I was twelve when my parents took

me to Washington DC for the first

time. It was the first stop on a family vacation where we would be
attending the funerals of two of my
grandparents. Washington, DC, was
the first major historical place any
of us had visited. My father connected easily with the heritage we
found there. I wouldnt have a similar connection with history until a
decade later.

2 Fall 2015

My father loves history and

wanted to see everything that he
found interesting. As a result, we
went to the newer National Air
and Space Museum near Dulles
International airport, as well as
the World War II memorial that
was being dedicated that weekendthings that a twelve-year-old
girl wouldnt be interested in. Then
we took one whole day to drive to
Gettysburg to visit the battlefield. I

wasnt pleased when I realized that

we had traveled half a day to see a
field of grass.
The day was overcast with a
slight drizzle, making the humidity
unbearable. It was also the year that
the cicadas had emerged from their
seven-year slumber, and they were
chirping in the woods, making the
experience as creepy as it was miserable. To add to all that, my dad stopped
at every little statue and monument

Photo courtesy of the National Library of Ireland

Knowing Where
You Stand

to read its plaque. I thought it would

never end.
In hindsight, I can see that my
dad wasnt just seeing the same field
or monument I was seeing. He was
seeing the men who fought on that
battlefield during the Civil War. He
knew the history of Gettysburg, and
his experience was shaped by the
knowledge he had of the events that
took place there, and he knew that
where he stood was hallowed ground.
I didnt have that kind of connection
with a place until I went to Dublin,
Ireland.
While doing a semester-long
internship in Germany, I decided to
take a weekend trip to visit a friend of
mine who lived in Dublin. Since she
had school and work, I was left to my
own devices for most of the weekend,
and I spent my time wandering.
On the first day I walked up and
down OConnell Street in the heart
of Dublin, not sure what to do with
myself and oblivious to the history
that had marred the ground I was
walking on.
The next day I decided to get
on a hop-on, hop-o tour so that I
could see more of the city. The tour
took me past such sites as Dublin
Castle, St. Patricks Cathedral, the
Dublin Zoo, Kilmainham Gaol, and
the Guinness Storehouse. Before
I reached the end of the line, I got
o the bus at an unexpected stop:
Collins Barracks.
Collins Barracks was formerly a
military barracks, but it now houses
the National Museum of Ireland.
The bus driver mentioned that they
had an exhibit called Soldiers and
ChiefsThe Irish at War at Home
and Abroad, and I felt like I should
stop. My thought when I made the
decision to get o the bus was, Dad
would love this!
The exhibit had a whole section
dedicated to the 1916 Easter Rising in
Dublin, so named because it occurred
over the week following Easter. The
rebellion was organized to declare

independence from Britain, and when

it was over, 450 people were killed,
2,614 were injured, and 9 were missing. Of those killed, 254 were civil-

I found
myself
wondering
how much
passion
a person
needs to feel
in order to
die for their
cause.
ians. The leaders of the insurrection
were taken to Kilmainham Gaol and
were later executed by firing squad.
As I walked through the exhibit,
looking at pictures and artifacts, I
felt deep sense of grief for the price
people pay for freedomfor the price
people are willing to pay. As I looked
at pictures of the leaders of the insurgents, I found myself wondering how
much passion a person needs to feel
in order to die for their cause.
As I walked back to the stop to
board the next bus, a portion of the
Irish lament The Foggy Dew came
to my mind: Right proudly high over
Dublin Town they hung out the flag of
war, Twas better to die neath an Irish
sky than at Sulva or Sud-El-Bar. After
thinking about that song (which is
about the Easter Rising), I began to
understand why those rebels were
willing to fight for their freedom.

Suvla and Sedd el Bahr were battlefields in Turkey where Irish men
fought for the British during World
War I. Irish husbands, brothers, sons,
and neighbors were giving their lives
fighting for an empire they didnt
even want to be a part of. Many of
the Irish opposed the Acts of Union
in 1800 that united Great Britain and
Ireland. After trying twice to establish home rule in Ireland with two
Home Rule Bills (1886, 1893), British
Parliament passed a third bill in 1912
under the Parliament act. It was
expected to go into eect in 1914, but
didnt because of the start of World
War I. After the bill was shelved,
extremists planned to hold an uprising while the British were at war with
Germany. In understanding Irelands
fight for independence, I began to
understand and be grateful for those
who fight for those liberties.
At the end of the day, I ended
up back on OConnell Street, where
most of the fighting in the rebellion occurred. I watched as people
walked up and down the street and
wondered if they knew where they
stood or if they understood the sacrifices that occurred where they were
walking almost one hundred years
earlier. I wondered if they also ran
their hand along the bullet holes in
the OConnell Monument and had to
hold back their tears.
My experiences in Dublin opened
my eyes, not just to the dierences
in culture, but also the feeelings that
mankind share. Not just the desire
for freedom, but also the need for it. It
helped me understand that knowing
history and empathizing with people
from other cultures allows for a richer
experience. Even a twelve-year-old
girl visiting Gettysburg can understand the world at a deeper level, as
her father does, if she knows where
she stands.

Sara Bitterman

www.stowawaymag.com 3