The smell of smoke still clings to the terraces of east Belfast. It is a scent of disbelief. After a night of unrest that saw homes set alight, the UK government has deployed troops to Northern Ireland for the first time in years.
But for the residents who watched their neighbours’ houses burn, the military presence is not reassurance. It is a scar. ‘We will never get over this,’ one elderly woman told me, her voice trembling as she clutched a carrier bag of salvaged photographs.
The arson attacks, which left families homeless, have shattered the fragile peace of this working class community. On the streets, young men in hoodies gather in knots, their faces a mix of anger and exhaustion. The deployment of soldiers is a desperate measure, a sign that political solutions have failed.
But ask anyone here what they truly need, and they do not mention troop numbers or curfews. They speak of jobs, of hope, of a future not defined by sectarian lines. The cultural shift is palpable.
In the pubs and corner shops, talk has turned from past grievances to a new, bitter resentment: that their homes, their safety, have become pawns in a larger game. The human cost is etched in every boarded window and every whispered prayer. Belfast has burned before, but this time the flames feel different.
They are fuelled not by old hatreds but by a new despair. The troops will leave eventually. The question is what will remain.
