1981 remembered

[Myles Na G.]

Friday 6th

There was no priest in last night or tonight. They stopped me from seeing my solicitor tonight, as another part of the isolation process, which, as time goes by, they will ruthlessly implement. I expect they may move me sooner than expected to an empty wing. I will be sorry to leave the boys, but I know the road is a hard one and everything must be conquered.

I have felt the loss of energy twice today, and I am feeling slightly weak.

They (the Screws) are unembarrassed by the enormous amount of food they are putting into the cell and I know they have every bean and chip counted or weighed. The damned fools don't realise that the doctor does tests for traces of any food eaten. Regardless, I have no intention of sampling their tempting morsels.

I am sleeping well at night so far, as I avoid sleeping during the day. I am even having pleasant dreams and so far no headaches. Is that a tribute to my psychological frame of mind or will I pay for that tomorrow or later! I wonder how long I will be able to keep these scribbles going?

My friend Jennifer got twenty years. I am greatly distressed. (Twenty-one-year-old Jennifer McCann, from Belfast's Twinbrook estate, was sentenced to twenty years' imprisonment for shooting at an RUC man).

I have no doubts or regrets about what I am doing for I know what I have faced for eight years, and in particular for the last four and-a-half years, others will face, young lads and girls still at school, or young Gerard or Kevin (Bobby's son and nephew, respectively) and thousands of others.

They will not criminalise us, rob us of our true identity, steal our individualism, depoliticise us, churn us out as systemised, institutionalised, decent law-abiding robots. Never will they label our liberation struggle as criminal.

I am (even after all the torture) amazed at British logic. Never in eight centuries have they succeeded in breaking the spirit of one man who refused to be broken. They have not dispirited, conquered, nor demoralised my people, nor will they ever.

I may be a sinner, but I stand — and if it so be, will die — happy knowing that I do not have to answer for what these people have done to our ancient nation.

Thomas Clarke is in my thoughts, and MacSwiney, Stagg, Gaughan, Thomas Ashe, McCaughey. Dear God, we have so many that another one to those knaves means nothing, or so they say, for some day they'll pay.

When I am thinking of Clarke, I thought of the time I spent in 'B' wing in Crumlin Road jail in September and October '77. I realised just what was facing me then. I've no need to record it all, some of my comrades experienced it too, so they know I have been thinking that some people (maybe many people) blame me for this hunger-strike, but I have tried everything possible to avert it short of surrender.

I pity those who say that, because they do not know the British and I feel more the pity for them because they don't even know their poor selves. But didn't we have people like that who sought to accuse Tone, Emmet, Pearse, Connolly, Mellowes: that unfortunate attitude is perennial also...

I can hear the curlew passing overhead. Such a lonely cell, such a lonely struggle. But, my friend, this road is well trod and he, whoever he was, who first passed this way, deserves the salute of the nation. I am but a mere follower and I must say Oíche Mhaith.

If ever you wanted evidence that Sands (or his editors *) already had one eye on his status as republican legend, look no further. The use of a curlew as a poetic device is well documented in Irish literature and Sands (or his editors) slip it in here to signify the loneliness of the long distance hunger striker. The litany of republican martyrs is also no accident: this is a statement designed to place Sands alongside those same martyrs, to link their struggle with his. (This was at a time, remember, when the republican movement was facing mounting criticism from a nationalist community sick of 10 years of atrocities).

* Sands' later communications are significantly better on the grammar front than some of his earlier stuff. In one earlier comm, he says 'I was took to Castlereagh' He also refers to 'them days'. He continues: 'I must have wrote you articles...' Yet by the end, he's waxing on about curlews with hardly a grammatical mistake in sight.

If you read through the works of Bobby Sands it is clearly to be seen that he is a poet and scholar. His work is one of the finest this country had ever seen but due to the fact that he was a Republican during this time of struggle his true place in Irish literature history will never be accepted.

You might believe that crap, but those with a more objective view certainly wouldn't. We'll leave aside the fact (as I've pointed out) that there is evidence that someone else may have been involved in the scripting of his 'comms': this a man, remember, who couldn't even spell the name of his old school in his early scripts (Stella Morris, rather than Stella Maris), but who somehow on his death bed started producing grammatically perfect offerings. Odd, don't you think? His 'poetry' is nothing of the sort. It is doggerel, of a standard no better than that produced by most angst-ridden teenagers. Had Sands not been Sands, that stuff would never have seen the light of day. The fact that you think that it somehow deserves a place in the canon of Irish literature suggests to me that you weren't paying much attention in your English Lit classes.

[glens abu]

Thursday 12th

Fr Toner was in tonight, and brought me in some religious magazines.

My weight is 58.75 kgs. They did not take a blood sample because they want to incorporate other tests with it. So the doctor says they'll do it next week.

Physically I have felt very tired today, between dinner time and later afternoon. I know I'm getting physically weaker. It is only to be expected. But I'm okay. I'm still getting the papers all right, but there's nothing heartening in them. But again I expect that also and therefore I must depend entirely upon my own heart and resolve, which I will do.

I received three notes from the comrades in Armagh, God bless them again.

I heard of today's announcement that Frank Hughes will be joining me on hunger-strike on Sunday. I have the greatest respect, admiration and confidence in Frank and I know that I am not alone. How could I ever be with comrades like those around me, in Armagh and outside.

I've been thinking of the comrades in Portlaoise, the visiting facilities there are inhuman. No doubt that hell-hole will also eventually explode in due time. I hope not, but Haughey's compassion for the prisoners down there is no different from that of the Brits towards prisoners in the North and in English gaols.

I have come to understand, and with each passing day I understand increasingly more and in the most sad way, that awful fate and torture endured to the very bitter end by Frank Stagg and Michael Gaughan. Perhaps, — indeed yes! — I am more fortunate because those poor comrades were without comrades or a friendly face. They had not even the final consolation of dying in their own land. Irishmen alone and at the unmerciful ugly hands of a vindictive heartless enemy. Dear God, but I am so lucky in comparison.

I have poems in my mind, mediocre no doubt, poems of hunger strike and MacSwiney, and everything that this hunger-strike has stirred up in my heart and in my mind, but the weariness is slowly creeping in, and my heart is willing but my body wants to be lazy, so I have decided to mass all my energy and thoughts into consolidating my resistance.

That is most important. Nothing else seems to matter except that lingering constant reminding thought, 'Never give up'. No matter how bad, how black, how painful, how heart-breaking, 'Never give up', 'Never despair', 'Never lose hope'. Let them bastards laugh at you all they want, let them grin and jibe, allow them to persist in their humiliation, brutality, deprivations, vindictiveness, petty harassments, let them laugh now, because all of that is no longer important or worth a response.

I am making my last response to the whole vicious inhuman atrocity they call H-Block. But, unlike their laughs and jibes, our laughter will be the joy of victory and the joy of the people, our revenge will be the liberation of all and the final defeat of the oppressors of our aged nation.

[Evil Genius]

Monday 9th

I always have tremendous feeling for...           ... the present leadership of the Republican Movement, and a confidence in them that they will always remain undaunted and unchanged.

I may die, but the Republic of 1916 will never die. Onward to the Republic and liberation of our people.

So as well as being a Terrorist, a Fanatic and a mediocre Poet, poor Jimmy was also a deluded Fool.

You know, I could almost feel sorry for him - were he not a Terrorist, a Fanatic and a mediocre Poet...

[Nally Stand]

Thursday 12th
....Let them b**tards laugh at you all they want, let them grin and jibe, allow them to persist in their .....vindictiveness, petty harassments, let them laugh now, because all of that is no longer important or worth a response.

A true statement, relevant even in this thread, Glensabu.

[seafoid]

They never lived to see Rangers bankrupted.

[glens abu]

Thursday 12th
....Let them b**tards laugh at you all they want, let them grin and jibe, allow them to persist in their .....vindictiveness, petty harassments, let them laugh now, because all of that is no longer important or worth a response.

A true statement, relevant even in this thread, Glensabu.

Yeah and its great to see that his writings are being read by many on here even those who profess to hate him,thats the effect great men have on others.

[Myles Na G.]

Thursday 12th
....Let them b**tards laugh at you all they want, let them grin and jibe, allow them to persist in their .....vindictiveness, petty harassments, let them laugh now, because all of that is no longer important or worth a response.

A true statement, relevant even in this thread, Glensabu.

'Them bastards'. I rest my case.

[Nally Stand]

Great how they will always be remembered even in other countries.

This week Florence City Council voted to name a street after Bobby Sands who died on hunger strike in 1981 fighting for political status. There was a discussion and when it came to a vote 33 city councillors out of 34 voted in favour of the street naming and there was just one abstention.

There were three other streets newly named after Oriana Fallaci, a well-known journalist and writer from Florence; Ilaria Alpi, a brave young journalist killed in an ambush in Mogadishu, Somalia; and world-renowned Italian film director Mario Monicelli.

Irish republican supporters hope that the move will encourage other municipalities to act and honour Bobby Sands and his comrades in similar ways.

Patsy O'Hara Place, Auckland, New Zealand:

Bobby Sands Circle, Maple Avenue, Hartford, Connecticut:

[Trout]

How is Sands keeping these days?

[glens abu]

Friday 13th

I'm not superstitious, and it was an uneventful day today. I feel all right, and my weight is 58.5 kgs.

I was not so tired today, but my back gets sore now and again sitting in the bed. I didn't get the Irish News, which makes me think there is probably something in it that they don't wish me to see, but who cares. Fr Murphy was in tonight for a few minutes.

The Screws had a quick look around my cell today when I was out getting water. They are always snooping. I heard reports of men beaten up during a wing shift ...

Nothing changes here.

Sean McKenna (the former hunger-striker) is back in H-4, apparently still a bit shaky but alive and still recovering, and hopefully he will do so to the full.

Mhúscail mé leis an gealbháin ar maidin agus an t-aon smaointe amháin i mo cheann - seo chugat lá eile a Roibeard. Cuireann é sin amhran a scríobh mé; bhfad ó shin i ndúil domsa.

Seo é cib é ar bith.

D' éirigh mé ar maidin mar a tháinig an coimheádóir,

Bhuail sé mo dhoras go trom's gan labhairt.

Dhearc mé ar na ballai, 'S shíl mé nach raibh mé beo,

Tchítear nach n-imeoidh an t-iffrean seo go deo.

D'oscail an doras 's níor druideadh é go ciúin,

Ach ba chuma ar bith mar nach raibheamar inár suan.

Chuala mé éan 's ni fhaca mé geal an lae,

Is mian mór liom go raibh me go doimhin foai,

Ca bhfuil mo smaointi ar laethe a chuaigh romhainn,

S cá bhfuil an tsaol a smaoin mé abhí sa domhain,

Ni chluintear mo bhéic, 's ní fheictear mar a rith mo dheor,

Nuair a thigeann ar lá aithíocfaidh mé iad go mor.

Canaim é sin leis an phort Siun Ní Dhuibir.

Translated this reads as follows:

I awoke with the sparrows this morning and the only thought in my head was: here comes another day, Bobby — reminding me of a song I once wrote a long time ago.

This is it anyway:

I arose this morning as the Screw came,

He thumped my door heavily without speaking,

I stared at the walls, and thought I was dead,

It seems that this hell will never depart.

The door opened and it wasn't closed gently,

But it didn't really matter, we weren't asleep.

I heard a bird and yet didn't see the dawn of day,

Would that I were deep in the earth.

Where are my thoughts of days gone by,

And where is the life I once thought was in the world.

My cry is unheard and my tears flowing unseen,

When our day comes I shall repay them dearly.

I sing this to the tune Siun Ní Dhuibir.

Bhí na heiníní ag ceiliúracht inniú. Chaith ceann de na buachaillí arán amach as an fhuinneog, ar a leghad bhí duine éigin ag ithe. Uaigneach abhí mé ar feadh tamaill ar tráthnóna beag inniú ag éisteacht leis na préacháin ag screadáil agus ag teacht abhaile daobhtha. Dá gcluinfinn an fhuiseog álainn, brisfeadh sí mo chroí.

Anois mar a scríobhaim tá an corrcrothar ag caoineadh mar a théann siad tharam. Is maith liom na heiníní.

Bhuel caithfidh mé a dul mar má scríobhain níos mó ar na heiníní seo beidh mo dheora ag rith 's rachaidh mo smaointi ar ais chuig, an t-am nuair abhí mé ógánach, b'iad na laennta agus iad imithe go deo anois, ach thaitin siad liom agus ar a laghad níl dearmad deánta agam orthu, ta siad i mo chroí — oíche mhaith anois.

(Translated, this reads as follows:)

The birds were singing today. One of the boys threw bread out of the window. At least somebody was eating!

I was lonely for a while this evening, listening to the crows caw as they returned home. Should I hear the beautiful lark, she would rent my heart. Now, as I write, the odd curlew mournfully calls as they fly over. I like the birds.

Well, I must leave off, for if I write more about the birds my tears will fall and my thoughts return to the days of my youth.

They were the days, and gone forever now. But I enjoyed them. They are in my heart — good night, now.

[Evil Genius]

I was lonely for a while this evening, listening to the crows caw as they returned home. Should I hear the beautiful lark, she would rent my heart.

"Rent"?

And he'll not hear any Larks singing at night, either...

Now, as I write, the odd curlew mournfully calls as they fly over. I like the birds.

I grew up in a house next to a field where Curlews nested. Since they are ground-nesting, to avoid drawing attention to themselves, they only call when flying very high up in the sky (like the lark, btw). I don't ever recall it being possible to hear them from inside the house.

More significantly, whilst Curlews nest on inland moors and bogs etc, in the winter they migrate to the coast, where the temperature is slightly warmer and the ground/shore isn't likely to be frozen over, thereby permitting continued access to their diet of insects, grubs, crustacea etc. So even if they did live in the vicinity of the Maze, I doubt they'd be back to nest much before April.

Perhaps it was the sound of the traffic from the M1 which Jimmy was hearing? 

[glens abu]

Saturday 14th

Again, another uneventful somewhat boring day. My weight is 58.25 kgs, and no medical complaints. I read the papers, which are full of trash.

Tonight's tea was pie and beans, and although hunger may fuel my imagination (it looked a powerful-sized meal), I don't exaggerate: the beans were nearly falling off the plate. If I said this all the time to the lads, they would worry about me, but I'm all right.

It was inviting (I'm human too) and I was glad to see it leave the cell. Never would I have touched it, but it was a starving nuisance. Ha! My God, if it had have attacked, I'd have fled.

I was going to write about a few things I had in my head but they'll wait. I am looking forward to the brief company of all the lads at Mass tomorrow. You never know when it could be the last time that you may ever see them again.

I smoked some cigarettes today. We still defeat them in this sphere. If the Screws only knew the half of it; the ingenuity of the POW is something amazing. The worse the situation the greater the ingenuity. Someday it may all be revealed.

On a personal note, Liam Og (the pseudonym for Bobby Sands' Republican Movement contact on the outside), I just thought I'd take this opportunity tonight of saying to your good hard-working self that I admire you all out there and the unselfish work that you all do and have done in the past, not just for the H-Blocks and Armagh, but for the struggle in general.

I have always taken a lesson from something that was told me by a sound man, that is, that everyone, Republican or otherwise, has his own particular part to play. No part is too great or too small, no one is too old or too young to do something.

There is that much to be done that no select or small portion of people can do, only the greater mass of the Irish nation will ensure the achievement of the Socialist Republic, and that can only be done by hard work and sacrifice.

So, mo chara, for what it's worth, I would like to thank you all for what you have done and I hope many others follow your example, and I'm deeply proud to have known you all and prouder still to call you comrades and friends.

On a closing note, I've noticed the Screws have been really slamming the cell doors today, in particular my own. Perhaps a good indication of the mentality of these people, always vindictive, always full of hate. I'm glad to say that I am not like that.

Well, I must go to rest up as I found it tiring trying to comb my hair today after a bath.

So venceremos, beidh bua againn eigin la eigin. Sealadaigh abu.

(Translated, this reads as follows:)

So venceremos, we will be victorious someday. Up the Provos.

[glens abu]

Sunday 15th

Frank has now joined me on the hunger-strike. I saw the boys at Mass today which I enjoyed. Fr Toner said Mass.

Again it was a pretty boring day. I had a bit of trouble to get slopped out tonight and to get water.

I have a visit tomorrow and it will be good to see my family. I am also looking forward to the walk in the fresh air, it will tire me out, but I hope the weather is good. I must go.

[Harold Disgracey]

I was lonely for a while this evening, listening to the crows caw as they returned home. Should I hear the beautiful lark, she would rent my heart.

"Rent"?

And he'll not hear any Larks singing at night, either...

Now, as I write, the odd curlew mournfully calls as they fly over. I like the birds.

I grew up in a house next to a field where Curlews nested. Since they are ground-nesting, to avoid drawing attention to themselves, they only call when flying very high up in the sky (like the lark, btw). I don't ever recall it being possible to hear them from inside the house.

More significantly, whilst Curlews nest on inland moors and bogs etc, in the winter they migrate to the coast, where the temperature is slightly warmer and the ground/shore isn't likely to be frozen over, thereby permitting continued access to their diet of insects, grubs, crustacea etc. So even if they did live in the vicinity of the Maze, I doubt they'd be back to nest much before April.

Perhaps it was the sound of the traffic from the M1 which Jimmy was hearing?

We have curlews nesting at a bog near to my home, and they have been back for the last few weeks. Can hear their calls plain as day from inside our house. A wonderful sound it is too.

[Franko]

I was lonely for a while this evening, listening to the crows caw as they returned home. Should I hear the beautiful lark, she would rent my heart.

"Rent"?

And he'll not hear any Larks singing at night, either...

Now, as I write, the odd curlew mournfully calls as they fly over. I like the birds.

I grew up in a house next to a field where Curlews nested. Since they are ground-nesting, to avoid drawing attention to themselves, they only call when flying very high up in the sky (like the lark, btw). I don't ever recall it being possible to hear them from inside the house.

More significantly, whilst Curlews nest on inland moors and bogs etc, in the winter they migrate to the coast, where the temperature is slightly warmer and the ground/shore isn't likely to be frozen over, thereby permitting continued access to their diet of insects, grubs, crustacea etc. So even if they did live in the vicinity of the Maze, I doubt they'd be back to nest much before April.

Perhaps it was the sound of the traffic from the M1 which Jimmy was hearing?

We have curlews nesting at a bog near to my home, and they have been back for the last few weeks. Can hear their calls plain as day from inside our house. A wonderful sound it is too.

+1

If you're going to be a pedantic twat, at least be correct.