Let me be very clear – I condemn racism, intimidation and violence in all its forms.
And here’s a warning…this is a mammoth piece, I make no apologies for it being the type of article you have to read in its entirety to understand.
Let’s be honest, with a headline like the above – the people I want to read it, and who need to read it, may be unlikely to engage, and that’s a grave pity.
The bottom line is, there is no justification for what we’ve witnessed in Ballymena and beyond in these recent days. The scenes of aggressive masked men marching through streets, of women and children forced from their homes, of hatred being dressed up as protection…these are not the actions of defenders, they are the acts of cowards and criminals, and they have no place in any civilised society, let alone one still bearing the scars of a decades-long conflict.
I’ve said this publicly, repeatedly even…on social media and in face to face conversations behind closed doors. And, I’ve taken a hit for it. There are people who’ve accused me of being blind to local fears, of “taking sides,” of not understanding what “real people” are worried about. But here’s the truth: acknowledging the failures in how this situation was handled does not mean excusing the violence that followed.
This isn’t an exercise in whataboutery. It’s not a call to let anyone off the hook. Quite the opposite. This is about accountability – not just the kind that plays out in courtrooms or press conferences. I’m talking about the quieter, more dangerous kind of accountability that gets lost in the noise. The responsibility our institutions, agencies, and political figures have to prevent this sort of escalation before it ever reaches boiling point.
What I want to do here is unpack how we got to a place where racist misinformation wasn’t just believed, it was weaponised. How a communications vacuum became a breeding ground for tribal rage. How the same broken patterns of siloed governance, reactive politics, and cultural deflection let things spiral out of control. And most importantly, what that tells us – not just about this riot, but about Northern Ireland’s ongoing leadership vacuum.
If you’re reading this looking for a finger to point, you won’t find it here. What you will find is an uncomfortable, and necessary exploration of how we, as a society, continue to fail when the stakes are at their highest.
The Timeline: What Actually Happened?
To understand how we ended up with smashed windows, petrol bombs, and women and children fleeing their homes – we need to go back to the facts. Not the Facebook threads. Not the rumours. The facts (as best I can extract them).
On 7 June, two 14‑year‑old boys were arrested in connection with an alleged sexual assault on a teenage girl in Ballymena. Their court appearance followed two days later, on 9 June, and was conducted via videolink with a Romanian interpreter — a detail that triggered outrage from a wooden‑cross vigil into full‑blown unrest.
What began as concern over a serious crime quickly devolved into racially motivated violence: petrol bombs, fireworks, and bricks were thrown. Homes, vehicles, and businesses, including those belonging to Romanian and Filipino families, were burned or defaced. Over 40 police officers were injured across three consecutive nights of unrest.
From Fear to Targeted Violence
By 10 June, the disorder had spread to Larne. The leisure centre hosting displaced families was attacked and set alight. Women and children were evacuated mid-classes and activities after bricks smashed through windows according to Reuters eyewitness reports. Let me say that again…women and children scared, traumatised and in fear were evacuated from their local leisure centre.
The Information Void
The unrest had one consistent feature: a complete absence of clear, coordinated information from public authorities. This vacuum was swiftly filled by speculative posts, inflammatory rumours, and unverified claims. These posts were framed around fears of “outsiders” being sheltered at leisure centres and hotels and that this was likely to be “permanent”.
That fear wasn’t confined to social media. Some local news outlets cited anonymous “council sources” and reported that the Larne Leisure Centre had been confirmed by the council as hosting these families, without any official statement to verify or contextualise it. That coverage amplified uncertainty and anxiety, acting as fuel for online speculation.
Into that void stepped Communities Minister MLA Gordon Lyons. In a post intended to clarify that the Larne centre was only “temporarily” used as an emergency shelter, he shared confirmation from the council. But it came hours after the violence had already begun and rather than diffuse tension, unintentionally and badly advised it seemed to confirm it, giving legitimacy to what had so far been only rumour.
The Communications Breakdown
From the moment the arrests were made on 7 June, through to the heart of the violence there was no unified statement. No holding message from PSNI, council, housing agencies, or Ministers explaining who was being protected, why, and for how long. Nothing.
And because no one spoke, social media did…anonymously, inaccurately, aggressively and never in the best interest of public safety.
The consequences of this misinformation weren’t abstract, they were violent and immediate. In Larne, the leisure centre reportedly sustained damage, including broken windows and forced entry, as tensions flared. Emergency services were called to the scene, and residents reported groups of masked men loitering near local facilities. In both Larne and Ballymena, asylum seekers, many of them women and children, were swiftly relocated for their safety.
These weren’t just policy responses, they were acts of protection in the face of credible threats. But they also served to confirm public fears without explanation, leaving communities with unanswered questions and vulnerable families uprooted once again. The damage wasn’t just physical – it is psychological, cultural, and reputational, impacting both those targeted and the communities forced to reckon with the fallout.
The Real Question
This wasn’t just a breakdown in messaging, it’s a breakdown in leadership culture. We didn’t need perfect answers in real time. We needed someone to speak first, to show clarity, to signal humanity and to calm the storm.
Instead, what should have been a focused, targeted decision around housing and policing became a disturbance that revisited all our worst fears and reminded us how our divided systems still fail at the first real test.
When Violence Fails the Victim – The Twisted Irony of This Crisis
Not enough people are saying it like it is…what happened in Ballymena, and subsequently Larne and other areas, wasn’t about protecting women and girls. It was about scapegoating. It was about hijacking one girl’s pain and trauma and twisting it into a vehicle for racial hatred and mob violence.
In 2024, nearly 4,000 sexual offences were recorded in Northern Ireland. That includes rape, and other serious crimes against women and girls. The public response? Silence. No riots. No marches. No walls of men rallying to defend victims.
The overwhelming majority of those crimes will have been committed by white men and, in Northern Ireland, most of those men will be local. The PSNI doesn’t publish data on the ethnicity of accused individuals, but we can make reasoned inferences based on population and justice figures. Northern Ireland is over 96% white, and our prison population reflects that demographic. Research from King’s College London and others confirms the statistical likelihood: in places with overwhelmingly white populations, sexual violence is overwhelmingly perpetrated by local white men.
Yet here we are…with gangs of men lighting fires, throwing bricks, and threatening displaced women and children, under the banner of “the protection of women and children”. It’s not just ironic. It’s grotesque.
This isn’t justice. It’s theatre.
If you are part of a mob hounding women and children out of temporary accommodation, you’re not defending women and children, you’re harming them. You’re retraumatising the original victim. Proving, once again, that in Northern Ireland, rage is easier to mobilise than responsibility and accountability.
There is a name for what we’re seeing. Researchers call it performative outrage. It’s a hallmark of tribal, fear-driven societies. When people feel disempowered, they seek simple enemies. When institutions fail to act fast or communicate clearly, those enemies are quickly supplied by rumour, social media, and historical bias.
Studies from UN Women and others show that vigilante responses to sexual violence rarely lead to justice. In fact, they almost always make things worse – shifting attention away from the victim, creating new harm, and leaving the underlying systems untouched. That’s what we’re seeing now.
The people shouting loudest about protecting women never showed up to campaign for reform of the criminal justice system. They didn’t call for more specialist rape crisis services. They didn’t fight for better housing for survivors, faster prosecutions, or proper trauma support. They showed up for a fight. For violence. The irony!
And, as a result, the original survivor’s name has been dragged into a national spectacle of violence, chaos and division. Her trauma weaponised. Her voice lost in a storm of noise.
If we really want to protect women and girls, we need to stop letting mobs define the narrative. We need to stop acting like rage equals righteousness. And we need to start putting our energy into fixing what’s broken, not creating more wreckage.
Broken Justice System
Let’s not forget the Gillen Review. Published by Justice Gillen in 2019 following a high-profile rape trial that shook public confidence, it laid bare just how broken our justice system is when it comes to sexual offences. With more than 250 recommendations, it called for trauma-informed courts, greater protections for victims, restrictions on invasive cross-examinations, tighter controls on social media commentary, and urgent cultural change which included education around consent and sexual ethics.
The Gillen Review was a damning indictment of a system that retraumatises the very people it’s supposed to protect. And yet, despite the scale and severity of the findings, there were no riots. No bricks thrown. No mobs taking to the streets in defence of the thousands of women and girls failed year after year. The silence then, compared to the rage now, speaks volumes.
Despite the urgency of its recommendations, progress since the 2019 Gillen Review has been slow. Fewer than 35% of Gillen’s 253 recommendations have been fully implemented, and crucial reforms, like pre‑recorded cross‑examinations, remain under trial or conditional approval.
Where are the protests to speed up this process to protect our women and girls?
According to Public Prosecution Service (PPS) data, while almost 4,000 sexual offences were reported in Northern Ireland in 2024 alone, only a small proportion ever made it to court and fewer still resulted in a conviction. Over the last five years, the number of sexual offence cases prosecuted annually has ranged from around 250 to 400.
Although conviction rates have improved, from below 60% in earlier years to just over 70% in 2023–24, the vast majority of cases never even reach trial. That means hundreds, if not thousands, of victims each year are left without justice. And yet, despite this grim and persistent failure of the system to protect women and girls, we’ve never seen bricks thrown or mobs gather in outrage.
When the Gillen Review exposed these realities with clarity and force, there were no riots…just silence.
Why?
Because it isn’t the women and girls these people want to “protect”, they are just always on the lookout for a vehicle for violence.
The Real Problem Is That Northern Ireland Still Works in Silos
Once again we’re witnessing the consequences of fractured leadership and siloed governance. And before anyone says this is just how things work here – that’s exactly the problem.
The disjointed, fragmented, cautious-to-the-point-of-paralysis culture within our public institutions has created a crisis multiplier. It doesn’t just slow down response, it actively deepens harm.
In moments like this, we need more than statements of condemnation. We need coordination, leadership, urgency, and clarity. But what we got, as we’ve seen time and time again, was silence, followed by contradiction, followed by political self-preservation.
Northern Ireland’s entire governance structure is built on division. That’s not rhetoric – it’s structural reality. Departments work in silos. Agencies don’t share information quickly. Public officials hesitate to act without political cover. And in crises, that fragmentation turns dangerous. Rather than making strategic, values-led decisions in the public interest, too many people in positions of power start calculating political fallout. They wait. They observe. They pass the buck.
And while they do that, rumours escalate, people panic, and opportunists fill the void.
Let’s not pretend this is new. In post-conflict societies like ours, academic research confirms that inter-agency dysfunction is the norm, not the exception. When leadership is defined by identity politics, not policy coherence, there is no shared incentive to respond collectively. Each actor retreats to their own remit, waiting to see who will blink first. And in a vacuum of aligned messaging, disinformation spreads like wildfire.
This is why we still don’t have a cross-agency rapid response mechanism for crisis communications. Why no one seems to take responsibility for a unified narrative. Why one department’s “clarification” ends up undermining another’s silence. And why, in the case of Ballymena, no one seemed willing to say clearly, at the right time, that women and children were being targeted by racists – not protected by them.
What’s worse is how this dysfunction leaks into the public discourse. Instead of hearing a unified voice from those meant to lead, we get a patchwork of party-political jabs, reactive soundbites, and tribal point-scoring. Public trust erodes. People pick a side. And the vast majority of those who want safety, truth, and accountability are left to piece together their own understanding from chaos.
When personal beliefs, cultural affiliations, and political strategy all get entangled in how our leaders respond to crisis, nuance disappears. That’s not just a communications failure, it’s a moral one.
Studies on polarisation tell us that when people can’t separate ideology from identity, they retreat into silence, even when they disagree with what’s unfolding. This “spiral of silence” breeds apathy in the majority and emboldens the extremes – that’s what we’re seeing here. The more broken the system looks, the more fringe actors convince themselves that only they are “doing something”.
This isn’t about blaming any one party or person. It’s about calling time on a system that is so mired in defensiveness, devolution gridlock, and institutional caution that it has become incapable of protecting the very people it exists to serve.
We can’t keep using history as an excuse for political inertia. Post-conflict doesn’t have to mean pre-action. We need to stop managing risk based on who’ll shout the loudest and start governing based on what actually keeps people safe. And that means building the structures – the cross-agency teams, the rapid comms protocols, the shared leadership cultures – the things that make joined-up action possible.
Until then, the next crisis won’t just expose our leadership vacuum, it will deepen it further again. And the public will continue to pay the price with our most vulnerable and disenfranchised the ones who hurt the most.
Free Speech Without Intimidation – Where the Line Gets Crossed
I believe in free speech. I believe in the right to question those in power, to hold institutions to account, to challenge decisions that impact our communities. That’s not just a political right – it’s a democratic necessity. And I understand that when people feel unheard, or when decisions are made without transparency, frustration will follow.
But there’s a line and, in my opinion, what happened in Ballymena crossed it.
It is entirely possible to raise concerns and make a change in society without smashing windows or threatening women and children. You can ask questions without petrol bombs. You can be worried about your community without becoming part of a violent mob.
Let’s stop pretending condemning violence somehow means endorsing every decision made by government or statutory bodies. It doesn’t.
This false idea that you’re either “with us or against us” is part of what’s fuelling the chaos. We’ve reached a point in Northern Ireland where if you criticise a mob, you’re accused of silencing dissent. If you express concern about public policy, you risk being lumped in with bigots. It’s a culture that shuts down the very conversations we need to be having and it’s dangerous.
Freedom of expression, as enshrined in Article 10 of the European Convention on Human Rights, is not unlimited. It comes with responsibilities. It doesn’t extend to threats, harassment, incitement, or violence. And yet what we saw on the streets in Ballymena was not protest, it was intimidation. The kind that drives families into hiding. The kind that retraumatises victims. The kind that leaves scars on communities long after the headlines fade.
We need to reclaim the space for difficult conversations without the threat of violence hanging over them. That starts by refusing to conflate genuine community concern with mob behaviour. It also requires those of us in public life, journalism, activism, and leadership to model what respectful dissent looks like and to call it out when it turns into something else.
The “Spiral of Silence” theory tells us that when people fear backlash or ostracisation for voicing their views, they go quiet. In a place like Northern Ireland, where lines are so often drawn around identity, that silence is amplified. People opt out of public discourse altogether, even when they disagree with what’s happening, because they fear being branded, targeted, or misunderstood.
That silence lets the loudest voices dominate. And when those voices are fuelled by rage, not reason, we lose the chance to fix the real issues.
So yes, speak up. Ask questions. Challenge decisions. But don’t do it by terrorising your neighbours. Don’t do it by turning survivors into pawns. And don’t mistake brutality for bravery. Because the minute we allow violence to speak louder than reasoned debate, we all lose.
The Cost of Silence And How Misinformation Gains Ground
When statutory agencies go quiet, social media fills the silence. And not with facts.
We’ve seen it time and again – pandemics, in floods and in moments of political chaos – but somehow the lesson never sticks: when institutions say nothing, misinformation steps in with a megaphone.
In the hours and days following the Ballymena unrest, public curiosity turned into speculation, and speculation turned into actual fire. While statutory bodies stayed silent, or released vague, reactive statements, social media platforms and local forums lit up with unchecked rumours.
I watched in real time as people shared unverified screenshots, half-truths, and sensationalised posts – from claims about the origins of asylum seekers to graphic accusations unlinked to any official source. Community groups were flooded with angry rhetoric and inflammatory language. By the time official statements were issued, the damage was already done. Narratives had taken hold, and people were acting not on facts, but on fear.
Let me be blunt. Misinformation doesn’t spread because “everyone’s gullible”. It spreads because the people who are supposed to be informing us are either silent or too slow to act.
We’ve known for years, from WHO outbreak protocols to UK Resilience Communication models, that the first message in a crisis sets the tone. FEMA’s Joint Information Centre model is clear: during high-risk events, messaging must be aligned, pre-planned, and delivered within the “golden hour”. In other words, the most critical moment to speak is immediately. Not two days later. Not after the backlash. Not once a Minister has “clarified”. Immediately.
This didn’t happen in Ballymena. There was no unified voice. No coordinated factsheet. No holding statement to set boundaries or expectations. No clear source to distinguish what was real from what was rumour. And so the online space did what it always does in a vacuum – it spiralled.
The irony? We have the tools. Crisis communication isn’t new. We’ve had gold-silver-bronze command structures for decades. We have emergency messaging maps and multi-agency coordination plans sitting on shelves in government offices right now. But we didn’t use them. Either they weren’t activated, or no one felt it was their job to lead. And that hesitation, that systemic reluctance to act swiftly and together, became the perfect breeding ground for chaos.
And yes, people have a right to ask questions. They have a right to demand transparency. But if we want people to trust institutions, then those institutions have to show up with the truth before the lies take root.
This isn’t just a communications problem, it’s a public safety risk. When communities feel abandoned or misled, they become more vulnerable to polarisation, radicalisation, and reactive violence. And that makes the next crisis even harder to manage.
We can fix this. We can learn from it. But only if we stop treating communication as an afterthought and start treating it like the frontline defence it is. That means embedding crisis-ready messaging teams across departments. It means empowering spokespeople with pre-authorised frameworks. And it means stepping in early, not once the bricks have been thrown, but before anyone even thinks to pick one up.
How Do We Fix It? Build a Fit-for-Purpose Crisis Comms Strategy in NI
This was preventable. And it will happen again unless we change how we respond.
There’s a brutal honesty we need to face – Ballymena wasn’t a one-off. It was the result of a predictable failure…one we’ve seen before, and will see again unless we get serious about building a proper crisis communications strategy in Northern Ireland.
Because while the violence was carried out by individuals, the conditions that allowed it to ignite were systemic. A leadership vacuum. A messaging void. A total absence of cross-agency coordination. And here’s the truth – it didn’t have to be that way.
Across the UK and internationally, crisis-ready frameworks already exist. The Gold-Silver-Bronze model, used widely in emergency response, is designed to define roles, responsibilities, and escalation pathways. The NHS and local authorities have joint guidance on public messaging during health emergencies. The Emergency Planning College has detailed research on how to map stakeholder responses, align channels, and manage public sentiment. These aren’t hypothetical. They’re proven tools.
So why aren’t we using them?
The way I see it is we need to stop acting like each crisis is a surprise. Northern Ireland is a high-context, high-risk communication environment – culturally complex, historically traumatised, and deeply divided. We should be operating on the assumption that when something goes wrong, coordinated chaos will follow unless we have a plan.
That plan needs to start with four critical pieces:
1. Rapid risk assessment within the first 1–3 hours Not 24 hours later. Not after the Minister has cleared their diary. We need a predefined protocol that triggers an immediate, cross-agency risk analysis – political, reputational, operational – with clear thresholds for escalation.
2. Joint public holding statements. These must be pre-agreed and pre-authorised. When a crisis hits, we don’t need every agency drafting from scratch. We need a unified message – factual, calm, coordinated – delivered through trusted and verified channels. One voice, not ten.
3. Message mapping for all stakeholders. That includes statutory bodies, political leaders, community reps, press officers, and digital comms teams. Everyone should know the key facts, what not to say, and how their message fits into the broader narrative. This isn’t spin – it’s strategy. It’s about minimising harm, reducing confusion, and setting the record straight.
4. Named accountable leads per incident. Someone must be in charge of messaging. Not a committee. Not a rota. Not the person “on call”. A trained, experienced lead who has the authority to coordinate across departments and speak with clarity on behalf of all.
But it’s not just about structure – it’s about culture. Right now, we’re still operating in silos, with each agency waiting to see who blinks first. That’s not leadership. That’s fear of fallout. And it’s dangerous.
What we need is a dedicated, cross-agency crisis comms taskforce – built for the unique challenges of this place. A team that understands the political, cultural, and emotional nuance of Northern Ireland. That can navigate sensitivity without sacrificing speed. That doesn’t wait for chaos to escalate before finding its voice.
We’ve got the blueprints. We’ve got the expertise. What we lack is the political will and operational urgency to pull it together.
This isn’t about pointing fingers – it’s about drawing a line. If we want to prevent the next Ballymena, we need to stop pretending crisis communication is just a PR issue. It’s a public safety issue. And right now, we’re leaving people unprotected.
A Wake-Up Call for All of Us
If your silence or tribal loyalty lets violence take root, you’re part of the problem.
Simple as that.
We can’t afford to sit back and pretend this was just another isolated incident. What happened in Ballymena wasn’t just about one post, one rumour, one night of disorder, it was about the culture that allowed it all to unfold. A culture where silence is safer than leadership, where tribal loyalty trumps truth, and where outrage is weaponised while real victims get pushed to the margins.
If you’re a politician who stayed quiet because the optics were tricky – you’re part of the problem and you failed your constituents.
If you’re a public servant who waited to see which way the wind was blowing before acting – you’re part of the problem and you failed the people you are supposed to serve.
If you’re someone who shrugs this off as “not my issue” because it didn’t happen in your postcode – you’re part of the problem.
And I say that not to blame, but to wake us all up. Because if we don’t start treating these moments as symptoms of a deeper rot, we will keep failing…not just in communication, but in basic human decency and public responsibility.
We need courage, compassion, and competence in public life, not one of these, but all three. We need leaders who understand that condemning violence isn’t the same as shutting down debate, and that protecting women and children means more than lip service in a press release.
And we need structure. Not wishful thinking or ad hoc damage control – real, operational frameworks. That means a national crisis comms strategy built on:
- A risk register that triggers response protocols within the first 1–3 hours of a high-impact threat
- A messaging map that ensures consistency, clarity, and accountability across every agency and spokesperson
- A pre-authorised alignment model, so statutory bodies don’t waste precious time waiting for political cover before they speak
- A central crisis messaging cell, capable of issuing joint statements fast enough to fill the vacuum before misinformation spreads
This isn’t pie-in-the-sky theory. These are globally recognised best practices – from FEMA’s Joint Information System to the UK’s Gold-Silver-Bronze model and the WHO’s golden hour principles. We already know what works. The only question left is whether we care enough to implement it.
Ballymena should be a line in the sand. Not just a headline, not just a hashtag, but a moment that forces every one of us, especially those in power, to ask what kind of leadership we’re modelling.
Because I’ll tell you this – if your voice stays silent when violence is carried out in your name, if your loyalty lies more with identity than with integrity, if you only speak when it’s safe – then you’re not neutral. You’re complicit.
We’re all responsible for the culture we create. It’s time we started acting like it.
I’m here, I’m ready to help, are you?