Author: Fellipe Lopes

  • Belfast’s Broken Record Crackles On

    There is a strong impression of the same old story of the Troubles in Belfast, all over again. The new element is the pandemic affecting teenage lives. Words and images by Fellipe Lopes in collaboration with Daniele Idini.

    It is hard to see a purpose behind the recent violent protests in Belfast that have fleetingly come to global prominence. On the ground, community leaders identify continuities, as recreational rioting is all too familiar, ever since the Good Friday Agreement of 1998.

    There is, however, a perception that the intensity of this year’s disturbances are a product of uncertainties around the new Irish Sea border and Northern Ireland’s position in the post-Brexit context.

    Brexit has clearly increased insecurity in the Unionist or Loyalist community, many of whom voted against withdrawal from the EU. Now the establishment of a commercial border between Northern Ireland and the rest of the United Kingdom, through the Northern Ireland Protocol, designed to protect the Good Friday Agreement, has created a sense of betrayal. This has hardened the rhetoric of struggle and conflict.

    The Unionist side of the argument is that this creates further distance from the rest of the U.K. amidst a sense that they are the ones being sacrificed in the divorce from the E.U.. Moreover, talk of a possible United Ireland in the South and persistent grievances over the failure to prosecute senior Sinn Féin politicians for a perceived failure to abide by social distancing rules at the Bobby Storey funeral fans the flame.

    © Fellipe Lopes
    © Daniele Idini

    Added to all this, Northern Ireland’s lockdown has affected the lives of young people in particular: directly through extended school closures, and loss of job opportunities, but also by creating a despondency that leaves many feeling they have little to lose.

    Finally, the long-standing educational segregation between Catholic and Protestant communities perpetuates a sense of “us” and “them.”

    So, how to explain these violent outbursts? What is different now from the usual activities? And what role has the pandemic played, especially on the youth involved? We spoke to a politician John Kyle, an activist Eileen Weir and an academic Dr Katy Hayward to find out more.

    John Kyle (PUP). ©Fellipe Lopes

    According to John Kyle, a Councillor on Belfast City Council, and former interim leader of the centre-left ‘Loyalist’ Progressive Unionist Party in Northern Ireland:

    “There are different factors involved. The first is that young people have been restricted. They have been unable to go to school, unable to meet with their friends, unable to go to the movies, unable to do, you know, stuff like that. If then there’s an opportunity to go out and get a bit of excitement, they will take that opportunity. Secondly, here in Northern Ireland, there is a tradition of what we call recreational rioting. In other words, if there were kids at an interface between two communities in the summer nights, sometimes, they arrange on Facebook to meet up for a fight. And so you might get 100 kids, sometimes 30, sometimes 50 kids. They meet up, start shouting at each other and throwing stones and bottles. And that’s what we call recreational rioting.”

     

    Daniele Idini with John Kyle. © Fellipe Lopes

    But Dr Katy Hayward, an academic and writer based at Queen’s University in Belfast says:

    “Something different has happened in the past few weeks, and that is that you’ve had a change in the political situation whereby the rhetoric in particular, from Unionist communities, and leaders has been one in which people have begun to really, doubt the process of basically the core elements of the Peace Process, for a long time. And amongst Loyalist communities, there has been a sense of frustration and anger about the Good Friday Agreement and compromises there. This is now beginning to get into the wider mainstream political field. And that’s primarily as a result of the conditions of Brexit, also you’ve had a new dimension, which is the criticism of the police service”

     

    Katy Hayward at Queen’s University Belfast. ©Daniele Idini

    On the other hand, Eileen Weir, Peacemaker and Community relations worker at Shankill Women’s Centre speaks of persistent social problems:

    “yeah, I think it is partly down to boredom. The things that people are not picking up on is that we have interface violence all year round. Right? This is not the first. They are usually not to that extreme where things are being burned or anything, but the two communities come together for a fight all year round and every year. We have a big, big drug problem in our communities and a lot of our young people are addicted to some type of drug, whether it’s illegal or prescribed. So we have a big mental health problem in our communities. It’s like they put a plaster on a thing that actually needs an operation. Our rate of suicide, and not just with young people with adults as well, is through the roof.”

     

    Eileen Weir in front of the Shankill Woman’s Centre. © Fellipe Lopes

    Walking around the predominantly Protestant areas of Shankill and Lanark Way, as well as in the Catholic Springfield Road and Falls, reveals a tranquil environment with bustling local shops, active community centres and friendly characters, more than willing to share their views on the current situation.

    These are among the areas of Belfast most affected by the long period of the Troubles and the scars are apparent. Chatting to locals from both communities living alongside the so-called the Cupar Way Peace-Wall the general impression is of a desire to leave behind a troubled past.

    Shankill Road © Fellipe Lopes
    Falls Road © Fellipe Lopes

    According to Eileen:

    “we do have peaceful communities, OK? I mean, the woman that I work with, you know, we’re from North and West Belfast and we have a fantastic relationship. I don’t like to label anybody. But within that group I have Republicans, I have Nationalist, I have Loyalists, but building relationships is not enough. And we can all build relationships. But that relationship doesn’t happen overnight.”

     

    Clonard neighbourhood. © Fellipe Lopes
    Shankill neighbourhood. © Daniele Idini

    By Monday April 19th the moratorium on Loyalist protests in the wake of Prince Philip’s death had lapsed. That morning, in front of the Irish Secretariat, a two man protest against the Northern Irish Protocol, organised by the Loyalist Communities Council’s Chair David Campbell and former politician and co-founder of the group David McNarry, was in full swing.

    Before long, however, it was interrupted by David McCord, whose brother Raymond was allegedly killed by members of the UVF in 1997. With a picture of his late brother in hand, he confronted the two men who were holding a banner that had appeared in different locations across Northern Ireland the previous night, addressed to the large media presence before them.

    © Daniele Idini

    There is a big gap between the government and these communities that reflects uncertainties over the decisions being made, especially the government’s failure to recognise the serious impact of their policies. Our conversations in the neighborhoods reveal a lack of understanding of the practical implications of Brexit and the Northern Ireland Protocol. This incoherence is reflected in the seemingly pointless violence.

    Now there is particular concern around the escalating misbehaviour of teenagers, leading shop owners in the affected areas to coordinate closures.

    Meanwhile on social media, calls to resume Anti-Northern Ireland Protocol protests across the region started to circulate. This included tweets about one to be held that evening at Lanark Way, where in previous weeks the violent riots had taken place.

    In the hours leading up to the anticipated protests on Monday April 19th in the Springfield Road area, rumours circulated about community efforts to prevent local teenagers from taking part.

    Springfield Road Interface. © Fellipe Lopes

    But by that evening approximately thirty teenagers were blocking Lanark Way on the Shankill Road side, setting fire to furniture and rubbish in the middle of the street.

    © Daniele Idini
    © Daniele Idini
    © Fellipe Lopes
    © Fellipe Lopes

    The protest soon descended into stones and pieces of iron being thrown at police cars. Over the course of the disturbances we saw no visible expression of what was motivating the protesters; no posters criticizing the governments, or otherwise communicating reasons for the violence.

    After a couple of hours, the PSNI asked journalists to leave the area and move to Springfield Road, as they closed the gate. This raises an important question as to what happens in the fight between teenagers and the police when media outlets are absent. A lack of media coverage fuels growing resentment towards the PSNI.

    Lanark Way interface Gate © Fellipe Lopes
    Lanark Way interface Gate. © Daniele Idini

    Katy points to this new antipathy towards the PSNI:

    “you’ve had this new dimension, which is the criticism of the police service. That’s something very new. So for some time, Loyalists have been feeling that the police service no longer backs them … what changed in the past week was that the First Minister of Northern Ireland called on the chief constable to resign, and we had all the political leaders of Unionism calling for the same thing.”

     

    @ Fellipe Lopes

    Katy adds:

    “They don’t trust political representatives or institutions to manage Northern Ireland’s interests. So you can see here all these factors exacerbating the sense of insecurity and that it only takes a few individuals. We know those individuals who have been present for a long time, presenting the Peace Process, presenting the compromise, thinking that violence pays. There’s a new narrative in Loyalism now that looks at what happens with the Protocol … They say the threat of Republican violence led to the Irish Sea border. So that’s another element.”

    Another important dimension is the difficulty faced by women in particular during the pandemic, as Eileen puts it:

    “the reason why this impacts on women more so is that there is homeschooling – working from home and often caring for an elderly relative. A lot of women’s jobs are low paid … zero hours contracts. We get very little recognition for the work of women. In the present situation, if it wasn’t for community workers being on the ground, you’d be seeing a hell of a lot more problems. And really, that’s not what community workers are for. That’s what our political representatives are for.“

     

    Eileen Weir. © Fellipe Lopes

    We also raised the question of a United Ireland and whether it is healthy to talk about this now. Katy said:

    “the more you talk about it, the more unnerving it is for Unionism. And that’s perfectly understandable because, of course, it’s anathema to the Unionist identity and certainly that is a factor. Because Brexit has taken Northern Ireland outside of the European Union, that’s a bereavement for some people and particularly for Nationalists. Northern Ireland is on the wrong side of that European external border, but that’s kind of overlooked because that leads to, certainly amongst Nationalists, a growing desire for Irish unity. They wish to see that happen and happen soon. But that has increased the uncertainty and insecurity for Unionists and we have both communities feeling more insecure in their position, thinking that the other is secure because basically they got what they wanted.

    Unsurprisingly, John holds a different view:

    “I personally think that the best outcome is a Northern Ireland that is part of the United Kingdom, but that has a close relationship with the Republic of Ireland. People here who identify as Irish have got free movement between the North and the South. They can work anywhere in Ireland and celebrate their Irishness and vice versa. There is good things in the British system and good things in the Irish system.”

     

    The Cupar Way ‘Peace Wall’. © Daniele Idini

    Right now there is considerable focus on the decisions that the governments are making. The other part is about the lives and futures of these teenagers. Several communities in Belfast have paid a high price for the lack of access to education and job opportunities. Teenagers are now paying this bill. With their futures appearing bleak many have been drawn into unsuitable activities.

    Discussion of the protest should look beyond the intricacies of the Brexit deal and the Northern Ireland Protocol. Society and government should be forming a long-term plan for the social and cultural integration.

    On the streets you see violence involving teenagers and a decisive response from the police. What we did not discover is whether external forces are guiding and supporting these teenagers. Perhaps the real question is who stands to gain from the disorder?

    These communities are experiencing challenges very similar to what happened from the 1960s to the 1990s. The Good Friday Agreement created peace, but the record player is still playing the same scratched tune, with an extraordinary new phenomenon at play, which is the pandemic.

    The response of these adolescents represents another side to the impact of the pandemic. Mental health problems present as an issue in the lives of many families. The social projects around the Shankill and Falls Road do their best, but at this point the government has a responsibility to intervene, not only through policing, but also with social supports, inclusion programmes, enhanced access to education, job opportunities, improved living conditions and greater support for social workers, and psychologists.

    The pandemic is leaving a distinct legacy in Belfast: the ashes from the street bonfires; the stones hurled at police and journalists, and a new generation of teenagers accustomed to fighting the police. But the locals we spoke to all want peace and integration. They don’t want this generation to experience the same story as their parents.

    The fear is reborn of a new chapter to the Troubles. What happened over the last few weeks in Belfast has reawakened fears in these communities. No doubt this is a political issue, but the psychological scars are borne by individuals, families and communities.

    You can support Cassandra Voices reporting either on an ongoing basis through Patreon or a one-off PayPal donation to admin@cassandravoices.com.

    © Fellipe Lopes
  • Photo Desk: Black Lives Matter Sligo Protest June 5th 2020

    Around 200 people gathered in front of Sligo City Hall this Friday afternoon. The majority of those attending were young, and they spoke about George Floyd, supporting the Black Lives Matter movement, but also raised questions about Direct Provision in Ireland.

    Photography Felipe Lopes

  • No Comment: A view of Sligo Town amid the Covid-19 Pandemic

    Fellipe Lopes/Cassandra Voices
    Fellipe Lopes/Cassandra Voices
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    Fellipe Lopes/Cassandra Voices
    Fellipe Lopes/Cassandra Voices
    Fellipe Lopes/Cassandra Voices
    Fellipe Lopes/Cassandra Voices
    Fellipe Lopes/Cassandra Voices
    Fellipe Lopes/Cassandra Voices
    Fellipe Lopes/Cassandra Voices
    Fellipe Lopes/Cassandra Voices
    Fellipe Lopes/Cassandra Voices
  • Camp Moria Lesbos – ‘Hell in Europe’

    Having grown up around favelas in the East Side of São Paulo I was expecting a similar scene of poverty mixed with a strong sense of community. Instead Moria has a post-war feeling, as it is for many people living there, who showed me evidence on their phones of the destruction they were escaping. It’s a tough and unfriendly place, until you meet the families.

    The first smell that hits you is the smoke from wood, plastic and anything else that burns, as they cook on open fires. A blind person would think the whole place was on fire. The second smell is a strong male odour. It’s there because there are hardly any facilities for people to wash.

    It’s completely dirty everywhere. The bathrooms are covered in shit. It’s even on the ground where people do business and cook food.

    But life goes on. There are market stalls selling soft drinks, fruit and vegetables and clothing. I met two barbers working within their communities.

    “The first smell that hits you first is the smoke from wood, plastic and anything else that burns, as they cook on open fires.” Moria Camp, Lesbos, December 2019. Fellipe Lopes.

    The air pollution and dreadful hygiene cause a lot of sickness. The men also smoke a lot. Everyone is coughing all the time. I developed a chest infection myself afterwards. The Irish doctor said it came from bacteria prevalent in camps such as this.

    Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF) do have a medical facility, but the clinic is overwhelmed. They can’t accommodate everybody. Whether you get medical attention also depends on which camp you live in. If you are lucky you might get to attend a hospital in Mytilene, the capital and main town of the island of Lesbos.

    At one point a lady from Syria showed me a document indicating she suffers from cancer, but she wasn’t receiving the medication she requires.

    Many of the kids have skin problems. But the worst part is the mental torture of living in the camp that brings out the worst human characteristics.

    ‘I heard the noise of stabbing’

    People are regularly stabbed to death. Every day there is another story, and a lot of these cases are going unreported.

    At one point a guy passed five metres away from me with a machete, a massive knife, and I heard the noise of stabbing. As a photo-journalist my instinct was to go and take a shot, but as soon as I moved a friend, Mohammed, held me back, saying what must have been “don’t go” in Arabic. I understood from the strength he exerted that I shouldn’t move.

    An African man had been killed. The perpetrator disappeared. This sort of thing happens every single day in a camp built for a maximum of 4,000 people, now housing more than 20,000 and growing. A friend said that over the last two weeks another two hundred tents had been erected. I looked down and saw a wave of them across the hillside.

    Yet I didn’t feel unsafe. As the days went by I became more confident. I knew the friends I had been introduced to would protect me. That’s how it works in Moria.

    Moria Camp, Lesbos, December 2019. Fellipe Lopes

    When you enter the camp you notice the separation between nationalities. In one part there are Africans, mainly from Somalia, Sudan, Ethiopia and Congo, in another you find the dominant Afghan groups, with black and white scarfs speaking different languages. There is a small part of the camp where the Syrians live.

    I grew close to the Syrian community, speaking a mixture of broken Arabic and broken English, and also using phones to translate. Most of them say the system is not working for them; that if you are a Syrian in Moria you have no chance of being relocated elsewhere in the European Union. You will be denied documents.

    Many Syrians believe they are stuck there forever. I met members of one family who have been waiting for a year-and-a-half now.

    In general, cases are not being resolved. There are people waiting for official refugee status, or waiting other documentation. Each case is different. But some people are being scheduled for appointments in 2021, just to start the process. Until then they are not permitted to leave the island. They have to sit and wait in the apocalypse that is Moria.

    The Prison’

    There are three areas in the camp. First there is the so-called ‘Friendly Campus’ run by Movement on the Ground, which has most of the better accommodation, which is not saying a lot. Throughout the camp you find structures built from any wood and plastic they find, and tents of different sizes; some are big enough to sleep twenty people, others are the kind of two-man tents you would expect to see at a music festival.

    Then there is ‘the Prison’, which is the original camp. There you find the so-called ‘boxes’, which are temporary structures, some of which even have AC devices that take the chill off the freezing January temperatures. Journalists are not allowed to enter this part. A bus sits at the entrance with eight policemen bearing big guns. But where there is a will there is a way.

    The Prison, Moria camp, Lesbos. Fellipe Lopes

    I entered with a small camera inside my jacket pocket. People were helping me to get in and out. They knew when and where there would be no cops around and I could walk in and out.

    Another part is called ‘the Jungle’, which is really a forest where people are living. I met one guy who had carved a hole in a tree and now sleeps inside the bark with a plastic sheet for shelter. A man forced to live inside a tree in the European Union in 2020.

    “I met one guy who had carved a hole in a tree and now sleeps inside the bark with a plastic sheet for shelter.” Moria camp, Lesbos, December 2019. Fellipe Lopes

    There is a part of the camp that has electricity, and where people can charge their phones. Most parts, however, have no access whatsoever.

    They cook for themselves, improvising with things like old paint tins over open fires. The camp is next to an olive grove so there is some wood available and they burn whatever else they can find.

    There are two options for food. The first is to take it directly from the camp dispensary. There you queue and receive a free meal. On Sundays you get chicken and rice; for the rest of the week it’s beans and vegetables.

    But the food is awful. I couldn’t imagine eating it. So what most families do is recook it, using containers to carry it to their fires, mixing it with the spices they carry. It seems to become a bit more digestible.

    Another option is available to families who receive allowances of approximately €90 per month. They can catch a bus, or take a one-hour-and-a-half journey by foot, to the island’s capital Mytilene and purchase the cheapest food they find in the supermarket, usually rice, beans or noodles.

    How much any family receives seems to be a lottery. There is no apparent formula. Some families get nothing. The lucky ones are given a UNHCR MasterCard with credit on it rather than hard cash.

    For water there are taps to refill plastic bottles. I drank it a few times and thankfully it didn’t make me ill. Locals don’t seem to drink the tap water.

    Moria camp, Lesbos, December 2019. Fellipe Lopes

    The frequency of rape

    Until I came to Moria, I had never been to a place where there was no sense of hope. In the favelas people have a seriously tough life, but most of them believe that things will get better. In Moria, however, ninety percent of people I spoke to believe they will be staying there forever. They don’t see a future, believing either they will be killed, or live out their days there. Just a few families I spoke to saw a light at the end of the tunnel.

    One thing I heard that made me feel really emotional was that I was bringing hope: “you are a guy from Brazil living in another country. You are an immigrant too who came here to tell our stories”.

    In the camps there are loads of suicides, including kids under the age of ten.

    One thing I should say is that rape is getting more frequent inside the camp. Women are of course victims, but I have heard that a number of young boys between the ages of seven and twelve have been targeted too.

    One man came to me and told me his heart was breaking. He took my phone, translating from Arabic into English that his young son had been raped in the bathrooms. He said he was afraid to inform the authorities because he feared retaliation. As a result he, and others, keep their kids inside the tents.

    Some of the families do manage to send their kids to school. But I didn’t hear of any teenagers attending high school. They go to cultural centres, the Hope Project and One Happy Family, where they spend an hour painting or playing football, and can take English lessons. But there is no regular schooling for that age group.

    Empowerment and Love

    European NGO workers say they want to empower people living in the camp. But how do you empower someone living in these conditions? The NGOS are doing what they can, but people are unfamiliar with the European concept of empowerment.

    Yet around the rest of the island life goes on as normal. You would hardly even know Moria existed, with farmers working the fields, on an island that is a place of great natural beauty, and still popular with tourists.

    There is some local sympathy for the refugees, but it has to be said most people are inclined to ignore them. Taxi drivers were asking why I was going there, or warned me against visiting.

    On one occasion I was in a supermarket where a cashier refused to serve a Congolese man. She just told him to get out. She said he couldn’t make his purchase. She wouldn’t accept his card, so I intervened to pay for his drink and snack.

    Another time a Syrian family came along with us to a restaurant. The waiter would not direct a word at them, and looked for the permission of myself and my colleague Caoimhe Butterly for what they could order.

    I was lucky enough to be staying in guesthouse accommodation in Mytilene. Every night when I called a taxi to get away from the foul-smelling camp I felt a wave of guilt. Knowing how those people were living made me uncomfortable in my clean bed.

    On New Year’s Eve we hung out with friends from Syria, Ghana and Ethiopia in the town. We went to a bar, where people were drinking and taking drugs.

    Towards the end of the evening Haya from Syria began crying. She said: “I wished so much to be outside the camp, and now I see those people having fun and I just miss my family. I just want to be in the box. Because that is all I have left in my life. I don’t have money, I don’t have a job, I don’t have expectations. The only thing I have left is my family, and I’m here.”

    That broke my heart, as I had a similar feeling after a phone call with my mother in Brazil. At the end of the day you have your family.

    What holds those people together? It is love. There is no social programme. There is nothing from the U.N. and there is nothing much from the NGOs either. If you get close to them, to the families, what you find is loads of love between them, and kindness to strangers. That generosity of spirit holds us together.

     

    Twitter:@fellipelopes7

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  • No Comment – Save Our Seas

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