George Smith
I have, like many others I am sure, always had a vague idea of ‘The Troubles’ in Ireland. However I have never fully understood why religion, in a northern European country, could cause such violent division and conflict. Where I live in south east England, Christianity seems nothing more than a benign institution in a largely secularised country. It's like an antique piano in your living room; it's integral to the space, the room would look strange without it, but no one actually plays it.
The idea, therefore, that people in Ireland can align themselves so trenchantly between Protestantism and Catholicism seems all the more alien to me. Trying explore some of these issues, I decided to take a black-cab tour of Belfast - a thoroughly recommended tour if you ever find yourself in Belfast.
My driver was a well seasoned old cabbie called Brian. Affable and passionate, Brian was a Catholic who had lived through the worst of the Troubles. He first took me to the Falls Road, the epicentre of the conflict that dominated the city for nearly three decades. Initially, I found it difficult to tell which 'side' I was actually on - Catholic or Protestant, Unionist or Nationalist.
However as we drove on, signs of conflict began to appear, like the symbolic appearance of the Irish tri-colour, or a sign outlawing the British Army. Then Brian pointed me towards a towering block of rather unappealing flats looming above us. The Davis Tower, he explained, was used by the British Army as an observation post in the 1970s. At the height of the Troubles, the Army was only able to access the post by helicopter.
As we moved further up ‘the Falls’, evidence of the Conflict and a divided city became starker. Catching glimpses of the ‘Peace Wall’ down narrow streets, we eventually pulled up at a row of houses on Kashmir Road.
Behind the row of houses towered the 25 ft. high Peace Wall, which is still a necessity Brian assured me. The gardens on Kashmir Road surrounded by cages certainly didn’t suggest otherwise.
Standing at the foot of the Wall, I was struck by the thought of how this conflict could have arisen. Of course there are historical explanations. But what is it about humans that mean we need to build walls through communities?
On the face of it, the conflict in Belfast seems all the more bizarre because there is little to distinguish each side. There is no obvious material difference – the houses and shops appear just the same. There is probably more to unite these two communities than there is to divide them – a shared language, a shared history, a shared land. How is it that conflict can arise between two groups who have lived alongside each other for centuries?
I found my answer when I asked Brian how he saw himself – British or Irish? “I’m Irish”, he said with a disbelieving smile. “I have an Irish passport.” In other words, what distinguished Brian from someone living on the other side of the Wall was a difference of identity. Brian was a Catholic living in a Catholic country, independent from the UK; he identified himself within the parameters of Irish history and culture. The story of his country was an Irish one, not a British one.
Moving from one side of the Wall to the other, the idea of two warring identities comes into sharper focus. Not even in the heart of the most patriotic areas of England would one find such a high concentration of Union Jacks or pictures of The Queen.
On the Unionist side, I saw a community grasping for a stronger sense of identity, a yearning for belonging. The result is an absurd expression of jingoistic fervour: a reverence for the military and historic battles, or for fallen soldiers dying for Queen and Country.
Part of the Unionist identity is their perceived struggle with IRA terror. For example, at a memorial just off the Shankill road, there’s an exhibition of pictures depicting the harrowing scenes in the immediate aftermath of various terrorist acts inflicted on UK soil.
Rather provocatively, the photos show not just victims of IRA terrorism but also the victims of Islamic related terror. It’s true that the IRA were responsible for murdering thousands of innocent people, but it was apparent also that the memorial was a way for the Unionists to align their struggle with a broader ‘British’ struggle. For the same reason, Unionists like to use the symbol of the poppy for their own fallen soldiers of the Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF).
The narratives each side has taken up are not unique. It is not surprising therefore, to see how each side has aligned their struggle with similar conflicts happening around the world. On both sides of the Wall there are homages to both Israel and Palestine, for example. The Unionist narrative, one of a fight against terror, lends itself to the same struggle the Israelis are facing. Similarly, the narrative of oppression and injustice is shared between both Nationalists in Belfast and Palestinians on the West Bank. It’s as if the walls dividing these two communities are made of the same concrete.
Catholics living in Belfast probably share a lot more in common with their Protestant neighbours than with Palestinians living on the West Bank. But the narratives that each side has chosen to identify with means commonalities seem to be overlooked.
What the conflict in Ireland makes me think about is the power of narratives. It’s the stories that each side tells about themselves that reinforces their identity. But in doing so, reinforces the division. The Wall in Belfast is merely a tangible consequence of the walls in the collective imaginations of Unionists and Nationalists, Protestants and Catholics.
In sectarian areas of Belfast, small things take on a heightened symbolism – nothing is insignificant. A line on a memorial stone, a mural on a wall, a black-cab even – they can all become sacred because of the collective identification with that symbol and what it means to the unity of the group. The symbols each side uses are ways of expressing their own stories in the concrete world.
With such entrenched and converging identities it is difficult to imagine how this city can ever truly be united. The binary nature of the division means there can be no definitive political solution.
However, speaking to Brian as we carried on driving, I realised the solution was happening; it has been happening ever since the Good Friday Agreement in 1998. The solution is a delicate compromise in which each group can feel their identity is not being challenged or disregarded. It’s a place where people can either have a British passport or an Irish one. A porous border means Nationalists can feel part of a larger Irish state, whilst Unionists can feel equally part of the United Kingdom. It’s a political situation in which one can choose how they to see oneself – a catholic living in Ireland or a Protestant living in Britain.
"We're a loving city", Brian reassures me, "we just need a wall".
Of course this pragmatic solution needs continual effort, dialogue and respect form both sides. It is delicate and volatile. Needless to say, this is the great danger of Brexit that people have slowly begun to realise: it endangers the intricate negotiation of identities that exist in Belfast. Any sort of border, anything that could upset this delicate balance of identities would quickly lead to violent sectarianism. You feel this tension even on a short taxi tour.
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