GOD SAVE BELFAST
HE'S THE ONLY GUY ANYBODY HERE CAN AGREE ON
Photos by Stuart GriffithsA bonfire party organized by some amazingly friendly people from the loyalist community who treated us very well.There was a time when the conflict in Northern Ireland suffused popular culture, with its easily explicable cast of Catholics and Protestants and its deceptively simple narrative of joining the Republic of Ireland versus remaining under the protective wing of Great Britain. The IRA loomed large—an irregular force giving the Brits hell, a pre-Al Qaeda byword for terrorism. The Troubles, as the Cranberries called them, were everywhere. But in 1998, after a furious but low-intensity war that claimed almost 3,700 victims over 30 years, the two sides suddenly called it a draw. Political representatives of paramilitary groups and mainstream political parties hammered out the Good Friday Agreement, outlining a cessation of major sectarian violence, the decommissioning of weapons, and the release of prisoners affiliated with groups like the IRA and its unionist analogue, the Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF). There would be no land swaps, no significant concessions made to those demanding a united Ireland, just a tenuous and long-overdue "peace process." It marked, as an Irish journalist once told me, the effective surrender of the IRA. But in the unionist communities of east Belfast and nationalist enclaves of west Belfast—working-class areas where militant sectarianism is one of few birthrights—there is little sense of peace and much talk of being "sold out by the tea-drinking politicians." And every year on July 12, when unionists of the Orange Order celebrate the victory of Protestant King William of Orange over Catholic King James by marching through Belfast, one could be forgiven for thinking that the Troubles never ended. In the lead up to this year's Twelfth parade, tensions were running higher than any period in recent memory: It was only a few months since a 25-year-old Catholic police officer was murdered by dissident republicans (to dissuade others from joining the force) and just weeks after altercations between nationalists and unionists in east Belfast ended in riots and multiple shootings, including a cameraman. What better time to explore Belfast and marinate in the divisive hate? Arriving a few days before the festivities, I quizzed a handful of young parade attendees, some from as far afield as Toronto, about the significance of the July 12 celebrations. A few offered platitudes about the brilliance of "King Billy" and the need to assert the primacy of unionist culture; the historical particulars of the march seemed almost irrelevant to its participants. It was odd, though, to listen to drink-sodden teenagers employ squishy political rhetoric rather than just nakedly sectarian slogans. They stressed that the march is a celebration of "culture," one that is hamstrung by bigoted politicians and a needlessly aggressive police force. It's the familiar language of multiculturalism, adapted for a schizophrenic religious conflict.
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INTERVIEW BY ANDY CAPPER VICE: What's your history with Belfast?
Stuart Griffiths:I was a British soldier there. I came when I was 17 and was a Parachute Regiment soldier in 3 PARA. At first I was kept in the canteen, as I was too young to go on the streets. When I reached 18 I was posted to B Company, 3 PARA. What made you join the Paras?
At the time, there was a TV program called The Paras, and at school there was a big thing about joining up: Join the Marines or the Paras and all that macho bullshit. It looked cool. What was it like in Belfast as a teenage soldier during the Troubles?
We got up about six and went out all day patrolling. It'd be four hours on, two off, and then we'd get food in between. People would shout, "You fucking Brit, shit, scumbag, bastard!" What would you say to them?
Nothing. I took it on the chin. Early on a really fit girl said something nasty to me, but I didn't really mind that. What was the worst abuse you got?
We got shot at. Actually, the worst might have been having shit thrown on us. We had potties emptied from out of windows at us. It took a long time to get rid of the smell. It's not you they hate, though; it's the uniform you wear. That's why I got out, I think. What was it like going back to Belfast?
It was cathartic, an emotional release. It was all about facing my ghosts and demons of the past and exorcising them. In terms of therapy, it was a good thing to do. It was a very moving experience. How did you feel when we were in Ardoyne and the rioting kicked off?
Well, I'd been in riot situations before, but I wasn't expecting that. I was thinking, "What if a brick or a rock falls on my head, because this time I haven't got a helmet on?" But when you're out there trying to get good pictures, it's the photography that takes over. And I guess it showed me how far photography has taken me in my life. As the photographer Patrick Zachmann said, "You photograph your own history. Everything else is tourism." So I took that on board. But yeah, when they started hurling stuff, I thought, "These guys really know how to riot." Yeah, that's what I was thinking: "They're pretty good at this."
It's in their blood. And I don't condemn it. You can see why they're frustrated and angry. There is no work, the economic situation is bad, and the peace process is there but it's gonna take a long time to see results. I saw this little kid, about ten or 12 years old, and he had this massive green bottle, and this other kid was saying, "Go on and throw it!" And the little kid was spitting on the floor trying to be the hard guy, but he couldn't bring himself to throw it. And I really felt for him. When you're in that situation you're expected to go along with the crowd, or else people turn on you. I came away thinking, "Well, this situation is still very much a live wire."
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