Words: Amy Lurring (she/her)
Between the lines of this hard-won peace, violence has not truly disappeared; it has shifted, seeped into the private realm, and found a home behind closed doors.
CW: domestic violence
More than a quarter-century has passed since the signing of the Good Friday Agreement, a new era of peace which promised an end to nearly 4 decades of sectarian bloodshed in Northern Ireland. On the surface, conflict no longer remained a fixture of everyday life. But between the lines of this hard-won peace, violence has not truly disappeared; it has shifted, seeped into the private realm, and found a home behind closed doors.
Back in October last year, a young mother, Mary Ward, was found dead in her South Belfast home. Her death not only marked an unspeakable tragedy for her family, friends, and community, but symbolised a disturbing phenomenon that had begun to creep across the country. She had been the 4th woman to be killed in a span of only 6 weeks, and the 25th
woman to have been violently killed in Northern Ireland since January 2020. With the exception of 1 case, all of these women were killed by men. In at least 20 of the cases, the suspects were well known to the victims.
These statistics paint a chilling picture: Northern Ireland is one of the most dangerous places in Europe to be a woman, with femicide rates surpassed only by Romania. And yet, this crisis remains a silent one. It is an uncomfortable truth: a shadow cast by the past that too many are still unwilling to confront.
When I moved away for university, my parents and I developed an inside joke about certain cultural quirks that we dubbed our “Northern Irelandisms”. Some were lighthearted, reminiscent of the moment in Derry Girls where Catholic and Protestant stereotypes were listed on the blackboard: Protestants supposedly keeping their toaster in their cupboards, Catholics having an undying love for JFK. But not all these cultural quirks were harmless. An element that has always unsettled me is how deeply normalised violence was in my parents’ everyday lives. Reciting stories from her youth, mum would nonchalantly recall being searched by soldiers before entering department stores on a day out shopping. Or how my dad, as a young electrician, was warned to vary his route home if he took jobs in certain prisons, in case his movements were being tracked. These weren’t extraordinary events – they were routine. Violence, or the constant threat of it, was woven into the fabric of life during The Troubles.
That normalisation didn’t simply vanish after the peace process. Instead, it became embedded into how our society processes harm, shaping a dangerous culture of silence and acceptance. Domestic abuse, much like the violence of the past, is often met with quiet endurance, rather than open confrontation. Many victims feel unable to report abuse due to stigma, fear, or the ingrained belief that such suffering is a private matter; reflected in the fact that domestic abuse is the least reported crime in Northern Ireland. This culture of silence grants perpetrators impunity, leaving victims isolated and unsupported. Northern Ireland may have moved on from its most visible conflicts, but the legacy of violence lingers between what is said and what remains unspoken.
When confronted with this growing crisis, feeling overwhelmed isn’t just understandable: it’s expected. But while we must acknowledge the gravity of the situation, we can’t allow it to paralyse us. Instead, we must demand better and work toward real change. In conversation with SDLP MLA Cara Hunter, she asserts that we must endure and stay positive. She acknowledged that while domestic violence legislation has improved in recent years, it’s far from enough. She believes that the ‘long-lasting impact of trauma’ and persistent sectarian divisions in government often undermine progress on non-partisan issues like domestic violence. However, the issue isn’t just for Stormont to address. We must tackle it collectively as a society. And what’s one of the most powerful tools we have? Education.
Hunter maintains that true, lasting change starts at the root, by teaching children from an early age about respect, equality, and healthy relationships. She defined it as ‘radical unlearning’: breaking down the ingrained attitudes that have allowed violence and misogyny to fester for generations. If we raise boys to see women as equals from the start, we lay the foundation for a safer, more just society. When reproductive health, menstruation, and consent remain taboo, harmful myths pollute policies, attitudes, and behaviours. Consequently, women’s needs are sidelined. Hunter believes that if we removed this gendered barrier and included boys in these conversations, an understanding of the lived experiences of women would foster greater empathy. This is the solution to a divided and toxic society.
At the end of the day, education isn’t just a tool: it’s a necessity. If we want to break the cycle of domestic violence and femicide, we need to rethink what we teach (or fail to teach) young people. Change doesn’t happen overnight: it starts in the classroom. And if we get this right, respect and equality won’t just be aspirations: they’ll be the norm.
https://www.health-ni.gov.uk/news/domestic-and-sexual-abuse-strategy-launched-0
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/cp8memlgdrgo
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-northern-ireland-49357887
