I was born in South Tyrol, a border region of Italy. It is a region with a special history. The German linguistic and cultural minority suffered terribly under the process of ‘Italianization’ and other policies in Fascist years. My mother speaks Italian; my father speaks German. I also went to a German school, and later to an Italian one. Maybe that’s why I like being in places where stark contrasts come together. But people also often say that those born near borders—much like people from islands—simply experience things a little differently sometimes. I’d like to think that my socialization has perhaps given me valuable perspectives and perceptions.
I remember my time in Belfast, where Protestants and Catholics back in the Civil War—known as ‘The Troubles’— planted bombs or waited for each other with knives drawn in the winding, dark alleys of the port city. I had a hard time getting accustomed to the atmosphere, it made me feel uncomfortable. The shops closed early in the evening, and the usually bustling Irish pubs were dead quiet. Unlike Berlin – a city that was also once divided into two parts, Belfast has so far not been quite able to recover from its past. While the former may, precisely because of its troubled history, has become a destination for celebration, art, or politics, the latter appears to be stuck in the past. There are no fancy techno clubs, and there still isn’t an economic upswing—a perfect recipe for reigniting old tensions, which Brexit hasn’t exactly helped. Yet, the legacy remains much the same: walls, clearly visible in both places, symbol of segregation, serving as a reminder, or perhaps as a harbinger of what the future might bring. Historic events usually cast a long shadow; it becomes part of how people understand themselves, and it becomes difficult to shake off.
I visited Belfast on vacation after completing my undergraduate degree, joining a tour led by a former member of the Irish Republican Army who guided us through places shaped by the legacy of conflict and personal memory. He mostly took us to grim places where people have been murdered, or where he himself had been on a mission, to deliver different stuff or so. While the memories of the violent past still haunt him to this day, there is a generational break. He shared that his kids do not care much about what happened back then. They are interested in making money for themselves. They don’t know about the past, and that makes him uneasy, and you can hear it in his voice. Where is the line between simply moving on and truly coming to terms with what has happened? Between letting it recede and holding onto it, so it does not fade nor return? Graffiti covers the facades along Shankill and Falls Road—the Protestant and Catholic bastions of Belfast. The concrete bears the murals like tattoos, each one recounting a story. Although ideologically rivalling, they were often the same at their core, commemorations of the fallen, expressions of solidarity. The ‘Peace Wall’ is still erect, but not as a symbol of peace, but as a reminder that it’s probably best not to get too close.
I love history and I love tours like his. Sometimes I wonder if I’m not teetering on the edge of ‘dark tourism’, given how much I seem to learn about the violent history of places. For me at least, this is tourism how I like to do it. I try to put myself in the town's shoes. But that, too, is ethically questionable. If it's true that the tour guide's children have moved on from that chapter, am I then needlessly conjuring up the dead? You're bound to make mistakes in how you approach people sometimes, especially if you’re dead curious. For my part, I’ve decided that there is a need for sensitiveness, empathy, and genuine care for the person we’re interacting with. Do not push boundaries.
In Belfast, I spoke to a bartender who showed me a rap group called Kneecap. They have attracted international attention with their music and later, their firm stance for Palestine. They define themselves as artists and language activists who draw attention to social inequality, the history of the Northern Ireland conflict, and the situation of the Irish-speaking community. From the critics’ perspective: They are accused of normalizing or glorifying Republican slogans. Controversy has arisen due to their use of symbols and references to the Irish Republican Army, as well as their provocative political statements. Through their music, they have once again succeeded in inspiring many young people to become politically active.
Ever since I was in Northern Ireland, I’ve been trying to stay up to date on developments there. Time and again, I see eye-catching headlines in the newspapers talking about the resurgence of the IRA or a revival of the conflict. Just recently, an extremely violent protest took place in the context of a knife attack. Cars and houses were set on fire, and the police were pelted with Molotov cocktails. It’s best not to wake a sleeping giant, but when it does happen, it happens with a bang.
This trip made me ask myself about how we engage with sites of violence as visitors, and how far curiosity should be balanced with sensitivity toward those for whom these histories remain deeply personal and still shape how they relate to the present. There is an uneasy tension between the desire to understand and the risk of intrusion, between learning and unintentionally reopening wounds that others may be trying to leave behind. Tourism, in this sense, is never neutral. It carries with it assumptions, expectations, and a certain power to frame narratives.
