Ireland After Good Friday Agreement

Photo Source: The Gryphon

By Naveed Qazi | Editor, Globe Upfront

When the Good Friday Agreement was signed in April 1998, it rekindled something that had long seemed unattainable in Northern Ireland: faith in political dialogue. For decades, the region had been trapped in a cycle of violence so entrenched that many ordinary people believed resolution was impossible. Yet, against expectations shaped by years of bloodshed, a negotiated settlement emerged. It did not erase the past, but it transformed the future by replacing armed conflict with constitutional politics and by drawing deeply divided communities into a shared, if uneasy, framework.

Northern Ireland’s conflict is often narrated as a struggle between Catholics and Protestants, but this simplification obscures a more layered reality. While sectarian identities played a central role, there has always existed a significant section of society that resisted being reduced to religious or political binaries. Even today, many citizens seek a third space—one that does not define their lives solely by unionist or nationalist loyalties. This quiet rejection of rigid identity categories is among the least acknowledged yet most consequential legacies of the peace process.

The roots of the conflict stretch back centuries. Ireland’s earliest settlers, the Gaels, were pagans who embraced Christianity in the fifth century, establishing a largely unified religious culture. The introduction of Protestantism did not occur organically but through English political intervention beginning in the sixteenth century. During the Tudor and Stuart periods, vast tracts of land—predominantly owned by Catholics—were confiscated and redistributed to Protestant settlers as part of plantation policies. These changes reshaped the demographic and political landscape, particularly in the north-east, where Protestants gradually became dominant, while Catholics remained the majority across much of the island.

Partition in 1921 formalised these divisions. Northern Ireland remained part of the United Kingdom, governed by a Protestant-majority administration that systematically marginalised the Catholic minority. Discrimination in housing allocation, employment and voting rights became structural features of the state. As historians and journalists writing for The Irish Times have documented, these inequalities persisted for decades, creating a sense of permanent exclusion among Catholics that eventually erupted into organised protest.

Inspired by global civil rights movements, Catholic communities began mobilising in the late 1960s. Their peaceful demonstrations were frequently met with force, prompting riots and unrest that spiralled beyond the control of local authorities. British troops were deployed in 1969, initially welcomed by some Catholic neighbourhoods as protection, but soon viewed as an occupying force. What followed was a thirty-year conflict known as the Troubles, marked by bombings, assassinations, internment without trial and the pervasive militarisation of daily life.

The prison protests of the late 1970s and early 1980s represented a critical turning point. Republican inmates in Belfast’s Maze Prison demanded recognition as political prisoners, refusing to wear uniforms and later engaging in hunger strikes. In 1981, ten prisoners died, including Bobby Sands, whose death while serving as a Member of Parliament intensified international attention. Journalists such as Peter Taylor of the BBC later observed that while the hunger strikes radicalised communities, they also exposed the moral and political dead ends of violence, reinforcing the need for a negotiated settlement.

By the early 1990s, exhaustion with conflict was widespread. Secret talks, ceasefires and sustained diplomatic engagement gradually paved the way for inclusive negotiations. The Good Friday Agreement emerged from these efforts as a complex compromise rather than a definitive solution. It established a devolved Assembly and a power-sharing Executive, ensuring that governance could not be monopolised by one community. It affirmed that Northern Ireland would remain part of the United Kingdom unless a majority voted otherwise, while recognising the legitimacy of Irish nationalist aspirations. Crucially, it guaranteed the right of individuals to identify as British, Irish or both.

The agreement’s success lay not in reconciliation—an ambition perhaps too grand—but in its ability to dramatically reduce violence. Armed checkpoints disappeared, border installations were dismantled, and paramilitary groups began decommissioning weapons. While dissident attacks occurred, the scale of conflict never returned to that of the Troubles. Writing years later, correspondents for The Guardian described the post-agreement period as an imperfect peace, but one that allowed a new generation to grow up without the normalisation of fear.

Women played a vital yet often under-recognised role in this process. Prior to the agreement, the 1996 elections brought women from Catholic and Protestant backgrounds into a political alliance that prioritised dialogue over dogma. The Northern Ireland Women’s Coalition, supported by grassroots activists and women within Sinn Féin, introduced perspectives that challenged the dominance of militarised masculinity in negotiations. Their emphasis on social issues, reconciliation and inclusivity influenced both the tone and substance of the agreement.

International mediation proved equally decisive. Former US President Bill Clinton and Senator George Mitchell provided diplomatic momentum and credibility at moments when talks appeared on the verge of collapse. Their contributions were later acknowledged when Belfast City Council conferred the Freedom of the City upon them, a symbolic gesture reflecting the agreement’s deep emotional significance for many residents.

However, peace did not translate into stability. The institutions created by the Good Friday Agreement have repeatedly collapsed due to political deadlock. As analysts writing in The Financial Times have noted, power-sharing often produced paralysis rather than partnership, with disputes over symbols, language and legacy derailing governance. Northern Ireland remained economically dependent on London, and Belfast struggled to reclaim its former status as a major commercial centre.

The Brexit referendum of 2016 exposed these vulnerabilities with unprecedented force. While the UK voted to leave the European Union, a majority in Northern Ireland voted to remain. This divergence revived fears surrounding the Irish border, which had become largely invisible under the peace settlement. American journalist Kevin Cullen, who spent decades reporting from Ireland, warned that the return of customs infrastructure could disrupt the fragile normalcy achieved since 1998, reigniting political and psychological divisions.

Although British leaders, including Theresa May, repeatedly assured that Brexit would not undermine the Good Friday Agreement, events proved more complicated. The Northern Ireland Executive collapsed following the 2017 UK general election and remained suspended amid disputes exacerbated by Brexit. Proposals for direct rule from London resurfaced, unsettling communities that had come to view local governance as a symbol of peace.

Public sentiment, meanwhile, has evolved. As Gráinne Long has observed in interviews cited by Irish newspapers, many citizens are increasingly disengaged from constitutional debates. They care more about healthcare, education and economic security than nationalist rhetoric. Rugby matches, not referendums, dominate conversation. Yet this pragmatic outlook exists alongside a resurgence of identity politics, driven partly by demographic change and economic uncertainty.

Controversies surrounding paramilitary influence have further complicated the landscape. Investigative reports in local and British press have alleged that remnants of the Provisional IRA retained control over illicit fuel operations, including diesel laundering. Such revelations, alongside reports of internal intimidation, have eroded support for militant republicanism among ordinary people, particularly as economic survival eclipses ideological loyalty.

Commentators such as Fintan O’Toole have argued that the Good Friday Agreement, while ending war, institutionalised sectarian categories by embedding them within governance structures. Politics became less violent but remained divided. This paradox lies at the heart of Northern Ireland’s post-conflict condition: peace without full integration, stability without consensus.

The Good Friday Agreement did not resolve Ireland’s historical grievances, nor did it erase the trauma of the past. What it achieved was more restrained and more enduring. It replaced guns with ballots, prisons with parliaments, and silence with dialogue. Its survival depends not on nostalgia for 1998, but on the capacity of society to adapt its principles to new realities. Northern Ireland today stands not at the end of history, but at a crossroads where peace must be continually re-negotiated, defended and re-imagined.