UNTIL very recently, I’d only ever really had one nasty experience in Scotland because I’m Irish.

I moved to Scotland 25 years ago. It was a toss up whether to come here or go to London. I needed out of Ireland. I’m from the north, and I’d had my fill of the Troubles, had my fill of sectarianism and hatred, had my fill of reporting murders and bombings, had my fill of threats for doing my job from dangerous men who didn’t like what I’d written. I was getting married, I wanted children but I’d no intention of raising them in Northern Ireland. They should be free, happy and safe.

My father is Protestant and my mother Catholic, so I’d been spared indoctrination. I’m also an atheist. When it comes to sectarian hate in Ulster, I’ve no dog in the fight. I always considered myself a bewildered observer – which may account for the profession I chose. Journalism allowed me to unravel my confusion and work out why so many in my homeland hated each other enough to kill.

I chose Glasgow over London because it felt like an authentic city – real and honest. On the day I moved into my new home in Glasgow, I took a break from shifting boxes and ventured out to explore. I found a local pub – a spit and sawdust kind of place which I’m not going to name because it’s changed considerably over the years. I ordered a pint and moments after I opened my mouth, a voice from down the bar said: “Why don’t you f**k off back home.”

My stomach sank. Not because the mouthpiece scared me – if you’ve dealt with the IRA and UVF you’ve met harder men than some drunk eejit at a bar – but because I’d come to Scotland to escape this casual hatred and bigotry. Part of me thought, ‘why didn’t you move to that big anonymous London where nobody gives a damn where you’re from’.

Happily – fortunately – that was more or less the last overtly, antagonistically anti-Irish behaviour I encountered. Until recently, that is. Sure there’s been a few – and I really mean only a few – daft jokes from daft but well-meaning workmates about Paddies and such, but there was no malice behind those comments, and asking someone if they’d like it if I started in with wisecracks about Jocks is always a good way to stop that particularly direction of travel.

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However, over the last year or so, I’ve noticed a change. For nearly 25 years my Irishness – and my Ulsterness – was pretty trivial here. It had about as much relevance as St Patrick’s Day in Boston: all greening and no meaning.

Today, though, that’s not the case. Recently, my Irishness and my Ulsterness are picked up and used as something of a weapon by both sides of the political divide in Scotland – by hardline nationalists and hardline unionists.

To hardline unionists, my Irishness makes me suspicious. To hardline nationalists, my Ulsterness makes me suspicious.

My own political positions draw their fire. I support independence. However, I’m also a fierce critic of nationalism and exceptionalism of any stripe – both Scottish and British in this context. At times I’ve backed the SNP, at times I’ve laid into the SNP. If this confuses anyone, there’s two decades of my journalism in The Herald archives which will explain.

But as Walt Whitman said, there are multitudes inside each of us, no human conforms to expectations. An independence supporter can also be a vocal critic of the extremes of Scottish nationalism – just as a committed unionist can denounce the extremes of British nationalism.

However, that acceptance of nuance seems to be withering as our politics toxifies. When I critique the prospectus for independence (sadly lacking at the moment) or report news which hardline nationalists find uncomfortable, I now find the fact I’m from Ulster brought into play. The implication is clear: Ulster means Protestant and Protestant means loyalist and loyalist means anti-independence.

So, the line is this: how can someone from Ulster really believe in independence? I must be working to undermine independence. I’ve even been called an MI5 agent – which would definitely make some of the folk I know in MI5 have a chuckle, given I’m the last person they’d want in their ranks.

On the other hand, when I advocate for independence or report stories which make hardline unionists uncomfortable (are you seeing a pattern now?), my Irishness is brought into play. Again, the implication is clear. Here’s an Irishman supporting independence. So the thinking is this: well, of course he would, he’s a wicked Irish republican (as an aside, isn’t everyone with an Irish passport a republican given Ireland is a republic?).

I’ve even been called a Sinn Fein propagandist (see the pattern getting really obvious now) – which would make folk I know in Sinn Fein laugh given, again, I’m the last person they’d want around.

The most obvious, horrible face of anti-Irishness in Scotland is events like those recently in Glasgow where some Rangers supporters sang the Famine Song marching through the city. It was appalling for all Irish folk here. We were being told to go home – by our own neighbours. Think how that would make you feel as a Scot if you lived in England, Wales or Ireland. You’d feel second class at best, hated at worst.

But away from the headlines, this Irishman from Ulster – and I can’t disguise who I am because you hear it in my voice every time I open my mouth and I’d rather not speak than lose my accent – is now experiencing a myriad little micro wounds which let him know he’s different and at times not welcome.

What irks badly is that so many Scots deflect this problem – it’s a west coast thing, they say, just Rangers and Celtic. It’s not. I love this country so here’s a hard truth said out of love: the way this nation conducts its politics is becoming ugly, take that from one who knows. The hatred directed at those from across the Irish Sea is the canary in the coalmine. Heed what we’re saying. Do better.

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