Michael Devlin (7:44)

That was Michael Devlin. Michael, his wife, and their two young children live in Ireland, a place they love dearly. His hobbies are cycling, having a quiet pint and being at one with nature. And he says thus far he's been unable to combine all three simultaneously. He's appeared on stage three times, twice for the moth and once for a badly mistimed stage dive. And he says he found all three experiences to be, quote, most enlightening. When we asked Michael if he had any photos he wanted to include as extras for his story, he went above and beyond. And he recreated his encounter with the sheep, which I think has got to be the most amazing extra we have ever offered. Just head to themoth.org you won't be disappointed. Since Michael told this story, our program in Dublin has grown into an independent entity, produced by the wonderful Julian Clancy and hosted by Colm O'Regan. And that program is actually where we found our next storyteller, Claire Nevin. Here's Claire live from the Dublin Story Slam.

Paul Doran (9:00)

So three years ago, I went to Istanbul to visit a friend of mine. I was living in Cyprus at the time, so it's a very short flight. He'd just broken up with his boyfriend, and he was really down in the dumps. He said, come on over, we'll go out and I'll show you around. It'll take my mind off things. And I went and we had a great first day. I went around, seen sights, the mosques, the market, the Grand Bazaar, absolutely beautiful. And that night he said, look, I really just need to get my mind off this breakup and I'd love to go out. He said, there's this amazing bar. It's like one of Istanbul's biggest gay bars. It's in Taksim Square. It's massive. It's brilliant. Let's go. So I said, okay. So we went, and sure enough, he met someone and they were dancing with each other. And I said, okay, I'll go and sit down here, wait till they're done, hope he doesn't forget me and go off and leave me in the middle of Istanbul. And was having a text conversation over Google Translate with someone from Lebanon, going back and forth between Arabic and English. And so anyway, the guy who my friend had been dancing with came back and he said, oh, you're looking for your friend, he's over here. So he brought me over and we went home and that was fine. And the next day we were having dinner and his phone rang and it was Mustafa from the night before. He said, it was very nice to meet you. Do you want to go out and see Istanbul? And I said, okay, yeah, if you think it, you know, it'll take your mind off things. Let's go. And Port said, yeah, please, let's go. It'll be fun. So we got in, we went anyway to where we're meant to be picked up. So we got into the car and there was somebody we didn't know in the car. And we were driving along and I remember thinking, I hope we're going where they say we're going. And I could see Taksim Square. And we were going for a drink in Taksim Square. And I was reassured by seeing the signs. And suddenly we weren't going towards Taksim Square anymore. They'd taken a right and they started winding up this little alleyway with cobblestones, middle of nowhere, no lamps, like Ottoman Istanbul. I said, okay, it's a bit strange. And then they parked the car and he said, oh, I'm just going to let my friend out here and then we'll keep going. And I remember looking behind me like the alarm bells were ringing. And I could see all. Just because it was pitch dark, I could see just the cigarette butts. You know, when it's in the dark. And you can just see when the person inhales it lighting up. And I could see a bunch of these lights going off with cigarette butts. I said, oh, fuck, I better go here. And so I went to get out, and then they all converged on the car and they leapt in. And next minute I could hear. I said, oh, shit, right? So just about four of them got in. And I asked my. Asked Borchai, like, would he translate and let me know what they were saying? And I was saying, like, that, you know, he deserved to die because he was gay. I deserved to die because I was his friend. Guilty by association. And there was a lot of agro. And, you know, they had the guns held up to us and everything. And I was. She was really calm, though, honestly, Heart was pounding, but I was calm enough. And so then it was almost very business, like. Like, they wanted our money, they wanted our jewelry and everything. And so they wanted to get the code for our bank cards. And we wrote down some numbers on a piece of paper and they went away, just, like, kind of long wait to send it. And I actually was like, right, this is going to end soon, one way or the other. I don't know how this is going to end. But then it was awful because I started to actually think, like, they might actually kill me. I was 23. And I said, oh, I'm so stupid. Like, I'm about to die at 23 because I was trusting kind of Egypt. And then I said, I really wish, like, that all those years of Catholic education hadn't put me off religion. Like, I really need someone here, like, to just pray it or something. Like, Jesus, I have nobody. I was thinking. I. Please, someone help me, please. I don't care who it is. Like, I don't know, Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus. Anyone. Help me. Help me, please. I'm not joking. As soon as I actually asked for help, this police van started coming down. Like, we were in the middle of nowhere here. Police van started winding down. I said, right, we need to get out here now. And I kind of nudged Borchai and I said, I was in the middle of the passenger seats. I was wedged between a gunman and Borchai. And I said, we need to get out of here. Borche said, no, I'm not going. They're going to shoot us, shoot us anyway. Like, we have to try. And then the guy beside me, he realized I was trying to orchestrate the great escape. And so he kind of started pulling at me and Yanking at me. I got screaming. I just punched and punched and punched. And the police van was going by, and I managed to get hand free. He was. I was all twisted and contorted. And I put my hand out and I opened the door and I slammed it, timed it so it slammed into the police van as the police van was going by. Thanks. And then we jumped out and there was like shots firing in the air, like the police were obviously trying to stun them. And Borcha jumped into the police van because he said, it's a logical thing to do. No, But I was angry. So I started running along down the alleyways of Istanbul with the police shot. And, you little bastard, I got to kill you. And the police were like, go back, go back. And we kept running and running and running. And eventually they got him anyway and they handcuffed them. And then we were brought to the prison that night, like, to testify and say what had happened. And we were brought to the hospital. See, were we okay? And the police brought us in to a little room afterwards and did all these Facebook profiles of who they thought it was going to be and said, is it this guy or this guy or this guy? Because it only caught one of them, you see, there was about four involved. And I was like, yeah, it was him, it was him, it was him. And then policeman said, like, this is one of Istanbul's. I think he even said, istanbul's top criminal gang said, look, we've been looking for these guys for years. I was like, sure, I've only been here 24 hours. Do your jobs. Like, I mean, call me if you need a hand next time. No problem. And eventually they did actually get the three others in the months that passed, intersecting, like, 24 years now. So, I don't know, want to know what they did before. So, yeah, very, very lucky to have escaped that one. And, yeah, sometimes, like, you know, sometimes I'd have fears now or different things, but I think that the problem's not having the fear. It's like just kind of going forward and trying to deal with them. At the very end of the two days, I was going back to get on my plane to go back to Cyprus. And I was passing through, like, the Czech immigration, and I handed my passport and he saw my name, the policeman, and he goes, nevin, apparently. Nevin. My last name is Nevin, Claire Nevin. And he said, that's a Turkish. He started speaking to me in Turkish. I was like, what? And he said, turkish name. You're Turkish? I said, no, I'm not Turkish? No. And he said, apparently it's a Turkish surname and first name. And so I said, well, what are Nevin people like? Because, you know, everybody knows, oh, these, the Nevins are like this. The Rileys are like this. I presumed it'd be like Ireland, that they'd have an idea of Nevin people. And so I was like, what are the Nevins like? And he said, nevin people, happy people, lucky people. I said, you're dead right.

Michael Devlin (16:22)

That was Claire Nevin. Claire splits her life between Ireland, France and Switzerland, where she's currently working for the United Nations. Claire decided to participate in the Dublin Story Slam after being told by more than one person that she should definitely document her crazy tales of lucky escapes and unexpected silver linings. She's a strong believer that there's always something to laugh about, even in the worst situations. To find out more about the Dublin Story Slam, just check out the extras on our website, themoth.org they actually have their own all Irish storytelling podcast and it's really cool. You can find it on itunes or wherever you listen to your podcasts. Finally, for our third story on this week's podcast, we go to Belfast, Northern Ireland with Paul Doran. Paul told this story at an event put on by 10x9, a project that he co founded with Padraig Ottooma back in 2011. Here's Paul.

E (17:22)

I waved to my father. We all waved to my father. He was one of many thousands of people on a march in Derry in Northern Ireland in 1972. It was a cold Sunday in January and we watched standing on the hillside near our house. It was just another civil rights march, one of many that had happened across Northern Ireland at that time. Didn't have a name that would get a name later. And we waved and my father didn't wave back. I don't think he saw us. And then we turned and went home. We lived a short distance away, so went up Sunday afternoon, sat in front of the fire, watched TV and thought nothing more of it. We were watching, from what I remember, the Black Beauty series and that was on the commercial channel because the BBC was showing a very high minded Victorian drama which I checked out because I couldn't remember exactly what it was. Now let me explain to you about my dad. My dad was born in 1930. He was called Tony Doran and he married Anna in 1952. They eventually adopted five children. My dad had a decent enough job. He was a telephone engineer. So he had a van that went with the job and more importantly we had a telephone, which was a great scarcity in 1972, where we lived. So it was kind of like a drop in centre for anyone who needed to use the phone. And once you'd used the phone, you put Tempe into the little wooden shell encrusted box that sat beside the phone in the hallway. A box which my brother, who was less scrupulous than me, would often raid for this change. So my father was a very intelligent man. He had a great interest in liberation theology. We had books full of liberation theology. He was very keen on struggles in South America at the time and in Rhodesia, as it was at the time, and South Africa. So that was where his interests lay. So that's no surprise then, that he would be on a civil rights march in 1972. So there we were watching our TV drama of the Sunday afternoon, as you do in the middle of winter, and my father, out of nowhere, just burst into the house, burst through the front door, burst into the living room. He was demented, he was ranting, he was raving. He was talking about people being shot, he was talking about unarmed people being gunned down in front of him by soldiers. He didn't know what was going on. He just knew that dreadful things have been happening. So we turned over to the BBC for the news, because at that stage we trusted the BBC. And the announcer came on and said, six people have been shot dead at a pro civil rights, an illegal civil rights march in Londonderry. And my father went bananas. He said, six people, blah, blah, blah. More than six people. I counted umpteen dead bodies. And they went on and said that the soldiers opened fire after the protest had turned violent. And my father again went bananas. Absolutely. They were unarmed civilians gunned down. And he was just. He was just not recognizable from the man who had left us that day to go, to go out on that march. He was ranting, he was raving. He got on the phone and he phoned the BBC and he yelled down the line to whatever poor unfortunate happened to answer at the other end, saying, you're telling lies. That's not what happened. I was there, I saw it. Blah, blah, blah, blah. I don't have very strong memories about what happened in the immediate aftermath of that. I was six. Life goes on. I do remember a row of eight coffins in our local church. That image stays with me. But as I say, we just got on with our lives. And then something. Something appeared in our house, which. Quite bizarre, but as children you accept whatever happens. Tape recorders suddenly Popped up. Now, nobody had tape recorders in those days, and we had a great time with them. We were making mixtapes before mix tapes were even a thing. We were pretending to be radio disc jockeys. My more serious older brother was pretending to have serious documentary chats and the like. As children, you just accept what's around you. We never really got to the bottom of it, Never really understood why we had so many tape recorders in our house. And then there were a series of raids, very, very close. And raids are when the army comes into your house in the middle of the night and gets everybody up and searches. And there were raids on our street, up the street, down the street, but they hadn't come to our house. I remember coming down one morning and the fireplace was filled with unspooled cassette tape ready to be burnt. And of course, we're children, we don't ask questions. You just accept it. We have to go to school. No time for questions. No time for questions. And there's no time for answers, so. Or explanations. My father's health deteriorated. He went off for a retreat up in Belfast, which sounds like a contradiction in terms, but he did. And I remember he sent us a postcard from the retreat house that he was staying in. And I think he was away for a week. He was bad with his nerves, as they said in those days. Now people talk about stigmas and mental health. I have to say there was no stigma about being bad with your nerves. Everybody had somebody in the family who was bad with their nerves. This was the 1970s. There was a woman down the street whose husband was politically active. She was bad with her nerves and was hospitalized. There was the man up the street. His wife died the day after she gave birth to their ninth child. He was bad with his nerves and was often in his bed of an afternoon. And the woman next door to him with her eight children, one of whom had a severe mental disability, she was bad with her nerves. So there was no stigma. And it was not unusual. But tensions were rising in the house. You could feel it. And there were more and more arguments. And these arguments would be going on at all hours of the day. My father was drinking more and more. On the 25th wedding anniversary, my mother had prepared a special meal for us all. Of course, my father didn't turn up. And when he eventually did turn up, he was drunk and she was very cross, needless to say. And the funny thing about arguments in our house is that they would be going on in the middle of the night. And this was A small house we were in, this is like social housing. And I always thought if I go down, you know, like in some American drama, and I say, oh, please stop fighting, they'll stop fighting. They'll give me a hug and everything will be fine. Of course, that's not how it went. You walk in and you're told, get out. Get back up to your bed. And then Ryan continued. So that's just the way it was. Eventually, my father had to retire at 45 and. And my mother had to go back to work, and she got a job in the local shirt factory, which is where all women who had little or no education ended up. And my father became a house husband, a very poor one, I have to say. Campbell's Scotch broth out of a tin when we came home from school every day. And then we got a proper dinner when my mother came home from work. And he buried himself in systems to kind of beat the bookies. He was always determined he was going to beat the bookies, and he had small wagers. That's how life went on for a long time. But then the drinking became more and more and more, and eventually it got to the point where I really. I just couldn't deal with them. And so I went to Belfast and to university when I was 18, and I never lived in that house again. So they continued their lives and I continued mine. I mean, we were always in touch, but life went on. And anyway, in 1998, Tony Blair announced that there was to be an inquiry into the events of Bloody Sunday. There had been an inquiry before, but at best it was considered soft, and at worst it was just considered a whitewash. And I wondered, what did my father make of this? I never really got a chance to ask him because he died the following year. My mother found him unconscious on the floor of the living room one morning, put a blanket over him, thinking he was asleep, because it was a drunken sleep, because that's how things were. But he never regained consciousness, and he died four days later in hospital. Several years after that, I got an email from my brother saying, oh, have a look at this. It's a statement dad made to a solicitor who was working for the Bloody Sunday inquiry. I read the statement and it outlined what he had seen that day. And he told of seeing people shut down, people dying in front of him, people running amok and panic and terror in his hometown, and soldiers with no regard for life or safety for anybody else running amok on the streets, and how he had come home and he had said to his wife, I have to do something about this. And she had said, what would the good of that be? I'd be left here with five children of my own and you'd be in prison. But we learned more from that small statement as to what happened that day than we ever learned from him. He never told us about it. I suppose now people would say it was ptsd. I have no doubt it was. But in those days it was bad with the nerves. And telling the solicitor what he never told us, I imagine he expected that this time there would be justice. Suddenly, he didn't live to see it.

Michael Devlin (27:28)

That was Paul Doran. Paul grew up in Derry in Northern Ireland and has worked as a journalist for 25 years. At 10x9, nine storytellers get 10 minutes to tell a true story however they see fit. The program launched in Belfast, but since has gone global. They've also launched their own podcast and we're going to have links to that, plus more information about 10x9 and also about the Dublin Story Slam. That'll all be in the extras for this episode of the podcast just hit our website themoth.org A quick reminder that the moth's third book, Occasional Magic, is out now. The book is a collection of stories adapted from our main stage shows. These are tales about when, in the face of challenging situations, people found moments of beauty, wonder and clarity. And really, is there anything more Irish than that? You can find it wherever you buy your books and I hope you guys check it out. That is it for this week's episode of the Moth podcast. I hope you check out the book. Thanks for listening and until next time, from all of us here at the Moth in New York, have a story worthy week.

Dan Kennedy (28:36)

Dan Kennedy is the author of Loser Goes First, Rock on and American Spirit. He's also a regular host and storyteller.

Michael Devlin (28:42)

With the Moth Podcast production by Julia Purcell and Paul Rue West. The Moth Podcast is presented by prx, the Public Radio Exchange helping make public radio more public@prx.org.