Peace By Piece

PEACE BY PIECE

Reconstructing a Nation After The Troubles

 

By Paul McCann

 

The conflict known as The Troubles may have officially ended in 1998, but its legacy still lingers in the memories of those who lived through it. What followed decades of violence was not a victory for one side over the other, but a hard-won, shared peace — a new framework built on hope, understanding, and compromise. Today, discrimination is no longer institutionalised, and the streets of Belfast no longer echo with the chaos of gunfire or bombs. Those days are behind us, and in their place, a new generation is beginning to thrive.

 

I was born in Belfast and raised in Ardoyne, one of the flashpoints of the conflict. It was a place marked by tension and injustice, where violence was part of daily life. I grew up seeing accountability swept aside and communities torn apart. But as with many tragedies in life, you eventually realise that some events are like accidents — inevitable, irreversible, and devastating. The Troubles felt like that kind of accident, one that stole thousands of innocent lives.

 

At the heart of the violence was a toxic cocktail of fear, hatred, and historical division. Paramilitary groups emerged on both sides, carrying out deadly attacks in the name of ideology. Some wore balaclavas; others wore official uniforms. The British Army, the RUC (Royal Ulster Constabulary), the B-Specials, the UDR (Ulster Defence Regiment), and a host of paramilitary organisations became symbols of repression or resistance, depending on which side you stood.

 

I want to share my story — the story of a boy who grew up in the shadow of war, in a city at war with itself.

 

The Troubles officially began in the late 1960s, but their roots stretched much deeper. At the time, Northern Ireland’s Catholic minority was demanding civil rights from a Protestant-dominated government. The demands were simple: fair access to housing, education, and employment. Inspired by the civil rights movement in America, marches were organised to challenge systemic inequality and institutional discrimination.

 

One of the first major flashpoints came on New Year’s Day, 1969, when a civil rights march organised by the People’s Democracy travelled from Belfast to Derry. I remember that day well. The march was a peaceful protest — a visible, determined act of defiance against an unfair system. But at Burntollet Bridge, it was met with brutal violence from loyalist mobs and police. The images of bloodied protestors shocked many, but they also stoked fury, especially in Catholic communities. That same year, the first bombs exploded.

 

Prime Minister Terence O’Neill resigned, replaced by Major Chichester-Clark. But political changes did nothing to stem the rising tide of unrest. Riots erupted across Northern Ireland. In my neighborhood, the small streets that once echoed with children’s laughter were filled instead with the sounds of gunfire and exploding gelignite. The police and reserves, overwhelmed and often biased, fired indiscriminately into homes. Innocent people died where they lived.

 

One of the defining battles came in August 1969 — The Battle of the Bogside in Derry. In Belfast, similar violence broke out as Protestant mobs moved into Catholic areas like the Falls Road, throwing petrol bombs into homes. The police opened fire, and on August 14 alone, 15 people were killed, 12 factories were destroyed, and over 100 homes were wrecked. I saw my neighborhood burn, and I remember being evacuated with my mother and sisters, watching helplessly as everything around us crumbled into chaos. British troops arrived that evening, but it was too late.

 

The IRA, which had been largely dormant, reformed to defend Catholic areas. On August 9, 1971, the government introduced internment — mass arrests without trial. Overnight, 342 men, all Catholic, were detained. No loyalists were taken. In Ardoyne, men and boys over 16 were dragged from their beds, beaten, and locked away. The next day, 11 more people were killed. That night, 240 homes in Ardoyne were burned. The fire didn’t just consume buildings; it consumed trust, hope, and any remaining belief in a fair system.

 

By the end of that month, 35 people were dead, and over 100 bombings had taken place. Thousands were swept from their homes — sleeping in schools, halls, or wherever they could find shelter. The Republic of Ireland watched in horror, its people rallying in support of Northern nationalists.

 

Then came Bloody Sunday — January 30, 1972. A peaceful anti-internment march in Derry ended in slaughter when British soldiers from the Parachute Regiment opened fire, killing 14 unarmed Catholic civilians, most of them teenagers. I remember coming home from school and hearing Protestant classmates mocking the dead with chants of “14–nil.” It was one of the darkest days in our history, and it drove a deeper wedge between communities. Days later, the British Embassy in Dublin was burned to the ground by angry protestors.

 

Attempts at power-sharing in 1972 were short-lived, collapsing in 1974 under a loyalist strike. Meanwhile, the prisons became a new battleground. From 1976 to 1981, republican prisoners protested their treatment, demanding political status. The hunger strikes claimed ten lives inside prison walls, including that of Bobby Sands, whose election to Parliament during the strike sent a powerful message. Outside the prisons, 61 others died during related violence.

 

The 1980s and 1990s brought continued bloodshed, but also the slow beginning of change. Talks intensified. The 1985 Anglo-Irish Agreement signaled a shift. The seeds of peace were planted, and though the path was long and fraught, it eventually led to the Good Friday Agreement in 1998 — the peace accord that changed everything.

 

Since then, Northern Ireland has undergone a remarkable transformation. Where once there was despair, there is now promise. Ardoyne, Belfast, Derry — these are no longer just names associated with pain, but places rebuilding their identity.

 

Today, peace is the norm. The IRA officially ended its armed campaign in 2006 and decommissioned its weapons. Loyalist paramilitaries have followed suit. There are no more checkpoints, no more bombs. Children once again play in the streets without fear, their laughter no longer silenced by gunfire.

 

Belfast is a city reborn — a vibrant hub of culture, tourism, and business. Investment has brought new life, and with it, a sense of pride. Modern infrastructure, hotels, conference centres, and a booming tourism industry have helped rewrite the narrative. Northern Ireland is no longer defined solely by its past, but by its progress.

 

Justice and equality are no longer distant aspirations; they are realities. Dialogue continues between loyalists and nationalists, and while healing takes time, the progress is undeniable.

 

We have lived through hell and emerged the other side. Now is the time to put the ghosts of the past to rest. Let them sleep. Let the children sing once more on the streets they call home.

 

By Paul McCann