Empire of Pain

Empire of Pain Plot Summary

Introduction

Northern Ireland in the late 1960s was a society on the brink. What began as a civil rights movement inspired by similar protests in the United States soon descended into one of Europe's most intractable conflicts. For nearly thirty years, the region known simply as "the Troubles" became synonymous with bombings, sectarian killings, and paramilitary violence that claimed over 3,500 lives in a population of just 1.5 million. The conflict pitted Irish republican nationalists, who sought a united Ireland, against unionists loyal to the British crown, with civilians caught in the crossfire and British troops deployed as peacekeepers who soon became targets themselves. This historical journey explores how a society can fracture along religious and political lines, and the immense human cost of such division. We'll examine how the conflict evolved from street protests to urban warfare, the role of paramilitary organizations like the IRA and loyalist groups, and the painful path toward peace. The narrative reveals how historical grievances, religious identities, and political aspirations became intertwined in a deadly struggle that eventually gave way to a fragile peace process. For anyone seeking to understand how societies descend into communal violence—and how they might find their way back—this exploration of Northern Ireland offers profound insights into conflict, reconciliation, and the challenging road to peace.

Chapter 1: Seeds of Conflict: Civil Rights Movement (1968-1969)

The seeds of Northern Ireland's Troubles were planted in the fertile soil of discrimination. By the late 1960s, Northern Ireland's Catholic minority had endured decades of systematic disadvantage in housing, employment, and political representation under the Protestant-dominated government at Stormont. Inspired by the American civil rights movement, students and activists formed the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association in 1967, demanding equal rights and an end to discrimination. Their peaceful marches in 1968 and 1969 were met with violent opposition from loyalist counter-protesters and a heavy-handed response from the predominantly Protestant police force, the Royal Ulster Constabulary. The watershed moment came on October 5, 1968, when police violently dispersed a civil rights march in Derry, beating protesters with batons in full view of television cameras. The images shocked viewers across the world. By August 1969, tensions had escalated to the point where riots erupted in Belfast and Derry, with Catholic neighborhoods coming under attack from loyalist mobs. The British government deployed troops to restore order, initially welcomed by Catholics as protectors. However, this honeymoon period was short-lived. As one Belfast resident recalled: "The soldiers arrived as saviors and within months became the enemy." One pivotal moment came in January 1969, when a civil rights march from Belfast to Derry was ambushed at Burntollet Bridge by hundreds of loyalists armed with stones, bricks, and iron bars. Police officers, who were supposed to protect the marchers, stood by as the attack unfolded. For young activists like Dolours Price, who had previously believed in peaceful protest, this violent ambush was transformative. "They were never the same after that," her father would later say of Dolours and her sister Marian. The experience convinced many that peaceful protest alone would not achieve equality. The summer of 1969 marked a dramatic escalation. After riots erupted in Derry's Bogside neighborhood in August, violence quickly spread to Belfast. Loyalist mobs, often with police complicity, burned Catholic homes and businesses. Nearly 2,000 families, mostly Catholic, fled their homes. Among them was the McConville family, forced to abandon their home in East Belfast when a gang told Arthur McConville, a Catholic married to a Protestant woman named Jean, that he had to leave. This mass displacement created lasting trauma and resentment that would fuel the conflict for decades to come. By the end of 1969, Northern Ireland had become deeply polarized. The Irish Republican Army (IRA), which had been largely dormant, split into two factions: the Official IRA and the more militant Provisional IRA. The "Provos" emerged as defenders of Catholic neighborhoods and quickly gained support. Young people like Dolours Price, disillusioned with peaceful protest after Burntollet Bridge, were drawn to the Provisionals' promise of armed resistance. As Albert Price, Dolours' father, would later explain: "The Provo army was started by the people to set up barricades against the loyalist hordes. We beat them with stones at first, and they had guns. Our people had to go and get guns." The rapid transformation from civil rights movement to armed conflict demonstrates how quickly societal tensions can escalate when legitimate grievances go unaddressed and state forces respond with repression rather than reform. The events of 1968-1969 set Northern Ireland on a path of violence that would claim thousands of lives over the next three decades, creating wounds that remain unhealed even today. What began as a demand for equal rights within the United Kingdom had become, for many Catholics, a struggle for liberation from it.

Chapter 2: Violence Erupts: The Rise of Paramilitaries (1970-1972)

By 1970, Northern Ireland had descended into a spiral of violence that would make the next three years the bloodiest of the entire conflict. The Provisional IRA transformed from a defensive neighborhood protection force into a sophisticated guerrilla organization. Their strategy evolved from street battles to targeted bombings and assassinations. Meanwhile, loyalist paramilitary groups like the Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF) and Ulster Defence Association (UDA) formed to counter the republican threat, often targeting Catholic civilians in retaliation for IRA attacks. The British government's response further inflamed tensions. In August 1971, they introduced internment without trial, arresting and detaining hundreds of suspected republicans. This heavy-handed approach backfired spectacularly. Not a single loyalist paramilitary was detained in the initial sweeps, reinforcing Catholic perceptions of bias. Many innocent people were arrested due to outdated intelligence, and some detainees, known as the "Hooded Men," were subjected to interrogation techniques so severe they would later be classified as torture. Internment became a recruiting tool for the IRA, driving many previously moderate Catholics into the arms of the paramilitaries. The conflict took another devastating turn on January 30, 1972—"Bloody Sunday"—when British paratroopers shot 26 unarmed civil rights protesters in Derry, killing 14. This massacre galvanized support for the IRA and convinced many, including Dolours Price, that peaceful protest was futile. In March 1972, the British government suspended Northern Ireland's parliament and imposed direct rule from London. By the end of that year, nearly 500 people had been killed, making it the deadliest of the entire conflict. Brendan Hughes, known as "The Dark," emerged as a key IRA commander in Belfast during this period. Leading a unit called "D Company" or the "Dirty Dozen," Hughes orchestrated multiple operations daily—bank robberies, bombings, and gun battles with British forces. "He seemed to be a hundred places at the one time," Dolours Price recalled. "I don't think he slept." Hughes believed in leading by example, never asking his volunteers to undertake missions he wouldn't do himself. His charismatic leadership helped establish the IRA as a formidable fighting force. The early 1970s also saw the IRA expand its campaign to England. In March 1973, a team led by Dolours Price planted car bombs at strategic locations in London, including the Old Bailey courthouse. Though most devices were defused after warnings, two exploded, injuring over 200 people. The bombers were arrested at Heathrow Airport attempting to flee back to Ireland. Their capture and subsequent imprisonment would lead to another chapter in the conflict—the prison protests that would eventually culminate in the 1981 hunger strikes. This period of intense violence established patterns that would characterize the conflict for decades. The IRA's campaign aimed to make Northern Ireland ungovernable and force British withdrawal. Loyalist paramilitaries responded with sectarian attacks on Catholic civilians. British security forces, caught between these opposing forces, often exacerbated tensions through heavy-handed tactics. The cycle of attack and retaliation created a seemingly intractable conflict where each side's grievances were constantly refreshed by new atrocities. By 1972, Northern Ireland had become trapped in a deadly stalemate that would claim thousands more lives before any political solution could emerge.

Chapter 3: The Disappeared: Jean McConville and Hidden War Crimes

In December 1972, as Belfast endured its most violent year, a widowed mother of ten named Jean McConville was forcibly taken from her apartment in the Divis Flats complex of West Belfast. A group of masked intruders, including both men and women, entered her home and abducted her while her terrified children looked on. As Jean emerged from the bathroom, they ordered her to put on her coat. When she asked what was happening, her children went "berserk," clinging to her as the intruders promised she would return in a few hours. Sixteen-year-old Archie tried to accompany his mother but was stopped at gunpoint. Jean's last words to him were, "Watch the children until I come back." She never returned. McConville became one of "the disappeared"—individuals abducted, murdered, and secretly buried by republican paramilitaries. Her body would not be found until 2003, when it was discovered on a beach in County Louth, across the border in the Republic of Ireland. The IRA eventually admitted responsibility, claiming she had been an informer for British forces—an allegation her family has always vehemently denied. The accusation centered around rumors that she had comforted a wounded British soldier outside her apartment and was seen with a military radio. Her children insisted their mother had no connection to British intelligence. The disappearance of McConville exemplified the IRA's internal security apparatus at work. By 1972, the organization had established specialized units to deal with suspected informers. One such unit was "the Unknowns," an elite squad that operated directly under senior IRA leadership. This unit, which allegedly included Dolours Price among its members, was responsible for abducting, interrogating, and sometimes executing suspected informers, then secretly burying their bodies to avoid creating martyrs or providing evidence. Former IRA commander Brendan Hughes later claimed that Gerry Adams had ordered McConville's disappearance, an allegation Adams has consistently denied. For the McConville children, their mother's disappearance marked the beginning of unimaginable suffering. Left to fend for themselves in their apartment for several weeks, they were eventually split up and placed in various institutions. Many experienced physical and sexual abuse in these facilities. The authorities showed little interest in investigating Jean's disappearance, and the community maintained a wall of silence. About a week after the abduction, a young man they didn't know came to their door with Jean's purse and three rings she had been wearing when taken. When the children asked where their mother was, he replied, "I don't know anything about your mother. I was just told to give you these." Years later, Michael McConville would identify this moment as when he realized his mother must be dead. Perhaps most cruelly, rumors circulated that Jean McConville hadn't been kidnapped at all but had abandoned her children to run away with a British soldier. This pernicious whispering, which Archie McConville would later call "an attempt to wreck our minds," added psychological torture to their trauma. When Michael tried to ask questions about his mother's disappearance, he was seized by IRA youth, tied up, and stabbed in the leg with a penknife as a warning not to talk. The culture of silence that surrounded these disappearances reflected the broader atmosphere of fear that permeated Northern Ireland during this period. The practice of disappearing victims represented a calculated strategy by the IRA leadership. By secretly disposing of bodies, they avoided the public relations problems that came with acknowledged killings and denied families the closure of proper burials. This tactic, reminiscent of practices in dictatorships like Chile and Argentina, violated not just human rights but also deeply held Irish cultural traditions around death and mourning. The disappeared became ghosts haunting the collective conscience of republicanism, a moral challenge to the movement's narrative of its own righteousness that would eventually force a reckoning with the past.

Chapter 4: Prison Battles: Hunger Strikes and Political Transformation

The conflict in Northern Ireland extended beyond the streets and into the prison system, where a different kind of battle was waged over the status of paramilitary prisoners. In the early 1970s, those convicted of paramilitary offenses were granted "special category status," effectively recognizing them as political prisoners rather than common criminals. They could wear their own clothes, associate freely, and organize themselves according to paramilitary structures. However, in 1976, the British government ended this status as part of a strategy to "criminalize" the republican movement, insisting that terrorism was ordinary crime rather than political struggle. Republican prisoners responded with the "blanket protest," refusing to wear prison uniforms and wrapping themselves in blankets instead. As one prisoner explained: "I am not a criminal. I am a political prisoner of war." The protest escalated to the "dirty protest" when prisoners were denied access to toilets without wearing uniforms. They began smearing their excrement on cell walls and refusing to wash, creating squalid conditions that shocked outside observers. These protests received limited public support, but they demonstrated the prisoners' determination to resist criminalization at any cost. By 1980, the situation had reached a critical point. Republican prisoners launched a hunger strike, demanding the restoration of special category status. Though this first strike ended without deaths when the British government appeared to offer concessions, the prisoners soon felt betrayed when the details proved less substantial than expected. On March 1, 1981, Bobby Sands, the IRA's commander in the Maze Prison, began a second hunger strike. This time, prisoners would join the strike at staggered intervals to maximize pressure on the British government. The hunger strikes took a dramatic turn when Sands was elected to the British Parliament in April 1981 while on hunger strike, generating international attention for the republican cause. Despite this political victory, Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher remained unmoved, declaring "crime is crime is crime" and rejecting any notion of political status. Sands died on May 5, 1981, after 66 days without food. His funeral drew over 100,000 mourners, and his death sparked riots across Northern Ireland. Nine more hunger strikers would die that summer before the protest was called off in October. The hunger strikes transformed the republican movement in profound ways. Gerry Adams, who was emerging as a key strategist, recognized the political potential revealed by Sands' electoral success. As one former IRA member later observed: "The hunger strike made Sinn Féin's successful excursion into electoral politics possible." Adams began advocating what became known as the "Armalite and ballot box" strategy—pursuing armed struggle while simultaneously contesting elections. This dual approach allowed republicans to maintain their traditional commitment to armed resistance while building political legitimacy and broadening their support base. The legacy of the hunger strikes extended far beyond the prison walls. The deaths of the ten men created a new generation of republican martyrs and radicalized many previously moderate nationalists. More importantly, they laid the groundwork for Sinn Féin's eventual transformation into a mainstream political party. The emotional power of the hunger strikes—with their echoes of earlier Irish republican martyrdom traditions—provided a reservoir of moral authority that Adams and his allies would draw upon for decades. As the conflict evolved through the 1980s and 1990s, this political dimension would become increasingly important, eventually creating the conditions for the peace process.

Chapter 5: Shadow War: Intelligence Operations and Informants

Behind the public violence of bombings and shootings, a shadow war of intelligence and counter-intelligence shaped the Northern Ireland conflict. By the mid-1970s, British security forces had shifted from mass internment to more sophisticated counter-insurgency tactics, focusing on infiltrating paramilitary organizations and cultivating informants. This battle for information became as crucial as any armed confrontation in determining the course of the Troubles. The British Army's counter-insurgency approach was heavily influenced by Brigadier Frank Kitson, who had developed "counter-gang" tactics during colonial conflicts in Kenya and Malaya. Kitson established specialized units like the Military Reaction Force (MRF), which operated undercover in Catholic areas, sometimes disguised as civilians or even posing as IRA members. These operatives dressed in bell-bottoms and denim jackets, grew their hair long, and infiltrated republican neighborhoods. They posed as road sweepers, dustmen, and even set up a massage parlor to gather intelligence. More controversially, the MRF conducted assassinations, sometimes using weapons typically associated with paramilitaries to disguise British involvement in killings. Kitson's approach was codified in his influential book "Low Intensity Operations," which emphasized intelligence gathering as the cornerstone of counterinsurgency. "If you want to defeat an insurgency," he argued, "it helps to know who the insurgents are." In Northern Ireland, this meant developing networks of informers within republican communities. Kitson compared guerrilla fighters to fish swimming in the sea of the civilian population. A fish can be "attacked directly by rod or net," he advised, "but if rod and net cannot succeed by themselves it may be necessary to do something to the water." The most valuable intelligence assets were human sources—informers known as "touts" in local parlance. Despite the severe social stigma and potential death sentence that came with informing, British intelligence agencies managed to recruit numerous sources within republican ranks. Some were captured IRA members who switched sides under threat of imprisonment; others were motivated by money or disillusionment with the cause. For those recruited as informants, often through blackmail, bribery, or exploitation of vulnerabilities like drug addiction or sexual indiscretions, life became a terrifying balancing act. Discovery meant almost certain death, while continuing to inform meant betraying their communities and living with crushing guilt. By the 1980s and 1990s, British intelligence had achieved remarkable penetration of republican organizations. Perhaps the most notorious case was that of Freddie Scappaticci, codenamed "Stakeknife," who served as the IRA's chief interrogator while simultaneously working as a British agent. The irony was staggering—the man responsible for identifying and eliminating informers was himself a high-level informer, potentially sacrificing other agents to maintain his cover while feeding valuable intelligence to his British handlers. The psychological impact of infiltration was devastating to the IRA. The constant fear of informers created paranoia within the organization, leading to brutal internal security measures. Suspected informers were interrogated, often tortured, and frequently executed. The bodies of some were simply disappeared, creating a lasting legacy of trauma for their families. By the mid-1980s, British intelligence had so thoroughly penetrated the IRA that few operations could be mounted without security forces having advance knowledge. This intelligence advantage, combined with the specialized counterterrorism capabilities of units like the Special Air Service (SAS), gradually eroded the IRA's military effectiveness. As one British intelligence officer later observed, "We were not going to defeat them, but we were making it impossible for them to win."

Chapter 6: From Armalite to Ballot Box: The Path to Negotiations

By the late 1980s, key figures in the republican movement, particularly Gerry Adams, had begun to recognize the limitations of armed struggle. Despite nearly two decades of violence, the IRA was no closer to achieving a British withdrawal from Northern Ireland. The security forces had become increasingly effective at containing the threat, while public support for violence was waning. Adams, who had risen to become president of Sinn Féin in 1983, began a careful, strategic pivot toward political engagement—without explicitly abandoning the armed struggle that remained sacred to many IRA volunteers. This transition was facilitated by a secret back-channel dialogue initiated by Father Alec Reid, a Catholic priest from Clonard Monastery in Belfast. Beginning in 1986, Reid acted as an intermediary between Adams and John Hume, leader of the moderate nationalist Social Democratic and Labour Party (SDLP). The Hume-Adams talks, initially conducted in complete secrecy, explored the possibility of a pan-nationalist front that could advance Irish unity through peaceful means. These discussions eventually expanded to include the Irish government and, indirectly, British officials. As one participant later reflected: "The priest was the only one who could do it. He had the trust of all sides." Father Reid's role as peacemaker was tested in one particularly harrowing incident in March 1988, when he administered last rites to two British soldiers who were dragged from their car, beaten, and shot after accidentally driving into a republican funeral procession. A photograph of Reid kneeling beside one of the corpses, his own lips smeared with the dead man's blood, became an iconic image of the Troubles. Remarkably, on the day of this tragedy, Reid was carrying in his pocket a brown envelope containing a Sinn Féin position paper—a document that would later be described as "a fragile, precious seed of peace." The peace process gained momentum in the early 1990s through a series of carefully choreographed steps. In 1993, the Hume-Adams dialogue became public, lending legitimacy to Sinn Féin's political aspirations. The following year, the IRA announced a complete cessation of military operations, opening the door for Sinn Féin to enter formal political negotiations. Though the ceasefire collapsed in 1996 with the Canary Wharf bombing in London, it was reinstated in 1997, setting the stage for the Good Friday Agreement of 1998. Throughout this period, Adams performed a delicate balancing act—pushing the republican movement toward compromise while maintaining enough credibility with hardliners to prevent significant splits. This period marked a profound evolution in republican thinking. Brendan Hughes, released from prison in 1986, sensed this shift but struggled to find his place in it. Visiting Sinn Féin headquarters in Dublin, he felt that "as a pure soldier, he had been overtaken by history and grown outmoded." The movement was changing, with increasing emphasis on political strategy rather than military action. As Adams told young IRA members: "Politics is important. You have to develop your consciousness." The Good Friday Agreement fell far short of the united Ireland that republicans had fought for, instead establishing power-sharing institutions and the principle of consent for any constitutional change. Nevertheless, it brought an end to large-scale violence and created a framework for peaceful politics. As Adams himself put it: "The struggle continues, but the nature of that struggle has changed forever." The journey from Armalite to ballot box was complete, demonstrating how even the most intractable conflicts can find political resolution when military stalemate creates space for dialogue and compromise.

Chapter 7: Unresolved Past: Truth, Justice and Reconciliation

More than two decades after the Good Friday Agreement, Northern Ireland continues to grapple with the legacy of its violent past. Unlike South Africa, which established a Truth and Reconciliation Commission after apartheid, Northern Ireland has no comprehensive mechanism for addressing historical crimes or establishing shared narratives about the conflict. Instead, the region has pursued a piecemeal approach to dealing with the past, including police investigations of unsolved murders, public inquiries into controversial incidents, and civil lawsuits by victims' families. This fragmented process has left many victims without closure and contributed to ongoing political tensions. The question of how to balance truth and justice remains contentious. Former paramilitaries who provided information about the location of "disappeared" victims received limited immunity from prosecution, allowing some families to recover their loved ones' remains. However, many other families continue to demand criminal accountability for those responsible for killings. The arrest of elderly former combatants decades after their alleged crimes has proven divisive, with some viewing these prosecutions as necessary justice and others seeing them as politically motivated and counterproductive. As one former police officer observed: "For the majority of the human species, the idea that humanity includes every human being on the face of the earth does not exist at all. The designation stops at the border of each tribe." The Boston College oral history project exemplifies the challenges of historical truth-seeking in Northern Ireland. Initiated in 2001, this academic endeavor aimed to create an archive of testimonies from former paramilitaries, with participants promised confidentiality until after their deaths. However, when interviews with deceased IRA commander Brendan Hughes revealed allegations about Gerry Adams' role in ordering Jean McConville's disappearance, police sought access to the archives. Despite legal challenges, American courts ordered Boston College to hand over relevant interviews, shattering promises of confidentiality. This controversy highlighted the tension between historical truth-telling and judicial accountability in post-conflict societies. Memory itself has become a battleground in Northern Ireland. Different communities maintain competing narratives about the conflict, with little agreement on fundamental questions: Was the IRA's campaign legitimate resistance or terrorism? Were British security forces defending democracy or engaging in state oppression? Were loyalist paramilitaries protecting their community or sectarian murderers? These divergent interpretations manifest in everything from murals and commemorations to history textbooks and political rhetoric. The phenomenon known as "whataboutery"—responding to any atrocity by pointing to crimes committed by the other side—remains pervasive, making it difficult to establish moral clarity or shared understanding. For families of victims like Jean McConville, the peace dividend has been bittersweet. The McConville children endured decades of trauma—first losing their mother, then being separated and placed in institutions where many suffered abuse, and finally living with uncertainty about their mother's fate. The 2003 discovery of Jean's remains brought some closure, but raised new questions about accountability. Despite arrests and investigations, including the high-profile detention of Gerry Adams in 2014, no one has been successfully prosecuted for her murder. The family's civil suit against Adams and others represents their continuing quest for justice in a system that has often prioritized political stability over accountability. Despite these challenges, grassroots reconciliation efforts have made significant progress. Cross-community dialogue groups, integrated schools, and shared housing initiatives have helped break down sectarian barriers. Victims from different backgrounds have found common ground in their shared suffering. Former enemies have engaged in remarkable acts of reconciliation. Perhaps most importantly, a new generation is growing up without direct experience of the conflict, potentially less burdened by historical grievances. Yet the peace remains fragile, with sectarian divisions still evident in housing patterns, education, and political allegiances. As Northern Ireland continues its journey toward a more peaceful future, it demonstrates both the difficulty of reconciling with a traumatic past and the absolute necessity of doing so.

Summary

The story of Northern Ireland's Troubles reveals how quickly a society can descend from peaceful protest to armed conflict when legitimate grievances go unaddressed and historical wounds remain unhealed. What began as a civil rights movement demanding equality for Catholics transformed into a three-decade guerrilla war that claimed thousands of lives and traumatized an entire society. Throughout this journey, we see a central tension between competing national identities—Irish nationalist and British unionist—playing out against a backdrop of religious division, economic inequality, and colonial history. The conflict demonstrates how violence, once unleashed, develops its own momentum and logic, creating cycles of retaliation that become increasingly difficult to break. Yet the eventual peace process also shows that even the most intractable conflicts can be resolved when leaders are willing to take risks and communities grow weary of bloodshed. The Northern Ireland experience offers crucial lessons for divided societies worldwide. First, addressing underlying grievances and inequalities is essential for preventing conflict; the discrimination that Catholics faced before the Troubles created the conditions for violence to take root. Second, security-focused approaches alone cannot resolve deep-seated political conflicts; British military superiority never translated into a decisive victory because the fundamental political issues remained unresolved. Finally, peace requires painful compromise from all sides; republicans had to accept less than a united Ireland, unionists had to share power with former enemies, and victims had to live with imperfect justice. The journey from violence to peace in Northern Ireland reminds us that reconciliation is not a single event but a generational process requiring sustained commitment to dialogue, equality, and mutual respect. Though the peace remains imperfect and fragile, it stands as testament to the possibility of transformation even after decades of seemingly hopeless conflict.

About Author

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Patrick Radden Keefe

Patrick Radden Keefe is a staff writer at The New Yorker and the author of The Snakehead and Chatter. His work has also appeared in The New York Times Magazine, Slate, New York, and The New York Review of Books. He received the 2014 National Magazine Award for Feature Writing, for his story "A Loaded Gun," was a finalist for the National Magazine Award for Reporting in 2015 and 2016, and is also the recipient of an Eric and Wendy Schmidt Fellowship at the New America Foundation and a Guggenheim Fellowship.

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