all the people your relatives hate
You’ve got to be carefully taught!
RICHARD RODGERS AND OSCAR HAMMERSTEIN II
In those years, I listened to the music of Simon and Garfunkel and replayed their cassette over and over. They sang of a bridge over troubled water. Clearly we needed that in our community—and indeed we would rejoice to finally see a new Peace Bridge opened over the River Foyle in 2011. But back in the 1970s, my dad encouraged me to explore how we each could be that bridge in our own lives. How we could be angels of peace in the lives of others if only we were willing to let God use us. My dad reminded me that we just needed to have the eyes to see the opportunities and the openness of heart to see each calling to love. He taught me to pray and to ask God for His guidance in my life.
I always remember my father saying, “Love is a verb.” Quiet by nature, he was more prone to performing small acts of kindness than peppering you with words of adoration. He was a thoughtful man, and I adored him. After my mother’s death, I became more attached to him than ever. He was a schoolmaster, and later ran a mortgage-loan company; and in our predominantly working-class neighborhood, he was very well respected—not just because he had a college education and wore a shirt and tie every day but because he was never condescending to people. He was respectful and kind; and even though people in our community called each other by their first names, my dad remained Mr. Downey to many. He volunteered to teach grown men in our community to read and write, yet did this discreetly to allow these men their pride and privacy. He was always seeking to help the world in little ways. And his acts of kindness spread far and wide.
His example has been an inspiration to me my entire life. It has caused me to commit to treating people with kindness and respect and to be on the lookout for ways to brighten someone’s day. It’s easy to get busy and forget to share simple kindnesses, but I know from experience that little acts of compassion add up to a life of great significance.
I’ve learned that people will forget what
you said, people will forget what
you did, but people will never forget
how you made them feel.
MAYA ANGELOU