ABSTRACT
This book examines discourses from a wide range of actors in Northern Ireland’s peace process – from heads of government to community workers, from former paramilitary prisoners to journalists. In doing so, we attempt to give a fair representation of the ways in which ‘conflict’ and ‘peace’ in Northern Ireland have been framed at various levels and stages – and the impact that overlap and divergence in such discourses has had. Notwithstanding this objective, I believe it necessary to introduce our work with a confession of omission; there is no chapter in this book dedicated to elaborating the perspectives of victims and narratives of victimhood. What we have scrutinised is the presentation of victims’ experiences as packaged and presented in mainstream political discourses in post-Agreement Northern Ireland.1 In doing so, we point up our claim that it is political discourses that prevail in a process of conflict resolution. Yet, although we have found this predominance of political discourses in a peace process to be true, and (to a degree) necessary and even effective, this does not preclude us from acknowledging that it is neither adequate nor ideal. In Northern Ireland, public wariness at airing the un-tempered views of people for whom the repercussions of conflict are a daily trauma has increased over the course of the peace process, despite the tireless work of organisations dedicated to redressing the marginalisation of victims. One such group was the Consultative Group on the Past, chaired by Robin Eames and Denis Bradley, which was established ‘to find a way forward out of the shadows of the past’ (2009: 14). Eames and Bradley describe being ‘overwhelmed with the level of engagement’ in this mission from across Northern Ireland – a fact that, they note, serves to highlight ‘the depth of hurt and suspicion that still lingers in every part of our society’. Before turning to the task of outlining recommendations, Eames and Bradley (2009: 10) prefaced their Report with the maxim: ‘Debate and discussion are healthy for any society emerging from years of violence and conflict.’ In a scenario heavy-laden with irony, the public launch of this Report was a volatile affair. Although not as exclusive as many pivotal events in the peace process, ordinary people directly affected by the recommendations of the Group felt only able to made their points by standing outside the venue of the launch with placards, by heckling others at the event, or by standing in front of the stage
set for the venerable speakers. The face-to-face confrontation of two individuals became the focus of the media mêlée: a woman and a man, a Protestant and a Catholic, an orphaned daughter and a bereaved brother. As their two worlds clashed under the glare of the press, it became clear that no one around them, in an apt microcosm of Northern Ireland society, knew how to respond to the articulation of such raw anger. It is easier, more predictable, less raucous to put responsibility for voicing victimhood into the hands of lawyers, courageous community workers or carefully picked representatives than to let victims speak for themselves. The insight and candour forged by grief and tragedy cuts through the niceties and norms of political conflict management. What is more, the rippling implications of the vocal expression of anger and pain have no clear boundaries or endpoints. This sits uneasily with the need for order and progress in a peace process; more devastatingly, it implies that the goal of reaching a ‘resolution’ to conflict becomes less attainable the more we listen.
