photo copyright, Bill Rolston and Beyond the Pale Publications

For many years, Belfast has been ultra vires (loosely translated as “off limits”) for all but the most adventurous traveller, and whilst it is true that the city has begun to resume its rightful place as an interesting destination, worthy of a long weekend, it still retains a certain frisson for many apprehensive vacationers. 

However, plus ça change, as one observes in the city centre bars when you pay in sterling and get your change in Euros. Indeed, Belfast has now acquired “glam” status in terms of its attractiveness to the British weekender: theatres, bars, safety (yes, Belfast is appreciably safer than most major British cities, especially after closing time) and range of accommodation. 

But one USP (Uniquely Sellable Photo-opportunity) remains: the famous Murals of Belfast. 

Now before you assume that we are talking Democracy Wall in Tienanmin Square or the late, unlamented Berliner Mauer (which, incidentally, always reminded me of the instructions on every exam paper in the world: “Write on one side of the Wall only”), you have to understand that Belfast murals – or “muriels,” as we call them – are as subtle an expression of political and cultural sentiment as you will find in these parts. 

This may seem odd to you, dear reader, because you might well assume that there is nothing so in your face as a 20-foot-high gable end urging you to “Free the POWs NOW!”  But you would be wrong because the Belfast walls are the classic example of what our Marxist friends used to call agitprop, except that in Belfast they are likely to be propping up a terrace, rather than a half-truth.  Leaving aside the obvious fact that there are no more prisoners of war, of which more later, the murals are a subtle commentary on the shifting positions adopted by the main protagonists. To paraphrase the Bard: “All the wall’s a stage, and all the men and women merely painters.” 

Having said that, any impartial observer (who cannot exist, according to Heisenberg’s Principle of Uncertainty) is entitled to ask: Are the walls representative of the indigenous culture? This goes right to the heart of the matter. But let me first describe the murals. 

Where to start? 

There is no better place to start than three volumes of well-taken photographs and balanced commentary (a sort of explication de contexte) which Bill Rolston has produced. Drawing Support is published by Beyond the Pale which, in the best traditions of the Irish love of word play, reflects a commitment to publishing material which is beyond the mainstream.  And if you visit Belfast, could I suggest that you employ the services of Anna Eggert, who is one of the most knowledgeable guides in the city on this subject. 

Our murals are anything but your simple “Free Nelson Mandela/The Guantanamo 300/ Microsoft Downloads” variety. In keeping with all graffiti throughout history, the artist has to produce conceptual memorabilia.  But any Belfast mural has to carry – and to use – both the weight of Irish history and the black humour for which the city is famous. 

A quick example: Shortly after the death of the first of the hunger strikers, the slogan “We’ll never forget you, Jimmy Sands” appeared on the loyalist Shankill Road. Now this apparently innocent tribute line encompasses three diverse but related themes. Firstly, the leader of the hunger strikers was Bobby Sands, elected MP from his death bed and currently iconised near the Sinn Fein offices on the Falls Road.  

Secondly, Jimmy Shand was at that time (1982) a very popular and very much alive band leader in Scotland, who often performed for Queen Elizabeth and who was honoured accordingly.  He would therefore have been regarded as a trusted servant of the British establishment and therefore anathema to the republican community.  

Finally, the graffiti was a mordant commentary of the fickleness of memory and of the loyalists’ distaste of – and disdain for – the hunger strikers. 

The keys to comprehension 

So, one simple sentence encompasses so much. But before you scratch your head in despair and wonder how you’ll ever understand the symbolism, do not fret. Some statements are so blindingly – and chillingly – obvious that no further explanation is required. I am thinking of a loyalist mural in a particularly well-policed development. Like the two-faced Janus, it simply states: “Ready for peace – prepared for war.” Or the oblique tribute to Tina Turner on the Shankill Road. Referring to one of the many loyalist paramilitary groups who constantly vie for control of various money-spinning rackets, it says: “UVF – Simply The Best.” 

Not 400 yards away, however, lies the nationalist and republican community of the Falls and Springfield roads, where the graffiti substitute the symbols of the link to Great Britain (the crown, the union flag, the coat of arms of the royal family etc.) for all the traditional Irish symbols, with which you will be more familiar. The script is that unique Irish monastic style known as ogham; the arms are those of the four provinces of Ireland (Ulster, Munster, Leinster and Connacht) and much, much more is made of those individuals who have “given their lives for the cause.” 

Travel up these roads and you will see that political correctness expresses itself in myriad subtle ways: the street names are in both Irish and English; it is politic to fly the Irish flag outside your door and a statue of the Blessed Virgin keeps watch over a particularly busy junction. Belfast roundabouts are like revolving doors – hesitate for a moment and you’re trapped, so perhaps it is just as well that Mary is there to remind motorists that there is more to life than beating the queue. 

There is one feature of this part of town that symbolises the changing circumstances of Northern Ireland.  At the top of the Falls Road lies an abandoned police station, scene of many pitched battles over the years. Two hundred yards away, still defiantly plying its trade, is the Felons Club, one of Belfast’s more exclusive retreats, because membership is restricted to those (republicans) who spent time at Her Majesty’s pleasure and expense. 

And this gives us a clue to the subtle seismology of Northern Ireland. For the tone of the loyalist murals, which once proudly proclaimed “No Surrender,” and even once, memorably and lyrically, “We shall not sacrifice the blue skies of freedom for the grey mists of an Irish republic,” has become ever more aggressive and strident as the tide of history has begun to rise up their rocky outcrop towards their necks. 

On the other hand, the political advances of Sinn Fein since the 1994 ceasefire, which may yet be copper-fastened in a new Agreement, have resulted in a toning down of the revolutionary fervour of the murals. The call to arms is whispered now, like a midnight password to a dorm party, where goodies will be shared out to those who have kept the faith.

Oh yes, you can still see and snap the posters extolling solidarity for liberation struggles in far-off places, but the connection of West Belfast to hunger strikers in Uzbekistan has puzzled many a Japanese tourist. 

Ironies on the fire 

One of the great fingerprints of English – as she is re-modelled in this island – is the implied irony in almost every breath. “You think so?” and “Yeah, right” mean their exact opposite and generally imply that the proponent of an idea is a sandwich short of a picnic or a cardinal short of the papacy – whatever, as they say in Manhattan. It should therefore come as no surprise to you that the sharpest irony of all is a loyalist mural near the site of the shipyard which informs the passer by that the conflict is about nationality.   

And what is odd about it is that it invokes a hero from Gaelic mythology – Cuchullain – as the defender of Ulster. Until the appearance of this mural, any character from the tales of the Knights of the Red Branch (the Irish medieval sagas) would have been the exclusive property of the nationalist community. No longer.

So, then, are the murals representative of our indigenous culture? The final irony is that they probably represent some of the aspirations of a very small percentage of the population, but it is still a percentage that is capable of stirring up tremendous passions. And whilst much of the north has granted itself the self-indulgence of internecine warfare, only now has it woken up to the fact that the south has been paying lip service to its republican past for three decades whilst it played catch-up with the rest of the European Union.   

Is it indigenous? Certainly, inasmuch as bacteria are indigenous to a yoghurt. It would not be too far from the truth to suggest that the Protestant community traditionally regarded its neighbours as indigent; and the Catholic community regarded its neighbours as indignant. It is a tribute to the maturity of all those who have worked to advance the peace process – however slowly – "that patient negotiation has prevented the virus of suspicion from developing into the epidemic of civil war.” Long may they continue. 

Is it safe to visit? Of course. I have led tours of eight nationalities in four languages to two communities this summer. I have seen the perplexed being lectured to by the well-meaning as the uninterested got on with making a living in some shape or fashion. Never mind the glamour, the real joys of this little corner of the globe are the fabulous scenery, the kindness of the people to strangers and the looking-glass nature of our society. 

Alice offered a more perceptive analysis than most leader writers: “Curiouser and curiouser,” she said.  On the button, dear Alice, on the button.