On a chain-link fence near a small trailer car, on Twaddell Street in Belfast, Northern Ireland, an Israeli flag usually flies amid a thicket of Union Jacks. But when I visited in August last year, while the colours of the United Kingdoms national flag fluttered proudly, the Israeli one—with its bright blue Star of David—was absent. “Somebody stole it,” I was told by Helen, a 71-year-old woman who was sitting guard in the trailer.
Helen is a Protestant Christian and a Unionist: she supports the British Crown and the power it holds over Northern Ireland. Britain colonised Ireland for nearly eight centuries, starting in the twelfth century, when it invaded and conquered the island. In 1921, Ireland was partitioned into the Republic of Ireland, which became an independent country, and Northern Ireland, which remained part of the United Kingdom. Factions formed, with people known as Loyalists, or Unionists—mostly English Protestants—holding that Northern Ireland should remain part of the United Kingdom, while Republicans—mostly Irish Catholics—supported independence from the United Kingdom and unification with the Republic of Ireland. These tensions culminated in the Troubles: a 30-year period of conflict, from the 1960s to the 1990s, between paramilitary groups linked to these opposing factions. The Troubles resulted in over 3,500 deaths, and ended with a bilateral agreement in 1998 that led to a winding down of active conflict. Northern Ireland is still part of the United Kingdom.
Although the Troubles are formally considered over, they left a deep imprint on the region. Electoral politics in Northern Ireland, for example, has been defined by tensions between the Democratic Unionist Party and Sinn Féin—two parties linked to paramilitary groups on either side of the Troubles. In civic life, the shadow of the Troubles is often visible during Belfast’s annual celebrations of Protestantism on 12 July. The holiday commemorates a 1690 battle in which the Protestant ruler William of Orange defeated the Catholic King James II, bringing Protestantism to Ireland. Many Loyalists march in the 12 July parades, attracting ire when they pass through Catholic areas. About three years ago, Belfast’s parades commission denied a group of Loyalists permission to pass through Twaddell Street. Since then, Helen and several other Loyalists have been occupying the trailer, which they parked on a vacant plot for their protest. This April, they observed their having held fort in it for 1,000 days.
Given this regional context, casual observers may be puzzled to hear of an Israeli flag planted on the Loyalist stronghold, more than 6,000 kilometres from Jerusalem. In fact, Loyalists in Northern Ireland believe their historical struggle is similar to that of Jewish Israelis, whom they see as having contended with terrorism in their homeland. “Protestants support the Israelis because we too think we’ve been intimidated, threatened and lost rights,” Helen told me. But she soon changed tracks. “I really don't think we should be flying the Israeli flag,” she said. “They started it, so we started it.” The “they” she was referring to were the Irish Republicans, who often fly the Palestinian flag because they believe their situation bears parallels to the Palestinian history of dispossession. These repeated invocations of the faraway conflict point to deep and persisting political tensions in Northern Ireland—despite the Troubles being past.
Flags and bunting are a large part of Northern Ireland’s urban landscape. While exploring Belfast, I found the Protestant area of the city replete with flags of England, Scotland, Wales and Ulster—the Irish province that has historically sided with the United Kingdom. On the Catholic side, the orange, white and green flag of the Republic of Ireland hung out of houses and cars. Both sides bore thousands of paramilitary flags from the Troubles.
The Catholic side of the city was rife with references to Palestine. At a flag store, I inquired about Palestinian flags, and was told they had sold out. At a Catholic cemetery, I saw a Palestinian flag draped across a gravestone. On the Protestant side, though, I spotted only one Israeli flag, flying outside a Protestant church. Across the road, a mural informed us we were in “Loyalist Tigers Bay,” and another one of two men holding rifles read: “Prepared for peace, ready for war.” I asked many people about this relative scarcity of Israeli flags, and they said that the numbers fluctuate according to the political climate.
A wall covered in graffiti ran for kilometres, segregating the Catholic and Protestant parts of the city—drawing to mind the separation barrier between Israel and the Palestinian territories. Many murals painted on the wall paid tribute to political movements across the globe. One mural, painted for Gaza, showed a Palestinian girl running from armed men. The image was an homage to the famous photograph of a naked girl running from a napalm attack during the Vietnam War. Block letters at the bottom of the mural called for the “immediate expulsion of all Israeli diplomats from Éire”—the Gaelic term for Ireland. The fierce solidarity displayed in the mural is not new to Northern Ireland. In fact, during the Troubles, Irish Republicans forged links with political rebel groups around the world for arms training. One outfit they connected with was the Palestinian Liberation Organisation—the group that led the Palestinian resistance.
To get a deeper sense of these connections, I attended a “Palestine Day” event organised by the Ireland Palestine Solidarity Campaign, a non-profit organisation. A large table sold lapel pins of the Palestinian flag intertwined with the one of the Republic of Ireland. Attendees wore keffiyehs—the traditional head scarves made iconic by the Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat. The organisers had also flown in a group of Palestinian teenagers to interact with their Irish counterparts.
At the event, Ilan Pappé, an acclaimed Israeli historian, spoke on a panel in front of a packed audience. To rousing applause, he equated Zionism with apartheid. Later, in an email interview, when I asked him about the solidarity many Irish people feel with Palestine, he said: “The division of sympathy is clear. Both societies are settler colonial societies. Protestants and Jews settled in someone else’s land.”
Across town, I met David Hume, a former director of services of the Grand Orange Lodge: a fraternal organisation that strives to promote civil liberties and Protestantism. The Lodge is known for drawing controversy for its 12 July parades through Catholic areas; some of the activists who protested alongside Helen were from the Orange Lodge. Protestants in Northern Ireland, Hume told me, feel an inherent affinity for Israel. “A lot of people within the Unionist community would look at how Israel has dealt with all of the violence and think, ‘Wish our government had dealt with terrorism in a different way,’” he said. On the issue of the flags, he echoed Helen, calling it a tit-for-tat dynamic. “The reason why people are burning Israeli flags or Palestinian flags or putting them up is to try and antagonise other people,” he said. “It’s an exploration of identity.”
David Singer, a rabbi with roots in Israel, who leads a small Jewish congregation in Belfast, had little patience for any such flag-fellowship. “I don’t think either side of the locals understands Middle East politics,” he said. “I find it quite laughable that any side should identify with any side.” Over our lengthy conversation, much of which took place on a drive through Belfast’s Protestant neighbourhoods, he described comparisons between the two conflicts as self-righteous, pompous, nonsensical and arrogant. “It’s just a way of perpetuating hatred and violence,” he said. “This is a way of prolonging their conflict by proxy with the Middle East.” I asked him whether he would be comfortable taking a walk alone around the Catholic parts of town—places where someone like him, with his yarmulke, beard and long black coat, might encounter anti-Israeli prejudice. He told me about a time he wanted to visit a Jewish cemetery in a Catholic area in West Belfast, but was told, “Under no circumstances should you go there by yourself.” So, he said, “for the sake of the peace of mind of my members, I did go there—but with other people.”
My final meeting was with Mohammed Samaana, who emigrated from the West Bank, in the Palestinian territories, to Belfast in 2000. We met at the mural for Gaza. Samaana, who works as a nurse, said he understood why Republicans often support the Palestinian cause. “Confiscating land from the natives and planting colonial settlers in their areas,” he said, “This is similar to what happened with us. The weak identify with each other.” I asked him if he would visit an Orange Order parade. “If I was identified as a Palestinian there, I wouldn’t feel safe to go,” he said.
Samaana showed me a blurry photo he had taken while riding a bus through a Protestant area. A huge bonfire was being built, and the Palestinian flag was placed atop the mountain of kindling. “It’s humiliating to see your flag being burnt,” he said, “and I don’t want to see it.”