Bonfire of the Fragile Masculinities: What Are We Really Burning?

Bonfire of the Vanities wasn’t meant to be a manual. But here we are—towering structures, drenched in ego, draped in hate. In NI, is this what we’re competing with? A fragile masculinity so loud it needs to set fire to things to feel in charge.

Every July, Northern Ireland lights up quite literally. Towering structures built from pallets climb ever higher into the summer sky, decked in flags, banners, and always, the likenesses of politicians or migrants, someone, somewhere, has decided are a threat. These bonfires, often presented as cultural traditions or community celebrations, are defended with the same tired phrases every year: “It’s just cultural expression,” “You don’t understand.”

“It’s about identity.”
But scratch the surface of this seasonal ritual and you’ll find it’s not pride or history that’s fuelling the flames, it’s insecurity, masked as bravado, and it’s loud.

The truth is, many of these bonfires aren’t about cultural celebration; they’re about power. Or more accurately, the performance of power. They’re a flaming display of a very particular kind of masculinity. The kind that doesn’t feel powerful unless it’s destroying something. The kind that mistakes domination for respect. The kind that stacks pallets into the sky, not just because it can, but because it has to, to feel seen.

Tom Wolfe’s novel Bonfire of the Vanities wasn’t about Northern Ireland, but the metaphor couldn’t be more fitting. His story exposed the vanity, ego, and moral emptiness of those clinging to status in a decaying system. Replace Manhattan with parts of Belfast or Derry, and the symbolism is eerily similar. Structures built not just to burn, but to dominate, the taller, the better, as if height proves legitimacy. As if volume equals value. As if fire equals freedom. But it doesn’t.

What we’re witnessing isn’t strength. It’s a public display of brittle masculinity, reinforced by years of political failure, unresolved trauma, and generational neglect. When communities feel voiceless, spectacle becomes the only form of power left. And when boys are raised where emotion is weakness and anger is strength, they aren’t taught how to process pain — they’re taught how to perform it.

So every July, instead of healing, we burn.

Let’s be clear: there is a difference between cultural tradition and cultural aggression. Between remembrance and revenge. Between pride and provocation.
The bonfires we see, particularly those covered in election posters, foreign flags, or symbols of perceived opposition, are not about community pride. They are threats made visible. They are messages in flames. They say: This is our space, and you are not welcome here.
And here’s a truth that too many are afraid to say out loud: this is also a class issue. The more working-class the area, the easier it is to find one of these hate pyres. That’s no accident, it’s a strategy. Many of these estates remain under the influence of paramilitary groups. Control is disguised as culture. Intimidation as tradition.

Politicians in these areas depend on keeping people angry, disconnected, and convinced that their hardship is the fault of Catholics getting everything, or, more recently, migrants. It’s the same siege mentality, just with a new scapegoat. Stirring up resentment serves a purpose: it distracts people from the real reasons their lives are difficult, lack of housing, poor schools, no jobs, no hope.

Because if people start asking real questions, they might also start asking who’s been in charge all these years.
It’s important to say not all bonfires are like this. There are genuinely community-led events that focus on remembrance and shared identity. But those are not the ones that dominate headlines. The towering infernos built on hate and intimidation grab the attention — and the funding.

And what does that tell the young men watching?
That intimidation equals influence. That rage is power. That you earn respect not by helping your community, but by threatening someone else’s.
We also need to talk about gender. Bonfire culture, especially at the more extreme end, is overwhelmingly male-dominated. It rewards posturing over peace. It promotes dominance over dialogue. It says: if you want respect, you’d better be feared.
It’s playground politics with petrol.
And it doesn’t end in July. The impact continues year-round. Women are often silenced or shut out. Young people who want something different are mocked or labelled traitors. Elected officials who speak out are accused of disrespecting tradition, even when the only thing being disrespected is the rule of law.
This isn’t normal. And it certainly isn’t harmless.

Let’s talk money. These bonfires don’t appear out of thin air. They are resourced, supported, and protected, often by the very councils and departments that claim to stand for equality. The clean-up costs are massive. The emergency services are overwhelmed. Public land is damaged and stolen year after year. And still, the political courage to intervene fizzles out like smoke in the wind.

Why?
Because no one wants to poke the bear.
Because the bear can cause chaos, and our police force isn’t funded enough to deal with it. So instead, we step back. We allow it. We pretend it’s not really that bad.
But what does that say to the child who sees their neighbour’s country’s flag go up in flames?

What does it say to the migrant who is placed in a boat and quite literally torched while others look on? What does it say to the mother whose son is being drawn into this toxic culture, and who has nowhere to turn?
It says: don’t question it. Don’t challenge it. Just be grateful it wasn’t you this time.
That’s not culture. That’s control.

And like all forms of toxic masculinity, it’s fragile. That’s why it shouts so loud. That’s why it builds so high. That’s why it burns so bright — for one night — before collapsing into ash.
Maybe it’s time to stop competing with male egos and start dismantling the myths that feed them. Culture should be a mirror, not a weapon. It should reflect who we are, and who we want to be, not who we’re trying to frighten.

Let’s stop mistaking volume for value, hate for heritage, and fire for freedom.
Because if your identity depends on burning someone else’s, it’s not culture.
It’s insecurity with a matchstick. And that’s a bonfire not worth building.

FiFi G x