Well, everybody.
The Irish have finally entered the fray.
Not that anyone should be celebrating riots. Nobody with a functioning conscience watches a man nearly lose his head on a Belfast street and thinks that’s entertainment. The attack was horrifying. By all accounts, a man is lucky to be alive after what witnesses described as an attempted beheading. The videos are difficult to watch. The victim remains hospitalized. The migrant suspect has been charged with attempted murder.
But if you’ve spent any time paying attention to Ireland, one thought inevitably creeps into your mind; at least it certainly does mine.
What took them so long?
Because if there is one people on earth who are famous for having short fuses, long memories, and absolutely no interest in suffering quietly forever, it is the Irish.
I can say that. My maiden name is Murphy. My father was a first-generation American. I’ve attended enough Irish gatherings to know that “spirited discussion” can become a contact sport with astonishing speed.
The Irish are a people who turned funerals into parties. A people who made poetry out of misery.
A people who could sing a ballad about death, heartbreak, whiskey, bad decisions, and divine intervention all in the same verse and somehow make it funny.
The Irish don’t merely endure history. They wrestle it. Usually after three pints.
For centuries, they have endured conquest, famine, poverty, occupation, political violence, religious division, and enough hardship to make lesser peoples curl into a ball and quit.
The Great Famine alone scattered millions across the globe. Entire families boarded ships with little more than hope and a prayer. They arrived in America and discovered that life wasn’t exactly rolling out a red carpet for them either. Signs reading “No Irish Need Apply” weren’t myths. Irish immigrants dug canals, built railroads, hauled stone, laid foundations, and worked some of the hardest jobs in the country. Alongside Italians, Scots, and countless other immigrant groups, they helped build the physical bones of America. Their reward was often poverty, discrimination, and tenements packed tighter than a Dublin pub on St. Patrick’s Day.
And yet they survived. They always survive. That may be the defining Irish trait. Not optimism.
Not luck (ah, remember Murphy’s law?). Defiance.
The Irish possess a remarkable ability to look catastrophe squarely in the face and respond with some variation of: “Well, this is terrible. Whose round is it?”
That doesn’t mean they are passive. Far from it. Hospitality and fury coexist comfortably in the Irish soul. An Irishman will invite you into his home, feed you, tell you stories, introduce you to his family, and then throw a punch if he thinks you’ve insulted his mother. Sometimes in reverse order.
The point is that there comes a moment when every people reaches a limit. Not necessarily a political limit. Not even an economic limit. A cultural limit. A point where people begin looking around and asking whether the country they inherited is still recognizable.
That question is not unique to Ireland. It’s being asked all over the Western world.
What makes Ireland different is that the Irish have never been known for quietly bottling up their emotions. These are a people whose national pastime appears to be arguing passionately about things they mostly agree on.
The fact that Belfast remained relatively calm for as long as it did might be the real miracle
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Hellbound and Down 
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