We are all opinionated. Ask us a question about politics, religion, football or food and you will get an answer. We will know what we think. We will be reasonably sure that we are right about our answer, and will be prepared to put some backings into it, with a debate, argument or as too many people do, to violence.
Imagine that, an opinion that was formed without even thinking why it was there, resulting in taking a weapon and murdering someone, and in many cases, anyone.
Growing up in Northern Ireland this was the bedrock of the Troubles. Protestant and Catholic, Unionist and Republican, passed down from one generation to the next without any thought. Arriving in children’s minds as it had their parents. Overriding the teaching of the religions that were professed and worshipped on a Sunday, but which had no hold on the mindset if politics and bigotry were on the scene.
So I thought about it. Why was I a Unionist, a Protestant? And that thought took me to a new understanding. I had no idea. I was a teenager, I had called people by hateful names. I had lost my best friend from Adelaide Park, because he was in the same place but on a different side of a non existent fence. We literally walked down opposite sides of the park, ignoring each other, for eight or nine years. I had supported violence if perpetrated by “my” side, if only in my head when hearing the news. I had used rhymes that celebrated death. So why?
Because that is what I had learned. Been infiltrated with, indoctrinated, infused. With all the analytical capability of a small child. Been taken to Church, where we were Protestant, while Michael went to Chapel. We had a service, he had a mass. But neither of us was taught that both religions were fine and dandy and there was no reason to think otherwise. Transsubstantiation was not on the agenda after singing Jesus Loves Me.
So I started thinking. Not much, but tied in with not wanting to get up on Sunday mornings and putting on clothes that were no longer acceptable to my cool teen self, I had to come up with a reason to stop Church. By now we were at 1973 and hundreds of people had died or been seriously injured in Belfast. Bombs had exploded while I was sitting in classrooms in the city centre. Gunfire could be heard across the city, even in the “leafy suburbs” of the Malone Road (in actuality a mere ten minutes drive from some of the conflict areas.) Riots and violence were not even headlines, they were the norm. We were cautious coming home from school as there were gangs in skinners and DMs with skinhead cuts wearing tartans that identified them as, well, scary.
So the thinking brought me to religion. What Christian could justify any of this? How could my father use sectarian language so easily, then put on the Sunday best and go to Malone Presbyterian Church? How could I break free of the casual bigotry of my house, where the Orange Order was accepted without question?
And so a life in thinking started. Why being the most challenging Question, but the one that forced the most investigation. It led to books, questions, interests, ideas and an education supported by formal study, but driven by the people that I meet.
Thinking about Things... 