Thirty years ago on Sunday, former Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF) leader Gusty Spence declared a ceasefire on behalf of loyalist paramilitary organisations, voicing “abject and true remorse” for past actions.
An ending of the conflict would bring hope to the communities from which they came, Spence said, offering hope of “a new and exciting beginning” for “our children, and their children”.
Today, those communities remain poor, suffering bad health, often badly educated and live hard lives in hard places, former Progressive Unionist Party (PUP) deputy leader and GP John Kyle believes.
“There’s a long history of neglect and people need to be convinced that their politicians will act in their best interests,” he says. “They feel their lives have not improved, that the politicians are not listening.”
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The difficulties are made worse by the fact that in the eyes of most, including many in the loyalist communities, even if they will only say it quietly, the paramilitaries’ baleful influence has ‘not gone away’.
Indeed, the numbers paying the £10 monthly subscription usually sought by the organisations are higher now than when Spence ended his October 13th, 1994 speech, involving up to 12,500 people, according to an MI5 report.
For years, nobody wanted to face up to the issue. One source says: “There was a political commitment to address it, but figuring out what to do was really difficult. People couldn’t even say the word ‘paramilitarism’. They would say the ‘P’ word.”
Years on, there is little more agreement on how to tackle paramilitaries. The picture is hugely complicated, since some do offer valuable community leadership, often backed by Irish and British government grants.
However, many – or most, depending on one’s view – are deeply involved in criminality of all hues, from drug dealing to protection rackets, prostitution to punishment beatings, and a slew of others.
They are the gatekeepers in their community ... controlling local community resources, or influence, or the right to speak on behalf of their communities
Criminality, fear and threat pervade communities, as illustrated by allegations last that young women are being brought to flats by drug gangs – many of them paramilitaries – to be raped by groups of men to pay off drug debts.
Usually, the rapes are filmed and the women are then forced to hide drugs in their homes for the gangs, who then threaten that the videos will be put online if they try to report the abuse.
The paramilitaries can reach even those endeavouring to make better lives for their families: “I had dealings with a single mother in (a Co Antrim town) whose son had been accepted for grammar school,” remembers a former policeman.
The boy needed a school uniform and the paramilitaries lent her £400. “She couldn’t afford to pay it back. The young fellow’s used as a drugs mule, so ends up smuggling drugs into the school that was supposed to change his life,” he says.
The reach into communities by paramilitaries forces troubling accommodations.
“They are the gatekeepers in their community, too, controlling local community resources, or influence, or the right to speak on behalf of their communities,” a source says. “People try to make distinctions between a good paramilitary and a bad paramilitary. So, a good paramilitary might be somebody who sells coke on a Saturday night. A bad paramilitary would be somebody who’s dealing heroin.”
For years, the Independent Reporting Commission (IRC) has studied the subject deeply, believing that the UVF, the Ulster Defence Association (UDA), the Red Hand Commando must disband, and be encouraged to do so.
“In our view, you cannot arrest your way out of the problem,” it said in last year’s annual report, adding that the ‘brand’ power enjoyed by those involved in paramilitary organisations must be removed.
Such a move would clear the pitch. If the leaderships announced that they were quitting, they would take up to 70 per cent of the membership, according to the most optimistic forecasts. In the jargon, it is known as “group transition”.
The IRC’s optimistic expectation is, however, contested. Stormont Justice Minister Naomi Long, leader of the Alliance Party, is scathing of both the organisations and their latter-day voice, the Loyalist Communities Council (LCC). She is not alone.
“For as long as you have that militant mindset, even if it’s in the heads of a small number of people, that is not conflict transformation. That is not trying to address the wrongs of the past,” says academic, Aaron Edwards, the author of a number of books on loyalist paramilitaries. “They haven’t moved forward, they’re still waiting for that figure to lead them off the battlefield.”
Disbandment itself is a difficult option because of the structure of loyalist paramilitarism, since the UVF is run centrally, whereas the UDA/Ulster Freedom Fighters is not.
Adele Brown, who runs the Northern Ireland Executive’s Programme on Paramilitarism and Organised Crime, which invests in 100 places across the North, points out that paramilitary violence is significantly down. Nevertheless, the influence is pervasive.
Paramilitaries trade off “a level of acceptability in communities because they know all these people, they are neighbours, friends, relationships, but there’s also a fear factor”, she says.
“If I live in a community affected by paramilitarism, am I going to be the one speaking out, knowing that I’m likely to get my windows put in, or my kids attacked? So, some people put their head down, thinking the State is not going to protect them.”
Over the last two years, programme staff have linked up with 1,400 young people – many as young as 12 or 13 – who have ended up in accident and emergency departments at Altnagelvin hospital in Derry, or the Ulster Hospital in Belfast.
Some end up there because of drugs or after being beaten up. Often, Brown says, multiple attempts have to be made to get through to the children, “who often don’t see themselves as victims, but they are”.
Most clearly display post-traumatic stress disorder: “They’re hyper vigilant. They think that everybody is trying to manipulate them. In many cases, they are harming themselves, or harming others,” she adds.
Usually, they come from broken homes, threatened there by drugs, alcohol or abuse: “They may be exploited themselves by the paramilitaries. Over time, they just get pulled in deeper and deeper.”
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“Sometimes, they are forced to run drugs for a paramilitary group, but at the same time they feel a sense of protection from it, because if they’re associated with one group, for example, then it means that another one won’t come for them.
“So, you get young people with really conflicted ideas about safety, vulnerability, about who they can trust. Paramilitarism is the common thread that runs through an awful lot of this because it’s about coercive control.”
Debbie Watters, however, who is a co-director and founder member of Northern Ireland Alternatives, a community-based restorative justice organisation working within grassroots loyalism, offers hope.
Middle-class unionism politicians have been good at playing the green and orange card. People have been pushed to vote to maintain the status quo, and keep Sinn Féin out, to not split the unionist vote
— Debbie Waters, Northern Ireland Alternatives
In her view, many paramilitaries have moved off the stage, many more want to do so, while many of those who remain do good work. “Actually, they have a very positive influence within communities,” she says.
However, Watters, whose community activism dates back to before the Belfast Agreement, pointedly excludes those involved in criminality from her description. “To me, that isn’t loyalism. That’s a criminal gang, that’s a policing issue.”
Disbandment has problems attached, she fears. “It would be much better if they morphed into a legacy group of some nature, whether an old boy’s organisation, or a community organisation.
“The sense of belonging, collegiality, and all of what comes from that is something that can be harnessed for good,” says Watters, who has long despaired about unionist politicians’ interest in her community.
Working-class loyalists failed to develop a political voice after Good Friday, quickly losing the two seats won by the PUP in 1998, while the early death of David Ervine left a chasm.
Why has that been so?
“Middle-class unionism politicians have been good at playing the green and orange card. People have been pushed to vote to maintain the status quo, and keep Sinn Féin out, to not split the unionist vote,” Watters says.
However, that leaves many working-class loyalists – often far to the left politically of the DUP – voiceless.
“They (vote for) the DUP. Then they step back and think, ‘Why did I vote that way? Because they don’t represent me,’” she says.
“Unionist politicians are not working-class activists. Historically, they have been career politicians. They haven’t really engaged with communities, they haven’t paid attention to their needs.
“We have a very bipolar and schizophrenic relationship with unionist politicians,” she continues, but she optimistically points to a change since Gavin Robinson took over as DUP leader.
Last night, an exhibition created by her organisation was unveiled in the old Crumlin Road jail, telling the stories of loyalist women during the Troubles and the ceasefire – an often-neglected chapter.
A “lot” of DUP and Ulster Unionist politicians accepted invitations. “Previously, they wouldn’t even have wanted the stigma of being attached to that,” she says. “I think there has been a real change.”
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