For Sara, the Northern Irish nationalist had transcended political classification to character type. Although by local definition a nationalist aspired to a united Ireland achieved by peaceful means, Sara had met the Northern nationalist, in a temperamental sense, all over the world, and many samples of the species would mistake Michael Collins for a mixed drink. ...
A nationalist is a Moaning Minnie, a bellyacher. He’s hard done by; he’s been abused and deserves recompense. Yet no matter how many concessions you shovel him, they will never suffice, for all penance is paltry, any attempt at reparation an affront. Like a bunny in a briar patch, he glories in violation. He feels sorry for himself, of course, but this self-pity is competitive; it bristles around rival brands. And it is triumphalist self-pity. A nationalist uses his suffering as a cudgel to beat you over the head. He never does anything wrong himself. And he never shuts up.
While brandishing his minority status, the nationalist runs in packs. Drunk on Dutch courage from his mob, a nationalist is a bully. But he’s never satisfied with merely getting his way; it has to be achieved at your expense. A nationalist is never happy unless he’s making someone else miserable. That said, he’s never happy. The happy nationalist is an oxymoron.
Accordingly, the worst thing you can do with a nationalist is to attempt to give him whatever he claims to want. He may love his children, his parents, his dog – nationalists are people, too — but the one thing that a nationalist loves above all else is his grievance. Any effort to fulfill a nationalist’s ostensible agenda will read as malicious: you are trying to take his grievance away. A nationalist will bite the hand that feeds him.
Nationalists, in this metaphorical sense, were everywhere.
—“The Subletter” by Lionel Shriver, in Property (2018)
