Beyond The Story

I didn’t have a real understanding of the conflict in Northern Ireland until I read David Beresford’s book called ‘Ten Men Dead’. It documented the terrible events surrounding the 1981 Hunger Strike in the Maze Prison in Belfast. Ten republican prisoners starved themselves to death and the awfulness of what was happening inside the prison walls seeped outwards into a community already on its bloody knees. I was aware of what I was told on the news, but this was different. Beresford’s perspective was a human one, stepping back from the easy headlines to investigate the causes of the conflict from the different perspectives of those that lay beyond the tired rhetoric and the everyday violence. In doing so it taught me the fundamental importance of listening to individual stories if one is to understand the human dynamic driving at the heart of any given circumstance.

It’s the same with the economy. Soundbites are thrown out like confetti by government ministers and the media like to tell us the figures concerning GDP are improving are so often contradicted by the narrative of the parents doing their best to put food on the table or the experienced of someone suffering through depression after losing their job to a throw away political decision like austerity. GDP means fuck all to them. It’s the job of good journalists and photographers to bring the real truth behind the story to life. The recent series Once Upon a Time in Iraq on the BBC which captured the stories of those involved in the events in Iraq before and after the fall of Saddam’s regime portrayed a very different war from the one peddled by Bush and Blair and the western media with a few honourable exceptions. Here was the horror, anger, loss, regret, sadness, despair and pain presented in its absolute awful rawness. It left no hiding place for the viewer, no solace in the terror that is now Syria and continues to be the West Bank, the same mistakes repeated over and over again, the many lessons ignored and forgotten in the dust if history.

The relentless march of bad news continued unabated for those awful years in Iraq, but somehow the story Iraq contained a precious sprig of hope in that it revealed the resilience of the Iraqi people to somehow hang on through everything in the hope that things could only get better. Hope is found in the little things; in the strains of a violin sending a message across no man’s land to a place where no bullets can harm it. The small details connecting the story to the consciousness of others where the real change that is needed may well exist. It’s in the wisdom of our ancestors we carry with us. What is it to be Polish, Irish, black or white, middle or working class, remembered, forgotten, left to rot and abandoned on the pages of history or to flourish in the vacuum against all the odds? Who are we to decide the fate of others based on the judgment of our own experience?

Stories teach us to listen out for the silence, to breathe the oxygen we share with others so that we can walk by their side a few of the steps of the way. Thus road they have travelled along, often alone. Stories tell us why people did what they did and do what they do. Too often we are swift to condemn without finding out the reasons why. One person’s terrorist is another person’s freedom fighter. One person’s freedom fighter is another person’s terrorist. Both can be backed up. That much was clear in Iraq and it was clear in Belfast back in 1981. It depends on which end of the spectrum of hurt your own story finds itself, on which side of the divide you find yourself standing. It can also depend on which side of the fence you sit. ‘Ten Men Dead’ picked me up and dropped me on the other side of the fence.

Stories allow us to go to places previously unexplored. I wish our leaders and our political class would go there more. Maybe we need to go there ourselves more often. Story opens us up to the possibility of dreams coming true and allow us to confront the stubbornness of humanity when it feels like there’s nothing left worth fighting for. But more importantly, what is the story we tell within? Are we kind to ourselves and others ? Story allows the light to work its way in through the cracks. Story allows us to be someone else, even for a little while when we lie in bed with a good book and a cup of coffee for company or we recline in an armchair watching a film as the rainy day outside beats against the window. It might be Hogwarts or some faraway place. gives us the permission to escape for a couple of hours into a world of fantasy and when we decide it’s time to return we’re all the better for it. It’s like we’ve found our place again. When I lived in Riyadh I was drawn to Ireland more than I had ever been, to the words of the likes of Colum McCann, Anne Enright or Roddy Doyle. Words that spoke to the feelings, the emotions and the loss stirring inside me and helped me to unravel what it was to be Irish abroad. Words that brought me home again Kathleen.

 As a trainee psychotherapist I have learnt the importance of going beyond the story. It scared me at first. People come to therapy because they want to tell their story and get help to understand it so that they can move forward. Sometimes it’s the first time they’ve actually heard their own story. When I first started seeing clients I was a little concerned about what to do once they had finished telling their story. Gradually I learnt to sit with it, to listen to what they didn’t say as much as what they said, to sit with it again and accompany them to the places beyond the story, to the unconscious places they were frightened to go alone, the things forgotten and the things they never knew existed, until now. It’s a little similar to Alice going to down the rabbit hole to explore Wonderland. Story allows for expression, which is key to unblocking the therapeutic process. Sometimes getting whatever it is out can be enough and sometimes it’s only the beginning.

Stories take us to magical places. I love going into Dublin to pass an afternoon watching out for the characters that roam the city before retiring to Simon’s coffee shop to listen to the hum of conversation. It helps me to feel, to think, to write. It’s as if the sandwiches feed my imagination more than my stomach. Simon’s full of middle aged rock stars pretending to be office workers and old men arguing about Bruce Springsteen’s best ever song. Now there’s a storyteller to live with the best, with the stars in the night sky like Samuel Beckett, Brendan Behan and Colum McCann.

The Irish live and breathe through story. It’s how we communicate. It’s what we do connect. It’s how we understand. It’s why Gabriel Byrne walks with ghosts. It’s how we celebrate. It’s how we grieve. The art of story telling is part of us, our literature, our music, our poetry, our art, our filmmaking, our comedy and our conversation. It’s in the ordinary and the extraordinary. It’s Jim Sheridan. It’s Bob Geldof looking after number one. It’s Tommy Tiernan when he makes us laugh out loud. It’s Shane McGowan singing about a pair of brown eyes. It’s Saoirse Ronan acting her way through Brooklyn. It’s Mary chatting to Siobhan over a cup of tea on a bleak Wednesday morning in mid-November. It’s in our blood. It’s part of the spirit that keeps us going through the hard times. It’s often what brings a smile to our faces and lights the way ahead. We love the mad, the crazy, the insane beat of life. And when it’s all over it is story that brings us home when the final breath is said. It’s then that people gather together to tell our story, friends and family finding solace in the things we’ve said and done. They listen to the songs we liked, drink, eat and laugh at the happiness and the sadness we’ve left behind and maybe on the lonely nights that lie ahead they might even remember the things that we once said.

These stories that start at the beginning and go on, forever. They hold us in their tender charm. They smile and weep and spin a yarn. They wait for us to catch up and catch on. The magic is often in the telling. Keep it simple and everything will be okay. The tales that reveal the darkness behind the light that unveils the masks we wear just to survive. Shakespeare was right. We are all actors. It’s just that some of us are better at it than others at hiding the sadness seeping up through the cracks we leave behind. There’s no denying the familiar sound of silence when it’s all that remains. It holds us like a warm scarf, wraps us up until we’re safe in its loving arms. It’s Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds going where the wild roses grow. It’s the killer on the road who hasn’t killed yet. It’s the end of every song. It’s also the first and last word and it’s everything in between. It’s what’s gone and what’s still to come. It’s the wisdom that we pass down the line. It’s a way out of the darkness and the way back to the sun. It’s Soul Asylum singing about a key that could use a little turning. It’s the same story told over and over again, but in a different way, a turn of phrase changing everything that has gone before. It’s the long road back to redemption when everything goes wrong. It’s in every little twist and turn. It’s the reason we should always wait for those that fall behind. It’s why we find the strength to go on, even when it’s hopeless.

And maybe, just maybe it’s why it’s always darkest before the dawn.