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This whole story is just from Mars. I mean, it's amazing in so many ways. The tension of battle--turned into laughter with some pocket change and a well-executed basketball drill.



But before we get into all that, though, let me give you some context. Regular readers will remember that we have had a series of updates from what used to be called Playing for Peace but is now called Peace Players International. It's a non-profit that uses basketball as a tool to foster peaceful relationships between warring peoples in the Middle East, Northern Ireland, and many other places around the globe. You can read some basic background here, and there have been several follow-up posts (and more.)



Today, for the first time, we're hearing from RaMell Ross, who is working for Peace Players International in Northern Ireland. I'll let Peace Players Co-Founder Sean Tuohey introduce RaMell Ross:

RaMell Ross cannot believe that this is the first time you are hearing his name. When he decided to stay local and sign with powerhouse Georgetown, he had visions of superstardom which he figured would lead to a stint in the L. Unfortunately, injuries, coaching changes, the system, and just some bad luck kept him on the sidelines for most of his career.



Intelligent enough to see the bigger picture, and having already served as special assistant to the Deputy Secretary of State, he parlayed his Gtwon degree into another job at the US State department. Instead of having him pushing paper, his past boss, former Deputy Secretary of State Richard Armitage engineered a crafty public diplomacy program for he and fellow Gtwon captain, Courtland Freeman to travel the world organizing basketball clinics and sharing American culture with people living in places that either do not like us, or have never met us.



On an 18 day 16 country tour of Africa he encountered PeacePlayers International (formerly Playing for Peace), an organization with a similar mission but with long-term strategies. RaMell joined the organization in October, 2006 PeacePlayers is currently stationed in Belfast, Northern Ireland.



Although the Troubles in Northern Ireland have largely faded from the American conscience, gone are the IRA and the constant bombings the country and its people remain bitterly divided by its past and struggling with the onset of its future. 40 foot walls divide segregated neighborhoods preventing Protestant and Catholic children from having any interaction. RaMell’s job is to figure a way to get the kids through the walls and playing together. His experiences working in some of the highest interface areas will give you perspective on how deep rooted the divide in NI still is, and how only working with kids at a grass root level can create the change the place needs.



I failed to mention… he’s a dual pro: nearly only known for his photography until he latched on with the local pro team in Belfast, Star of the Sea. He is currently leading the country in scoring.

Peace Players tends to take a careful, trust-building approach. A typical first-step in getting kids comfortable playing basketball with their historic enemies is to get the kids comfortable playing basketball with the coaches and counselors from Peace Players. That's step one, and it can last months. The integration, typically, comes later. But not always, as RaMell explains in his own words:





Tuesday, Janurary 30th

It’s 6.30pm when our weekly staff meeting ends. I have practice with my team, Belfast Star of the Sea Tuesdays and Thursdays at 8. Before today’s practice Kelly, our managing director, Sean and I are heading to an area called Ardoyne in North Belfast. Ardoyne suffered the most recent outbreak of sectarian violence to draw international recognition. In 2001, members of Ardoyne’s outnumbered Protestant community banded together to prevent Catholic children from walking down their street to Holy Cross, a Catholic school. In ensuing months assaults and deaths publicly and privately damaged both communities.



Our meeting is scheduled for 6:30 with William Heatford in his tucked away community centre. Given his area's history of violence and modern divisions, we are embarking on a tip-toe approach--hoping to establish common ground between our organization (Peace Players International) and him apply. We always have one mission: use basketball to bridge the divide. So we are looking to plan basketball sessions with specific Protestant and Catholic teens that often met at the peace walls to brawl over sectarian differences. And, we were already late.



Leaving our office awakens the senses. Immediately the rain and wind are noticed on the surrounding horizons. I smell their anxiety through the diesel fumes and urban odors of brick and concrete. Kelly and I muscle up Ormeau Road traveling from South to North in 10 minutes. Our wee car seems especially nimble dodging traffic to skate through intersections. I, personally, didn’t want to be late. This was my first meeting with someone who has been called a terrorist. William Heatford was the leader of the 2001 demonstrations against the Catholic girls from Holy Cross, the Catholic school sitting on a side of Ardoyne Road, the dividing line between the two communities. (These geographic brinks are called interface lines. This one in particular has a high interface due to demarcation by mere meters, requiring daily tolerance of the other.) William Heatford’s reported orders to throw bottles of urine, rocks, verbal abuse etc. at the Catholic girls are presumed to be benign compared to his past.







The Interface Line

We swing onto Ardoyne Road tight-rope driving the interface line. Passing a powerful mural stationed on the Catholic side we speed into Protestant territory within seconds passing Holy Cross Primary on our left and their political opposite Wheatfield Primary on our right.



Our blatant American ‘look’ and accent acts as our passport into this community. Without it our lives would be at risk. There’s a long stepped wall towards the core of the community painted patriotically in deep red, blue, and white colors composing a stretching union jack flag riddled with quotes and portraits of British pride. In its stature it bolsters the unity evoked by the layout of this working class neighborhood. Each house is each other’s replica and stands equal distance from their siblings. The two-owner mud red-brown-bricked Siamese homes edge their brothers and sisters in labyrinth blocks and lines. Puzzled, we struggle to find the community center. “Whadya think right or left?’ asks Kelly, rushed and rhetorical.



“I dunno” I mumble.



“If I make uh… i know it's one of these… sh** RaMell… comon’…comon’..” Kelly stops when her cell phone rings. I pick up hoping Sean isn’t too upset.



“Yo”



“Kelly?”



“This is RaMell”



“Where are yous”



“Who’s this”, I ask not recognizing the voice.



“It is William Heatford. You guys are meetin’ me. Where are you both?”



“Oh HI Mr. Heatford- yeah we’re just off Ardoyne road. We should be ther..”



“You ok with directions?”



“Oh yes. We’re fine. Just a few..”



“Ok” he replies and hangs up.



I fumble the phone as Kelly speeds up...







We make a left on a street we passed three times. Half way down Kelly recognizes the houses and street and soon, through medieval like fencing, we enter a near vacant, circular parking lot in front of the community center. The thick steel pickets of the fence are battle chic--splintering ruthlessly on top. Kelly and I park and walk into the community center where Sean, William Heatford, and two of his associates stand talking in a  miniature foyer. We enter through a back draft of cigarette smoke, floundered musk, hampered light and luke-warm stale air. I nod to Sean and extend my hand to William Heatford.



Change of Plans

After shuffling a veiled cigarette to his left hand, he loans his right in welcome, shifting the bones in my hand.



“Hi ya” I say.



Left handed, Heatford rolls the cigarette to his mouth and continues breathing.



“Good to meet ya”, there’s a short, vivid pause, “I hear you’re the big basketball baller” He imperceptibly glances at Sean.



“Yeah” I grunt before he continues:



“Scorin’ all the points” then releasing my hand and mimicking an unorthodox jump shot. I smile and wait to see if he’s finished.



“Yeah” I say. You should come to a game.”



We exchange words for a few more moments and he introduces me to his associates Greg and Chad. He tells me to take a quick look around the center because we’re leaving soon to take some of his guys over to a community center in the Catholic area for the first assembly. I say okay and glance at Kelly as I move through double doors into the main section of the building. Her face was blank.



Session? Now?……..wait! Now? We need to plan? WHAT about the single identity work at each community center? I’ve never meet these kids and they’re gonna trust me…. listen to me…. respect me….. in a room with their historic enemies. Did Sean know about this? Is this guy nuts? HOW are they going to get there? They CAN’T walk. They’d be KILLED. What about….



I wander about the main room stepping around and between kids and teenagers immersed in close-knit socializing. Some lounging on padded benches, a few leaning against walls, two 13 or 14 year old girls smoking cigarettes, packs of boys throwing darts, watching television, snacking and then two wee lads playfully hurling explicit language across the room. As I close my eyes for few seconds, then open them to a boy winking maturely at his friend, all unsystematic décor and mixture of occupants resemble an inner city pool hall. It’s a symmetrical, youthful rendition; the dress and mannerisms of the children were exact. Little girls wear detailed makeup and rock their hips. Their posture and activity seem dictated by the males. Small boys sport pierced ears, gold chains, and finger rings. They speak assertively with phrases like ‘whatta u know?’ and “for **cks sake lad”. At the pool table in the middle of the room a boy braces a cue taller than him.



After joking with a few kids I return to the foyer where Kelly, Sean, Heatford, Chad and Greg are planning the transportation. I look towards Heatford as he motions everyone out the door. From a 45-degree angle you could see the energy of his past boiling in the ring of his retinas. He motioned towards me and I follow.



Cross-Community

Kelly, Sean and Heatford drive. We had three guys in our back seat as we follow Sean who follows Heatford.



"You all play any basketball?” Kelly broke in.



“Mostly futbol like” replies the middle teen.



Kelly continues with ice breaking questions: “So where you guys from?”



"Upper Ardoyne" two of them reply. The other details: "just near the community center." He explains his proximity to the shops near lower Ardoyne Road. He asks where we’re from and the conversation bounces between our general backgrounds. Slowly their attention turns to the foreign Catholic streets and establishments we pass.







“You know any of the guys we’re meeting?” risks Kelly.



She has two hands on the wheel and faces forward, but slyly peeks in the rear view mirror. I count the seconds as minutes.



Nearly two minutes later ‘yea’ our passanger from Lower Ardoyne Road says, “Yea normally were thrownin’ bricks at them” All three snicker. “**ckin’ tags”, another one chimes in.



Kelly snickers. I look at her while turning to view the rear passengers. Her laugh doesn’t match the bend of her eyebrows and wrinkles on bridge of her nose. "Huh" I innocently push, aiming the inquiry at the commenter. He looks at me diverting his attention away from the unfamiliar surroundings passing outside his window. “their like **ckin’ rabbits like” he jeers, simultaneously facing his two friends. Kelly laughs.



We turn left off Finneal Road and drive 50 meters to the destination.



In front of the Catholic community center spreads a massive blacktop. A three-story chain-link fence bordering the rectangle warped in whimsical directions from kids climbing up and down and across and hanging and swinging from all directions. Kids mixed in sparse coordination playing soccer; others just standing in bulks or strolling in leisure. Like a low frequency humming, the choppy din of street activity rises and sets in swells. Above our heads yellow tinted street lamps unequally drop shapes of light on the sidewalk sharing very little with the fenced space. There are at least a hundred kids outside. Alternating they appear and disappear about the shadows. A boy skateboarding just past the center propels off a ramp. His stringless silhouette glides across my peripheral vision, reclaimed mid-air by shadows.



The First Assembly

While walking towards the center’s entrance some of the street activity pauses. In an eerie precision standing groups of people inch in our direction. The Protestants ignore the setting and, shoulders glued to each other’s, concentrate mostly on themselves. Inside we’re greeted by four Catholic community leaders who sweep us up stairs. We filter into a room with a large circle of seats. Two spaced out couches with chairs filling the gaps create the oddly balanced oval. The boys sit scattered in the seats. Sean, basketball in arm, and Heatford lean against a pool table beside the seating circle.



No one says anything.



Before long eight Catholic teens enter the muteness of the room. Two Catholic community center leaders then park beside Sean and Heatford at the pool table. Kelly and I rest against a wall facing the circle of boys. The movement of the new comers shuffling into their seats was the end of all noise. Next thing I know, my heart doubles in rhythm. I start counting the seconds as minutes.



I think of my college basketball career; my freshman year advancing to the Sweet Sixteen, playing in the Big East tournament; every pressurized nerve pinching atmosphere that created a seething anxiety; an internal disquiet. Those thoughts are quickly supplanted by the loud body language of those in the seating circle. In comparison to the Catholics, the Protestant teens sit lower in their seats. The Catholic teens, sitting up straighter, slightly swiveling their heads making eye contact with their mates and mingle on a plane of thought.



As if everyone didn’t know this was their turf.



One Protestant sinks so low in his chair his back rests on the seat. One leg out stretched and the other bent for support his hands play with themselves, his thumbs mechanically jousting. I feel the sound of silence lowering. Looking around quickly, I count five separate hand games. Then, one at a time, members of each group begin to share squat grins with their fellows. My drumming heart amplifies as I look at Heatford, Sean, and the two Catholic community leaders. They’re the most inanimate objects in the room.



Can everyone hear my heart beating?



I glance at Kelly who unnaturally melts into the wall we lean on. It’s the peak of silence when Sean starts walking along the border of the circle.



Catch

Right-hand digging in his right pocket and left arm bent around a basketball, Sean broke into the oval turning sideways to fit between two chairs. “Last person standing wins….” he voices, pulling his hand out his pocket and reviewing the content, “…two quid”. Raising the two pounds above his head as proof, he continues, “if you drop the ball you're out. Everyone Stand Up! and put your hands behind your back.” Two boys four seats apart, glancing around first, stand up. “Comon’..” Sean slowly spins, looking briefly at each teen. “Two quid to the last person standing. Put your hands behind your back. If I throw you the ball…” he tossed it to a boy standing, “and you catch it you're still okay. Now put your hands back behind your back” he said. Three more boys stand up. “If your hands come from behind your back…” Sean fakes a pass to a boy and his arms whip around to receive the ball, “…when I don’t pass it--you sit down.” Laughter surges from the circle as the kid drops noisily into his seat. Now everyone in the circle is standing.



Sean tosses the ball to a kid and he catches it and passes it back. He fakes a pass to another whose arms stretch in anticipation of the ball. He plops down into his seat. Everybody laughs...



Practice

I make it to St. Malcules thirty minutes after practice starts. My team is already warmed up and completing our routine set of teamwork drills that challenge us to make a certain amount of consecutive shots in six minutes. They fail and must run to one sideline and defense slide back to the other for one minute. I finish wrapping my second ankle brace as they finish. Heart rate normal, I dribble around the borders of the court to get loose. After three minutes of customary jogging I’m exhausted. Practice is the last thing on my mind.