DERRY, Northern Ireland – Few towns are as caught between hope and history as Derry, the birthplace of the modern Troubles, but also the backdrop to ‘Derry Girls’, the exuberant and hugely popular British television series which tells the story of five teenagers. bloody period was coming to an end in the 1990s.
Now, however, after nearly 25 years of peace, locals fear that Derry’s hard-won gains are in jeopardy. Brexit has upended Northern Ireland’s fragile political and economic balance, while the UK government appears determined to put the Troubles and its legacy of sectarian violence in the past.
Two dark rituals last week – a day apart and on either side of the River Foyle, which divides Northern Ireland’s second city – served to illustrate both Derry’s anguished past and its unstable future.
Inside the city’s 17th-century stone walls, Amanda Fullerton joined the families of the victims in accusing the British government of shutting down investigations into the murders during the Troubles, such as guerrilla warfare between Catholic nationalists and unionists Protestants is commonly known. Her father, Eddie Fullerton, was shot dead by members of a loyalist paramilitary group in 1991.
The following day, a loyalist flute and drum band marched through the Protestant neighborhood of Waterside to mark 31 years since the assassination of Cecil McKnight, a former paramilitary commander. The Irish Republican Army, or IRA, said it targeted Mr McKnight in revenge for Mr Fullerton’s murder.
Brexit has inflamed passions in many Loyalist and Unionist quarters – which favor keeping the UK in place – as it has necessitated complex trade deals with the European Union which Unionists say is driving a wedge between Northern Ireland North and England, Scotland and Wales.
“Business people will always find a way to do business with each other,” said Jim Roddy, manager of Derry city centre, also called Londonderry by trade unionists. “But touch people’s identities and you step into something that you just can’t control. The question of identity is so much deeper.
A former firefighter and head of Derry Football Club, Mr Roddy, 62, negotiated with groups on both sides to prevent rituals like parades and bonfires from escalating into violence. Although Derry’s record of peaceful gatherings is good, he said he fears Britain’s latest actions could rekindle old animosities.
Identity issues are also being made worse by so-called legacy legislation proposed by Prime Minister Boris Johnson, albeit in a different way. Intended to clean the game of thousands of unsolved murders over the three decades of the Troubles, it would grant immunity from prosecution to those who cooperate with investigations by a new independent commission for reconciliation and information retrieval.
But that would mean there would be no new criminal investigations linked to the killings, which have drawn fierce opposition from victims’ families on both sides. They say it would deprive them of justice, particularly in cases where UK security forces or police colluded with paramilitary gangs.
“We are the voice of our father, and we will not be silenced,” said Phyllis Kealey, whose father, Sean Dalton, was killed in 1988 by an IRA bomb. The Dalton family have long believed that the police knew the house their father was killed in was booby-trapped and that they did nothing to prevent his death.
While the legislation, which the government hopes to pass this year, affects a far smaller number of people than the post-Brexit trade rules, it is easier to understand and, therefore, more likely to stoke tensions.
A small crowd gathered near Derry’s Guildhall last week to listen to the families of the victims tell their stories behind a black and white banner that read: ‘No to hiding the legacy of the British government’.
The debate over the unsolved murders particularly haunts the police, who are still viewed in Derry with deep resentment by much of the public. For Marty Reid, the city’s superintendent of police, overcoming suspicions about the legislation is the biggest hurdle to overhauling his department’s image.
“The inheritance issue is clearly a huge issue that is hurting a number of people,” Mr. Reid said. “So it’s certainly important that we enforce responsive policing whatever decisions are made at Westminster.”
For city boosters, the Troubles legislation and trading rules, known as the Northern Ireland Protocol, are unwelcome caveats to a sales pitch that emphasizes Derry’s young population, affordable accommodation and location, giving it unfettered access to both the British and European Union. markets.
“This town could be one of the jewels of Europe,” said John Kelpie, chief executive of Derry District Council and neighboring Strabane. “We’re taking a golden opportunity and potentially killing it outright.”
Neither he nor anyone else is predicting a return to the horrific violence that engulfed Derry in 1969, marking the start of the modern era of The Troubles. In 1972 British troops killed 13 unarmed Nationalist protesters in a clash known as ‘Bloody Sunday’ which became one of the conflict’s most infamous episodes.
But paramilitary groups like the New IRA, Irish National Liberation Army and Ulster Defense Association still operate in Derry neighborhoods, mostly dealing drugs, according to Mr Reid. The marching band which commemorated Mr McKnight’s death carried a flag displaying the Ulster Defense Association.
“With these groups there is always a risk that things will get ugly,” said Peter Sheridan, former deputy chief constable of the Police Service of Northern Ireland, formerly known as the Royal Ulster Constabulary. “Sectarianism is alive and well here, and that’s what breeds the violence.”
Some say the coronavirus pandemic has heightened tensions because months of lockdown in Northern Ireland created an echo chamber in which people only spoke with people in their own families or neighbourhoods.
And yet, to visit Derry’s neighborhoods is to find an odd mix of clan loyalty and civic-mindedness. Mark Logan, 40, watched the protest parade around the corner from his tattoo studio, which is next to the house where he grew up. Mr. McKnight, he said, lived down the street.
Although Mr Logan said he had a vague feeling that Northern Ireland protocol complicated his ability to order pigment for tattoos, he admitted he did not understand how it worked. In any event, he said, none of this should take away from the positive developments that have transformed Derry since the Good Friday Agreement, the 1998 deal that ended the Troubles.
“There’s a weird place of antisocial behavior here and there,” Logan said. “But Derry has done a pretty good job of moving beyond his past.”
Just down the street, developers are converting the former British military base, once bristling with guns pointed across the river, into a bustling resort with a craft brewery, luxury hotel and start-up offices technological -ups. Locals now sip pints while admiring the serpentine Bridge of Peace, which crosses the river and connects Derry’s once-warring communities.
Damian Heron, a local developer, has built a gleaming office tower in the complex and is planning another next door. Derry’s low rents, compared to Dublin and London, have attracted financial firms like Axa and tech giants like Fujitsu.
Mr Heron claimed no more than 5% of businesses are genuinely harmed by the protocol, which requires border checks on goods sent to Northern Ireland from mainland Britain. (This is necessary to avoid resurrecting a border between the North and the Republic of Ireland, an EU member)
“There is a political program and an economic program,” Mr. Heron said. “Politicians want to put them on the same path.”
Nothing has transformed the image of Derry more than “Derry Girls”, a comic, profane and often touching tale of five teenagers – four girls and a boy – who navigate a world filled with everyday high school concerns, but also in which their school bus can be detained by a bomb on the bridge. The show’s creator, Lisa McGee, originally from Derry, drew on her own experiences and those of her friends.
A huge mural of the cast, painted on the side of Badgers Bar and Restaurant, now attracts more visitors than murals of loyalist or nationalist martyrs. American tourists still flock to a large painted sign in Bogside, an important Catholic stronghold, which informs visitors: “You are now entering Free Derry.”
Aisling Gallagher, a close friend of Ms McGee, said the series accurately illustrated how The Troubles rumbled in the background, even as the teenagers “carried on with their way of life”. On the contrary, she said, this quest for normality has only deepened in the decades since the Good Friday Agreement.
“A lot of people are just fed up with politics,” said Ms Gallagher, 41, who works for the city. “They just ignore it unless it affects them directly. We just want to have a few laughs and a good craic,’ she added, using colloquial Irish language for the ineffable joys of lively conversation, often with a drink at the ready.