Inside the loyalist area of Tigers Bay in north Belfast, teenagers in T-shirts and tracksuit bottoms sit on a busted sofa listening to a song about the UDA.
t’s Friday night and there’s broken glass and discarded beer bottles, while outside the gates there’s graffiti on one of the walls reading: ‘We are the Taliban.’
In the middle of the open space stands a tower of wooden pallets which form one of 237 bonfires set to be lit across Northern Ireland as part of the annual Twelfth demonstrations this weekend.
A banner advises against dismantling the controversial bonfire — which two Stormont ministers tried to get removed via the High Court and failed — by warning: ‘Move at your own risk.’
Down the street from where boxer Carl Frampton grew up, locals are preparing to mark the Battle of the Boyne in 1690 when the Protestant William of Orange defeated Catholic King James II.
There’s a bouncy castle for children and people listening to music in the street.
“Roman Catholics are good people — like ourselves. They have the same colour of blood as us,” says one man. “But why won’t they let us have our culture? This fire will burn for two hours and that’s it. Everyone will go home happy.”
Among the crowd is Democratic Unionist councillor Dean McCullough, who insists the bonfire has the “overwhelming support” of the community and believes it will be “trouble free”.
“What threat does this bonfire pose? There are no offensive flags, emblems, or images on the bonfire. We are working to de-escalate tensions and are respectful and mindful of our neighbours.”
But widely shared videos — including one showing a loyalist hitting golf balls in the direction of the nationalist New Lodge area on the opposite side of the street — run contrary to that.
“I condemn that. We told the young people that it was counterproductive, that it’s not neighbourly and that you should not be hitting golf balls at your neighbours,” he says.
He criticises Sinn Féin for “not showing respect for our culture” by complaining and claims to have evidence of a group of republicans attempting to confront loyalists the night before.
Just at that moment a car drives by Duncairn Gardens and a man shouts: “Orange bastards.”
“Did you hear that? What does Sinn Féin have to say about that?” asks Mr
McCullough.
Spectator Craig Moore (23) says the event is a time for families “to celebrate loyalist culture”.
“It means a lot to us; this is a big part of who we are. This isn’t sectarian, do you see anything sectarian here? I believe the controversy has been stirred up by Sinn Féin.”
The previous day Sinn Féin MP John Finucane, an outspoken critic of this bonfire, stood on the other side of the street in the New Lodge area surveying the situation.
“Neither I nor my party object to bonfires if that’s your thing, but there are multiple examples held elsewhere without having this supremacist message of hate,” he said.
Then behind a rusty gate at the bonfire site Andrew Best, wearing a Rangers football jersey, called Mr Finucane over. He was not happy Sinn Féin leader Mary Lou McDonald has called for the bonfire to go. “Tell her to keep out of it. What is she doing getting involved in things up here?”
A woman with him refers to the annual Fleadh organised by mostly nationalists, saying: “There could be music going on to five o’clock in the morning and we don’t complain.”
“You should do; culture shouldn’t be at the annoyance of somebody else,” said Mr Finucane.
“But it doesn’t annoy us, we listen to their music. It’s culture,” replied Mr Best.
Across the street Catholic resident Paul Donnelly says he can’t stand at his front door because of the “sectarian abuse” he claims he receives from children as young as 15.
“They call me ‘Fenian bastard’ or a ‘tout’ because they know I am on to the police all the time. I’ve had to tell my grandkids to stay away until this is all over.”
Another resident, Thomas, who didn’t want to give his surname, says it’s “not normal to live like this”, having discovered bricks, pieces of masonry and golf balls in his garden in the past.
“We are at the coalface here. People say it’s only one night, but it’s not.”
This area of north Belfast represents 22pc of all the people killed during the Troubles. Within these two square miles, more than 500 were killed.
On Bombay Street in west Belfast, Deputy First Minister Michelle O’Neill is talking to Gerard McAnoy and Jean Canavan in their back garden. They tell her they get feel “anxious” around the Twelfth each year. On August 15, 1969 — the date widely regarded as the start of the Troubles — a loyalist mob burnt the street to the ground.
“Our home was one of them,” said Ms Canavan. Now the row of houses is surrounded by metal fences as part of a so-called ‘peace wall’, but the couple prefer it that way.
“I wouldn’t be here if they removed it. I’d be too scared to stay here because there would be murder,” she said.
Staring up at the large metal structure, Ms O’Neill said it was “absurd that anyone has to live in this way 23 years after the Good Friday Agreement”.
“These people are hemmed in with a cage and that is wholly unacceptable. Why is it this way? Because families still need protection — things are still being lumped over that wall.”
She believes “fear and tension has been whipped up by political unionism”.
About 10 minutes away is the loyalist area of Rathcoole in Newtownabbey. There are union flags hanging from many of the houses and red, white, and blue bunting attached to railings.
Community worker Brian Kerr says it’s not loyalists making the situation worse but “republican and nationalist politicians”, and claims a war memorial was targeted the night before.
“It starts off with Sinn Féin poking, trying to get a reaction.
"It will not be the pictures of children on bouncy castles or colourful bands coming down the road that are published in the media. The images portrayed will be negative.”
Agreeing is 16-year-old Orangeman Lee Walker, who is preparing to march in his first Twelfth tomorrow — one of more than 500 parades in the region — as part of Cloughfern District.
“The Twelfth is also a way of remembering that at one time we didn’t have liberty to practise our own religion, that prior to 1690 Protestants were constantly persecuted.”
For whatever reason, many loyalists still feel that way.
Back in Tigers Bay, the only danger worrying three teenagers racing each other to the top of the tower of pallets is one boy in shorts who finds it more difficult getting down than it was getting up.
“Call the fire brigade,” shouts his friend.
