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The Sinn Fein question: could the party stop a hard Brexit?

For a century Northern Ireland’s republican MPs have refused to take their seats at Westminster. But is it their destiny to thwart a hard Brexit and launch Jeremy Corbyn into government?

Imagine the scene. Theresa May’s government faces a critical Brexit vote – this spring, perhaps – on whether Britain should remain in a customs union; or in October on whatever divorce deal it has managed to negotiate with the European Union. With the support of the Democratic Unionist Party (DUP), and through ferocious pressure from Conservative whips on the party’s Europhile backbenchers, the government believes it has just enough votes to carry the day.

Sinn Fein then makes its dramatic move. It announces that for this vote, and this vote only, it is abandoning its century-old policy of abstentionism. After an emergency Ard Fheis (party conference) its seven MPs come to Westminster, swear allegiance to the Queen through gritted teeth, and ensure the government’s defeat.

In doing so Sinn Fein saves the island of Ireland from being divided by a new hard border, or even from Brexit itself.

Its popularity soars not only in the Republic, but also in Northern Ireland, which voted to remain in the EU in the 2016 referendum, and among millions of delighted British Remainers. It finally sheds its lingering pariah-hood – a legacy of its days as the political wing of the Provisional IRA.

There’s more. The government’s defeat triggers a general election. Jeremy Corbyn becomes prime minister. Corbyn, a long-time republican sympathiser who hosted two convicted IRA terrorists at the Palace of Westminster shortly after the 1984 Brighton bombing outrage, duly approves the referendum on Irish unity that is provided for by the 1998 Good Friday Agreement. The goal for which Irish republicanism has fought since the 1780s is within reach.

Or it might be, were it not for the fact that even now, despite the enormous threat that Brexit poses to the welfare of Britain and Ireland, Sinn Fein refuses steadfastly to drop the abstentionist policy to which it has adhered so rigidly since its first MP, Joseph McGuinness, was elected to Westminster in 1917. Sinn Fein’s Countess Constance Markievicz, the first woman elected to the House of Commons, refused to take her seat in 1918. So did the hunger striker Bobby Sands, elected from his death bed in the Maze prison in 1981, and countless others.

The party’s MPs have used their Westminster offices since 2002, and collectively claim several hundred thousands of pounds a year in parliamentary expenses. But Sinn Fein categorically insists that its MPs will never take the oath to “be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty the Queen” that is required before they can sit in the chamber or vote. To do so would recognise British sovereignty over the island of Ireland’s six northern counties.

Senior Sinn Fein sources acknowledge the temptation to “screw” the government and the DUP, but contend that the party campaigned on an abstentionist ticket at the last election and would never be trusted again if it reneged on that promise. They argue that Sinn Fein could not complain about British interference in Irish affairs if its MPs interfered in the British parliament. They insist that not a single party member is pressing for its MPs to take their seats at Westminster. “Sinn Fein’s approach could not be clearer – we do not take seats in the British parliament,” Chris Hazzard, the MP for South Down, told the New Statesman.

Old guard: the Sinn Fein MPs who proclaimed themselves the parliament of Ireland in Dublin, 1919​. Credit: Associated Newspapers/ Rex

There are other reasons for Sinn Fein’s intransigence. Abandoning abstentionism would undoubtedly split the party, some of whose members are not entirely happy about its renunciation of violence as part of the Good Friday Agreement. In 1926, and again in 1986, it split over the much less controversial issue of whether to abstain from the Irish parliament, the Dail Eireann, which republican purists refused to recognise because it was established after Ireland’s partition.

Privately, moreover, Sinn Fein’s leaders may calculate that their political purposes are best served by allowing the British government and its DUP enablers to press ahead with plans for a “hard Brexit”, thereby driving yet more nationalists into its camp. “Nationalists feel Brexit is a betrayal of everything the Good Friday Agreement stood for and all its compromises,” explained Steven McCaffery, editor of the Detail, a well-regarded Belfast political website. “A hard Brexit would accelerate constitutional change in the sense that the nationalist community is on the cusp of becoming the majority community here and would not live with that.” Unionism, he added, “is throwing its future on the roulette wheel”.

Sinn Fein nonetheless faces growing pressure from Dublin to reconsider its abstentionist policy, given the grave threat that Brexit poses to the Irish Republic. Leo Varadkar, the taoiseach and Fine Gael leader, has called on Sinn Fein to take its seats at Westminster in order to “make things better for Ireland”.

Brendan Howlin, leader of the opposition Labour Party, insisted: “It is now time for Sinn Fein to step up to the plate and defend the interests of the island of Ireland.” Micheál Martin, Fianna Fáil’s leader, has argued that it is “totally illogical for Sinn Fein to say they can stay out of Westminster given that Brexit is the single greatest issue facing our generation”.

The arguments in favour of Sinn Fein using its votes in the Commons have seldom, if ever, been so compelling. Consider the maths: through its £1bn bung to secure the DUP’s support, Theresa May’s government has nominally 326 votes in the Commons, giving it a majority of 13. Add a few Labour Brexiteers to the government’s tally, but subtract rather more Tory rebels, and Sinn Fein’s seven MPs could find themselves in a position to ensure the government’s defeat on Brexit. As an unnamed cabinet minister admitted to the Times: “I keep thinking:  ‘If Sinn Fein take their seats, we really are stuffed.’”

Were it to seize that opportunity, Sinn Fein would be pilloried by some of its supporters. But it would earn the gratitude of an Irish Republic worried desperately about the political and economic consequences of Brexit; of the 56 per cent of people in Northern Ireland – Catholic and Protestant – who voted Remain and want to maintain an open border; and of millions across England, Scotland and Wales who are appalled by Brexit’s likely damage to Britain’s financial health and international stature.

Sinn Fein is already well on its way to becoming a respectable, mainstream party, with new leaders in Dublin and Belfast – Mary Lou McDonald and Michelle O’Neill – who have none of the IRA baggage of Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness. On 2 March, in a headline that would have been inconceivable in a British paper ten or 20 years ago, a Guardian opinion piece proclaimed: “Come to parliament, Sinn Fein, as saviours of Ireland – and Britain”.

The converse is also true, however. If a hard border is reimposed, if Brexit proceeds, Sinn Fein would blame the DUP, but it would itself be vulnerable to the charge of having allowed this to happen; of failing to fight for the best interests of Ireland – north and south – in the forum that matters most: the House of Commons.


Since the Social Democratic and Labour Party (SDLP) lost its remaining three seats in last June’s general election, Northern Ireland has found itself in a dire predicament – especially given the potentially enormous impact Brexit could have on its future. Sinn Fein’s abstentionism means that for the first time in half a century, nationalists have no voice whatsoever at Westminster, and that a province which so unequivocally rejected Brexit is represented there by ten DUP MPs who are all committed Brexiteers. The solitary Northern Ireland Remainer in parliament is Lady Sylvia Hermon, the independent unionist MP for North Down.

To make matters worse, Northern Ireland’s devolved government has been suspended for the past 14 months over an unrelated dispute between Sinn Fein and the DUP, meaning that the province’s nationalists and Remainers have been unable to fight their corner at Stormont, either. The DUP, by contrast, enjoys something not far short of a veto over the British government’s policy.

McCaffery sees minimal chance of Sinn Fein’s MPs abandoning abstentionism. “I can’t see any situation right now where that’s going to happen,” he said. “If it ever did happen it would require a really particular set of circumstances at a moment where it was clear their intervention was absolutely vital and would have huge political benefits for the party.”


Marie Coleman, a senior lecturer in modern Irish history at Queen’s University Belfast, agrees: “Most commentators and the electorate in Britain would say: ‘It’s obvious. They could make or break a government.’ But that fails to appreciate the extent of their ideological commitment, and the whole basis of Sinn Fein as an Irish republican party.”

These experts are almost certainly right, but then the story of the peace process over the past quarter-century has been that of ancient taboos being shattered one by one, of previously unthinkable developments coming to pass. Who would have thought that Sinn Fein, after 30 years of republican violence, would accept the Good Friday Agreement’s stipulation that Irish unity can only happen with the consent of a majority of the people of Northern Ireland? Or that Sinn Fein would share power with Ian Paisley’s DUP at Stormont, the great white edifice overlooking east Belfast that was for decades a symbol of Protestant domination? Or that McGuinness, a former IRA commander, would meet the Queen, head of the state against which he and his colleagues once waged such a bloody war? Or that Adams would meet Prince Charles, whose great-uncle, Lord Mountbatten, was assassinated by the IRA?

All those events occurred before the advent of Brexit – an issue so potent it has upended traditional party allegiances, created the strangest bedfellows, and made it foolish entirely to rule out any eventuality. l

This article first appeared in the 08 March 2018 issue of the New Statesman, The new cold war

An artist's version of the Reichstag fire, which Hitler blamed on the communists. CREDIT: DEZAIN UNKIE/ ALAMY
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The art of the big lie: the history of fake news

From the Reichstag fire to Stalin’s show trials, the craft of disinformation is nothing new.

We live, we’re told, in a post-truth era. The internet has hyped up postmodern relativism, and created a kind of gullible cynicism – “nothing is true, and who cares anyway?” But the thing that exploits this mindset is what the Russians call dezinformatsiya. Disinformation – strategic deceit – isn’t new, of course. It has played a part in the battle that has raged between mass democracy and its enemies since at least the First World War.

Letting ordinary people pick governments depends on shared trust in information, and this is vulnerable to attack – not just by politicians who want to manipulate democracy, but by those on the extremes who want to destroy it. In 1924, the first Labour government faced an election. With four days to go, the Daily Mail published a secret letter in which the leading Bolshevik Grigory Zinoviev heralded the government’s treaties with the Soviets as a way to help recruit British workers for Leninism. Labour’s vote actually went up, but the Liberal share collapsed, and the Conservatives returned to power.

We still don’t know exactly who forged the “Zinoviev Letter”, even after exhaustive investigations of British and Soviet intelligence archives in the late 1990s by the then chief historian of the Foreign Office, Gill Bennett. She concluded that the most likely culprits were White Russian anti-Bolsheviks, outraged at Labour’s treaties with Moscow, probably abetted by sympathetic individuals in British intelligence. But whatever the precise provenance, the case demonstrates a principle that has been in use ever since: cultivate your lie from a germ of truth. Zinoviev and the Comintern were actively engaged in trying to stir revolution – in Germany, for example. Those who handled the letter on its journey from the forger’s desk to the front pages – MI6 officers, Foreign Office officials, Fleet Street editors – were all too ready to believe it, because it articulated their fear that mass democracy might open the door to Bolshevism.

Another phantom communist insurrection opened the way to a more ferocious use of disinformation against democracy. On the night of 27 February 1933, Germany’s new part-Nazi coalition was not yet secure in power when news started to hum around Berlin that the Reichstag was on fire. A lone left-wing Dutchman, Marinus van der Lubbe, was caught on the site and said he was solely responsible. But Hitler assumed it was a communist plot, and seized the opportunity to do what he wanted to do anyway: destroy them. The suppression of the communists was successful, but the claim it was based on rapidly collapsed. When the Comintern agent Gyorgy Dimitrov was tried for organising the fire, alongside fellow communists, he mocked the charges against him, which were dismissed for lack of evidence.

Because it involves venturing far from the truth, disinformation can slip from its authors’ control. The Nazis failed to pin blame on the communists – and then the communists pinned blame on the Nazis. Dimitrov’s comrade Willi Münzenberg swiftly organised propaganda suggesting that the fire was too convenient to be Nazi good luck. A “counter-trial” was convened in London; a volume called The Brown Book of the Reichstag Fire and Hitler Terror was rushed into print, mixing real accounts of Nazi persecution of communists – the germ of truth again – with dubious documentary evidence that they had started the fire. Unlike the Nazis’ disinformation, this version stuck, for decades.

Historians such as Richard Evans have argued that both stories about the fire were false, and it really was one man’s doing. But this case demonstrates another disinformation technique still at work today: hide your involvement behind others, as Münzenberg did with the British great and good who campaigned for the Reichstag prisoners. In the Cold War, the real source of disinformation was disguised with the help of front groups, journalistic “agents of influence”, and the trick of planting a fake story in an obscure foreign newspaper, then watching as the news agencies picked it up. (Today, you just wait for retweets.)

In power, the Nazis made much use of a fictitious plot that did, abominably, have traction: The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, a forged text first published in Russia in 1903, claimed to be a record of a secret Jewish conspiracy to take over the world – not least by means of its supposed control of everyone from bankers to revolutionaries. As Richard Evans observes, “If you subject people to a barrage of lies, in the end they’ll begin to think well maybe they’re not all true, but there must be something in it.” In Mein Kampf, Hitler argued that the “big lie” always carries credibility – an approach some see at work not only in the Nazis’ constant promotion of the Protocols but in the pretence that their Kristallnacht pogrom in 1938 was spontaneous. (It is ironic that Hitler coined the “big lie” as part of an attack on the Jews’ supposed talent for falsehood.) Today, the daring of the big lie retains its force: even if no one believes it, it makes smaller untruths less objectionable in comparison. It stuns opponents into silence.

Unlike the Nazis, the Bolshevik leaders were shaped by decades as hunted revolutionaries, dodging the Tsarist secret police, who themselves had had a hand in the confection of the Protocols. They occupied the paranoid world of life underground, governed by deceit and counter-deceit, where any friend could be an informer. By the time they finally won power, disinformation was the Bolsheviks’ natural response to the enemies they saw everywhere. And that instinct endures in Russia even now.

In a competitive field, perhaps the show trial is the Soviet exercise in upending the truth that is most instructive today. These sinister theatricals involved the defendants “confessing” their crimes with great
sincerity and detail, even if the charges were ludicrous. By 1936, Stalin felt emboldened to drag his most senior rivals through this process – starting with Grigory Zinoviev.

The show trial is disinformation at its cruellest: coercing someone falsely to condemn themselves to death, in so convincing a way that the world’s press writes it up as truth. One technique involved was perfected by the main prosecutor, Andrey Vyshinsky, who bombarded the defendants with insults such as “scum”, “mad dogs” and “excrement”. Besides intimidating the victim, this helped to distract attention from the absurdity of the charges. Barrages of invective on Twitter are still useful for smearing and silencing enemies.


The show trials were effective partly because they deftly reversed the truth. To conspire to destroy the defendants, Stalin accused them of conspiring to destroy him. He imposed impossible targets on straining Soviet factories; when accidents followed, the managers were forced to confess to “sabotage”. Like Hitler, Stalin made a point of saying the opposite of what he did. In 1936, the first year of the Great Terror, he had a rather liberal new Soviet constitution published. Many in the West chose to believe it. As with the Nazis’ “big lie”, shameless audacity is a disinformation strategy in itself. It must have been hard to accept that any regime could compel such convincing false confessions, or fake an entire constitution.

No one has quite attempted that scale of deceit in the post-truth era, but reversing the truth remains a potent trick. Just think of how Donald Trump countered the accusation that he was spreading “fake news” by making the term his own – turning the charge on his accusers, and even claiming he’d coined it.

Post-truth describes a new abandonment of the very idea of objective truth. But George Orwell was already concerned that this concept was under attack in 1946, helped along by the complacency of dictatorship-friendly Western intellectuals. “What is new in totalitarianism,” he warned in his essay “The Prevention of Literature”, “is that its doctrines are not only unchallengeable but also unstable. They have to be accepted on pain of damnation, but on the other hand they are always liable to be altered on a moment’s notice.”

A few years later, the political theorist Hannah Arendt argued that Nazis and Stalinists, each immersed in their grand conspiratorial fictions, had already reached this point in the 1930s – and that they had exploited a similar sense of alienation and confusion in ordinary people. As she wrote in her 1951 book, The Origins of Totalitarianism: “In an ever-changing, incomprehensible world the masses had reached the point where they would, at the same time, believe everything and nothing, think that everything was possible and that nothing was true.” There is a reason that sales of Arendt’s masterwork – and Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four – have spiked since November 2016.

During the Cold War, as the CIA got in on the act, disinformation became less dramatic, more surreptitious. But show trials and forced confessions continued. During the Korean War, the Chinese and North Koreans induced a series of captured US airmen to confess to dropping bacteriological weapons on North Korea. One lamented that he could barely face his family after what he’d done. The pilots were brought before an International Scientific Commission, led by the eminent Cambridge scientist Joseph Needham, which investigated the charges. A documentary film, Oppose Bacteriological Warfare, was made, showing the pilots confessing and Needham’s Commission peering at spiders in the snow. But the story was fake.

The germ warfare hoax was a brilliant exercise in turning democracy’s expectations against it. Scientists’ judgements, campaigning documentary, impassioned confession – if you couldn’t believe all that, what could you believe? For the genius of disinformation is that even exposure doesn’t disable it. All it really has to do is sow doubt and confusion. The story was finally shown to be fraudulent in 1998, through documents transcribed from Soviet archives. The transcripts were authenticated by the historian Kathryn Weathersby, an expert on the archives. But as Dr Weathersby laments, “People come back and say ‘Well, yeah, but, you know, they could have done it, it could have happened.’”

There’s an insidious problem here: the same language is used to express blanket cynicism as empirical scepticism. As Arendt argued, gullibility and cynicism can become one. If opponents of democracy can destroy the very idea of shared, trusted information, they can hope to destabilise democracy itself.

But there is a glimmer of hope here too. The fusion of cynicism and gullibility can also afflict the practitioners of disinformation. The most effective lie involves some self-deception. So the show trial victims seem to have internalised the accusations against them, at least for a while, but so did their tormentors. As the historian Robert Service has written, “Stalin frequently lied to the world when he was simultaneously lying to himself.”

Democracy might be vulnerable because of its reliance on the idea of shared truth – but authoritarianism has a way of undermining itself by getting lost in its own fictions. Disinformation is not only a danger to its targets. 

Phil Tinline’s documentary “Disinformation: A User’s Guide” will be broadcast on BBC Radio 4 at 8pm, 17 March

This article first appeared in the 08 March 2018 issue of the New Statesman, The new cold war