That's a feeling I'll never get over
In Belfast on a Tuesday night, fires lit by disorder consumed homes and scattered families into the dark — among them Ukrainian refugees, Indian nurses, and long-settled migrants who had built their lives in a city still learning to hold its own history. A knife attack provided the spark, but the flames that followed carried older, deeper fears: that belonging can be revoked, that difference can become a target, and that a community's hardest-won peace is never as permanent as it seems.
- Fires tore through residential streets in east Belfast and north Belfast, forcing families — including a two-month-old baby and a Ukrainian teenager escaping through her back door — to flee with almost nothing.
- Immigrant communities across Northern Ireland woke Wednesday to a sharper, colder fear: that the violence was not random, but directed at them because of where they came from.
- Healthcare workers from India and other countries, already filling critical gaps in the region's overstretched NHS, are now weighing whether to stay — some contacting senior colleagues in distress, others already packing to leave.
- Religious leaders who lived through the Troubles are sounding alarms, drawing explicit parallels between Tuesday night's targeting of Black and immigrant residents and the sectarian burnings of decades past.
- A community cleanup and an outpouring of local solidarity have begun, but the damage — to homes, to trust, and to the sense of safety that migrants had carefully built over years — cannot be quickly undone.
On Tuesday night in Belfast, fires consumed homes and families fled into the street carrying what they could. The disorder erupted after a knife attack in the north of the city, but it spread quickly, targeting properties and the people inside them — many of them immigrants who had lived in Northern Ireland for years, even decades.
Jamie Corrie had spent thirteen years on Lendrick Street in east Belfast. He watched a car belonging to his foreign national neighbors get set alight, and the fire spread to his own house before firefighters could stop it. Standing outside the charred remains the next morning, he was not angry at his neighbors — he was angry at the senselessness of it. "What does this resolve?" he asked. Next door, nineteen-year-old Yura, part of a Ukrainian family, escaped through the back of her home as flames reached her front door. Anselme Shima, also thirteen years in east Belfast, described the night as devastating and said he did not know how to protect his children.
The violence has shaken immigrant communities far beyond those directly displaced. Biji Jose, a senior nurse from India with twenty-three years in Northern Ireland, has been fielding frightened calls from junior colleagues uncertain whether they can safely walk the streets. She noted that immigrant healthcare workers are filling critical workforce gaps — yet some are now reconsidering whether to stay. One man from India, twenty-five years in the UK and four in Northern Ireland, left immediately. "It was like a war zone," he said. "Everything was burning." A Turkish barber shop in Ballyclare that had operated for twenty years was also targeted; its owners came in Wednesday morning to clean up the wreckage.
Religious leaders drew the sharpest conclusions. Pastor Jack McKee helped congregation members — people he had known for two decades — who were forced from their homes simply because they were Black. Rev Brian Anderson, who as a child watched Catholics burned out of his own street, described the echo as chilling. "Forty years later," he said, "people just living, wanting to contribute to our society — being burnt out of their houses because they were different."
The knife attack that ignited the unrest left its victim with serious injuries, including the loss of an eye. A thirty-year-old man originally from Sudan appeared in court charged with attempted murder. But the violence had long since outrun its stated cause, reaching into bedrooms where families were sleeping and forcing people to ask whether Belfast was still a place they could call home.
On Tuesday night in Belfast, fires consumed homes and families fled into the street with what they could carry. The violence erupted after a knife attack in the north of the city, but the disorder that followed spread across neighborhoods, targeting properties and the people inside them. By Wednesday morning, residents were standing in front of burned-out shells, trying to understand what had happened and what came next.
Jamie Corrie had lived on Lendrick Street in east Belfast for thirteen years. He watched a car belonging to his neighbors—foreign nationals, he said—get set alight. The fire spread to his house. By the time firefighters arrived, the building was already engulfed. Everything inside was destroyed. Standing outside the charred remains on Wednesday, Corrie spoke about the feeling of watching your home burn down, the kind of feeling he said he would never get over. He was angry, but not at the people who had set the fire. He was angry at what the violence was supposed to accomplish. "What does this resolve?" he asked. "What does this actually do? Burning cars out, wrecking your own community and now one of their own has just lost their home." He was grateful his children had not been inside.
Yura, nineteen, lived next door to Corrie. She is part of a Ukrainian family who fled their home as the disorder unfolded. Her neighbor's house caught fire. Flames reached her front door. She had to escape through the back, her dog with her, while neighbors tried to break into the burning house next door to rescue a dog trapped inside. She spent the night at a friend's place nearby. Anselme Shima, who had also lived in east Belfast for thirteen years, described the night as devastating and horrifying. He did not know how to protect his children.
The violence has created a deeper anxiety among immigrant communities in Belfast. Biji Jose, a senior nurse from India who has lived in Northern Ireland for twenty-three years, is worried that colleagues from her community will leave. Junior nurses have been contacting her, frightened about their safety, anxious about their families and their futures, uncertain whether they can walk the streets freely as they once did. Jose pointed out that healthcare workers from immigrant backgrounds are filling critical workforce shortages, easing waiting lists, providing the kind of care the region desperately needs. Yet after Tuesday night, some are reconsidering whether to stay. One man originally from India, who has lived in the UK for twenty-five years and in Northern Ireland for four, decided to leave immediately. He had not slept all night. "It was horrible," he said. "It was like a war zone. Everything was burning."
Ozer Soy-Suren co-owns a Turkish barber shop in Ballyclare, County Antrim, that has operated for twenty years. The shop was targeted during the disorder. Staff came in Wednesday morning to clean up the damage. Soy-Suren said they had left early the night before to get home safely. The local community has been supportive, with people stopping by to check on the staff, but the targeting of the business has left him deeply saddened.
Religious leaders who worked to help people affected by the violence drew stark parallels to Belfast's sectarian past. Pastor Jack McKee assisted people on the Crumlin Road in north Belfast who had been forced out of their homes. Some were members of his church, people who had been part of the congregation for two decades. "They're good Christian people and they're getting put out just because they're black," he said. Rev Brian Anderson, who tried to speak to young people involved in the attacks in east Belfast, described a community out of control. He remembered his own childhood, when Catholics were burned out of the street where he lived because of their religion. "Forty years later, people just living, wanting to contribute to our society," he said, "because they were different, being burnt out of their houses and being removed. It was a chilling echo to the past."
The knife attack that sparked the initial unrest left a victim with serious injuries, including the loss of an eye. Hadi Alodid, a thirty-year-old originally from Sudan, appeared in court charged with attempted murder. But by then, the violence had spread far beyond the initial crime, reaching into neighborhoods where families were sleeping, destroying homes, and forcing people to decide whether Belfast was still a place they could call home.
Citas Notables
What does this resolve? What does this actually do? Burning cars out, wrecking your own community and now one of their own has just lost their home.— Jamie Corrie, resident who lost his home
Forty years later, people just living, wanting to contribute to our society... because they were different, being burnt out of their houses and being removed. It was a chilling echo to the past.— Rev Brian Anderson, reflecting on parallels to sectarian violence
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why did the violence spread so far from the initial attack? It seems like the disorder took on a life of its own.
The knife attack was the spark, but what followed was something different—it became about targeting people and properties based on who they were, where they came from. The fires weren't random. They were set deliberately, and they spread to homes of immigrant families.
So people were fleeing their own homes because of who their neighbors were?
Yes. Jamie Corrie lost his house because a car next to it was set on fire. Yura had to escape through the back door because flames were reaching her front entrance. They weren't the targets—but they were in the way, or they were nearby, and that was enough.
What strikes me is that people like Biji Jose and the man from India have been here for decades. They've built lives. Why would they leave now?
Because Tuesday night showed them something they hadn't felt before, or hadn't felt in a long time—that they weren't safe, that their presence was resented enough that people would burn homes to make a point. When you've spent twenty-three years somewhere and suddenly you're afraid to walk the street, you start asking whether it's worth staying.
The religious leaders seemed to see this as history repeating itself.
They did. Rev Anderson was struck by how the pattern was identical to sectarian violence from decades ago—people being forced out because of who they were. Except this time it wasn't about religion. It was about nationality, skin color, origin. The mechanism was the same. The fear was the same.