The Belfastization of London?

When I first visited Belfast years ago to study the civil war in Northern Ireland, I was struck not only by the physical scars of the conflict—the looming walls, the iron gates that locked neighborhoods in after dark, the murals glorifying martyrs and battles—but also by the foreign flags. Unionist, pro-British neighborhoods were adorned with blue-and-white Israeli flags, fluttering from lampposts, painted on curbs, and strung across narrow streets. Cross into Catholic, nationalist neighborhoods, and the roads were saturated with Palestinian red, white, black, and green. Two distant struggles, somehow mapped onto Belfast as if Ireland’s sectarian conflict demanded a Middle Eastern mirror.

That memory rushed back as I watched events unfold in London. The capital witnessed dueling demonstrations on a scale few could have imagined. On one side, right-wing demonstrators are shouting, “Unite the Kingdom” and hoisting Israeli flags as emblems of Western resolve and defiance against what they see as an Islamic invasion. On the other hand, a sea of pro-Palestinian marchers waving flags and chanting against the war in Gaza. London, like Belfast before it, had become a stage where the Israeli-Palestinian conflict was not merely observed from afar but imported, reenacted in its own streets.

Why do foreign flags become so deeply embedded in local identity politics? The answer begins with the overlooked ties between the IRA and the PLO. In the 1970s and 1980s, the Irish Republican Army and the Palestine Liberation Organization found common cause. Both cast themselves as national liberation movements resisting colonial powers—Britain in Ireland, Israel in Palestine. Both faced accusations of terrorism, wrestled with divisions between pragmatists and hardliners, and relied on clandestine networks of arms and funding.

This was more than symbolism. IRA members trained with Palestinian groups in Lebanon; weapons passed from PLO caches into Irish hands. For Irish republicans, the Palestinian struggle echoed their own: dispossession, occupation, and a centuries-long fight for sovereignty. For Palestinians, Ireland offered proof that colonial frontiers could be resisted. These affinities cemented themselves in the imagery of Belfast’s neighborhoods: Palestinians became a metaphor for Catholics hemmed in by walls and checkpoints; Israelis for Protestants defending their place in the United Kingdom.

Fast forward to London in 2025, and the symbolism persists, though the terrain is different. Britain’s largest city is not divided by walls and armored patrols. Instead, the Middle East conflict has been grafted onto the concept of political identity. To the left, solidarity with Palestinians is entwined with anti-colonialism, anti-racism, and opposition to injustice. To the right, Israel represents a besieged democracy, a bulwark against Islamist extremism, and a symbol of Western endurance.

Thus, today’s demonstrations were not about Israel and Palestine but about London itself—about how the city imagines its divisions, its loyalties, its future. Reports spoke of millions in the streets, though numbers remain disputed. Just as Belfast painted its curbstones in foreign colors, Londoners now march under the flags of distant nations. The “Belfastization” of London lies in this transference: adopting a faraway conflict to articulate domestic fractures.

One might ask why Israel in particular has become such a lightning rod. Why not Kashmir, Western Sahara, or the Kurds? Part of the answer lies in history: the creation of Israel in 1948 was tied to Britain’s imperial retreat. As the former mandatory power in Palestine, Britain left behind resentments that still echo in Arab memory. Another part is demography: Britain today is home to large Muslim and Jewish communities, each tied to the conflict. And finally, politics: Israel has become shorthand for global alignments—American hegemony, Western intervention—and Gaza has become ground zero, where tens of thousands of Muslims have been killed by Israel’s war machine.”

But something more visceral is at work. The Israeli and Palestinian flags have become moral Rorschach tests. To hoist one is to declare not only a position on the Middle East but a worldview: who you stand with, who you fear, what kind of society you envision. In Belfast, this logic hardened into segregation. In London, it has not reached that point, but the intensity of today’s marches suggests the symbolic battle is escalating.

Here, the British government cannot be ignored. Anti-Muslim and anti-immigration rhetoric from far-right groups has been amplified by the language of government leaders. Prime Minister Keir Starmer’s warning that the UK risks becoming an “island of strangers” unless immigration is tightly controlled echoed xenophobic tropes. Home Secretary Shabana Mahmood’s proposals to suspend visas from uncooperative states and move asylum seekers into former military barracks created an atmosphere in which far-right grievances felt validated. While the government does not organize such protests, its policies and statements help set the stage for them to occur.

Saturday’s demonstration, led by Tommy Robinson, drew on this narrative, explicitly targeting Muslim communities while cloaking itself in the language of “law, order, and national survival.” Counter-protests under the banner of anti-racism and immigrant solidarity underscored the contested moral terrain.

History does not repeat neatly. Belfast’s conflict was rooted in Britain’s colonial legacy in Ireland; London’s turmoil is tied to Britain’s imperial past and multiethnic present. But the flags tell a story of continuity. Conflicts travel. They embed themselves in new soil. In Belfast, Israeli and Palestinian flags marked the front lines of a sectarian struggle. In London, they mark the front lines of an ideological one.

The irony is that many Israelis and Palestinians are weary of these symbols. For them, flags have become banners under which too much blood has been spilled. Yet in London, they retain potency—as proxies for battles over immigration, identity, multiculturalism, and Britain’s place in the world. The Belfastization of London is not about guns and bombs; it is about symbols that risk hardening into something more enduring.

I cannot help but recall a mural I once saw in Belfast. On one wall, an IRA slogan proclaimed solidarity with Palestine; on the other side of town, a Loyalist mural declared solidarity with Israel. Each saw its predicament reflected in the Middle East. Today in London, it is not neighborhoods but political camps that hoist those flags, turning a foreign conflict into a mirror for Britain’s anxieties.

The convergence of Israeli and Palestinian flags in London’s dueling demonstrations is less about Gaza or Tel Aviv than about London itself. This “Belfastization” is not a prediction of violence but a warning: by reducing complex politics to symbolic gestures, flags risk becoming permanent fixtures in Britain’s divided landscape.

Once raised, flags refuse silence. They echo struggles both foreign and familiar. In London today, they reflect a society wrestling with identity, belonging, and power.

Please check out my new book, Op-Ed: Musings on War & Peace in the Middle East and Beyond.