Anonymous Belfast Writer Explores Trauma of the Troubles in Debut Collection
In a rare interview conducted over email, critically acclaimed anonymous author Liadan Ní Chuinn has spoken about the enduring trauma and memory of the Northern Ireland Troubles conflict. The Belfast writer, whose debut collection Every One Still Here is shortlisted for the Sunday Times Young Writer of the Year Award, argues that remembering historical violence constitutes an act of resistance.
The Power of Anonymity in Modern Literature
Pen names have existed for centuries, with notable examples including George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans) and the Brontë sisters, who published as Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell. These authors used pseudonyms to ensure their work was judged on merit rather than gender, and to protect their private lives from public scrutiny.
In contemporary times, anonymity has become increasingly rare in a literary landscape where personal visibility is often capitalized upon for promotional purposes. The controversial unmasking of Italian author Elena Ferrante in 2016 highlighted the persistent intrusion into writers' privacy. Now, a decade later, Liadan Ní Chuinn emerges as a new anonymous voice gaining critical recognition.
Unearthing Painful Histories Through Fiction
All that is publicly known about Ní Chuinn is their Belfast origins and specialization in short stories. Their collection Every One Still Here, originally published by The Stinging Fly in Dublin before being picked up by Granta in the United Kingdom, delves deeply into the psychological aftermath of the Troubles.
The opening story 'We All Go' contains a powerful line that resonates throughout the collection: "It would be simpler to ignore when the British Army ran our children over, shot them dead." Ní Chuinn's work refuses this simplicity, instead examining the painful, festering wounds of the conflict under what might be described as forensic literary scrutiny.
Language as a Tool for Resistance and Recognition
Ní Chuinn emphasizes the crucial role of language in processing trauma, stating: "Language holds a huge amount here. It's something that we're always aware of growing up, isn't it? Who we are, how we describe ourselves."
The writer explains that specific terminology carries profound significance in Northern Ireland, adding: "I know exactly which words can be used to describe my relationship to this place, and exactly which cannot. Some of it might seem insignificant to somebody not from here [Belfast] but it is not, can never be."
Throughout the collection, characters struggle to verbalize their experiences of violence, creating what Ní Chuinn describes as a "deafening silence" around discussing historical horrors. This tension between speech and silence forms a central theme in their work.
Remembering as an Act of Political Resistance
Ní Chuinn directly challenges calls to forget the past, arguing: "There is a strong feeling that to forget would be a 'progressive' thing to do. There is this sentiment: What good does it do to keep talking about this?"
The writer connects this to broader political contexts, stating: "Whether we are talking about the actions of the British state in Kenya, or in Palestine, or in Iraq, we have to ask ourselves: Who does forgetting serve? In this context, I think that remembering must be seen as an act of resistance."
In this framework, Every One Still Here becomes a literary work of resistance, documenting experiences that official histories might prefer to overlook.
Intergenerational Trauma and Identity Formation
The collection explores how trauma transmits across generations, with characters grappling with unanswered questions about their family histories. Ní Chuinn observes: "Younger generations have been raised by traumatised people. Growing up is a process of learning about yourself, about others, about seeing yourself in your family and them in you. So how do you separate their personality from their trauma, from their learnt behaviours, from their self-protection?"
This intergenerational dynamic creates complex identity questions that permeate the stories, particularly as characters attempt to understand themselves through their family's unspoken histories.
A Litany of Loss in 'Daisy Hill'
The final story 'Daisy Hill' concludes with a section titled 'The Truth,' which spans nine pages listing names of those killed during the conflict alongside their causes of death. This includes civilians shot in the face, boys shot while fleeing British soldiers, and victims of the Falls Road Curfew.
Ní Chuinn acknowledges that these details "could stretch over volumes," highlighting the scale of loss that continues to affect Northern Irish society. When asked where this pain should go and how the region can move forward, the writer responds: "I want us to look at what happened. I want us to actually look. I want us to be honest with ourselves... So many communities here are living with this denial of justice, alongside grinding poverty, the brutality of Loyalist paramilitaries and a suicide epidemic. I wonder in what sense we could say that the violence is over."
Ní Chuinn concludes with a powerful statement about historical reckoning: "I don't think that we can know who we are until we know what was done to us. I think that things can only change for the better once we do."
The anonymous Belfast writer's debut collection stands as both a literary achievement and a political statement, insisting that remembering historical violence remains essential for both personal healing and societal progress in Northern Ireland.
