Twenty-five years ago, when you walked the streets of any town in Northern Ireland, you could tell where the loyalties lay by the flags flown, the colour of the paving stones, or the songs and music played in homes.
You still can today.
A quarter of century ago, you could tell, in the local parlance — “what foot a person kicked with” — by the newspaper they read, what brand of beverage they ordered in a bar, what football team they supported.
You still can today.
Twenty-five years ago, when someone asked you your name, it wasn’t a simple question by the curious. So too what school you went to, or where you lived. The questions then were loaded. Today less so. But then the guns of the men of violence are no longer loaded either.
A quarter of a century ago, peace broke out in Northern Ireland ending three decades of bitter sectarian and political fighting that claimed more than 3,600 lives and polarised the British-governed province as never before.
That uneasy peace was formalised in the terms of the Good Friday Agreement, signed between the governments of London and Dublin. Under the terms of the historic agreement that was brokered by men of courage, goodwill and peace on all sides, the agreement also set up the Northern Ireland Assembly or regional parliament for the province, created a power-sharing executive — or cabinet — to run it. The deal also established new cross-border institutions with the Republic of Ireland to the south of the divided island, with the Dublin government that runs the 26 counties there agreeing to drop its constitutional claim to the six counties that form Northern Ireland.
The deal then ended Europe’s longest-lasting and bitter terrorist conflict that had been festering unabated since the late 1960s. There were also proposals on the decommissioning of paramilitary weapons, the future of policing in Northern Ireland and the early release of paramilitary prisoners.
Today, despite the great work by many people across the province, those who work at the community level, those who promote the province, its remarkable people, its entrepreneurs and its enterprises, the peace remains brittle.
It’s not a perfect scenario, it is progress — it is a peace process.
For 25 years, bridges have been built, children of different traditions and faiths have begun to play together, learn together and live together.
There is still much more to be done.
And over the past quarter of a century, there is now a generation living in Northern Ireland who don’t know what it means to be stopped by British Army or fully-armed combat troops in the street; who can enjoy shopping in a city centre without being searched; can socialise without fear of gunmen bursting into a pub; without a car bomb exploding in the streets; without knowing what it feels like to live in fear, intimidation, subversion or terror.
That is progress. Yes, it’s slow — but progress nevertheless. It’s all part of the peace process — and no one knows how long the process will take.
But there are still forces at play within Northern Ireland that make for a dangerous future, one that might see the present return to the dark past. And those exist on both sides of the political and sectarian divide.
Every July 12, the Orange Orders insist on marching to celebrate the 1690 victory of Dutch Prince William of Orange, a Protestant, over the Roman Catholic forces of deposed King James II of England. That battle took place in Ireland, a land of a little geography and a lot of history when it comes to England, its rulers, and religious and political struggles with the rest of Europe. As the old saying goes, England’s enemy is Ireland’s friend.
For decades, the bonfires lit in Protestant communities “on the Eve of the Twelfth” were meant to instil fear, with effigies of the Catholic pope or other Irish nationalist or republican figures put to the torch. The next day, Loyalist bands lead the Orange Orders in marches across the province, long flashpoints to the Roman Catholic communities. It’s a ritual that remains deeply divisive, particularly as the bands purposely pause outside Catholic churches and deliberately play traditional tunes such as The Sash My Father Wore.
Sinn Fein goes to great lengths to publicise the provocations on social media. The party, which was the political wing of the Provisional Irish Republican Army (IRA) — the main terrorist group on the Irish nationalist side and responsible for countless horrific acts of violence during those dark decades — has always been adept at getting its message out to a sympathetic international audience. Since the Good Friday Agreement was signed, the former gunmen of the IRA share power on running the province — if the power-sharing function actually works.
Over the past quarter century, London has had to intervene and rule the province directly for some five years.
The power-sharing function now is again broken, and months of talks have failed to break the impasse.
The late Martin McGuinness, the former IRA commander for Derry, resigned as deputy first minister in late January in a political feud with Arlene Foster, the First Minister leader of the Democratic Unionist Party. Yes, it is she who has made the deal that is keeping British Prime Minister Theresa May in power since June’s Westminster general election. Incidentally, McGuinness was burnt in effigy on some bonfires this past Eve of the Twelfth.
Despite a Northern Ireland Assembly election in March, there’s no agreement between both sides. The sticking point is Sinn Fein’s insistence on an Irish language law that would give Gaelic an equal footing as English in the province.
Between parades on one side and Gaelic verbs on the other, the 25 years of peace and progress remain stalled. Marching and bonfires seem a God-given right on the Loyalist side, while having a language that few speak other than for political purposes put on an equal footing seems a God-given right on the Republican side.
Yes indeed, the province has changed over the past quarter of a century, and many from eastern Europe now call its divided cities, towns and communities home.
According to the 2011 census in Northern Ireland, Gaelic is the fourth most-spoken language in the province; 96.86 per cent speak English; 1.02 per cent speak Polish; 0.36 per cent speak Lithuanian; and 0.24 per cent speak Irish. The languages speak for themselves.
