The stories William tells are strikingly similar to those on the other side of the wall. Each community maintains that the other is to blame for the violence that scarred the region, and each side is certain that it occupies the moral high ground. The Shankill estate is covered in murals to rival those across the divide, though they seem to be more militaristic in nature. As we progress through the district William points out some of the more recently produced paintings, which are markedly more pacifistic in nature. ‘No military targets, no economic targets, no legitimate targets’ proclaims one. Our guide tells us that the move away from violent depictions is the result of a conscious decision. “It’s about taking out the military aspect, but keeping the historical value,” he says. “Honour the past, don’t forget the past, but when you dwell on the past – that’s the problem.”
Local schools are spilling out as we drive around, and I wonder what the children make of their neighbourhood being split in half by an eight-metre wall. As if in answer to my question, two boys of primary school age emerge from a side street, dragging a construction site barrier between them. They lay it across the road, blocking off traffic, and stand back to watch. William shakes his head: “They only mimic what they see.”
Those youngsters who don’t learn the rules from what they see can find themselves in real trouble, as was shown by an incident earlier this year. Two teenage boys, found guilty of repeated burglary by the paramilitary authorities, were forced to march through a local street wearing cardboard signs declaring ‘I am a thief and a burglar’. Far from drawing condemnation from the local community, the consensus view seems to be that if the police are unwilling, then the paras should step in to take control – “slap it up ‘em,” is William’s verdict, as he shows us a photo of the offending teenager on his camera phone. Though fighting between rival communities seems to have been reduced, it’s clear that the power of the paramilitary organisations is little diminished in their own areas.
Further up the estate, William is keen to show us a section of the peace wall that is covered with messages from all over the world, with visitors from places as far-flung as Brazil, Australia, Russia and Aberdeen. There are literally thousands of the messages, and almost all express goodwill and a desire for peace. Though not the most poetical of writers, Brooke from Canada captures the overriding tone of the messages with her line ‘Why can’t you all just get along?’
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William offers us pens to add our own contributions (I decline – not just because I can’t think of anything to write, but because I suspect my message would mostly be read by overseas visitors anyway), and he tells us that this is probably the most popular tourist attraction in Belfast at the moment. As you read this, plans are afoot for Banksy to be flown in to add his own contribution – with his anonymity to be safeguarded by paramilitary bodyguards – and William discusses the concept of an internet business where Americans can pay to have their words written via video link. Given that you can now buy jars of Irish soil online to sprinkle on overseas graves, this may not be such a crazy idea for bringing some money into the community.
From the tone of the murals and the attitudes of the individuals we speak to, it seems that the hatred and violence that has plagued Ireland for so long is being subdued at last, ten years after the Good Friday Agreement brought an official end to the fighting. But even if the adults are beginning to mellow, it remains to be seen how the next generation will cope with the concrete scar running through their community. In the student union of a Belfast university later that night, a boy of about seventeen comes up to me, so inebriated he can barely stand. “Are you a Protestant or a Catholic?” he slurs at me, Guinness streaming from his pores. Neither, I tell him; I’m Scottish, and we don’t really talk about it so much over there. He’s happy enough with this, and tries to sell me some pills instead – an upstanding character all round, clearly.I even succeed in convincing myself that the bitter sectarian divide isn’t a problem here, until we’re in the taxi on the way back from Glasgow Airport. Chatting about the tours in Belfast, the driver agrees that it’s a terrible business indeed for a people to be so divided in their own communities. Then barely a heartbeat passes before he asks us, completely unprompted, “Are you Rangers or Celtic? You look Celtic. I’m Rangers.”
It’s good to be home.
By Chris Watt
