“A nation is an imagined community.” – Benedict Anderson N OWADAYS, when you see an Irish flag hanging from a house, it evokes an uneasiness previously unimaginable. For so long, a tricolour poking out a bedroom window meant something good was happening.
Like a World Cup, or a St Patrick’s day parade or the visit of foreign dignitary. Anybody old enough to remember Italia ’90 will never forget the scenes of uncomplicated joy as people young and old poured on to the street to celebrate what felt like the coming of age of a country. Green, white, and gold.
A simple, beautiful totem of peace, intended to symbolise the inclusion of and the aspiration for unity between people of different traditions on this island. Pretty straightforward, really. We understand now more than ever that flags matter.
Especially to the downtrodden and the underdog. To the oppressed. They are an expression of solidarity and defiance.
Of identity. We are fast learning in this country that there was a sweet spot, however, for the positive power of the flag. A honeymoon period between when a nation is born, and when it reaches adulthood, during which the flag is viewed only through a positive prism.
A house in Bay Ridge in Brooklyn flying an Irish flag as a statement of origin and pride. Celtic Park, adorned with tricolours, a nod to tradition and legacy. Michael Carruth.
Katie Taylor. Padraig Harrington. Success, draped in a blanket of patriotism.
It was a good feeling, until it wasn’t. When .
