I was raised to be solely and passionately British, in a working-class rural family in Fermanagh, on the border with the Republic of Ireland. The Anglican faith and support of the monarchy were core elements of my identity and I would attend the 12 July celebrations yearly; they provided the occasion for my first proper foray into underage drinking, aged 15, in a country pub, celebrating a past victoryI didn’t really understand.
Attending Queen’s University Belfast brought a lot more understanding and questioning of what I was raised to believe. It was my first time in non-segregated education – and my first opportunity to make close Catholic friends. I and some friends from unionist backgrounds grappled with our identity as we tried to align unionism with our progressive views. Within a year of starting Queen’s, I had lost my faith and my love of the monarchy – and had became a passionate advocate for issues such as abortion rights and same-sex marriage. Political unionism is inherently rightwing.
I remained at Queen’s, a unionist with a small u, but hated calling myself one because mainstream unionism, with its anti-women, anti LGBT and anti-Catholic views, embarrassed me. I joined first the centrist Alliance party, and later, the more leftwing Green party in Northern Ireland. These parties allowed me to put social issues first, and take no position on the border.
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After I graduated from university, I took a job in the third sector in republican west Belfast and lived there. I was hesitant at first: here was a place so fundamentally opposed to all I came from. But I was warmly welcomed in my workplace, and enjoyed working on tackling poverty and addressing poor life chances – even if the IRA and Brits Out slogans at the end of my street did make me feel particularly conscious of my background, and at times, uncomfortable.
That summer, one of my closest friends, a Catholic, took a job in loyalist east Belfast. We shared stories of being the odd one out, of the flags and murals we saw on our way to work that reminded us of a violent past we did not live through. Twenty years ago, we would not have even have entered these areas, let alone worked in them.
Northern Ireland has come far, but our political class remains fixated on the past. This is one of the most draining things about living in Northern Ireland, and being young and hopeful: the past matters more than the present or future. Especially so within unionism, as the leading nationalist parties, by advocating for Irish unity, are imagining something new. The DUP wants to retain the status quo, which is a theocratic, oppressive statelet, opposing human and cultural rights.
There are strong points in favour of the union with the UK. The British welfare state is a lot stronger than the Republic of Ireland’s. In Ireland, you have to pay for your healthcare, your school textbooks, your rubbish bins to be collected. My mother is from Donegal and my family there only go to the doctor if they absolutely must. Yet, economically, and considering the possibility that Brexit may bring a much more visible and difficult border back to Ireland, unity makes a lot of sense. The Republic is also a passionate member of the EU, same-sex marriage has been embraced by its citizens and it looks like abortion law has a lot more chance of liberalising in the south than in the north.
Most young people I know in Northern Ireland do not vote thinking of the border foremost – we vote thinking of what politicians will do to make this contested corner of the Earth fairer, more just and outward-looking. Many, like me, are torn on the national question. Unionism cannot take our votes for granted, and looks in danger of causing its own demise if it does not adapt. The days of assuming allegiance by what denomination we were baptised into are gone.
• Kylie Noble is an MA student at the University of Sheffield and a Scott Trust bursary recipient for 2015/2016
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