So, the British Prime Minister apologized for Bloody Sunday. Thank you, God. For 841 years, these two peoples have been involved in a deadly tug-of-war that has robbed them of justice, has robbed them of hope, has robbed them of basic human decency. The survivors and the victims' families are elated, and everybody else seems to be taking the news and the apology well. Less well-taken is talk of pursuing charges against the culpable soldiers. I commented on Facebook about the healing power of a basic apology. A friend of mine commented that he prefers prosecutions. It's that kind of thinking that has mired first the English, and then the British, and the Irish into eight hundred years of conflict. Think about that. This all started when Diarmait Mac Murchada, the new former-king of Leinster was rather put out at having been, well, put out. It turns out it makes the High King (then Ruaidrí Ua Conchobair ) pretty damn cranky when you abduct the wife of one...
The back of the house is where theater's black magic happens. It's a place where empires rise and fall, where people love and hate, and the place where gods live and die. And yet, like the man in the movie said, it all turns out all right in the end. It's a mystery. Which is another word for miracle.