War and Peace: Life in Belfast after the Troubles
Times Online
July 12, 2008
**Photos by Chris Steele-Perkins, and there many more onsite in a slideshow
Thirty years after photographing the Troubles, Chris Steele-Perkins returns to a city adapting to peace
Owen Coogan and friends, playing in a Belfast Street. Owen, pictured in the striped top in 1978
Chris Steele-Perkins first came to Belfast in 1978 to document the lives of the poor. He was working on a book on inner-city poverty in the Seventies and had been to Newcastle, Middlesbrough, Glasgow, and London, but Belfast was “more extreme: poorer”.
He wanted to understand the violence the people at the heart of a conflict lived with. By 1978, 1,850 people had died, and injuries amounted to almost 20,000. An estimated 12,000 homes were destroyed and more than 32,000 damaged. Although Times reporter John Cartes wrote that it no longer went silent when an Englishman walked into a pub, and that violence was slowing, there was still rioting in the streets, and bombing increased through the autumn.
“In Northern Ireland there was a low-intensity war going on,” recalls Steele-Perkins. “The Army patrolled the streets, bombs destroyed lives and buildings, and gunmen roamed.”
Although Steele-Perkins was aware that there was poverty in the Protestant areas too, a poverty that provided the foot soldiers for the Protestant militias, he concentrated on photographing the tough streets and estates of Catholic West Belfast. He came to squat in the Divis flats, dour slabs of housing in the Lower Falls area. They have since been knocked down, apart from the tower block, and replaced with terraced housing, but at the time had a dark reputation for violence and for being a Republican stronghold.
“I don’t know how I came to squat there. It was a combination of my lack of finances and a wish to be at the heart of things. The flats were dirty and, if you were a British soldier, dangerous, but they were also vibrant. Nobody bothered me. It was as if by planting myself there I had to be OK. No informer would have been so stupid.” There he met Paul McCorry, who was working with the Divis Residents’ Association, and who offered him a bed in his flat. This was to be Steele-Perkins’ home from home on his many trips to Belfast.
It soon became clear that, despite the poverty, there was a powerful sense of community. A community held together by a common religion, sense of injustice and enemy, yet also fractured by sectarian politics, the dominant voice of which was the IRA. Steele-Perkins wandered the streets, spoke to all kinds of people, knocked on doors, listened to stories, complaints, lectures, and took photographs.
Thirty years on, he decided to go back to Belfast and photograph some of his subjects again, where possible in the same location, to see how they had changed and how they viewed the transition to peace. Despite a general acknowledgement of greater opportunities – in jobs, education and housing – recurrent themes emerged of community breakdown, increasing crime and rising suicide rates. In the past, paramilitary groups had enforced the law, their law, but one generally seen by the community as necessary; now the police do not fill that void. Many people in poorer areas do not venture out at night.
The rise in suicides, he says, is harder to fathom. “Perhaps it is unconnected, but it is perceived to be a part of the failure to address the ongoing issues of sustaining community and order in a society subsequent to the ‘revolution’: the mismatch between expectation and delivery that follows on every great political achievement.”
OWEN AND MOIRA COOGAN AND THEIR CHILDREN, NIáMH AND CáOLAN
Owen Coogan used to live in the Divis flats. He left school at 16 and after working as a roofer with his father, he went to work for Northern Irish Ferries, and now at Montupet, which makes cylinder heads. He lives with his wife and children in Dunmurry, Belfast.
Owen’s father was interned in 1972 and remained so for four years, when Owen was 3 years old. “In Belfast at the time we felt the Falls Road was under siege, so everyone tried to do their bit,” he says. “Even though you were young, you knew what was happening.
“There were a lot of derelict houses, which we used as our playground. The reason for the catapult, I think, is we didn’t get many toys; we had to make them.
“The Divis flats had a bad reputation, but for kids, you didn’t know anything else. Because it was densely populated there would be 30 or 40 of us playing together, so we had this camaraderie.
“Education-wise, the Troubles have affected me. Sometimes you couldn’t get to school because of what was happening around. The riots.
“The kids have so many more opportunities now. The amount of money that’s come into Belfast and other places in Northern Ireland is unbelievable. I think it’s just non-stop, it’s going forward. Which is a great thing.”
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ADALINE SHANNON
Adaline was 8 years old when the original photograph was taken of her holding a poster of a man shot by a plastic bullet. She now works as a leisure manager for Belfast City Council. Her father was jailed when she was six months old and was interned for six years. He was, she says, never charged or tried.
Adaline Shannon was eight years old when this photograph was taken
“My mother was on her own with three children. I was the youngest,” she says.
“Any political rally, Mummy would have taken us along and we would have stood with posters. We never missed a march. But we were always taught by my mother that it was some other son… Y’know, not to hate, not to judge.”
Their family home was raided regularly, and she recalls the children being put to bed in their clothes because they would be turfed out between three and five in the morning.
“It just got to be a game for us, to be honest with you. Until you saw the devastation next day. Many teachers knew that if you put your head down and fell asleep you were raided the night before. If you missed your schoolwork or slept through lunch, they let us sleep.”
Now, she says, “the way it is going is the only way to go”, although there is still some enmity. “It seems we are just giving up everything and gaining, to be honest with you, very little.”
CHRISTINE MALONE
Christine Malone, then 14, was part of the Charlie Hughes Accordion Band, named after a Provisional IRA man shot dead by the Official IRA. She now lives off the Falls Road, near where she was photographed as a child. She is married to a staunch Republican who took part in the Blanket Protest, where prisoners refused to wear prison clothes, culminating in a hunger strike, in 1980.
“My daddy was Charlie’s best friend and so he organised the band,” Christine recalls.
“We marched every Sunday to raise funds for the band, plus we played at political marches.”
She stayed with the band until she married at 17. Her father was interned for almost two years. In 1980, he was shot through both legs by a loyalist.
“Everybody threw stones at the soldiers,” Christine recalls. “My oldest sister and I during the rioting got buckets of water with vinegar in it to give to the fellers who were rioting, to stop the tear gas from stinging their eyes. Plus, we tore up rags for the petrol bombs.”
She says that she wasn’t against the Protestants, but the issue was getting the British government out of Northern Ireland. But she agrees that the peace agreement is inevitable.
“The downside is there’s been more criminal activity. When we were young we respected the IRA; if you stepped out of line they would deal with you. The PSNI (Police Service of Northern Ireland) aren’t interested. The only way forward is for Catholics to join the police service. It’s hard, because you can’t forget what the police have done. But you have to move on.”
MARGARET LOCHRAN, HER DAUGHTER MARIE AND GRANDDAUGHTER ROCHELLE
The photograph of Margaret Lochran, mother of six children, was taken at her house at 60 Service Street, in the Lower Falls, which has been knocked down and replaced with new homes.
The family moved to another house in the same area in 1980. They weren’t involved in any political group. “There was a curfew and all sorts,” recalls Mrs Lochran. “We never went out there or anything. We are all happy it’s all over.”
“We just kept ourselves to ourselves in the house,” says Marie. “Went out with our friends to discos, but anything political, we never got involved. We wouldn’t want to go back to the way it was.
“When we were kids you always saw a lot of British Army about, stopping you and asking where you were going. Your name. Everywhere you went, you were always getting searched. Everybody wants to go forward at the moment. It can only get better for our kids.”
KIARAN GEDDIS
Kiaran Geddis was 18 and had just finished school when he was photographed (wearing the zip-up cardigan), signing on in the dole office, but soon afterwards he trained to be a sheet-metal worker, before working for the council as a dustman. He is now in management in the cleansing section, and he lives in Andersonstown, Belfast, with his wife and four children.
His 10-year-old brother was killed by a stray plastic bullet, and after that, he says, “My mother and father were very protective of us. Rightly so. I kept a low profile.
“From the point of view of my family, my children, the positive side of the peace agreement has been a normalisation of the whole environment. It is going to be a slow change.
“I play the guitar; they used to stop you, search your guitar, take it and start playing. They’d make you take your shoes off, hold you back and try to psychologically wear you down.
“I’m playing in a band at the moment, and funnily enough I’m going to Nigeria next month – for St Patrick’s Day.”
FRANCIS GRAHAM AND MARTIN DALY
The two schoolfriends were 16 and 15 respectively, and were photographed at the top of Leeson Street where they both lived – Francis in the centre, and Martin second from right. They were on the verge of leaving school – Francis for plastering and Martin for the building trade. They were members of the Officials – the Official as opposed to Provisional IRA. Each has four children and Martin (in the brown top) has a grandchild. They still live near Leeson Street.
“Probably all of us had somebody who was killed,” says Francis. “A friend had a new bar and they threw a bomb in. A cousin was carrying a bomb that went off and she was blown to pieces.”
“I had a sister who was badly hurt, when her partner was shot,” says Martin.
“They shot him in the bed and she was made to watch.”
“Thinking about it, there were a lot of our friends killed,” says Francis. “There was a wee lad, Mickey, we used to run with, he was killed at the top of Leeson Street, there, with a plastic bullet.”
“I was standing beside him,” says Martin. “A plastic bullet hit him in the face. Killed him stone-dead. It’s people like that who maybe die for nothing. At the end of the day, only kids, only youngsters, throwing stones.”
Surprisingly, both friends look back affectionately at such a violent period.
“They were good times, no use telling lies,” says Francis. “All right, you had bad things happening to your families, but you still enjoyed life. Every day you were either throwing stones at soldiers or Peelers. That’s what your life was, but I think most of us enjoyed it, to be honest.
“The positive part about the peace agreement is there are no more innocent killings, no more people getting shot dead in the streets. My wee girl goes with a Protestant fellow. You couldn’t have brought him into your area then. No way! So really, it’s changed a hell of a lot. It’s about time, because the ordinary working people never got much in life.”
THE McCABE FAMILY
John and Elizabeth McCabe, with their daughter Deidre and son John, were photographed in their house in McDonald Street. The family had one other daughter, Siobhan, who was killed in crossfire in 1975, three years before this photograph was taken. In 1980, they moved to another house in the same street, where they still live. In the present-day picture, they’re joined by Deidre’s son, Aaron.
John and Elizabeth McCabe with their daughter Deidre and son John. The family had one other daughter Siobhan who was killed in crossfire in 1975
“When you look back now, you think, God, how did we ever live through all that?” says John.
“But at the time, you never thought about it, the riots and shootings were just part of the daily routine. To tell you the truth, I didn’t feel the peace agreement would last as long as it has. It will still take a lot of years yet before it’s normalised.
“There’s still a lot of pain in there, simmering under,” says Elizabeth. “A lot of people have lost people, like ourselves with our daughter, and thousands more like us who have lost family members. I think it will take a long time to heal those wounds.”
SEAN WALSH
Sean was 12 when the original photo was taken in Lenadoon. An only child, his family lived in Osman Street at the time. He recalls that there were a lot of Catholic families being burnt out by Protestants. Now, after a period labouring in England, he lives with his parents, still in the Lenadoon area of Belfast.
“You were in fear of what was going on around you,” he says. “My first recollection was of the house being boarded up when I was 4 years old.
“My father was shot in the back and the leg by loyalists, and his friend, Tony Morgan, was killed.

“In those days, there were sectarian murders, but you were shielded from the rest that was going on around, in Britain or even Ireland. Drug culture, anti-social behaviour.
Sean was 12 when this picture was taken in Lenadoon
“There’s crime getting committed here now that would never have been committed in those times. It wasn’t that you were picked up willy-nilly; they [the IRA] would find evidence and you suffered the consequences.
I personally think what I was brought up with was a lesser evil. Despite all the atrocities, I think it was a safer period. In my heart I know it was.”
“There’s also a good side to this, where people are getting better employment, housing and material things. But as a parent, I would be more worried about my kids getting involved with drugs than I would about them getting in a riot. It’s what they call progress, isn’t it?”
ANNE McCORRY AND DANNY LARGIE
In the original photograph, above, Anne is shown in Daly’s Bar, with her friend Danny, centre, and her brother-in-law, Martin. Anne was a mother looking after three children, including a severely disabled girl, Sinead, who died a few years later. Anne and her husband Paul offered Steele-Perkins a place to stay when he squatted in the Divis flats.
Paul (on the right in the present-day photograph) was working in a flour mill and was also active with the Divis Residents Association, trying to get them improved.
Danny was a friend, with a reputation for fighting a lot. Now he is a self-employed electrician, helped by his son.
Paul and Anne live a mile away from where the Divis flats were. Paul works shifts at the Royal Victoria Hospital in the boiler room and has become an artist. Anne is an active member of a small internet forum.
Daly’s Bar used to have metal grills all over the door and windows and a tight security system for people to come in. Now it is a regular bar with music and a large TV screen.
ANN GILMARTIN
Ann was 13 at the time the picture was taken at a drop-in centre in the Divis flats where she lived, one of five children. Her brother, now a taxi driver, and husband were in prison for 15 years. She still lives in Lower Falls with her husband, Martin, where she works as a barmaid.
“I’ve always supported Sinn Fein – you were involved no matter what,” says Ann, but she is behind the peace agreement. “I’d never want my children to be brought up in it. It was a hard life,” she says.
She and her husband say that lack of discipline is a problem for the city. “They’re good people with no authority, like having a dog with no teeth,” says Martin. “They can’t touch the wee lads because it’s a criminal offence.
“The question a lot of people want to ask is: ‘What was it all about, and was it worth it?’ I spent 15 years in jail, and my answer would be, it wasn’t. Not only for the people who went to jail, but for the people who died.
“People would rather have this than what they had 20 years ago, though. As time goes by more people will fall into line, even the ones who are discontented with it.”
In this issue:
A petition to unite people following the murder of Emmett Shiels has caused divisions in the community.


A previous commitment to reduce the number of paramilitary flags in loyalist areas has been cast aside as UVF and UDA flags compete for space on lampposts across Northern Ireland.

'So venceremos, beidh bua againn eigin lá eigin. Sealadaigh abú.'
--Bobby Sands