Above: A mural in Derry commemorating the TV show โ€˜Derry Girls,โ€™ which follows the lives of teenagers growing up amid Northern Irelandโ€™s troubles. (Photo by Dominic Bryan, CC BY-NC-ND)

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By Joseph Patrick Kelly, director of Irish and Irish American Studies

A 9-year-old boy lies on the floor of a working-class rowhouse in Belfast, Northern Ireland, wondrously watching American Westerns on TV. Outside, though, the worldโ€™s gone mad. Broken glass and shattered masonry. Barricades go up. Rifle-toting soldiers patrol the streets.

Itโ€™s August 1969, the summer that Northern Irelandโ€™s โ€˜troublesโ€™ flared into violence.

The scene is from โ€œBelfast,โ€ director Kenneth Branaghโ€™s ode to growing up in the grinding conflict that would go on to kill several thousand people. Branaghโ€™s Academy Award-winning film premiered in 2021, more than two decades after the Good Friday Agreement brought the troubles to a close on April 10, 1998 โ€“ 25 years ago this month.

This was the second period of so-called troubles in Ireland. The first involved a bloody guerrilla war that ended in 1921, with the island partitioned into an independent, mostly Catholic south and a mostly Protestant north that remained part of the United Kingdom.

But that division did little to settle the age-old war of cultural identity. Since then, each generation of artists has used theater, song and film to reflect on their statesโ€™ still-uneasy peace โ€“ made all the more complicated by Brexit.

โ€˜Four green fieldsโ€™

For hundreds of years, British culture stereotyped the โ€œnativeโ€ Irish as savage, bestial, childlike, lazy, belligerent and, above all else, unruly: a tribe that needed British civilization โ€“ and, therefore, its colonization. Irish nationalists like poet W.B. Yeats, who wanted to free the whole of Ireland from British rule, felt they had to flip this script by purging the island of โ€œAngloโ€ influences, reviving the Irish language and promoting Celtic arts.

In 1902, Yeats wrote the masterpiece of this Celtic revival, โ€œCathleen ni Houlihan.โ€ The one-act play dramatizes traditional songs and legends about a poor old woman driven from her farm by strangers. Cathleen recruits a groom โ€“ on the eve of his wedding day, no less โ€“ to help fight to retrieve her โ€œfour beautiful green fields.โ€

A black and white picture of a woman holding up a lantern in a doorway to a room with three people in it.

A scene from โ€˜Cathleen ni Houlihan.โ€™ (Project Gutenberg/Wikimedia Commons)

Itโ€™s an obvious allegory: She is Ireland, the fields are Irelandโ€™s four provinces, and the strangers are the British. The blood of Irish martyrs nourishes the old woman, and at the playโ€™s end, Cathleen transforms into a young girl โ€œwith the walk of a queen.โ€

Cultural pride helped fuel support for Irish independence, and the Irish Republican Army drove the British out of three of the islandโ€™s four provinces by 1922. But a majority of people in much of the final province, Ulster, identified as British, so a new national border was drawn to separate the two communities.

That gerrymandered border sparked a civil war in the new Irish Free State between the โ€œdie-hardโ€ nationalists, who wanted to keep fighting the British till they abandoned the north, and the โ€œFree Staters,โ€ who compromised to make peace. Martin McDonaghโ€™s 2022 film โ€œThe Banshees of Inisherin,โ€ nominated for nine Academy Awards, can be viewed as an allegory of the Irish Civil War โ€“ the tragedy when brothers in arms turn their guns on one another.

Spiraling crisis

Many Protestants loyal to the U.K. viewed the culture of Northern Irelandโ€™s minority Catholic population as a threat and treated them as second-class citizens. In the late 1960s, in part inspired by Martin Luther King Jr.โ€˜s civil rights activism in the U.S., Catholics began campaigning against discrimination. Their demands were met with violence, like the 1972 Bloody Sunday massacre, in which British soldiers shot and killed 14 unarmed protesters in Derry, also known as Londonderry โ€“ rival names that themselves reflect the sharp divide between communities.

A soldier stands on a street as two young children, one holding a fake shield, stand in front.
A soldier on patrol in Belfast in 1969. (Bettmann/Getty Images)

Tribal feelings spiraled higher, pitting mostly Protestant โ€œunionistsโ€ loyal to the U.K. against Catholic โ€œnationalistsโ€ who sought reunion with the Republic of Ireland. Neighborhoods were segregated and giant walls went up to keep Catholic and Protestant apart, but wave after wave of reprisals came anyway, including bombings and sniper attacks.

As the troubles intensified, folk musician Tommy Makemโ€™s popular song โ€œFour Green Fieldsโ€ drew again on the legend of Ireland as a poor old woman:

โ€œI have four green fields, one of themโ€™s in bondage

In strangersโ€™ hands, that tried to take it from me

But my sons have sons as brave as were their fathers

My fourth green field will bloom once again,โ€ said she.

It became a nationalist battle call, and a sign of the times, as plenty of young men joined the IRAโ€™s campaign against British control of Northern Ireland.

Nowhere was the โ€œthem and usโ€ attitude more evident than on the gable ends of rowhouses, where nationalists and unionists each painted murals celebrating their heroes and remembering the atrocities perpetrated by the other side.

People in dark coats hold white crosses in front of a purple and red mural with people's faces painted in it.
Families of the victims and supporters walk past a mural featuring the 14 victims of Bloody Sunday as they commemorate the 50th anniversary of the massacre, in 2022. (Charles McQuillan/Getty Images)

โ€˜Sing a new songโ€™

In the mid-1970s, a group of writers and actors, including the Nobel laureate poet Seamus Heaney, tried to blaze a way out of this cultural death spiral. Calling themselves โ€œIrelandโ€™s Field Day,โ€ they tried to create art that could be a โ€œfifth provinceโ€ of Ireland, a place that would transcend sectarian politics.

U2 wrote its hit song โ€œSunday, Bloody Sunday,โ€ the first song on its 1983 album โ€œWar,โ€ in the same spirit. It begins with images reminiscent of the massacre in Derry 11 years before:

Broken bottles under childrenโ€™s feet

Bodies strewn across the dead-end street

In U2โ€™s telling, the villain is not the other side. The enemy is the violence itself, generated by the feedback loop of Nationalism and unionism. The only way out is to refuse โ€œto heed the battle call.โ€

The album ends with the song โ€œ40,โ€ a soulful echo of the Bibleโ€™s 40th Psalm: โ€œI will sing โ€ฆ sing a new song.โ€

This kind of thinking helped lead the war-weary people of Northern Ireland to the Good Friday Agreement, also called the Belfast Agreement, in 1998. Its deals shaped the power-sharing system Northern Ireland has today, which legitimizes both identities. People in Northern Ireland can choose to be citizens of the U.K., citizens of the Republic of Ireland, or both.

A black and white photo shows a band performing on stage in front of a large illustration of a boy's face.
U2 performs on a television show in 1983, with an illustration from the cover of its โ€˜Warโ€™ album behind it. (Erica Echenberg/Redferns via Getty Images)

It has, by and large, worked. Over the years, this commitment to religious, political and racial equality tamped down the tribalism and violence. The border between Ireland and Northern Ireland became less and less relevant. By 2018, half of the people in Northern Ireland described themselves as โ€œneither nationalist nor unionist.โ€

A new generation

Brexit, however, has turned the line between Ireland and Northern Ireland into the only land border between the U.K. and the EU. Both nationalist and unionist identities are on the uptick, and the proportion of people in Northern Ireland claiming neither identity has plummeted to 37%.

Even so, anthropologist Dominic Bryan, co-chair of Northern Irelandโ€™s Commission on Flags, Identity, Culture, and Tradition, is optimistic that culture has built up a resistance to โ€œus versus themโ€ tribalism โ€“ reflected, in part, by how people remember the troubles.

He sent me a picture of a mural in Derry, painted one year after Brexit, which celebrates Lisa McGeeโ€™s hit TV show โ€œDerry Girls.โ€ Launched in 2018, the comedy follows the fictional lives of five teenagers growing up in the troubles. Though the show focuses on a Catholic community, it defuses the โ€œus and themโ€ way of thinking about identity. An episode called โ€œAcross the Barricadesโ€ satirizes facile attempts to get Catholic and Protestant kids to bond; it ends when they recognize their common enemy: parents.

In the last episode of the first season, while the kids deal with the anxieties of a high school talent show, the tone shifts dramatically. The adults are watching a TV news report of โ€œone of the worst atrocities of the Northern Irish conflict.โ€ A bomb has killed 12 people and injured many more, and โ€œanyone with medical trainingโ€ is urged to โ€œcome to the scene immediately.โ€

The audience doesnโ€™t know if the bomb was detonated by Catholic terrorists or Protestant terrorists. It doesnโ€™t matter. The violence is like a tornado or an earthquake: a disaster suffered by all of Derryโ€™s citizens, who pick up the pieces together.The Conversation

Joseph Patrick Kelly, Professor of Literature and Director of Irish and Irish American Studies, College of Charleston

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.