Accent-ism and UK universities

21 Nov

Fiona Hill’s excellent autobiography, There is nothing here for you here: Finding opportunity in the 21st century, has got me thinking about accent-ism and British universities. Dr Hill has had a stellar career: a PhD from Harvard, positions at a series of US think-tanks, has served in senior roles on the US National Security Council, and has worked with three US presidents. What is remarkable is that she comes from very straitened circumstances in the north east of England. Her book devotes considerable space to issues of class and gender (and some attention to race in relation to the US).

She tells – movingly – of a humiliating experience at an Oxford entrance interview, of being dismissed as a ‘common northerner’ by a fellow student at St Andrews, and of the very real constraints that poverty placed on her education choices and route. She also tells of acts of kindness, luck and good advice that helped her along the way. Also coming through the book is the sheer hard work and determination that – over the long haul – beat the social immobility traps that shape British society.

One thing that comes across in the book is how she was self-conscious of her north east accent as it signalled that she was an outsider and somehow did not belong in particular higher education settings. This got me thinking about my own experiences at British universities and what it’s like to have a regional accent. I can only speak from personal experience of the universities that I have worked at on this island – Lancaster, York, St Andrews, Manchester and Durham – and my professional networks. In all of these places (with the possible exception of Manchester) I have been struck by the absence of regional accents among academic staff. The most common accent among academic staff – born on the island of Britain – is accent-less English. It tends not to be the posh received pronunciation of past decades, but a modern iteration of it. In a few cases I have worked with ‘mockneys’ – middle class academics with a faux working class twang (I suspect it was adopted during their school years to avoid bullying). But, in general, the main accent among UK-born academics is no accent or a very suppressed regional accent.

There are a number of reasons for the absence of regional accents. Academics from “the regions” (and I can see how problematic that term can be) often stay close to home. There is also the need to be understood – in teaching, supervision and communication with colleagues. As a result, those with strong regional accents might try to ‘flatten’ their accent simply to be understood. A long time living away from one’s place of origin (and daily interaction in and with that accent) will usually bring a flattening of accents.

But I think class plays a major role in this too. As I understand it – and this comes out very well in Fiona Hill’s book – the English class system (and it seems more pronounced in England than elsewhere in the UK) is about legitimately fitting in at ‘the right level’. Dr Hill’s book records numerous incidences of middle class people thinking “What is she doing here?” when she opens her mouth and speaks with a regional accent. In universities – which serve as mechanisms for the reproduction of the middle class – this “What is s/he doing here?” mentality is the backdrop to a lot of interactions and calculations.

It is very probably at play in hiring processes where, as we know, unconscious bias is often at work. If you sound ‘right’ then people can concentrate on what you’re saying. If you sound different … well that’s an additional piece of baggage to go along with the understanding. Perhaps there is some conscious bias going on too, wherein regional accents are equated with being ‘thick’ or an outsider who does not belong. In all of this it is difficult to get away from class – a subject many English people (if I can generalise) are experts on, but often find uncomfortable to acknowledge. I am not sure that the nomenclature around the ‘widening participation agenda’ (schemes to encourage communities and groups who traditionally have not gone to university) is helpful. Why can’t we just call this ‘class’ (as well as ‘race’)?

I am conscious of my regional accent. It is very often the only one in the room. I have had quite a few experiences where I very clearly did not ‘fit’ – and a few humiliating job interviews early in my career where the principal form of communication from the interview panel was a sneer. Although, as a full-time, male professor I cannot claim to have done badly. And the accent-ism that I notice must be nothing compared to the very many academics in UK universities who do not have English as a first language. Nor am I seeking to compare accent-ism – at least in my case – with the racism and gender discrimination that is plain to see across the sector. There are also lots of regional accents to hear in the universities in Northern Ireland, Wales and Scotland (with the exception of St Andrews).

Yet accent-ism is worthy of discussion. It is wrapped up – as Dr Hill suggests – in imposter syndrome, as well as feelings of belonging, and the subtle structural factors that shape UK academia.

Two thoughts on Austin Currie

18 Nov

Austin Currie died earlier in November and his passing has – rightly – been marked by respectful obituaries and a funeral attended by many of what might be called the Irish political establishment. Currie was a leader of the Northern Ireland civil rights movement and then had a prominent political career as a founding member of the Social Democratic and Labour Party, a minister in the Northern Ireland parliament (before its collapse), and a member of the parliament in the Republic of Ireland. It was a very full political life, with lots of highs and lows.

Two thoughts struck me when thinking about his life and passing. The first is the inconsistency of many (political) lives, and the second is that so much energy is taken up at the intra-group level. Let me explain those two thoughts.

There is no doubting Austin Currie’s extraordinary bravery in the civil rights movement in the late 1960s. Inspired by events in the United States, he and others took direct action to expose the shocking levels of anti-Catholic discrimination prevalent in Northern Ireland. Perhaps his most famous piece of direction action was engaging in a squat or sit-in in a council house that had been awarded to an 18 year old Protestant women while 260 people – many of them Catholic families – were on a waiting list. All of the houses in that particular development – in Caledon, Co. Tyrone – went to Protestants. Currie and his fellow squatters showed immense bravery. It was a time when the police force showed little compunction in using violence against Catholics, and Currie and many other civil rights protestors were often assaulted by the police as they protested and marched in support of very basic rights.

But fast forward two decades and Currie moved south, based himself in Dublin, and stood for election for Fine Gael – one of the two main political parties in the Republic of Ireland. Even on a good day, a committee of experts would be hard pressed to know what Fine Gael stands for – other than keeping themselves in power and thereby perpetuating social injustice. It is – and was – a conservative political party. Over the decades, its prominent members made little effort to understand Catholics in Northern Ireland let alone deal with their plight. No one can blame Currie for moving south. He and his family were regular targets of violence and intimidation. The sheer constancy of the threats must have been exhausting. But to join Fine Gael – a party firmly in the rear-guard of just about every rights movement – serves as a good reminder that many people are inconsistent in their beliefs.

Certainly many people are consistent. Bernadette McAliskey – to mention a contemporary of Currie – has been consistent in her support for rights and minorities over many decades. But many people change over time. Support for causes may be an ‘age and stage’ thing. For many people, career, life, family and health may mean that they are only politically active for a short period of time. Staying the course takes a special type of commitment (or a lack of choice). A common expectation is to believe that political leaders – especially strident ones – will stay consistent over time. But to do so often incurs costs or requires very significant energy.

The second thought relates to intra-group conflict and tension. Austin Currie was consistent in one thing – he did not believe in violence. This brought him into conflict with those in the Catholic-nationalist-republican community who believed in violence and more forceful ways to attain rights and oppose British rule. Many in Currie’s home territory of east Tyrone saw Currie as a sell-out or too respectful of British rule. This was especially the case from the late 1980s onwards when Sinn Fein was in the ascendant. I remember being at a Tyrone senior football game (in Ennis, I think) and the announcer introduced Currie as a “special guest from Tyrone’. He was roundly boo-ed. The key point is that much of Currie’s energy (and this applies to all politicians in deeply-divided societies) was not devoted to inter-group contestation. Instead, it was directed at intra-group debates. Like the constant threats to his life (and that of his family) this must have been wearing. While engagement with “the other side” may not have taken place every day, the micro-geographies of deeply-divided societies means that one usually lives among those of your own identity group. As a result there would have been little escape from the immediacy of consultation or even confrontation with the in-group.

End of two thoughts

Book out 17 June 2021

14 Jun

My Book – Everyday Peace: How so-called ordinary people can disrupt violent conflict – is published by Oxford University Press on 17 June 2021. Details here: https://global.oup.com/academic/product/everyday-peace-9780197563397?cc=us&lang=en

Lots of people helped in the writing of the book and I am very glad to acknowledge them here by reprinting the Acknowledgements from the book:

Completion of this manuscript is about seven years late, a fact not unrelated to having a seven year old daughter, Flora. The book is dedicated to my brother, Manus Mac Ginty, who died much too young. He loved his family, the outdoors, and storytelling. I miss him very much.

Many debts were incurred in writing this book. Alex Bellamy, John Brewer, Nemanja Džuverović, Pamina Firchow, Martha Henry, Laura Mcleod, Eric Lepp, Ben Rampton, Oliver Richmond, Tom Rodwell, and Mandy Turner all read sections of the book or provided help with literature. Conversations with Tatsushi Arai, Christine Bell, Morten Bøås, Roddy Brett, Kris Brown, Christine Cheng, David Ellery, Landon Hancock, Chip Hauss, Sung Yong Lee, Alp Özerdem, Michelle Parlevliet, Jan Pospisil, Gearoid Miller, Sarah Njeri, Stefano Ruzza, Elena Stavrevska, Anthony Wanis St. John, Gëzim Visoka, Birte Vogel, Andrew Williams and Susan Woodward also helped clarify thinking and provided encouragement. At Durham, a ‘Conflict +’ seminar spent an invaluable few hours discussing chapter 6 – thanks are due to Emil Archambault, Olga Demetriou, Elisabeth Kirtslogou, and Nayanika Mookherjee. Alex De Waal provided access to African Union data on security incidents.

Much of the stimulus for this book came from the Everyday Peace Indicators project, and I have been fortunate to work alongside the indefatigable Pamina Firchow for many years. I have been privileged to learn from Everyday Peace Indicators colleagues Peter Dixon, Naomi Levy, Lindsay McClain Opiyo, Jessica Smith, and Zach Tilton. The Carnegie Corporation of New York has provided patient and generous support to the Everyday Peace Indicators project and I am particularly grateful to Aaron Stanley and Stephen Del Rosso. I also acknowledge support from the Economic and Social Research Council in the form of a grant to work on peacekeeping data.

Ideas in the book were honed at papers given at the universities of Amsterdam, the Arctic, Belgrade, Bradford, Bristol, Durham, George Mason, Kent State, King’s College London, Leeds Beckett, Queen Mary, Manitoba, Newcastle, Notre Dame, St. Andrews, Turin, and York. I am grateful for the hospitality and the questions.

I benefited enormously from the encouragement and advice from the editors of the Oxford University Press series ‘Studies in Strategic Peacemaking’ – Scott Appleby, John Paul Lederach and Daniel Philpott, all at the Kroc Institute for International Peace Studies at the University of Notre Dame. At Oxford University Press I am very grateful to David McBride and Holly Mitchell for their guidance. The anonymous reviewers managed to perfect the balance between encouragement and gently pointing out the holes in the argument.

I am also grateful to the community I live in and the distractions it provides. I appointed myself ‘writer in residence’ in the café bus at the Chain Bridge Honey farm. Not a word of this book could have been written without the support of Mrs Mac Ginty. Everyone needs a Mrs Mac Ginty. Thanks are also due to Patrick, Edward and Elisabeth Mac Ginty.

This is the book I wanted to write and I am grateful for having the opportunity to do so.

The utter inefficiency of universities

12 Apr

Universities have been moving full-pelt along a new public management and neo-liberal track for a few decades now. Yet they are becoming more and more inefficient. The so-called reforms meant to make them more agile are having precisely the opposite effect. Rather than being institutions whose energies are directed towards teaching and research, more and more resources end up feeding the very administrative ‘reforms’ that are meant to make universities more efficient. It is madness and it goes against the most obvious law of economics: that specialisation leads to efficiency.

Adam Smith, of course, hypothesised that workers in a pin factory could be much more efficient if each specialised on a particular task rather than let each worker make  pins from start to finish. Universities (doubtless many of which cover Adam Smith in Economics 101) seem to have overlooked this basic understanding of how to make organisations run efficiently. Let me explain this from the point of view of a research active teacher: I can teach and research. To some extent I am trained to do both, and have racked up a lot of experience. I know how to conduct research and then translate that into journal articles, books, and teaching. In Adam Smith’s view, I am a specialist worker.

But a series of one-off or occasional administrative tasks that interrupt my teaching and research mean that I am not terribly productive. While we might formally have a division of labour, in reality our labour is spread across a range of tasks – many of which we are not trained for, are not terribly interested in, and need to learn from scratch. Tim Hartford had a fascinating column on this in The Financial Times not so long ago: “much modern knowledge work is not specialised at all. Might that explain why we all seem to be working so hard while fretting about getting so little done?”

Academics are asked to perform a series on often one-off (or occasional) tasks that are usually time-consuming and involve coming to grips to with a piece of software that will be used for this one task. It is the epitome of inefficiency, yet the narrative around such activities is usually one of reform, efficiency and productivity. If viewed through a neo-liberal lens it is madness: academic staff (if fortunate enough to be on permanent contracts) are usually paid more than administrative staff. Yet, academic staff are being tasked with more of administrative tasks for which they are untrained, thus diminishing time for teaching and research. The growing number of one-off or occasional administrative tasks make us generalists rather than specialists and thus less productive. For example, on top of teaching and research, I might be tasked with filling out a particular form connected with a hiring process, claiming expenses, or the administration of teaching. Because I rarely fill out these forms, it will take me a long time to complete this task.

The answer is to rebuild the administrative centre of universities. That might sound regressive to those interested in productivity but it is actually in line with Adam Smith’s views on a division of labour and specialism. The gutting of the centralised administrative capacities of universities (remember when universities used to have a Registrar?) led to the devolution of administration (but not control or power) to departments. In many cases, that led to a replication of administrative tasks. Manchester had departmental accountants, school accountants, faculty accountants, and university accountants who would check and recheck each other’s figures and come up with exactly the same figures … before everything was sent off to an external auditor! The vast majority of university administrators I have worked with are highly professional and beyond conscientious. In my view, they should be entrusted with greater responsibilities (and suitably remunerated, of course) and allow university teachers and researchers to get on with what they can do best: teaching and researching. For administrators, their professionalism and productivity is often derived from the expertise they gain by completing the same task (for example, filling out a particular form) on a repeated basis. To ask an academic to do that task once or twice a year, and have that academic spend three times as long doing the task because they don’t know how it is it be done, is simply a waste of resources.

Of course, I could dress all of this very obvious stuff (‘let specialists do specialist labour’) up as management consultancy and charge a day rate of £2,000. I suspect that universities might then listen.

The academic obituary

22 Jan

I have read about half a dozen academic obituaries and tributes over the past few months. One thing that is striking about them is that most of them say nothing – or next to nothing – about the individual beyond a glowing account of their career. It is understandable that an obituary of a public figure concentrates on their professional career. Some academics are public figures. Most of us are private individuals with jobs that sometimes have a semi-public facing role.

An obituary that charts a career and ends with a tart, ‘She is survived by her husband John and her three adult children’ seems to do a disservice to the person. Certainly many academics see their career as a core part of their identity. Often academia is a way of life, shaping where people live and their social circle. But most of us are more than our job – or I would like to think that is the case.

Perhaps the professional obituaries are a function of a deeper issue – something that might be called ‘the always on syndrome’ or an overly-professional face that some academics maintain at all times. I have noticed, even at major conferences where people might be expected to have some down-time, that many academics stay in professional mode at all times. So a full day of conference panels is followed by drinks and dinner where the only legitimate conversation topics are work-related. Possibly precarity (the need for a permanent post or tenure) encourages this permanently professional persona that some maintain. Perhaps some people feel that there should be a firm distinction between work and private lives and thus it is inappropriate for conversation to stray from work-related matters. Perhaps some people feel – perfectly appropriately – that their personal lives and any of their thoughts and interests beyond work – are their own business. But to remain ‘in character’ all day must be exhausting and is – well – odd.

Over the years, the academics that I have really respected were those who were professionally on top of their game but who could light up a room with the force of personality, who could deploy humour at the right moment in the dullest of conference panels, who could take the time and effort to show an interest in early career colleagues, and who could show empathy when required. Many of them also had non-work passions that could be seen in the classroom or seminar room. This is perhaps best demonstrated by those colleagues who bring baked goods to seminars: nothing lights up a cold Wednesday afternoon meeting than when someone brings in a cinnamon cake to share. But I have also been captivated by academics who gave presentations that reflected their love of gardening, music or horses (to name a few). There was no dumbing down in what they said – it was simply a hook that humanised them and the session.

Maybe the strictly professional obituary and tribute is a function of corporate academia, where the obituary is simply an extension of corporate branding: “We are sorry that Joan has died but don’t forget that our Institution is now 47th in the QS indicators.” I should make clear that there are plenty of humane and personalised academic obituaries that take full account of the individual’s hinterland well-beyond their professional life. And I do know of lots of cases where colleagues have felt truly bereft at the passing of a colleague. I am merely commenting on the half dozen obituaries and tributes that I have read recently that made no allowance for the person having much of a life beyond work.

So if anyone is tempted to write an obituary of me when pass I on: those dull books and articles were not the most important things in my life.

The BBC and Hate Radio

28 Sep

Northern Ireland is a delicate place. Overt violence is largely at an end but division is everywhere. Catholics and Protestants largely live apart, socialise apart, and educate their kids apart. It does not take much to antagonise the more excitable in each community. Just wind them up with a few well-worn phrases and or dog whistle images and sit back and watch them. One wind-up merchant is Stephan Nolan who has a weekday radio programme on BBC Radio Ulster. His phone-in show simply relies on igniting already existing prejudice. It is cheap in the sense that it costs little (apart from Nolan’s very large salary). There are no reports to edit, or ‘talent’ to pay. Just pick a controversial subject and give out the phone number and – hey presto – those with an axe to grind have a venue. On a daily basis cheap shot radio platforms self-appointed community spokespeople and individuals who set up their own NGOs simply to gain attention to themselves and their partisan causes.
Journalist Cahair O’Kane had a wonderful take-down of Nolan, and cheap shot radio, in The Irish News the other week:

“Sammy from the Shankill rings in and is given the airtime to vent his fury at the GAA.
He doesn’t have to be right. He just has to be loud.
And then naturally the other side reacts. Seamy from Andersonstown is on, feeling that he has defend his side.
The same applies the other way around. Unionists take a kicking on the show too, and there are elements of nationalism that can’t wait to get stuck in when it happens.
The appetite for fury is never-ending, and so round and round and round it goes.”

Nolan’s programme is not the original author of division in Northern Ireland. But it perpetuates old divisions and creates new ones. It is radio without social purpose. It does not inform or educate. It is simply entertainment – but entertainment at the cost of perpetuating hatred and division. And here is the thing: the Nolan programme is from the BBC – the national broadcaster funded through near mandatory subscription. This blog post is not a generalised attack on the BBC. The right-wing press has maintained a shrill war on the BBC for decades now. The BBC generally has a social purpose. The key point of the blogpost is to underline that the BBC has responsibilities. These responsibilities are heightened in a deeply-divided society.
The good news is that people are switching off Nolan – listening figures are on a downward trend. Many people have simply had enough of what can be described as hate radio. But the BBC should take a good hard look at itself. It is simply unsustainable in 2020 that the BBC – on a daily basis – sets fire to petrol in the name of ‘journalism’. The BBC wants us to believe – I assume – that they are neutral and are merely reflecting the views of people. But that is not the case. The BBC is not neutral in this. It is a conscious actor in a sectarian space.

Britain’s coming culture war

15 Jun

We can see the contours of the remainder of this Tory government and the run-in to the next general election (scheduled for May 2024). The Johnson administration will continue to govern with incompetence, but its large parliamentary majority of 80 seats means that it will be insulated from external criticism. Those with the stature to criticise from within have already been eliminated from the ruling party.

So what will the governing agenda look like? The first two items on the agenda are obvious: the continuing Brexit shambles and coronavirus. The latter provides excellent cover for the former. Brexit means that the UK economy will take a massive self-inflicted hit. But much of this can be masked by the coronavirus recession. The promised ‘ sunny uplands’ of post-Brexit Britain will not be delivered in a material sense. But there will be a political boon for the Johnson government in the shape of near continuous sniping against Brussels: ‘Intransigent EU’, ‘Eurocrats snub Boris’, ‘French fishermen steal British cod’, … the headlines write themselves. As for coronavirus, we are going to have to get used to it being a fixture. The government will continue its strategy of avoiding any responsibility for its initial failures. The economy will be prioritised over health and if people get sick, then that is their own fault. The government line will be that it did the right thing at the right time. Any inquiry will be less than independent and have the same impact as all those other inquiries that sit on shelves.

The third agenda item is an insidious one but it will dominate: culture war. It is prominent now (Churchill’s statue, re-runs of Fawlty Towers) but has been bubbling away for years. Tory strategists will have seen how well it works in the United States and will be working hard to further foment it. In the absence of any policies or strategy, it is a cheap way of mobilising the base and winning votes. So be prepared to see almost constant rows about statues, head-scarves, and ‘classic’ TV comedies. There will be faux outrage a-plenty as loyal newspapers and columnists make hay. All they need is a single rent-a-quote mouthpiece to say they are offended and – bingo – there is a headline: ‘Outrage as loony left-wing council question Remembrance Sunday’, ‘Politically correct Uni bosses ban free speech’, ‘Now they’re after our food’. The language games will be insidious (‘they’, ‘our’ etc.) and stoke a binary. Trades unions, protestors, BLM, non-right-wing politicians, and Guardian readers will all be lumped together. If they can be associated with a violent fringe then so much the better.

We have seen this all before. It worked well with demonising Jeremy Corbyn, Ed Miliband, Diane Abbot and many others. But this time it is part of an on-going electoral strategy in which permanent campaigning acts as a substitute for debate, policy and genuine engagement with any opposition. To be clear: the general election campaign is now on. A culture war is a difficult place for opposition politicians to be. Any equivocation is quickly branded as unpatriotic.

These are the elements that make a culture war a winning electoral strategy:

– It operates via proxies or actors who are loyal but one step removed from government. Thus if a story become too hot, the government can distance themselves from it. So, the main agitators in the culture war by proxy will be the press (now overwhelmingly right wing in terms of newspaper editorial stance) and the multiple right-wing columnists, websites and retweeters. These constituencies are already highly sophisticated and have been emboldened by their Brexit victory. Many taboos of offending people have been broken. How many times has there been a 48 hour outrage against racist comments by newspaper columnists … who are still in their jobs?
– It costs next to nothing to run a culture war. This does not require billion pound initiatives. Instead, it relies on word of mouth and retweets. Certainly there are multiple shady political operations out there – especially online, but a culture war relies primarily on stoking pre-existing prejudices.
– It taps into the cultural knowledge and vocabulary of white England. The culture war is not about some abstract or far-away notion (quantitative easing, even Brexit). Instead, it is relatable if it stick to British comedy TV programmes and the basics of history (Churchill statues and Dunkirk. Anything about WWII really. Anything history beyond that is unknown);
– A culture war is about fear – fear of losing something (privilege, identity) and of something being taken away. So it feels immediate and threatening and thus strikes a chord;
– Finally, there will be a lot of equivalence. This tactic is straight out of the Trump playbook but it works. Thus White Lives Matter and Black Lives Matter are painted as the same: each deserving of attention, each with a legitimate point of view. If things get too hot, government ministers can appear to be even-handed. They appear as neutral arbitrators who are above the fray.

If you want to see what a culture war looks like, read the Fox News website on a daily basis. It rarely reports news. Instead, it is permanent spin that politicises stories along racial and partisan lines as a default option. The future isn’t pretty.

Ireland is already united – it’s just that a lot of people haven’t noticed.

2 Jan

The prospect of a united Ireland has moved up the political agenda in the midst of Brexit uncertainty, but Ireland already has been united – to all intents and purposes – for many years. This united Ireland is one forged in the everyday activities of millions of people on the island. It is a united Ireland of travel patterns, family relationships, businesses, sport and culture that work around (or more precisely – across) the border. It is a united Ireland that is embodied, enacted and lived.

This notion of a united Ireland is based on a sociological understanding of politics and society that sees politics (and most aspects of life) as a verb – something to be enacted through everyday living rather than a noun – something that is declared by constitutions and political leaders.* The actual behaviour of many people on the island of Ireland is one that traverses the political and economic border and renders it an anachronism. Examples of this abound: people working in Belfast but living in Dublin (less than two hours journey time in the car), over a million passengers per year from Northern Ireland using Dublin airport, the thousands of northerners who attend stadium concerts in Dublin every year, and the all-island sports of rugby, GAA and many others that see people cross the border every weekend. Added to this are the thousands of businesses that trade on both sides of the border, the huge number of northerners with second homes in Donegal (in the Republic of Ireland), and the countless shopping trips that criss-cross the border on a daily basis.

Those waiting for formal united Ireland – one enshrined by a constitution and recognised by the United Nations – may have some time to wait. Brexit uncertainty has made the prospect of a vote for a formal creation of a united Ireland more realistic, but it is hard to see a united Ireland coming about without opposition from Northern Ireland’s unionist population. And the Brexit-supporting English political elite would probably re-discover the value of the Union if it was really in jeopardy. The blue-prints of project fear, which worked so well during the Scottish independence referendum, would be dusted off and the massed ranks of the pro-Union media and the English Establishment (it really does exist) would be energised.

The beauty of the de facto united Ireland is that trenchant unionists can avoid it. They don’t have to travel south if they don’t want to. They can fashion lives that are British, unionist and have little to do with the Republic of Ireland. It is still possible (indeed all too easy) to lead lives that are segregated from political and religious others; 90 percent of children still attend either all Catholic or all Protestant schools. Social housing is still overwhelmingly segregated according to religion – as is the private sector. The cultural hegemony of a British unionist identity has taken a battering as Irish (or Catholic nationalist) identities have grown in confidence (and gained economic power). Yet, it is still possible to be proudly British and avoid the de facto united Ireland.

To some extent this united Ireland has been enabled macro-political developments – most importantly the removal of the hard security border in the wake of the 1998 Good Friday Agreement. And there have been some formal cross-border cooperation in the health and energy sectors. But, to a large extent, this united Ireland has occurred in spite of macro-political developments: people have just got on with their lives. People want to see Bruce Springsteen playing in Dublin so they cross the border; they want cheaper booze in Tesco in Newry so they cross the border; they want to spend their summer holidays in Donegal so they cross the border. This ‘getting on with it’ is the default activity of most people where circumstances allow. Despite the Troubles, people still had to hold down jobs, get the kids to school and engage in elder care. The border was a massive inconvenience during the dark days of the Troubles, but many people ignored it as best they could. The same is true today.

Brexit has simultaneously complicated and clarified things. The complication comes from the fact that no one – and certainly not the British government – can tell the impact of the withdrawal from the European Union on everyday lives. The clarification comes – if it were ever needed – in making it clear that the vast majority of people in England know nothing about, and care even less about, Northern Ireland, Ireland and border life. Indeed, British Home Secretary Priti Patel’s comments on food shortages in Ireland in the event of a crash out Brexit make clear the extent to which a couldn’t care less attitude sits comfortably at the apex of government. In the face of such attitudes, and in the face of similar attitudes over the decades, people have just got on with living an all-Ireland life as best they can. This has accelerated in recent years as people have become richer, safer, more mobile, and gotten used to free movement across Europe. This united Ireland is here to stay – and very probably will become more entrenched – regardless of the ‘un-care’ from Downing Street.

*This notion of everyday politics lies at the heart of the Everyday Peace Indicators research programme (everydaypeaceindicators.org)

The projectisation of Peace and Conflict Studies

6 Dec

When I survey the field of Peace and Conflict Studies I see a lot of ‘project work’. By that I mean journal articles, books and other forms of dissemination that arise from funded projects. This work is often interesting, relevant and sheds light on issues and places that hitherto were neglected. While there is nothing intrinsically wrong with project work, I often feel that it lacks the concept and theory-building that really drives a field forward. It tends to report findings from fieldwork or evaluations and often concludes with policy recommendations. It tends to be (and maybe I say this because it is bleak mid-winter) a bit dull, samey and lack the big claims and arguments that seek to push debates and disciplines into new places.

Looking back, I can think of works that have been really influential to me in the study of Peace and Conflict*, and they tended to be works that arose from the authors sitting back and thinking. They were works that pushed boundaries – conceptually, theoretically and epistemologically. Certainly, these works were grounded in the real work of practice or fieldwork – but they had something else. They were making an argument, trying to break out of established ways of thinking, coining new terminology and typologies, and were making linkages with other disciplines. They were books written – from start to finish – without having to jump through hoops that a funder has demanded.

None of this is to be ungenerous to project work. Work grounded in funded projects is often of the highest standard and can make advances in terms of theory, concepts and methodology etc. But project work usually has to serve its ultimate master first – the funder of the project. And project funders – whether from the academic or policy worlds – are increasingly interested in impact. And this impact often has to be demonstrable, quick and easily translated into a vlog or visualisation. The danger is that the academic conducting the funded research has little time left over – after putting together the proposal, conducting the research, and reporting the findings – to sit back and reflect on the wider conceptual or theoretical avenues that follow the research. It takes a special kind of discipline to grind empirical findings, policy recommendations and wider lessons that contribute to our study of Peace and Conflict out of the same project. The political economy of academia means that many academics have to look for the next funded project just as the current one ends.

I should say – very clearly – that I have benefited in the past from work that has been funded by research councils and others. And I hope that I might benefit from their largess in the future. I am grateful for their support. It has enabled me to go places – intellectually and physically – that I otherwise would not have been able to go. Perhaps, most importantly, it has allowed me to work with people that I – ordinarily – would not have been in contact with. What I find very difficult to do, however, is to break out of the strictures of a project (for example its reporting requirements) and engage in the original thinking that I hope would contribute to shaping the discipline of Peace and Conflict Studies. There are a few donors out there who do encourage concept and theory-building and they are to be celebrated.

When I survey Peace and Conflict Studies I do think that it is a bit stuck at the moment. Apart from some interesting work on complexity theory (nod to Cedric de Coning and others) I do not see the blue skies thinking, original critiques, and concept-building that marked out the discipline 20 years ago. I find this odd because our concepts and vocabulary are clearly having difficulty grasping and explaining situations of chronic non-state violence in Mexico, or discourses of peace in a post-truth era, or the status of the liberal peace when the erstwhile champions of the liberal peace don’t even pretend to advocate liberal internationalism anymore. These big questions – and many more – seem unaddressed yet the ‘narrow gaze’ of project work abounds.

* Here I am thinking of work by John Paul Lederach, or Cynthia Enloe, or Mary Kaldor, or Oliver Richmond’s The Transformation of Peace (that kicked off the whole critique of the liberal peace), or Taiaiake Alfred’s Indigenous Manifesto ….

Looking for a dead horse

10 Sep

Gravestone

I had a couple of hours to kill a few weeks ago and took the opportunity to check out a legend that my mother had told me (or that I thought she had told me). What I remember being told is that the horse that King Billy (King William of Orange) rode at the 1690 Battle of the Boyne was buried in a cemetery in Co. Armagh (Northern Ireland) just to the east of the River Blackwater. King Billy is a divisive figure in Northern Ireland. The victor of the Battle of the Boyne, he is regarded as a key figure in Protestant supremacy – and is often depicted on a white horse. You could just see the tops of a few gravestones as you passed along the M1 motorway and I was always tempted to take time-out to check out the legend. Although the cemetery was visible from the motorway, it proved to be very inaccessible. I had tried to find a route to it a few years ago but gave up after a few wrong-turns.

So, a few weeks ago, I began with an internet search. The area is known as Church Hill – a good start in looking for a cemetery I thought – but I could find no record of a church or cemetery on the map. And the landed family from the area – and their minor stately home – are no more. In my tiny hire-car, I turned off the motorway at what I thought was the nearest junction but quickly reached a dead-end. I then followed my nose and drove a good five or six miles along very narrow country lanes. The trees, tall hedges, tight corners and narrow roads meant that I felt enclosed – watched upon but not able to see very much. At each turn I prayed that I wouldn’t meet another vehicle as the only way out of the two-car traffic jam would be a long reverse. Many of the houses along the roads displayed the Union Jack or Orange Order flags – signifiers that I was in Protestant/unionist/loyalist territory. Although I come from within ten miles of the area, I was unfamiliar with this particular locality. There was a real sense of besiegement in the area. The flags struck me as defensive rather than celebratory – a tenuous holding onto identity rather than a sign of confidence. The place was only a few miles from the site of the founding of the Orange Order in the late eighteenth century and I began to feel a weird sense of history – that I had somehow stepped back in time or – at least – was in a place where history was not very far away.

After a few dead-ends, embarrassed reverses out of people’s driveways, and consultations with a 1986 map, I spied a laneway that looked as though it was headed in the direction of the cemetery. So I drove up the lane until the car exhaust started to scrape on the broken concrete.

eerie lane

Oddly, up this unprepossessing laneway was a modern house with very large gates and a security system. The house looked unoccupied, so I parked at their gate and looked further up the lane. I could see some disused farm building and could hear the motorway and so decided to continue on foot. The farmland, in keeping with the tumble-down farm buildings, was not cultivated. I began to get a really spooky feeling. The farm-buildings turned out to be much more extensive than I originally thought. There were multiple low buildings, mostly roofless now, like an old barracks – although I can find no record of a military base in the area.

Disused (military)? building

Some of the buildings had sectarian graffiti and I began to feel very uneasy. What would I say if someone challenged me: ‘Er, I’m looking for King Billy’s horse’.

Sectarian graffiti

Then I spotted a clump of trees – some of them Lebanese Cedar – a tree that is often associated with cemeteries. So I waded through chest high weeds and grass to the trees. They were surrounded by barbed wire and nettles so I could only peer in – hoping to see a few gravestones or some evidence of a cemetery. I couldn’t see anything apart from woodland. I turned towards the car, thankful that I would be out of this place in a few minutes and then saw another few Lebanese Cedars in the distance. I walked towards them and there it was behind a stone wall – the cemetery!

The small cemetery contained about 20 visible headstones – virtually none of them legible. Occasionally I could make out dates, names and ages but for the most part, the stones were worn. There were a few rocks in the ground too – I took them to be grave markers for those who could not afford a carved headstone. I spent a good 15 minutes going from stone to stone and found the cemetery to be a peaceful place despite the spooky surroundings. So content that I had found the cemetery I walked back through the disused buildings, past the offensive graffiti and back to the car. I was mystified. Why is none of this on the map? What happened to the church that – presumably – Church Hill is named after? Why had this place freaked me out like few other places had?

Cemetery

Afterwards I googled just about everything I could think of to find out more information about where I had been. Then I found a news story from 1953 that mentioned a headstone to a horse that had been at the Battle of Waterloo. So I had misremembered what my mother had told me: Battle of Waterloo not Battle of the Boyne. The stone had been taken away over fifty years for safekeeping, but my afternoon jaunt had gotten me thinking about the frailty of my own memory, and also how others remember and forget. The area was layered with multiple histories – from the Tudor suppression of Irish warlords by building a fort at nearby Blackwatertown in 1575, to the Battle of the Diamond and the foundation of the Orange Order – 200 years later, and the insecurities that persist yet another two hundred years after that.