In the Falklands War, Northerners took sides with fine predictability: Free The Malvinas on Falls Road walls, the "Argies" damned in East Belfast. But as war in Iraq drew closer views polarised neatly only on the surface: with the first missiles flying, public opinion looks set to swing much as elsewhere, writes Fionnuala O'Connor
A new local television programme recently had Ulster Unionist MP Ken Maginnis in presenter mode outside Westminster, every inch the old soldier striding towards the camera to explain the confusion in Parliament while declaring his own support for George Bush. "How about this for a turnaround," he joked later, "the Shinners peaceniks and me for war."
It would have been a surprise if the line-up had been otherwise. At the level of political figures, it was to be expected that unionists would support Bush and Blair, nationalists and republicans ask questions or voice opposition - though not out loud in the White House on St Patrick's Day. Politicians take up time-honoured positions on violence in the wider world for a number of reasons: from the unionist instinct to support the British line abroad and insistence that the IRA be classed with international terrorists, to nationalist distaste for British patriotic fervour and tendency to support underdogs, however defined. Clare Short's family roots in South Armagh make her the British minister with the strongest blood connection to nationalism - the undignified collapse of her rebellion brought local embarrassment.
Argument about the war's legitimacy and the likely scale of hostilities, uncertainty about the aftermath inside Iraq and fear of worldwide consequences have all helped to produce a mood in the wider population that defies easy classification. There is the bonus factor of a developing new consciousness: of a post-war Northern Ireland. Even many who doubt the peace process or think little about it feel free now to behave in ways they would never have considered 10 years ago.
For all the flaws of an unfinished peace, only the most diehard of those who oppose any settlement short of victory for one side or another insist that this is still war, not peace, that violence is undiminished.
One of the most striking indications was last month's anti-war march through the centre of Belfast. There was early spring sunshine and a decent turnout, some people clearly surprised to be there.
A ramshackle steering group of trade unionists, socialist groups and peace activists worked hard to present a united front, devoid of nationalist/unionist overtones. At the cost perhaps of super-efficiency, with a false start that sent a fifth of the crowd in the wrong direction but then cheerily turned them around, the organisers brought people new to protests or convinced their protesting days were done ambling rather than marching along Belfast's main shopping street. Shoppers watched, for the most part, incuriously. If they could not identify the colour of the event, at least it did not look sectional.
As the speeches began, those on the march had more time to note who else was there. Reunions of old friends, exchanges of phone numbers, rueful admission that for many middle age had come and gone since their last shared protest, gave way to spotting well-known faces in off-duty mode: Gerry Adams in the crowd rather than on the platform, Alliance, Women's Coalition and Progressive Unionist figures, the Brighton bomber Patrick Magee backed into a shop doorway, anxious eyes alert to those around him. By far the liveliest and best speech came from one-time People's Democracy agitator and lifetime orator Eamon McCann.
He had them laughing from the outset with "Belfast says No", but some listeners near the platform heard him with the amazed delight of discovery. "Never knew McCann did speeches," said a thirty-something, aware of the witty tongue only from television panels and radio talks. Older, sadder voices admitted to each other that they had ducked public protest for most of the past 30 years, rather than be caught up in conflict or boxed into loyalties they no longer cherished.
The airwaves and letters columns have reinforced a fragile sense of global and civic conscience struggling to be born. On sedate suburban streets, where votes would be scarce for the SDLP and scarcer still for Sinn Féin, there are "Don't Attack Iraq" posters in sitting-room windows. Harsh counter-notes break through: the people enraged by Bush and Blair's determination to face terrorism internationally while Blair "makes concession after concession to the IRA"; the people who fume on radio that they certainly will not be cheering on the gallant British troops. "They killed my father and my brother and ruined my family," one caller to Radio Ulster's Talkback programme said.
A population emerging from its own small conflict is still wary of making common cause. But dread for the wider world has at least this better side: that people have been pushed to think outside their boxes.