It really is a question of two old voices knocking ten bells of hell out of each other. The DUP and Sinn Féin stood in Stormont this past week, knocking lumps out of each other over an attempted march by 30 men in the Orange Order. Sinn Fein argued that the DUP were culpable of stirring up sectarianism. But it was very much the same argument that came from the DUP about Sinn Féin, accusing them of stirring up ethnic differences.
Twenty-eight years after signing the (Good Friday or Belfast Agreement) that ended the Troubles, there was still an open wound last week. The belief that each side was once again invoking the Troubles to gain political leverage was evident. Michelle O’Neill stood on the plinth and promised never again, but the DUP stood on a point of law. Michelle O’Neill, aghast at what was coming in the chamber, moaned that every member of the DUP seemed to have taken a crash course in the law and stood on a point of the law that needed to be challenged, and she would “do what she had done again”.
If the chamber had not been so serious, it could have been a comedy. The Chuckle Brothers are no more; they are no longer a fixture in the chamber that roared with laughter as the two of them joked and laughed the Troubles away. The Galvachy Road loomed large in the minds of the delegates, and if a point was missed, it was soon brought up. The Quinn brothers were a point brought up by both sides; horrified by their deaths, the chamber repeated the mantra, “Never Again”.
But that was the only concession. It was about knocking lumps out of each other, the lead voice of the DUP, sympathizing with the Quinn family argued that Sinn Féin could not bring themselves to sympathize with a Protestant family if they had been the victims, and revisited the Troubles. Instances of knee capping, the killing of police officers, and much more came out. Members were rounded on and accused of crimes during the Troubles, but that wasn’t the end of it—it was furious, angry, and spiteful, and according to the lead voice of the DUP, Sinn Féin had “blood on their hands and would be judged by God.”
But was the blood on the hands of the President of the United States—was it a last desperate attempt to garner electoral support on his short trip to Ireland? There was a desperation to stir up the Troubles all over again—the argument for a united Ireland, the breakup of the UK, and a push to argue that ethnic difference was undoing the United Kingdom. It was desperate; in his mind, it was necessary to prop up an imagined support base of Irish migrants in the United States. Just politicking—just an argument of a US election slipping through the hands of the Republican Party in the US.
But like anything with Trump, the idea that he can create chaos is something that he lives and breathes, according to his PR gurus. It is just part of his character; it is very much how he operates. Last week, it was an offer to the Iranians to send a missile in the direction of Los Angeles and San Diego, where the liberals are “causing hell,” which led to an article on Substack by Alan Rusbridger titled “We need to bring up the President’s mental health.” Of course, many have brought up the question of Trump’s mental health: Paul Krugman, Nick Cohen, and I have also had a go at the behavior of Trump in the past year, but the argument is used up to try to explain—how shall we say this politely—the eccentricities (madness) of the President.
In the last week, the President has come to an agreement with Putin to buy diesel from a country he himself sanctioned to bring peace to Europe, in a last-ditch effort to placate the electorate. The consequences of his actions have been awful, and a supposed agreement that he publicized was meant to restrict the targeting of energy resources. That of course turned out to be a fantasy—just something he made up and published on his platform, Truth Social.
It has not been a good week for the President. He has lost his press secretary and declared war on the West Coast. But his voice still carries resonance in Northern Ireland, where a judge broke with protocol and gave a judgment that was probably a consequence of the President’s visit to Ireland to watch some golf and politic. The ugliness of the arguments in Stormont seeped into the wider world, sitting aghast at the language members of this tiny chamber were using to confront each other. Sinn Féin asked why Chris Bryant had not banned the march at the time, pushing away an argument that had divided the House into another House that needed to ask questions of the Secretary of State. But it was the brutality of the argument in the chamber that needed to be questioned.
Eoin Tennyson tried his best to move the focus from the suspension of four members from Stormont and bring the plight of the state back to the chamber. “Schools are crumbling, houses have no heating, and kids are going to school hungry,” he stated. But it was a wasted speech; the DUP turned on him: “You always vote with Sinn Féin, and nothing will change.”
Change has been a bi-word of Northern Ireland, the two parties knocking lumps out of each other stood in the chamber and fought a battle that raged twenty-eight years ago. Eoin Tennyson tried to tell them that there were kids going without lunch, living in houses that were freezing in the winter, and schools were crumbling, but nothing was going to stop Sinn Féin and the DUP from reliving the Troubles. Bring back the Chuckle Brothers was muttered among an electorate that was horrified by the DUP and Sinn Féin last week.
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