Within loyalism and the UVF, there are clearly people who are not

In the words of Martin McGuinness, a man forged in the fire of conflict and refined by the labor of peace, we hear a truth both sorrowful and enduring: “Within loyalism and the UVF, there are clearly people who are not just aggravated by the issue around flags or parades. They're aggravated by me and Sinn Féin being in government. They're opposed to the political institutions — there's an inability of a minority within loyalism to accept the concept of equality.” These words were spoken not as an accusation, but as a lament — the lament of one who has seen how deeply the wounds of history can run, and how hard it is for men to accept peace when they have lived too long in the shadow of war. In this saying lies the eternal struggle between progress and fear, between equality and the ghosts of division.

To understand the meaning of this quote, we must first remember that McGuinness was a man who once fought with weapons and later chose to fight with words. As a leader of Sinn Féin and a key architect of the Good Friday Agreement, he believed that peace could only be built upon justice and mutual respect. His words speak of the lingering pain of Northern Ireland’s Troubles, when Catholic nationalists and Protestant loyalists stood divided by blood, faith, and the question of identity. Yet even after the guns were silenced, the scars of inequality remained. What McGuinness describes is not mere political opposition — it is the deep, instinctive resistance of a people still haunted by the old belief that equality for one side must mean loss for the other.

The origin of this struggle lies in centuries of conflict — the long and tangled history between Ireland and Britain, between Unionism and Nationalism. For generations, Northern Ireland was a land divided not only by faith, but by power. Catholics were long excluded from governance, housing, and employment; Protestant loyalists, in turn, feared that any shift toward equality would threaten their heritage and security. McGuinness, once a commander in the Irish Republican Army and later Deputy First Minister of Northern Ireland, became a symbol of that change — a former enemy turned partner in government. His very presence in power was a challenge to old hierarchies. To some, it was a triumph of peace; to others, it was a wound reopened, a reminder that the old order had fallen.

The flags and parades that McGuinness mentions are not mere rituals of culture — they are symbols of belonging, of victory and loss. In loyalist communities, the flying of the Union Jack and the marching of Orange parades are acts of identity, born of pride but often shadowed by fear. When the balance of power shifts, when those who were once silenced now sit at the table of governance, these symbols take on new tension. Thus, McGuinness saw that what appeared to be anger over flags was, in truth, a struggle over equality itself — the difficulty of those accustomed to privilege accepting the equality of their former foes. It was not hatred of symbols, but fear of parity, that kept the fires of resentment alive.

History is filled with similar patterns. In the American South after the Civil War, when slavery was abolished, many could not bear to see their former slaves treated as equals; their anger turned to violence, their pride to prejudice. In South Africa, after apartheid fell, some resisted the notion that black and white could govern together. The same spirit moves through McGuinness’s observation — the timeless truth that when the oppressed rise, the privileged must either share their dignity or cling to their illusions. Those who cannot accept equality do not defend tradition; they defend the shadow of supremacy.

Yet McGuinness’s words are not words of despair — they are words of warning and hope. He knew that the peace he helped build was fragile, that it required constant tending. Equality, he taught, is not achieved in a single treaty; it must be renewed through daily courage and understanding. The minority within loyalism he spoke of were not enemies to be crushed, but souls still imprisoned by fear. His vision was not of victory, but of reconciliation — of a time when the people of Northern Ireland, Protestant and Catholic alike, could see that justice for one does not diminish the other, but strengthens both.

The lesson, then, is as ancient as it is urgent: true equality is the hardest peace to win. It demands that we unlearn old hatreds and surrender the comfort of superiority. It calls upon us to look beyond symbols and titles, to see in every person the reflection of our own humanity. Those who cannot accept equality are trapped in the past; those who embrace it become the builders of the future. And so, McGuinness’s words remain not just a commentary on Ireland, but a message to all nations — that peace without equality is a fragile illusion, and that equality without forgiveness is a dream unfulfilled.

Therefore, let his words echo through the generations: “No one can claim ownership of peace unless they honor equality.” Remember that every banner, every flag, every march of pride must serve not to divide, but to unite. For as long as one group fears another’s freedom, the work of reconciliation is not done. But when all stand together as equals before law, before conscience, and before God — then, and only then, will the wounds of history begin to heal.