It’s almost universally agreed upon that during the period of conflict in Northern Ireland often referred to as ‘the Troubles’, the upscale residential neighbourhoods of South Belfast were among the least affected. This, however, is a relative statement. Tragedies did occur; inhabitants of these leafy suburbs were killed and had their workplaces annihilated. Moreover, although it was a rare sight, the occasional military firearm peeking out from a doorway on the school route was not unheard of.
Yet despite these tumultuous times beginning in 1969, suburban activities continued almost unaffected. The affluent homeowners of Malone Road prized a sense of unprovoked stability above everything else. Repeated statements like “Ian Paisley and Bernadette Devlin, they’re equally egregious” were a common chatter across trimmed hedges, as the Spring weather of 1974 gave way to North Ireland’s version of warmth. Sugar Baby Love by the Rubettes ousted ABBA’s Waterloo from the top of the charts. Alias Smith and Jones was a popular TV show.
Then things took an unexpected turn. For a short period – which seemed much longer if, like myself, you were only a decade old – the otherwise dependable routine of suburban life ground to a halt. Essential supplies such as milk were unavailable, access to petrol was limited and intermittent power cuts were frequent.
Fast forward fifty years to the present day, and those who experienced the historical event of the Ulster Workers’ Council Strike – a protest against the Sunningdale Agreement – recall it as a pivotal moment during the Troubles. The impact was immense and was immediately recognized. Top executive at the time, Brian Faulkner, used heavy language to describe the gravity of the situation. He claimed the issue was no longer about whether the Sunningdale Agreement stood its ground; the Protestant extremists’ goal, he asserted, was unquestionably a creation of Northern Ireland detached as a neo-fascist entity.
The magnitude of such an event can only be equated to an uproar in Birmingham or Galway. In the book Season in the Sun, Britain 1974-79, historian and co-host of The Rest Is History podcast, Dominic Sandbrook, cites a comment from a Belfast lawyer equating the situation with the atmosphere in the drawing rooms of St Petersburg in October 1917.
The incidents that took place in that period possess a vague space in current understanding. Dr Gordon Gillespie, a member of the Institute of Irish Studies based at Queen’s University Belfast, has extensively written about this conflict and the aftermath it caused. He described it as a significant marker ending the major phase of the Troubles that stretched from 1971 to around 1975. He reveals that more than half of the total fatalities from the Troubles occurred between August 71 and 1976.
The strike was initiated on the 15th of May, 1974. Tensions were stirring from the moment the Sunningdale Agreement was signed. This deal, negotiated within local parties and representatives of both British and Irish governments, was finalised on the 9th of December, the year prior. Almost instantly afterward, the Ulster Workers’ Council and the so-called Ulster Army Council, which included the Ulster Defence Association and the Ulster Volunteer Force, organised against what they deemed as numerous injustices, chief among them being power sharing with nationalists and the foundation of the Council of Ireland.
Gillespie reflects on how the cross-border entity seemed like a major threat to Northern Ireland’s status within the UK. He says, “Unionists perceived this as a significant step towards a Unified Ireland which they believed was imminent.” The SDLP had their say on the matter too, with their representative, Hugh Logue, informing at a gathering at Trinity College Dublin that unionists would be nudged into a unified Ireland by the council. This was akin to a provocative jab at the loyalist sentiment.
Preparations for a strike were well underway by May’s start. On the eve of the strike, the Ulster Army Council starkly outlined its mission. Their message read, “If Westminster is not ready to reinstate democracy as expressed by the public at the polls, then the remaining solution is a coup d’état.”
The year, 1974, was critical for Britain as well, it was emerging from a period characterized by three-day weeks and recurring blackouts. Signs of societal breakdown were pervasive.
Instantaneous disruption of the electrical supply ensued. Workers at the shipyard vacated their posts while UDA paramilitaries loomed fearsomely around loyalist locales, menacing anyone bold enough to continue their employment. Larne’s port experienced a complete shutdown, and roadblocks emerged. A lasting visual emblem, etched into our memory by television news, is the makeshift attire sported by those wielding baseball bats in open sight –face-concealing scarves, dark shades, and the most iconic item- fur-trimmed parkas, now ubiquitous in Proustian recollections. A close associate from West Belfast recollects the process of procuring milk from a community-shared churn that originated from a local farm. “We would line up with our containers and someone would pour in the milk,” he shared.
Within a radius of a few miles, my mother and I joined the throngs resorting to alternative lighting methods such as camping stoves and candles. The unpredictable pattern of blackouts was exasperating- one could be engrossed in watching The Wombles, only to abruptly lose the visual when Orinoco stumbled upon a particularly intriguing metallic vessel, casting us back into a primitive, Bronze Age-like darkness. BBC Radio 1 served as a lifeline, connecting us with our neighbouring nation Britain that had recently been navigating similar difficulties. The country was emerging from its own period of inconsistent blackouts and a three-day workweek. The pervasive sense of societal disintegration marked the year 1974 deeply.
During this time, my mother, employed as a theatre nurse at Musgrave Park Hospital (following my father’s passing in the ’60s), faced a sharp and sudden scarcity of petrol. “Something that stood out to me,” she shared, “was how the hospital provided us with enough petrol to commute to work. In the premises, there was a petrol pump that the employees could utilise to refuel their vehicles. It was not free, but at least petrol was obtainable.”
Although the fuel supply was limited, it was sufficient for her to commute to her workplace, drop me at school en route, and return home each evening. We were gifted an old-fashioned bicycle by a woman living across the street, which became my mum’s preferred mode of transport for running errands and visiting friends. This classic bicycle remained in our home for many years, acting as a relic from unique times in the past. It wouldn’t be truthful to claim we endured significant hardship – the situation could almost be seen as an exciting adventure if the real world was ignored.
This experience was potentially different from those living in areas off Malone Road. Gordon Gillespie, who grew up in East Belfast, agrees to an extent but attaches a resigned caveat. He adds, “The situation didn’t substantially impact me since my dwelling was in a steadfast UDA area at that time. We were accustomed to the frequent erection and removal of barricades. At the base of Dee Street, a loyalist barrier was permanently established. It became a normal facet of our lives.”
Despite the minor influence the strike exerted in the southern parts of the Border, one associated atrocity had a long-term impact. On the 17th of May, Eamonn Mallie, who later emerged as a renowned journalist, was just finishing his final term at Trinity College Dublin when a series of explosions interrupted his city life. According to Mallie, a South Armagh native in his book “Eyewitness To War And Peace”, the explosive devices were arranged by hardline unionists who wanted to overthrow the collaborative administration. He further reveals, “During the two-week-long strike by the Ulster Workers’ Council, loyalists were responsible for the killing of 39 civilians, with 33 dying in Dublin and Monaghan. Little did I envisage then, that I would be spending the forthcoming two decades on the frontline in Northern Ireland.”
The apparent incapacity of the authorities to reclaim control continues to bewilder many. With uncanny speed, the striking workers assumed control, implementing a petrol rationing system and distributing passes to authorised workers. The Worker’s Council gave the impression of a nascent government, preparing the machinery of a provisional rule. Even with a significant British army on-site, orders to intervene were not given.
Gillespie explains that armies are not structured to operate as law enforcement and the risk of catastrophic mishaps, as witnessed during Bloody Sunday, is always present. He believes this risk was considered in the British strategy, with concerns centring on potentially initiating a two-front conflict.
In no time, it became clear to the authorities that the agreement had collapsed and that the Northern Ireland executive, formed earlier that year, was on the brink of disintegration. The strikers emerged victorious. It wasn’t until 24 years later, on an important Good Friday, that all parties signed the agreement famously referred to by the SDLP’s Seamus Mallon as “Sunningdale for the slow learners”.
The demographic of Malone Road transformed. In previous times, the local MP Robert Bradford – who later fell victim to the IRA – had ties to the stern Vanguard Unionist Progressive Party. Today, the area is represented by the SDLP’s noticeably unassuming Claire Hanna. Despite the changes, the area maintains its familiar facade, remaining as verdant, as Victorian, and as welcoming to golfers as it was half a century ago, or even another half a century before that, harkening back to a time when Tudor was not a falsification.