Bleak. Grim. Haunted. Somber.
Grave. Post-apocalyptic. Seas of disturbing adjectives swirl through my mind as
we drive through West Belfast. I wasn’t really expecting anything else, you
could say I’m getting what I prepared for.
Chain-linked fences with barbed wire imprison housing
complexes and security cameras perch on rooftops and patrol the sordid lives
that happen on the streets below them. George Orwell must have visited 1970s
Belfast in a dream and put it in “Nineteen Eighty-Four.” What a dirty city. Has
Belfast even left The Troubles behind? The graffiti still sings a song of
rebellion and loyalist paramilitary groups: ghouls of the Ulster Defense
Association and the Shankill Butchers are everywhere. Their faces are painted
on buildings glorifying their actions; William McCullough smiles down at me
from a mural in lower Shankill. You’d think he was some sort of saint and not
the man who organized a grenade attack on the Gem Bar in the Catholic New Lodge
area.
The red hand of Ulster is never far from sight, still a sign of the
loyalists. A particularly gruesome bit of graffiti shows a dismembered hand on
a rock with the political flag for Northern Ireland flying above it. From a
distance, I can see a horrifying mural of an Ulster Freedom Fighter aiming a
gun outwards. My tour guide calls it the “Mona Lisa of Belfast” and I nod in
understanding as the gun follows me around the corner.
Its displays like this
that make me believe West Belfast hasn’t moved on from The Troubles; this poor
community is holding on to the one battle they have always fought. The populace
is stagnant because there is no circulation of wealth, no economic advances,
and no chance of keeping up with the modern world. All you have to do is go to
East Belfast to see the difference. It’s overflowing with culture, beautiful
architecture, and industry; there are signs everywhere saying “Our time. Our
place. Belfast 2012.” This motivation is lost in West Belfast and as a result,
this part of the city stays trapped in time. Every corner is a reminder of the
corruption and warped politics that took place and every corner looks like it
could explode from the pressure of being a city anachronism.
Bleak. Grim. Haunted. Somber.
Grave. Post-apocalyptic. Seas of disturbing adjectives swirl through my mind as
we drive through West Belfast. I wasn’t really expecting anything else, you
could say I’m getting what I prepared for. Chain-linked fences with barbed wire imprison housing
complexes and security cameras perch on rooftops and patrol the sordid lives
that happen on the streets below them. George Orwell must have visited 1970s
Belfast in a dream and put it in “Nineteen Eighty-Four.” What a dirty city. Has
Belfast even left The Troubles behind? The graffiti still sings a song of
rebellion and loyalist paramilitary groups: ghouls of the Ulster Defense
Association and the Shankill Butchers are everywhere. Their faces are painted
on buildings glorifying their actions; William McCullough smiles down at me
from a mural in lower Shankill. You’d think he was some sort of saint and not
the man who organized a grenade attack on the Gem Bar in the Catholic New Lodge
area. 
The red hand of Ulster is never far from sight, still a sign of the
loyalists. A particularly gruesome bit of graffiti shows a dismembered hand on
a rock with the political flag for Northern Ireland flying above it. From a
distance, I can see a horrifying mural of an Ulster Freedom Fighter aiming a
gun outwards. My tour guide calls it the “Mona Lisa of Belfast” and I nod in
understanding as the gun follows me around the corner. 
Its displays like this
that make me believe West Belfast hasn’t moved on from The Troubles; this poor
community is holding on to the one battle they have always fought. The populace
is stagnant because there is no circulation of wealth, no economic advances,
and no chance of keeping up with the modern world. All you have to do is go to
East Belfast to see the difference. It’s overflowing with culture, beautiful
architecture, and industry; there are signs everywhere saying “Our time. Our
place. Belfast 2012.” This motivation is lost in West Belfast and as a result,
this part of the city stays trapped in time. Every corner is a reminder of the
corruption and warped politics that took place and every corner looks like it
could explode from the pressure of being a city anachronism. 
Nice opening. Hd it been raining, it would have been een more oppressive. Do you think Protestants see Ulster this way? Some excellent political analysis for the nationalist side.
ReplyDeleteThis piece moves well, easy to read and provides a good amout of info with sounding like an encyclopedia.
ReplyDeleteI agree, your blog flows like a river without any big rocks preventing its constant progression. You also provide detailed information without boring your reader. The only thing I would suggest is to proof read one more time because there are a few very minor grammatical errors. Excellent post.
ReplyDelete