Ordinary people keep the world turning

On an early autumn morning, our milkman greets me: "Did you see the sun shining through the mountain ash leaves? I wish I was an artist!" We stood for a moment and marveled at this wondrous sight, ordinary people sharing a moment in the midst of everyday lives.

We had the great privilege to travel to Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland late this summer. Our time in Belfast, while brief, was challenging and disturbing. We were also graced by moments with ordinary people.

We had arrived by bus and wanted to walk to our downtown hostel located in an old linen factory, once a mainstay of the Belfast economy. There were several taxi drivers waiting outside the station who laughingly tried to coax us for a ride saying, "Oh, that s a mile away. We declined with smiles, saying we wanted to stretch our legs and get the feel of their city.

Our first glimpse that Belfast was not an ordinary city was the pub across from the hostel. It had a wire cage around the entrance. Patrons had to be buzzed in. I shuddered as I remembered hearing stories of bombings and deaths in pubs.

In the morning, my husband slipped out to find a spot for breakfast. while I did laundry at the hostel. He never got breakfast but he did have a Belfast experience. It was called the "last Saturday" march of the marching season. Thousands of people took part in the procession of The Royal Black Perceptory, established in 1797 in the aftermath of a conflict between Catholic and Protestant farmers near Derry in 1795.

We signed up at the hostel for a "Black Taxi Tour" of the Belfast murals in the Shankhill and Falls Road neighbourhoods. Our driver told us that the only way he and his fellow drivers could take us into these two communities was to commit to telling the stories fairly. It is one of the ways that ordinary Belfast citizens try to foster understanding. Even with that promise, he said. "we have lost 21 drivers during the 30 years of The Troubles." The Shankhill is the base of the loyalist citizens while the Falls Road is the base of the Nationalist citizens.

When we stood in the open area of the Shankhill housing development, he said. "it's not about the religion, it's about the land and who controls it."

We heard stories of violence among factions in each community, violence between the two communities, violence between the British forces and the two communities, violence between the Belfast police and the two communities. We heard about ordinary people getting killed in the crossfire and the grief that ensued, hardening some hearts and motivating others to work for peace and understanding. We learned how children are impacted growing up in the violence. Some are also schooled in their differences and past injustices and patterned to follow their parents into the paramilitaries to keep up the straggle.

But I want to tell you how we ended our time in the North. After a few days along the Antrim Coast, we headed back into Belfast to catch the bus to Dublin. We had to find a petrol station and return the rental car. My husband dropped me off at a different entrance to the bus station so I could find our bus and stand in line. Whom should I see but the taxi drivers we met the first day! I went over to chat with them.

Leaving the North, we would not need British currency, as the Republic uses Euros. I decided to offer them a couple of pounds each as a way to say "Thank you to Belfast for all we learned." They declined, saying: "Buy yourself a cup of tea, luv, it's a long bus ride."

I thought about these ordinary men, doing ordinary jobs, just like my milkman who wished he was artist. We often can have little impact on the big events that catch us in our moment of history, but we each have the power to share a smile, a kindness or the wonder of the moment.

Kate Quinn writes from Edmonton.

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