Andrew Muir opens up on gun threats, Jamie Bryson and Stormont 'on life support'

But as he looks across the benches of Stormont, he sees a political culture suffering from a more modern rot. The real tragedy, he argues, is a government that has traded meaningful legislative scrutiny for digital grandstanding, turning parliament into little more than a performative stage for social media clips.

Andrew Muir is a man who has spent much of his political life trying to persuade people that Northern Ireland can be a more tolerant, inclusive place. But there have been moments in office when the hostility directed at him has become difficult to bear. Reading online threats back in August, including a message saying he should be shot and left in a ditch, the Alliance Party minister found himself in tears.

He had been assaulted in Belfast, he said, and the pressure kept coming. He could either carry on or quit. He carried on and went for a run.

“Have I got upset? Yeah. Yes, I have,” he says, in an interview with the News Letter.

“When those death threats are coming through and I’ve been assaulted and the pressure just keeps coming at you around it all… I cried.”

He called on the support of colleagues and returned to work. “So there’s two options: do you play on? Or do you quit? And I’m certainly not a quitter.”

The threats against Muir predate the latest controversy. During a Zoom call held in June last year by an organisation discussing proposals for the Nutrients Action Programme, an anonymous comment was posted online: “Anyone got Muir’s address? we could crowd fund a sniper”.

Police investigated but were unable to identify the person responsible.

The language has continued. In a message sent directly to Muir earlier this year, one person wrote: “u should be shot u tramp, don’t have a notion about agriculture”. In a separate comment beneath an Agriland.ie social media post, someone else wrote: “Put a Bullet in Him & leave his body in a field, like his department done with those Animals. Remember The New IRA haven’t gone away you Know.”

The comments are not simply expressions of disagreement with a minister’s decisions. They advocate violence against an elected representative. For Muir, they have become part of a wider experience of abuse that has changed how he lives, where he goes and how he uses social media.

He has spoken of six separate online death threats and an assault in Belfast city centre during the Fleadh earlier this year. The threats have been investigated by police. The anonymous comment about a sniper, however, illustrates the difficulty of identifying those responsible when people hide behind online anonymity.

Muir does not want the threats to define either his work or Northern Ireland. He remains proud of the place he calls home, and believes most people are progressive and inclusive. But he is also worried about a political culture in which personal attacks have become routine, online outrage can overwhelm serious discussion, and politicians appear increasingly interested in performing for their supporters than finding solutions.

“The assembly is now turned into a performative theatre, where people are more interested in TikTok clips rather than proper scrutiny,” he says. “And that’s extended now into the committees. That is not serving the people of Northern Ireland.”

It is a striking assessment from a minister who took office in February 2024 and who has found himself at the centre of fierce disputes over agriculture and the environment. Muir is not arguing that ministers should be shielded from criticism. He says the opposite: scrutiny is essential. His complaint is that too much of the criticism is personal, too little is constructive, and the institutions are failing to deliver the kind of government people need.

Muir came out as gay in 1996. The abuse he has experienced in public life has brought back memories of the homophobia he encountered in Northern Ireland in the late 1990s.

“It’s been a pretty dark reminder that homophobia is alive and well,” he says. “In doing this job and facing what’s been thrown up in recent times I sometimes recall friends who have taken their own lives partly as a result of the homophobia and transphobia endured. Precious lives of dear friends lost through intolerance and bigotry.”

The social media environment has made the experience particularly difficult. “You see it on social media, you see it like, you know, to an extent that I’ve never seen before,” he says. The threats have made him more cautious about where he goes and have caused him to worry about his personal safety.

One threat described a desire to have him shot and abandoned in a ditch. “So someone posts a post or comment on social media and says, essentially, that they want me shot and left in the ditch. Then it’s rather unnerving,” he says.

He finds it difficult to understand why someone would publish such a threat under their own name. The effect is not confined to the moment he reads a message. He says the experience has changed his behaviour and made him avoid looking at social media. On one Saturday afternoon, he decided to check it. It was a mistake.

“It’s changed how I… what I do in my life and where I go and all the rest of it,” he says. “And I avoid looking at social media.”

The assault took place in Belfast city centre during the Fleadh, a celebration he otherwise describes as an uplifting expression of the society he wants Northern Ireland to become. He says he did not want the incident to overshadow the event. The Fleadh, he says, showed that people from different backgrounds could share a place and celebrate together.

That contrast matters to him. The threats are real, but so are the people he meets through his work who want their government to deliver, their communities to thrive and their neighbours to be treated with respect.

“The issue for me is that I’ve received all of that, okay? And that’s not very pleasant. It’s quite disconcerting. But I have hope. I have hope for Northern Ireland because the job that I do and the people I meet are rather confirming to me that the political debate on what goes on at Stormont is really disconnected from the day-to-day lives of individuals.”

The attacks have also involved claims about his identity. Mischievous rumours have circulated that he wears pink wellington boots and that he is vegan. He says neither is true.

“I’ve never had a pink pair of pink wellies,” he says. “Other things that have been said is that I’m a vegan. I am not a vegan. I eat meat.”

He sees the rumours as part of a broader pattern in which personal characteristics become weapons in political disputes. “I think some of it’s down to the fact that I’m a liberal and progressive minister who is being honest about the challenges and facing up to them.”

The abuse directed at him is not, he says, the only thing that troubles him. He is particularly angry about misogynistic abuse aimed at officials in his department and sectarian abuse against one member of staff.

“The issue that’s annoyed me more, regardless of me, because I’m a public figure - not right, but I understand that this occurs - has been the misogynistic abuse against officials that I’ve got the pleasure of working with in the department. And sectarian abuse against one official. I find that repugnant.”

He is also concerned about how criticism of his handling of agricultural policy has been misrepresented. He has made a point of saying that the majority of farmers he encounters are kind and respectful. He says he has enormous respect for many of those he has met.

“To then see elected representatives deliberately twisting this and saying that I was saying that farmers were sectarian and homophobic and misogynistic was wrong,” he says. He also condemns the sharing of a video mocking the issue.

Muir says political leaders have a responsibility to consider the consequences of their language. He has condemned threats and abuse directed at politicians across the political spectrum, including the treatment of DUP MP Carla Lockhart, which he describes as grotesque.

Disagreement is legitimate, he says; intimidation is not.

The question of how political leaders respond to division brings Muir to Jamie Bryson, the loyalist activist and commentator. Muir is unusually blunt about the influence he believes Bryson, one of his his constituents, has acquired within political unionism.

“For those in political unionism to be led by him is one of the most disastrous decisions in the entire history of unionism,” he says.

It is a sweeping judgement, and one that goes beyond a disagreement over any individual policy. Muir argues that unionism should be setting out a long-term vision for Northern Ireland, rather than allowing itself to be drawn into a cycle of short-term confrontation. They have no vision themselves,” he says. “And Jamie doesn’t think through long-term consequences. It’s all about the short term.”

For Muir, the danger is that political debate becomes organised around the immediate rewards of conflict: the viral clip, the sharp accusation, the appearance of having defeated an opponent. Those rewards may serve individual political interests, he argues, but they do little to address the problems facing the public or to build a workable future for Northern Ireland.

He believes the institutions are particularly vulnerable to this kind of politics. The system established by the Good Friday Agreement depends on people with different constitutional ambitions finding ways to work together. That requires compromise, relationships and a willingness to accept that no one side can secure everything it wants.

Instead, Muir sees a political culture in which deadlock can be rewarded and collaboration treated as weakness. He says the institutions need reform to “disincentivise the deadlock standoff” and “incentivise collaboration and working together”.

“Because when you have to work together and when you have to build relationships, you achieve,” he says.

His criticism of Bryson is rooted in that belief. Muir thinks political unionism is making a mistake if it allows its direction to be shaped by a figure he regards as focused on confrontation rather than the longer-term consequences for the unionist community itself.

He also sees a wider danger in the way individuals can become targets in a politics increasingly shaped by social media. He does not suggest that all criticism of him comes from one person or one political tradition. But he believes the deliberate personalisation of political disagreement is damaging public life and discouraging people from entering politics.

“To turn things into constant personalisation against me or any other people” reflects, he says, both a weakness of argument and a failure to serve the public.

Muir has seen the consequences in his own experience. He says a threat to have him shot by a sniper was made in connection with the Nutrients Action Programme, long before the latest row. He believes that the language used in political debate can create an atmosphere in which such threats become more likely.

The responsibility, he argues, rests partly with those who hold political leadership positions. “People in political leadership have a role to play in terms of their language and how they deal with things,” he says.

He also draws a distinction between legitimate anger about government and the use of that anger to inflame divisions. He understands why people are frustrated with Stormont; he feels that frustration himself. He entered government to achieve things, he says, and it is dispiriting when proposals encounter what he considers irrational and disrespectful barriers.

But Northern Ireland cannot avoid its shared future. “We’ve got to share it. We’ve got to build reconciliation.”

“I recall those killed or injured during the dark days of our Troubles. My mum’s childhood friend Maria McGurk killed in McGurk's Bar bombing. Friends, serving in the police, shot at and bombed and suffering the PTSD till this day.”

Muir himself is not a member of the Orange Order and says he would not join it. His point is not that unionist identity or tradition should be dismissed. It is that the future of unionism, like the future of Northern Ireland, requires more than permanent confrontation.

“My grandmother was in the Orange Order, and she’d be turning in her grave to see some of the stuff that unionism is up to,” he says.

He is clear that he wants the union to be argued for and against on its merits. Asked about the constitutional future, he says: “If people say to me, where do you think the constitutional future is for Northern Ireland? I say to both sides of that argument: persuade me.”

It is a position that puts the onus on political leaders to make a case, rather than treating identity as a fixed instruction to voters.

For Muir, the test is whether a political project can offer a better future for everyone who lives here.

Muir is not short of criticism for colleagues, but he is careful not to present politics as a contest between villains and heroes. He speaks warmly of Ulster Unionist MLA Mike Nesbitt, the former health minister, describing him as genuine and saying they work well together.

He also has a close working relationship with Caoimhe Archibald, the Sinn Féin economy minister whose office is next door to his.

“I have a lot of time for Caoimhe,” he says. “She’s a friend and she’s someone that I share a lot of interests with, whether it’s running, different political perspectives. But we come together in regards to that common endeavour to make Northern Ireland a better place for everyone.”

He admires her level-headedness and the respect she shows others. Their political differences have not prevented them from building a relationship, and he sees that as an example of how the institutions ought to work.

Muir has less patience for politicians who, he believes, rely on soundbites and personal attacks rather than substance. He refers to a recent interview in which an Ulster Unionist leader Jon Burrows appeared not to know whether equal marriage was legal.

“The person is clearly not across detail,” he says, adding that Burrows “who trades in soundbites rather than substance is not helping to build a better future”.

“Can I tell you, you can’t govern on soundbites?” He makes no apology for refusing to be a populist. “I make no apologies that I am not a populist politician because populism is what [drives] our politics and is not doing people much service.”

He believes the same distinction should apply to his own work. He expects to be challenged by journalists and members of the public.

What concerns him is that the Assembly increasingly rewards performance over detailed examination of decisions.

“I am up for scrutiny,” he says. “But can I tell you the stronger level of scrutiny is from the media rather than the Assembly. Because people are interested in a clip for social media rather than asking the difficult questions.”

He welcomes the prospect of a more open and refreshed News Letter, and says newspapers have a critical role in holding politicians to account. It is a notable message from a minister who says he has only recently taken out a subscription to the paper.

​“I’ve now taken out a subscription to the News Letter,” he says. “And I would say to anyone who’s reading this article, there’s a special offer. For a couple of pounds, you get a subscription for two months. Take it. Thank you. There is an opportunity here for the News Letter to do fair and balanced media reporting, and I think that’s important.”

His willingness to sit down for an interview, he says, reflects his belief that journalism should ask difficult questions and examine the decisions made by those in power. He says he is happy to be scrutinised by the media, even when that scrutiny is uncomfortable.

Muir’s own identity does not fit neatly into the familiar categories of Northern Ireland politics. He was raised Catholic but left the Catholic Church and joined the Church of Ireland in 2015.

“I’m a complicated individual,” he says. “I was born a Catholic, then became a Protestant. I’m a Christian and I consider my faith to be really strong and important to me.” He worships at St. Gall’s at Carnalea in Bangor.

He says the theology of the Church of Ireland better suited his beliefs. His faith, he says, is important to him, as are the values of love, compassion and respect for people with different beliefs - and for those with none.

“We have a lot of religion, but very little Christianity,” he says. It is a pointed observation in a society where religious identity has often been bound up with political allegiance. Muir believes faith should be reflected in how people treat one another, rather than used to justify exclusion.

“The values that I hold are about love and compassion, about respect for people of different religions and, very importantly, for people of none,” he says.

“We should have a secular society where there’s freedom of religion and freedom from religion.”

As a gay man, he believes Northern Ireland has not always struck that balance properly. He remembers the homophobia he experienced after coming out and is troubled by what he sees as similar tactics being used against transgender people today.

“I know many trans people and the journey that they’ve been travelling is tough. It’s hard,” he says. “There’s already a bit of compassion and a better respect” needed, he argues.

He was pleased to walk with Christian’s at Pride at Belfast Pride which he says reflected the values of love and compassion he wants to see more widely embraced.

Muir’s constitutional identity is similarly complicated. He has an Irish passport and describes himself as an Irish citizen, while also acknowledging a British identity. He does not see those identities as mutually exclusive, nor does he believe anyone should be forced to choose one in order to be accepted.

His approach is rooted in the belief that Northern Ireland belongs to people with different traditions and aspirations. That is why the language of reconciliation matters to him: it is not a slogan, but a practical necessity.

Muir says the threats have been difficult for the people closest to him, particularly his mother. He describes her as resilient but acknowledges that it upsets her to see the way he is treated. “My mum’s a very resilient individual,” he says. “But it does upset her to see some of this being treated and traded in a very strong and personal basis.”

She sees what is said on social media and hears what happens in the Assembly. For a family member, the public nature of the attacks makes it difficult simply to put them out of mind. Muir says he has received support from politicians across the political spectrum, including the Secretary of State. He is grateful for the messages, but does not pretend that they make the experience easy.

“I’m a human being and it’s tough and it’s hard,” he says. “But I’m very lucky to have a supportive family and friends.” He is particularly proud of the officials who work alongside him. Their professionalism, he says, has been a source of strength. He was angered when the Ulster Farmers’ Union called for his permanent secretary and chief veterinary officer to go amid the controversy over agricultural policy.

“When they asked for my permanent secretary and chief veterinary officer to go - how dare they do that,” he says, loudly. “That crossed the line and was totally inappropriate. And I’m still waiting for the apology.”

His defence of staff is part of a broader concern that political disputes are increasingly personalised, with consequences for people who are not elected and who have no public platform of their own.

The row over agricultural policy has also laid bare what Muir sees as a deeper dysfunction within Stormont. He concedes that his department could have responded more quickly during the controversy surrounding a cattle cull near Fivemiletown in County Tyrone in June. The shooting of the animals sparked complaints about how the operation was conducted, with members of the public within earshot.

“Could we have got out more information in regards to it quicker? Yes,” he says. But the department wanted to ensure that the information it published was accurate.

He says he moved to establish an independent external review on the Sunday after a BBC report on the Friday, and subsequently issued a detailed statement. Ideally, he says, the statement would have come a few days earlier, but he wanted the facts to be correct. He also attended a committee meeting for three hours to answer questions.

He believes some critics had already made up their minds about him. “If it wasn’t this, it was going to be something else that people would use it to pile on and try to call for me to resign,” he says. “Because for some people, my face didn’t fit from the day and hour that I took up office.”

The frustration extends beyond the immediate controversy. Muir says the Executive is barely functioning, with relationships strained, meetings sometimes taking place on Teams rather than in person, and little substantial business being conducted.

“Stormont and particularly the Executive is broken,” he says. “It needs fixed, and that is reform from the Secretary of State.”

He describes relationships within the Executive as “businesslike, but strained”. The agendas for meetings, he says, are sparse, and the difficult issues that need to be addressed are often not being tackled.

“So what’s the Executive continues?” he says. “It’s on life support.” Muir says he has not recently spoken privately with some of the politicians whose conduct has angered him. He is tired of behaviour he regards as focused on attacking individuals rather than addressing problems.

“If they can’t play the ball rather than the player, as far as I’m concerned, that’s a judgement on them,” he says. He is particularly concerned about the debate around migration, which he describes as “completely inflammatory”. Politicians who put their own re-election ahead of the interests of Northern Ireland’s society, he says, should be judged accordingly.

He believes reform is necessary if the institutions are to stop rewarding deadlock and start encouraging collaboration. The relationships that made the Good Friday Agreement possible remain essential, he argues, but cannot be taken for granted. “Good Friday Agreement relationships were key then,” he says, “and are key now.” For all the hostility he has encountered, Muir insists he is not leaving office because of it. He remains motivated by the work he can do for the farming community and by the possibility of delivering environmental improvements.

“That’s uplifting,” he says of being able to deliver for people. “To be able to do good things, to be able to deliver for the farming community and deliver those environmental improvements - that’s why I do this job, to get good things done. And that’s what drives me right to the end of this mandate.”

He does not claim to be unaffected by the threats. He has cried, he says, and there are times when the pressure has been hard to bear. But he is determined not to let those who threaten him dictate whether he continues.

His response when he felt overwhelmed was to go for a run and then reconnect with colleagues. He says he is fortunate to have the support of his party and a team of officials he is proud to work with.

The experience has reinforced his view that Northern Ireland’s political debate is disconnected from the lives of ordinary people. Most people, he believes, want their government to get on with the job, improve services and make decisions that help communities. They are less interested in the endless theatre of political confrontation.

He remains proud of the Fleadh and what it showed about the place he calls home. For a time, the city came alive with music, culture and people sharing public space. It was, he says, an “amazing celebration of diversity”.

That is the Northern Ireland he wants to see: not one without disagreement, but one in which difference does not become an excuse for threats or contempt. He is not asking to be spared scrutiny. He is asking for politics to become more serious, more respectful and more capable of delivering.

He knows that his identity, his politics and his decisions will continue to attract criticism. He is prepared for that. What he will not accept is the idea that abuse should be the price of public service, or that those who use threats should be allowed to drive elected representatives from office.

“I have hope for Northern Ireland,” he says. The people he meets, he believes, offer more reason for optimism than the political theatre at Stormont might suggest. And if those who want him gone expect the threats and calls for his resignation to persuade him to leave, Muir has a short answer. “Sorry, I am going nowhere.”