HUNGER STRIKES ARE BACK IN THE NEWS
An opposition leader in Russia has been jailed and is now on hunger strike. His failing health has caused an international outcry. President Biden has warned the Russian government that since he is under their care and jurisdiction, there will be consequences if he is allowed to die.
Forty years ago there was no Presidential outcry when ten Irish political prisoners were allowed to die one after the other over a long and terrible summer in 1981.
They are not forgotten here and even if the commemorations are fewer world wide. Ireland will always remember and in Pawtucket it is time to celebrate them anew.
Vol. Bobby Sands, IRA
Vol. Francis Hughes, IRA
Vol. Patsy O'Hara, INLA
Vol. Raymond McCreesh, IRA
Vol. Joe McDonnell, IRA
Vol. Martin Hurson, IRA
Vol. Kevin Lynch, INLA
Vol. Kieran Doherty, IRA
Vol. Thomas McElwee, IRA
Vol. Michael Devine, INLA
DURATION OF THEIR HUNGER STRIKE AND DATES OF THEIR DEATHS
Sands
5 May 81
66 days Hughes
12 May 81
59 days O'Hara
21 May 81
61 days McCreesh
21 May 81
61 days McDonnell
8 July 81
61 days
Hurson
13 July 81
46 days Lynch
1 Aug 81
71 days Doherty
2 Aug 81
73 days McElwee
8 Aug 81
62 days Devine
20 Aug 81
60 days
66 DAYS ON HUNGER STRIKE
1 March 1981 to 5 May 1981
66 long days -- And during those days I could think of nothing but his suffering.
It preyed on my mind and pushed me to become active in the Northern AID movement in that year of 1981.
I HAVE NOT SPOKEN HIS NAME ALOUD FOR AWHILE, AND SURELY I HAVE NOT PRAISED HIM FOR MANY YEARS IN PUBLIC.
But surely the time has come at last to praise--
THE LAST IRISH BARD --- BOBBY SANDS, MP.
And the driving force against oppression, as Bobby concludes, is the moral superiority of the oppressed.
Bobby found and embodied that moral superiority that shines in every line he wrote in such an extraordinary crucible of pain, suffering and daily humiliation. What a writing workshop he dared to hold and to produce lines that we see now are monuments to the indomitable nature of the creative spirit when it is harnessed to the engine of human freedom.
1 March 1981 to 5 May 1981
66 long days -- And during those days I could think of nothing but his suffering.
It preyed on my mind and pushed me to become active in the Northern AID movement in that year of 1981.
I HAVE NOT SPOKEN HIS NAME ALOUD FOR AWHILE, AND SURELY I HAVE NOT PRAISED HIM FOR MANY YEARS IN PUBLIC.
But surely the time has come at last to praise--
THE LAST IRISH BARD --- BOBBY SANDS, MP.
And the driving force against oppression, as Bobby concludes, is the moral superiority of the oppressed.
Bobby found and embodied that moral superiority that shines in every line he wrote in such an extraordinary crucible of pain, suffering and daily humiliation. What a writing workshop he dared to hold and to produce lines that we see now are monuments to the indomitable nature of the creative spirit when it is harnessed to the engine of human freedom.
* * *
"It has been said that were Bobby alive to see these poems today he would have rewritten or changed some of the simpler rhyming words. But that is to miss the point. These poems were written by a young man under the most depressing of conditions. More importantly his poetry is the raw literature of the H-Block prison protest which hundreds of naked men stood up against their cell doors (in the late of night when the Screws left the wings) to listen to and to applaud.
It was their only entertainment, it was a beautifully rendered articulation of their own plight. Out of cruelty and suffering Bobby Sands harnessed real poetry, the poetry of a feeling people struggling to be free..."
— Danny Morrison, October 1981.
Danny Morrison told it straight at the time. IT has taken me almost 40 years to read and know the truth of his assessment.It is said we live in modern times,
In the civilised year of ‘seventy nine,
But when I look around, all I see,
Is modern torture, pain, and hypocrisy.
In the civilised year of ‘seventy nine,
But when I look around, all I see,
Is modern torture, pain, and hypocrisy.
In modern times little children die,
They starve to death, but who dares ask why?
And little girls without attire,
Run screaming, napalmed, through the night afire.
They starve to death, but who dares ask why?
And little girls without attire,
Run screaming, napalmed, through the night afire.
And while fat dictators sit upon their thrones,
Young children bury their parents’ bones,
And secret police in the dead of night,
Electrocute the naked woman out of sight.
Young children bury their parents’ bones,
And secret police in the dead of night,
Electrocute the naked woman out of sight.
In the gutter lies the black man, dead,
And where the oil flows blackest, the street runs red,
And there was He who was born and came to be,
But lived and died without liberty.
And where the oil flows blackest, the street runs red,
And there was He who was born and came to be,
But lived and died without liberty.
As the bureaucrats, speculators and presidents alike,
Pin on their dirty, stinking, happy smiles tonight,
The lonely prisoner will cry out from within his tomb,
And tomorrow’s wretch will leave its mother’s womb!
We can see from this poem that Bobby Sands was not a person with a narrow Nationalist vision; he had a dream of international solidarity. He was seeking to forge a United Front with all the oppressed of the world,
I learn from doing the reading of Bobby's now published prison diary that that Bobby Sands and I share something--we both love birds. Of course the Sky lark is central to his poems but also the curlew and the crows play their part in relieving his sense of isolation in his cell as he is slowly dying over 66 days,
Here from a diary he kept for the first 17 days of his Hunger strike:
"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."
This from a man who was just 27 years old when he died and had spent the last 9 years in brutal imprisonment. His love of the natural world and of the small free creatures shines here.
Pin on their dirty, stinking, happy smiles tonight,
The lonely prisoner will cry out from within his tomb,
And tomorrow’s wretch will leave its mother’s womb!
We can see from this poem that Bobby Sands was not a person with a narrow Nationalist vision; he had a dream of international solidarity. He was seeking to forge a United Front with all the oppressed of the world,
It is significant that Sands opens the first part of the poem, “The Crime of Castlereagh”, with an assertion of his individuality:
LOVER OF BIRDSI scratched my name and not for fame
Upon the whitened wall;
“Bobby Sands was here,” I wrote with fear
In awful shaky scrawl.
I wrote it low where eyes don’t go
Twas but to testify,
That I was sane and not to blame
Should here I come to die
I learn from doing the reading of Bobby's now published prison diary that that Bobby Sands and I share something--we both love birds. Of course the Sky lark is central to his poems but also the curlew and the crows play their part in relieving his sense of isolation in his cell as he is slowly dying over 66 days,
Here from a diary he kept for the first 17 days of his Hunger strike:
"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."
This from a man who was just 27 years old when he died and had spent the last 9 years in brutal imprisonment. His love of the natural world and of the small free creatures shines here.
Bobby Sands also skewered the role of the renowned Irish poets who did not join their voices to his but who hid behind the aesthetic
masks :
The Men of Art have lost their heart,
They dream within their dreams.
Their magic sold for price of gold
Amidst a people’s screams.
They sketch the moon and capture bloom
With genius, so they say.
But ne’er they sketch the quaking wretch
Who lies in Castlereagh.
The poet’s word is sweet as bird,
Romantic tale and prose.
Of stars above and gentle love
And fragrant breeze that blows.
But write they not a single jot
Of beauty tortured sore.
Don’t wonder why such men can lie,
For poets are no more.
21Those two stanzas encapsulate a scathing criticism of what Sands perceives as a reprehensible lack of interest in the prison protest by writers in the North. Once again, there is a clear sense that the pastoral mode which Sands evidently uses as a sort of umbrella for poetry and art more generally, is not only inadequate to the task of representing the prison protest but also works to eradicate it from sight.
As much as he loved birds and nature he would not use them to distract himself or his readers from the terrors that man's inhumanity to man has wreaked on the world and all its inhabitants.
In putting these entries together on poets who changed the world, I have omitted many.
Somehow, I was not letting myself think of BOBBY. But when I completed the Padraic Pearse entry, I could not stop there: I could not leave it as if no poet bard had died for Ireland since Pearse. That would be a lie.
YES, there was one other giant-- BOBBY SANDS.
Even now I know that there are many whose teeth are set on edge at the very thought of him.
This blog is not for them.
But there are others who have come to see that he was a great leader and martyr and poet.
THIS BLOG ENTRY IS FOR YOU AND YOUR SACRED MEMORY---MISE EIRE-- BOBBY SANDS.
