The Happy Lundys: ‘We represent everything hardliners fear about a shift from sectarianism’

I n a corner booth of a Belfast coffee shop, two bottle-green T-shirts emblazoned with The Lundy Club are laid on a table. Karen Sethuraman has just unwrapped them to show her two friends. Torrential rain pelts the windows of the Ormeau Road shop as the trio huddle to get a look at their new wares; printed around the logo is an outline of a map of Ireland. A Baptist minister who grew up in a loyalist stronghold in the east of the city, Sethuraman laughs in explaining how the T-shirts came about.

“A guy called Terry from west Belfast told me he’d created these for the Lundys a couple of days ago. I got them this morning,” she says. “Aren’t they brilliant?” Facing her is Linzi McLaren, a former Police Service of Northern Ireland (PSNI) officer, and Claire Mitchell, a writer. For the past year they have been part of a group of people from a Protestant background in the North who have publicly spoken about their interest in a “New Ireland”.

They have christened themselves The Happy Lundys. “There’s definitely a story about finding your tribe. Until we came together it was quite a lonely journey for us,” says Mitchell. Sethuraman admits she had to google “lundy” when the term was first directed at her a decade ago. “I remember looking it up and realising it was a traitor to your own people,” she says. “Some people joke about it, but we still live in unionist areas. It is the one word in a string of abuse we get just for being part of the Irish unity conversation.”

The Happy Lundys: Linzi McLaren, Karen Sethuraman and Claire Mitchell sent what became known as The Protestant Letter, with more than 1,500 signatures, to both the British and Irish governments. Photograph: Pacemaker Online threats – another member was told to “check under her car” by the Ulster Defence Association (UDA) – have been a constant. Being targeted has made them “very reluctant” to do media, says Mitchell quietly over her mug of tea.

The writer’s home address was published online; Sethuraman received “Boom RIP” threats by private message. Some members have moved house or installed security measures in their homes. But the fallout from the Drumcree dispute in Portadown led to a shift; they felt compelled to “do something”. On the Sunday in late September when the controversial Orange Order march was due to go down the nationalist Garvaghy Road for the first time in 28 years, the women decided they needed to meet residents opposed to it.

We found there were people really proud to be associated with us. There were Instagram stories on, ‘Why I signed The Protestant Letter’ — Claire Mitchell They abandoned a coffee morning and drove to the Co Armagh town. During our coverage of the story, The Irish Times accidentally bumped into the three women as they arrived. McLaren was too nervous to speak. Today, her demeanour is very different. “I think we represent everything that the hardliners fear.

They fear that ordinary, everyday Protestants are no longer buying into sectarianism or divided communities,” she says. A former member of the PSNI’s riot squad, McLaren stood just metres from the row of police Land Rovers facing thousands of protesters blocking the road on Sunday, September 27th. The Co Antrim woman served 18 years in the force before retiring due to work-related injuries in 2022. “My career was flashing before my eyes on the Garvaghy Road,” she says.

Five days into the stand-off, the group wrote an open letter calling on the Orange Order to “look at the bigger picture” and end the impasse “in the interests of our entire community”. The Happy Lundys: Claire Mitchell, Linzi McLaren and Karen Sethuraman say they have received both threats and support for their actions. Photograph: Pacemaker Their aim was to get 20 to 30 signatories from people in the Protestant community. More than 1,500 signed what became known as The Protestant Letter – they laugh at this in the coffee shop – within three days.

It was sent to the British and Irish governments. Orangemen and a member of a loyalist flute band were among the signatories (though they were not named publicly). Doctors, nurses, social workers, farmers, evangelical Christians, teachers, classroom assistants and lawyers added their names. It was a highly significant moment in the dispute. It “could not have happened 30 years ago”, remarked Garvaghy Road resident and community centre manager, Linda O’Neill, at the time.

McLaren read the letter on stage to 15,000 people on the road during a rally on day six of the standoff. Gerry Adams was in her eye line. “I’m standing there with him staring back and I’m thinking, ‘How surreal is my life,’” says McLaren, who is running as an SDLP candidate in next year’s Assembly election. The online abuse ratcheted up. But so too did the support, says Mitchell. “We found there were people really proud to be associated with us.

There were Instagram stories on, ‘Why I signed The Protestant Letter’.” They are still getting messages from people asking if they can add their name. [ New body to examine options for Irish unity, says Taoiseach Opens in new window ] “I’ve a lot of friends who said it was Protestants doing something good for once,” says Mitchell. “The way I put it is that there is a huge political shift happening beneath the surface and with the letter it became visible – for a few days.

“And then because of how we have to live underground, we went back.” As the women say goodbye, a bunch of keys fall out of Sethuraman’s hoodie pocket. ‘Grá’ is written on the keyring, along with a heart. McLaren laughs and produces her own keys. “I’m learning Irish – I’ve the same keyring,” she says. “We’re all about the grá these days.”