brian lamb
2011-12-10 20:42:49 UTC
Northern Ireland in July – silly season is here again
The Orange parades and subsequent riots may appear surreal,
ridiculous
or photogenically violent, but for us, this is reality
'Same crap, different year' … workers clear up debris following riots
in Ardoyne, Belfast, on 12 July. Photograph: Cathal Mcnaughton/
Reuters
Burning cars, cops with their helmets on fire, rubble-strewn roads –
yes, it can only be Northern Ireland in July.
There is a groundhog tedium even in the tension of waiting for these
inevitable outbreaks of flashpoint trouble as Orange parades pass by
nationalist areas: the choreography of this dark ballet may vary in
form, but the substance is essentially the same. Look – here comes
the
familiar lineup of characters: stout Orangemen in their ridiculously
camp and colourful uniforms; flag-waving grannies and alcopop-
swigging
youths in their wake; stony-faced nationalists silently (or not so
silently) standing in protest; police officers with body armour and
riot shields; and then, finally, the swarms of rioters take to the
streets – skinny, feral kids with scarves over their faces, out of
school for the summer and ready to play with fireworks and petrol
bombs. You can change the details, substitute loyalist for
nationalist
rioters, but the scenes of hatred and violence appear almost
identical. As one online commenter succinctly puts it, it's a case of
"same crap, different year".
That's why the subtle shifts in power that do occur on the ground
aren't immediately obvious. But the situation in Ardoyne, in north
Belfast – where trouble has flared following a return Orange Order
feeder parade – is particularly disturbing. It's long been a
flashpoint, but while in the past mainstream republicans had
sufficient influence over their communities to calm tensions, that
control appears to be slipping. Senior republicans could be seen
marshalling one group of protesters, while another group were intent
on attacking the police. Hardened photojournalists, accustomed to
covering riots, reported a sharper edge of aggression this time, with
the crowd turning its ire on the photographers as well as on the
police. Taken in conjunction with the upsurge of UVF-led violence in
east Belfast, there is a muted but growing fear of the "blood-dimmed
tide" that could be loosed if things fall apart – as they are always
at risk of doing in Northern Ireland.
Aside from the threat of violence, the marching season is a weird
time
in Northern Ireland. It's not just the sight of a load of men in
fancy-
dress uniforms bashing outsize drums – though God knows that can be
surreal enough. This time, raunch culture made a surprising
intervention at the main Belfast parade on 12 July, with female
spectators flashing their Union flag bras and knickers at passing
bands. Over in east Belfast, one loyalist band – outraged at a
Parades
Commission ruling that they were only permitted to play hymn tunes
during a sensitive part of their route – hit back by playing the
familiar loyalist marching favourite, The Sash, to the delight of the
crowds.
They justified this move by claiming that they were actually playing
The Lord's My Shepherd. Why? Well, in a canny semantic twist –
perhaps
inspired by the game One Song to the Tune of Another from the Radio 4
quizshow I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue – the Orange lodge in question
argued "there is no specific definition of what constitutes a hymn
tune … it must be the case that this refers to any tune to which
'sacred' or 'hymn-type' words could be sung". Touché, lads – that
will
show the Parades Commission who's boss. How about Teenage Kicks to
the
tune of Jerusalem next time?
But perhaps the strangest, most definably surreal aspect of the
trouble following this year's parades was the presence of tourists,
right in the thick of it. As petrol bombs flew through the air, a
group of Japanese visitors were scurrying around picking up police
baton-round shells as souvenirs, and a photography class from Spain –
who had come specifically to learn "how to shoot a riot" – was
snapping away at the scenes of mayhem.
This gives a whole new meaning to "Troubles tourism". It is as though
these visitors from abroad are impervious to the risk to their own
safety, treating the riot as though it is an enormous and
particularly
vivid piece of street theatre. In one way, that's understandable: as
we've seen, the entire marching season has an absurd pantomime
quality. But for those of us who live in Northern Ireland, this is
reality.
The Orange parades and subsequent riots may appear surreal,
ridiculous
or photogenically violent, but for us, this is reality
'Same crap, different year' … workers clear up debris following riots
in Ardoyne, Belfast, on 12 July. Photograph: Cathal Mcnaughton/
Reuters
Burning cars, cops with their helmets on fire, rubble-strewn roads –
yes, it can only be Northern Ireland in July.
There is a groundhog tedium even in the tension of waiting for these
inevitable outbreaks of flashpoint trouble as Orange parades pass by
nationalist areas: the choreography of this dark ballet may vary in
form, but the substance is essentially the same. Look – here comes
the
familiar lineup of characters: stout Orangemen in their ridiculously
camp and colourful uniforms; flag-waving grannies and alcopop-
swigging
youths in their wake; stony-faced nationalists silently (or not so
silently) standing in protest; police officers with body armour and
riot shields; and then, finally, the swarms of rioters take to the
streets – skinny, feral kids with scarves over their faces, out of
school for the summer and ready to play with fireworks and petrol
bombs. You can change the details, substitute loyalist for
nationalist
rioters, but the scenes of hatred and violence appear almost
identical. As one online commenter succinctly puts it, it's a case of
"same crap, different year".
That's why the subtle shifts in power that do occur on the ground
aren't immediately obvious. But the situation in Ardoyne, in north
Belfast – where trouble has flared following a return Orange Order
feeder parade – is particularly disturbing. It's long been a
flashpoint, but while in the past mainstream republicans had
sufficient influence over their communities to calm tensions, that
control appears to be slipping. Senior republicans could be seen
marshalling one group of protesters, while another group were intent
on attacking the police. Hardened photojournalists, accustomed to
covering riots, reported a sharper edge of aggression this time, with
the crowd turning its ire on the photographers as well as on the
police. Taken in conjunction with the upsurge of UVF-led violence in
east Belfast, there is a muted but growing fear of the "blood-dimmed
tide" that could be loosed if things fall apart – as they are always
at risk of doing in Northern Ireland.
Aside from the threat of violence, the marching season is a weird
time
in Northern Ireland. It's not just the sight of a load of men in
fancy-
dress uniforms bashing outsize drums – though God knows that can be
surreal enough. This time, raunch culture made a surprising
intervention at the main Belfast parade on 12 July, with female
spectators flashing their Union flag bras and knickers at passing
bands. Over in east Belfast, one loyalist band – outraged at a
Parades
Commission ruling that they were only permitted to play hymn tunes
during a sensitive part of their route – hit back by playing the
familiar loyalist marching favourite, The Sash, to the delight of the
crowds.
They justified this move by claiming that they were actually playing
The Lord's My Shepherd. Why? Well, in a canny semantic twist –
perhaps
inspired by the game One Song to the Tune of Another from the Radio 4
quizshow I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue – the Orange lodge in question
argued "there is no specific definition of what constitutes a hymn
tune … it must be the case that this refers to any tune to which
'sacred' or 'hymn-type' words could be sung". Touché, lads – that
will
show the Parades Commission who's boss. How about Teenage Kicks to
the
tune of Jerusalem next time?
But perhaps the strangest, most definably surreal aspect of the
trouble following this year's parades was the presence of tourists,
right in the thick of it. As petrol bombs flew through the air, a
group of Japanese visitors were scurrying around picking up police
baton-round shells as souvenirs, and a photography class from Spain –
who had come specifically to learn "how to shoot a riot" – was
snapping away at the scenes of mayhem.
This gives a whole new meaning to "Troubles tourism". It is as though
these visitors from abroad are impervious to the risk to their own
safety, treating the riot as though it is an enormous and
particularly
vivid piece of street theatre. In one way, that's understandable: as
we've seen, the entire marching season has an absurd pantomime
quality. But for those of us who live in Northern Ireland, this is
reality.