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I was invited on BBC Radio in Belfast this week to talk about the meaning of reconciliation in and about northern Ireland (you can listen here), and the paradox was clear: in a society emerging from civil conflict and violence, often the people who are asked to do more than anyone else for reconciliation are the ones who have already lost the most. And “reconciliation” itself may not be the most accurate term, because we were never “conciled” in the first place. At least not in the sense we mean when we’re talking about what we usually call “the real world” - there’s something far deeper than “politics” and “society” and “culture” going on beneath the surface. I do find it appealing to believe that we came from a garden in which everything was in harmony, and that we will eventually return to that garden. We need to tell this story, and live it, even when the surface headlines push us to despair. Especially when they do that.
But whether the garden we hope for is Joni Mitchell’s vision or whoever wrote the Book of Genesis, the circumstances into which each of were born did not look like like Edenic union - our socioeconomic and political structures often tend to separate people from gift, from peace, from resources, from each other. Those structures are based on stories, of course - stories like the story of rugged individualism, or manifest destiny, or get one over on them before they get one over on you. Stories that say some lives are worth more than others. The lethal violence in northern Ireland depended on that story - that taking someone else’s life could be worth it, if some greater political end could be achieved. Our peace process shows that it is possible to pursue the same political ends without resorting to taking life - in fact, the possibility of collaboration toward the common good itself depends on a commitment by all parties to not use violence for political purposes.
We could - and should - spend time exploring the meaning of the word “political”, and even the word “violence”, but in the most basic sense, the conflict in and about the north of Ireland has been transformed by a recognition, however tentative, that every legitimate point of view must be welcomed to the table, and divided societies that permit one community to dominate another do not serve anyone’s real needs. Note that I did not say the conflict has been resolved - but transformed. People still hold their zero sum beliefs, but no political party advocates the use of violence to perpetuate them. That’s the first step toward the garden: one of the principles of the northern Irish peace agreement is that we have committed to not use physical violence to achieve political ends; but we’re still stuck on how to deal with the legacy of the past.
No one has a magic wand, but not addressing the psychological and spiritual needs of wounded people is going to inflict more harm. If you make victims and survivors the ones who are most responsible for reconciliation, you’re harming them again. The people who are most responsible for reconciliation are the people responsible for creating the harm in the first place. And I recognize that that is not what the real world often looks like - often it is, both here and in other similar societies that people who have suffered the most have been the ones at the forefront of compromise and of giving things a better landing than they could have had - but just because that has happened in other places doesn’t mean that it should be the thing that is coerced here. Or anywhere.
These past few years many of us have felt more concerned than ever about elected politics - but whether our “team” was in charge or not, there’s only so much elected politics can do - which is where storytellers and storytelling communities like The Porch come in.
Even after the upheaval of recent times, even after shocking events in the world at large and traumatizing ones in my own life, even after deep grief and depression, even after some experiences that threatened to shatter my confidence or leave me in a permanent state of anxiety, and a contagious concern that no one is in charge after all, I still believe that stories are going to shape our reality whether they’re true or not, so if you want a better world, tell a better story.
That only sounds naive if you’ve never seen it work.
And I have - in a society that thought we would never move beyond the zero-sum repetitive tragedy I was born into, and had been permeating our society for 800 years or more. I won’t pretend that we’re in Eden. But a combination of exhaustion, conscience and good will brought our people to the conclusion that collaboration and consent are better than domination and coercion, even for those who had a taste for being on top. We evolved a new story, exchanging the idea that we were a divided land for the story that we were a people divided by history. But history is of course a story; and that story does not have to be a prison. We could reimagine the people living in Northern Ireland, or the north of Ireland, or “this place”. We could acknowledge that we had suffered in order to try to keep or claim it. We had believed the lie that one tribe always has to win, but we could now imagine ourselves as stewards of a beautiful and gifted place, and we might even be able to share it. There would be pain to tend to, and the legacy of violence, injustice, and fear. But we were now inventing a story building on the stories told in other places where such was imagined elsewhere.
The fact that one night this week representatives of four of the five main northern Irish political parties could attend a public conversation about LGBTQ+ stories, and that each party would speak respectfully of the other is just the most recent manifestation of this dream coming true. This can happen in other places too.
The dream is still interrupted by periodic nightmares. Terrible things still happen. And people who have experienced terrible things in the past still deal with the consequences. But a story is being lived out that offers shelter, and the possibility of healing. I’m not kidding. I’ve seen it work.
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And this story is bigger than the story of where I happen to be from. This month’s Porch essays belong beautifully in the laboratory of experimentation toward a better story. More than that, they help us experience the thing that is better than a better story (see last month’s Porch newsletter for more of what I mean): sit with Donna Schaper’s wry piece about how to respond to catastrophe without making it worse, and you’ll find the presence of wisdom; gaze at (and listen to) Ted Lyddon Hatten’s exquisite images and words in Strike Anywhere and you’ll find the presence of beauty; take time with Indigo Girls Amy Ray’s and Emily Saliers’ conversation about life, art, prejudice, and spirituality, and you’ll find the presence of love. The unifying aim of our work together is not actually a better story, although it can’t hurt. What we’re aiming for is presence; and presence is at the beginning too. So whatever you’re facing or celebrating today, from this chair and desk looking down toward a cloudy-sunny Belfast Lough, from this mingling of gratitude, sadness, joy, uncertainty, connection, hope, concern, and commitment to the idea that you may never know when a story really means, especially when you’re in it, I send you gratitude for reading, and wish you the gift of presence.
Gareth
PS: If you want to explore how a better story, and a deeper presence can happen wherever you are too, then please join us at the Porch Gathering, our annual festival-retreat of transformative storytelling, which takes place near Asheville, NC, March 7th-10th, 2024. We'll be announcing details and opening registration soon - in the meantime you can read about this past year’s gathering at www.theporchgathering.com. Save the date, and we’ll email you when tickets are available.
