Back not too many years ago the Northern Irish Protestants and Catholics were regularly killing one another if they ventured into the “wrong” neighborhood. I asked someone (a Dublin Protestant) how they told each other apart. What he answered was there was no discernible difference in accent, dress or demeanor, but that would kill any stranger in their neighborhood. If you wanted to go to a strange neighborhood, you had to get a local guide.
We’ll I imagine that this guy knew all six of the other Protestants in Dublin and who wasn’t. Did you mean Belfast?
There is a tendency for Protestants to pronounce “H” as “aitch” and Catholics “haitch.” I haven’t heard of that being a useful shibboleth for choosing victims of sectarian violence, though.
… So that explains why those spearmen in Civilization kept destroying my attacknig tanks when defending cities.
…
…
…
I couldn’t resist.
From anecdotal evidence, roving gangs would simply ask which side you belonged to, and you had a 50/50 chance of walking away. Up until recently (last 70 years), the rift between catholics and protestants in Northern Ireland was very much economic also, so you could tell one from the other merely by social class.
In fact, as long as your square’s morale held, even Napoleonic-era infantry dominated cavalry. There’s a lot of evidence that cavalry was primarily a moral weapon against infantry, which could always present more weapons in the same area of frontage (and thus, as long as nerves held out, kill cavalry).
During the Bosnian conflict, a contractor bragged to me that his company made sensors that could accurately image single individuals on the ground at night for the US Air Force to bomb or strafe. He presented it as the solution to our targeting problems.
When I asked him if it could distinguish between Serbs, Muslims, and Bosnians, he got angry.
The famous quote about this is from the bishop directing the attack against the Cathar heretical movement in southern France in the 1100’s, IIRC. When asked how they would know which were the Cathars once they took one besieged town, he replied “Kill them all. God will know his own.”
This has also been variously repeated as “Kill them all and let God sort them out…”
One of the interesting bits of the Rwandan genocide was that role that radio played - DJs would broadcast the names and addresses of Tutsis, and Hutu genocidaires with cheap transistor radios and machetes would go to those houses and kill everyone there.
I’ve often read about friendly fire happening in the Hindu-Muslim or Hindu-Sikh riots that have happened in India and Pakistan since Independence. I mean, sometimes they went door-to-door, and I’m sure that some people just said “Allah ho Akbar” or “Jair Bajrang Bali!” in hopes of confusing their enemies. Not even all Sikhs keep the long hair after all.
Of course an equal amount of people stood on their religion - and died for it.
The conventions of war state that “Freedom fighters” must wear something that identifies them as part of a martial force(Also having a designated leader and set chain of command as I recall).
If they don’t then they are terrorists.
During the English Civil War,(and I believe other internecine conflicts in English history), similary dressed opponents tied a flower or a twig around their headgear or arms to identify themselves both to each other and the enemy.
During the Napoleonic Wars the colours of the uniforms didn’t play as big a part in distinguishing friend from foe as movies and T.V. would have us think as the uniforms themselves were usually very, very cheaply dyed and the colours would run and fade after a short while.
Troops identified each other quite often by the shape of each others headgear and similar and of course by the regimental flags being carried.
The Belgians, not the British.
I seem to remember a skit (Benny Hill?) that had a reporter asking an Irishman how he knew if he was attacking a Protestant or a Catholic. His response “If I stab him, he’s a Catholic, if I don’t stab him he’s a protestant.”
-Joe
Old joke:
A well-dressed man walks into a rough Belfast bar late one night. The room goes silent and all the men there stare at him. He orders a pint and is served. Soon the biggest, meanest-looking boozer gets up and staggers over to him. “Are you a Protestant or a Catholic?” he asks the well-dressed man, glowering.
“Why, neither,” the fellow calmly replies, sipping from his pint. “I’m Jewish.”
The big guy blinks once, twice, three times, then snarls, “Are you a Protestant Jew or a Catholic Jew?”