A Tale of Two Belfasts: Crossing The Largest Divided City in the Western World

The haunting legacy of the Irish Troubles (1968-1998) showed me that bullets don't just travel through distance; they also travel through time

📍 Belfast, Northern Ireland

The Divis Tower of Belfast rises over Falls Road, bearing unhealed scars from troubled times. From this residential tower, once a former battleground, I would be guided by two men who fought on opposite sides of Northern Ireland’s 30-year conflict, known as the Troubles — a violent struggle that lasted from the late 1960s until the 1998 Good Friday Agreement. One guide, a former volunteer for the Irish Republican Army (IRA) — a political and terrorist organization that used violence to pursue the unification of Ireland and end British rule in Northern Ireland — would lead me through his own embattled West Belfast. The other, an Ulster Protestant who fought to keep Northern Ireland part of the United Kingdom, would guide me through his adjacent neighborhood. Their stories were not just accounts of past “Troubles”; the scars remain in unforgiving murals, pained memorials, and reinforced walls that make Belfast, quite literally, the largest physically divided city in the Western world.

Two Belfast tour guides, two opposed perspectives on the Troubles. On the left, an ex-IRA guide stands at the Wall of Remembrance, a monument to those killed by loyalist paramilitaries. On the right, a Loyalist guide stands at a mural accusing Sinn Féin, now the largest political party in both the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland, of "genocide."

The ex-IRA guide set the tone: this dual narrative, he said, was “a story that ends better, but doesn’t end well.” He added, “Bullets don’t just travel through distance; they travel through time.” Gates that once stayed open until midnight between Catholic and Protestant neighborhoods now close at 7 p.m. There are two police stations, two libraries, and two segregated schools—all within blocks of each other, each serving its respective divided community. The walls have grown higher since the Troubles—three times higher, in fact. With little real integration, another generation is growing up in a tormented time warp.

The walls themselves have a hauntingly ironic name: “peace walls.” More than 100 such barriers exist, and they stretch for miles, separating Catholic nationalist and Protestant loyalist communities. These walls did not exist before 1969, the year the Troubles erupted. But the conflict rewrote Belfast’s landscape, carving out physical and psychological divides that seem as impenetrable today as they did decades ago.

These barriers, starkly dividing Protestant and Catholic neighborhoods, bear a hauntingly ironic name: "Peace Walls." Erected to quell violence, their very existence screams of a peace yet to be fully realized.

The ex-IRA guide’s story began at Divis Tower. This 1960s apartment building became a frontline during the Troubles, when British soldiers took over its top floors to surveil the IRA below. Today, the British soldiers are gone, but the scars of what my guide called an “occupation” remain. “Occupation,” or perceived occupation, depending on who you ask, is a connection that links Irish nationalists to the Palestinian cause. At Divis Tower and the surrounding neighborhood, I saw more Palestinian flags than Irish ones, signaling a visceral solidarity that transcends geography. For these Irish Catholics, continued British rule is a last vestige of colonization — the same force that once stripped them of their culture (England’s Queen Elizabeth I ordered all harps, now a symbol of Ireland, to be destroyed on punishment of death), language (indigenous Gaelic was nearly eradicated by enforced English), and worst of all, dignity.

Divis Tower isn't just a residential building; it's a symbol of the Troubles. This high-rise became a battleground between Irish Catholic residents and British security forces. Today, the Palestinian flags that flutter on its facade reflect residents' deep sense of solidarity with the Palestinian cause, born from a perceived shared experience of occupation and oppression.

The parallels to Israel’s occupation of Palestinian territories resonated deeply for my ex-IRA guide. In the aftermath of the October 7 War, the flags, murals, and memorials became even more numerous. This solidarity is not merely symbolic: during the Troubles, the IRA trained with the Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO), seeing their struggle as a mirror of their own fight for self-determination in what they considered a colonized land.

This mural of Leila Khaled of the Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO) might seem unexpected in Belfast. But for some Irish Catholics in this city, her story resonates deeply, if not viscerally. Khaled, known for her involvement in plane hijackings in the late 60s and early 70s, became a symbol of Palestinian resistance, a cause that resonated by Irishmen who felt marginalized by British rule during the Troubles.

Belfast's walls don't just tell the story of the Troubles; they speak to a global fight for justice. The mural of an Irish, South African, and Palestinian child side-by-side underscores their sense of shared experience with other marginalized communities worldwide.

In Belfast, identity is often defined by standing for what the “enemy” stands against. On the other side of the “peace wall,” some Protestants find common cause with Israel, a stance that directly and deliberately clashes with the pro-Palestinian fervor in Irish Catholic communities. This bond with Israel is a complex mix of religious beliefs, political views, and a desire to distinguish themselves from their othered neighbors.

As we crossed the gate separating Falls Road from Shankill Road, we entered Protestant loyalist territory. Here, the Union Jack flies proudly, and murals of British soldiers and loyalist paramilitaries cover the walls. My Protestant guide took over, as my ex-IRA guide turned back. He was unwelcome here: The IRA was responsible for the deaths of over 1,800 people, including approximately 600 civilians, during the Troubles.

“The root of all conflicts is dehumanization,” the loyalist guide began. He asked how it could be that the same Protestant and Irish Catholic soldiers who fought together in the First and Second World Wars turned their weapons on each other only 20 years later. He teared up at a mural depicting the Battle of the Somme, a battle in which Irish Catholic and Protestant soldiers honorably served together in the British Army during World War I, shaking his head in disbelief.

“We were fixated on who was first-class and who was second-class citizens. But we were all third-class citizens and didn’t realize it.” And still today, all sides are losing. Institutionalized separation means the next generation is growing up with the same entrenched identities, the same “us” or “them” existence. Indeed, the status quo is better than the previous “us” versus “them” conflict, but the absence of bullets doesn’t mean the presence of peace. In Belfast, the conflict has outlived its combatants, entrenched in walls of concrete and fear. In this doom loop, the past refuses to release its grip on the present.

These side-by-side images lay bare Belfast's divided soul. Michael Collins, the champion of Irish independence, is a hero to one community, a terrorist-in-chief to the other. Hugh Smyth, a staunch defender of the Union, is revered by Loyalists, but is a colonialist to many Nationalists. In the Shankill (Protestant) and West Belfast (Catholic) neighborhoods, the continued reverence of Smyth and Collins are unhealed scars.

For my loyalist guide, the chief grievance is that Sinn Féin, once the political wing of the IRA, is now the largest political party in both Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland. Many of the party’s leaders are former IRA members who once took up arms in a violent struggle against British rule. Their rise to legitimate political power signals both progress and unresolved tensions. To the loyalist guide, what may appear as reconciliation feels like a bitter pill to swallow. Neither forgiven nor forgotten on their side of the “peace wall,” their anger toward Sinn Féin remains, channeled into murals and memorials rather than munitions.

Nearly three decades have passed since the Good Friday Agreement officially ended the Troubles. But my tour made it painfully clear that while the active conflict may be over, nearly everything that caused it remains. The walls are higher, the gates close earlier, and the community remains as divided as ever. The past’s scars leave the present wounded, albeit no longer actively bleeding. Both guides agreed: the decades-long ceasefire is an extraordinary achievement, but it has become a crutch to avoid resolving the tinder box of pain. Peace, as it turns out, is more than just the absence of war.

Murals accusing Sinn Féin of genocide, even comparing them to ISIS, display the unresolved anger and deep distrust that festers within some Loyalist communities. The memorials adorned with poppies, a symbol of remembrance for those who died serving in the British Armed Forces, mourn the losses of innocent people murdered by the IRA, often in the very spots where their lives end. Charged memorials, unforgiven grief, and an ever-fierce defense of British identity.

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🕹 Travel tip: There's no rawer way to understand, and even feel, the Troubles than the "Conflicting Stories" walking tour. Led by guides from both sides of the “peace wall,” a Protestant Loyalist and Catholic ex-IRA freedom fighter / terrorist (depending on who you ask), the tour offers unparalleled intimacy, nuance, and candor that will make your head spin and heart ache.