55.-bobby-sands.pdf
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THE
WRITINGS
OF

BOBBY
SANDS

A. collection of prison writings by
H-Block — hunger-striker_ Bobby Sands,

Published April 1981
THE WRITINGS OF BOBBY SANDS.

BOBBY SANDS


CONTENTS

page 5
page 9
age 11



A thought in the night
‘A break in the monotony

‘The woman eried

The battle for survival

Alone and condemned

Modern Times

ym Sir, you are 1066

fought a monster today

‘The lark and the freedom fighter






‘THE WRITINGS OF BOBBY SANDS



‘® Enjoying political status in the cages of Long Kesh, in 1975,
with Bobby Sands (right) and Gerry Adams (front) is “Tomboy!
Loudon (centre), another H-Block blanket man, and Brendan
Hughes (left), whom Bobby succeeded as Republican O/C of the

blanket men, when Brendan led the first H-Block hunger-strike
late last year.




INTRODUCTION
by Gerry Adams

BOBBY SANDS has been the most prolific writer among the H-Block
blanket men, Thie booklet contains some examples of his wri
particularly under the pen name Marcella’ (his sister’s name). He

f





During’ 1978 many of his pieces were published in ‘Republican
‘News’ and then, from January 1979, in the newly-fused “An Phoblacht/
Republican News” The choice of articles published in this collection
is restricted to creative pieces — writing of an extremely high standard

‘as Bobby describes life in the H-Blocks in a compelling and graphic
manner. When one recalls that all of his writing was accomplished in the
most off-putting of conditions, scribbling furtively on sheets of toilet
paper, with a ball point refill as a pen, then one cannot but admire his
achievement, an example of the ingenuity and determination of the
republican prisoners about whom he writes.

OF the ten pieces published here, readers will pick their own favour.
ites. 1 was particularly drawn to ‘I or a life’, ‘A thought in the
night’, and ‘I fought a monster today’. Two exampies of verse written
by Bobby are also printed here, including a fine protest poem, ‘Modern
Times’

Theres a premonition of personal tragedy running through
Bobby Sands’ articles: that his H-Block cell will, literally, become
‘tomb, when the monster of British imperialism, and the prison regime
it has created, kill him, following their failed attempts to destroy his
spirit, He also admits his frustration at being unable to adequately
describe the psychological strugile of the blanket men and the forms
and various effects psychological torture has taken in the H-Blocks. His
‘admiration for his comrades and his feelings for supporters and for
‘oppressed people outside of prison emerge in the words which he so
expertly uses as a weapon against a regime which tries vainly to break
‘and dehumanise him.



















. =

Who then is Bobby Sands? On Friday 10th April, on the forty-first
day of his hunger-strike in the H-Blocks, he was elected as Westminster
MP for Fermanagh and South Tyrone, The election, held against @
background of harassment and intimidation of his election workers by
British crown forces, was unique, not least because of pressure put
upon the nationalist electorate by the SDLP leadership, the Catholic

5








‘THE WRITINGS OF BOBBY SANDS

church, and British politicians. Despite these pressures, Bobby Sands
reccived 30,482 votes, a clear sign ~ for those who doubted it ~ that
the nationalist people recognise republican prisoners as political prison-
ers and support their prison struggle.

Furthermore, although Bobby Sands stood — representing the
H-Block blanket men and Armagh women protestors ~- as 2 politic
prisoner on an anti-H-Block/Armagh ticket, the British intervened
the election and made it into an acid test for the electorate's attitude to
the IRA, Bobby Sands’ election by the nationalist people, after twelve
years of armed resistance, gave them their answor. As the April 12th
editorial of the influential Sunday Times’ commented: “The election
result finally nuts paid to the notion........that the Provisional IRA
enjoys no general popular support.” But, despite the election result, the
intransigent British government continued to deny the validity of the
prisoners’ just and reasonable demands.

Bobby Sands was born in 1954 in Rathcoole, a predominantly loyal-
ist district of north Belfast. He joined the Republican Movement in his
late teens, At eighteen he was arrested and in 1973 was sentenced to
five years’ imprisonment on an arms charge. | first met Bobby in the
cages of Long Kesh where we both enjoyed special category status
political prisoners. Ironically these cages still exist, with prisoners there
enjoying the status which Britain has denied for five years to other
political prisoners held in H-Blocks only a few hundred yards away.

In those days Bobby was a slightly-built young man with a mane of
long hair, an intense manner whether engaged in a game of football,
® political discussion or a guitar lesson. He read profoundly, and wrote
quite a few arrangements and songs for his guitar.

Bobby was released in April 1976, and continued as an active re-
publican’ before being re-arrested in October 1976. Sentenced to
fourteen years’ imprisonment in September 1977, this time — in keep:
ing with Britain's attempts to project militant Irish republicanism as a
criminal conspiracy — he was denied ‘special category status’ and was
imprisoned as an ‘ordinary prisorer’ in the H-Blocks of Long Kesh.
Selected as PRO of the blanket men, his statements traced develop:
ments within the prison: the build-up of the blanket protest, the
beginning of the no wash protest, the beatings, cell shifts, and mirror
searches, and throughout it all the determination and dignity of the
blanket men, who, despite the violence and the propaganda of the Bri
ish government, continued with the longest protest ever by so many
republican prisoner
































aan i.
During the first hunger-strike, Bobby succeeded fellow Belfast
republican Brendan Hughes as O/C of the H-Block prisoners and was
centrally involved, after the ending of that hunger-strike, in the aborted
‘efforts by the blanket men to bring their protest to a principled end on
the basis of five conditions. These were: the right not to wear prison

6


INTRODUCTION

uniform (or prison-issue civilian-type clothing); the right not to do
prison work; free association among political prisoners (that is, segreg-
ation from other prisoners); educational, recreational and visiting facil
ities; and full restoration of remission. But the British government —
having seoured the ending of the hunger-strike and the defusing of @
potentially explosive situation both inside and outside the prisons —
refused to resolve the prison crisis.

Subsequently, despite many attempts to avoid it, the prisoners were
back on the slippery slope to another hunger-strike. Bobby Sands
commenced that hunger-strike on March 1st. He was followed a fort-
night later by Frankie Hughes of South Derry, and a further week later
by Raymond McCreesh of South Armagh and Patsy O'Hara of Derry
city,

‘That the republican prisoners are political prisoners is without
question. Bobby Sands’ writings say that better than | can ever hope to,
And the importance of popular mobilisations is also recognised in his
ings. Bobby wrote in ‘I fought @ monster today’: “My body is
broken and cold. I'm lonely and | need comfort. From somewhere afar
T hear those familiar voices which keep me going: ‘We are with you,
‘son. We are with you. Don't let them beat you.’ | need to hear those
voices. They anger the monster. It retreats... Sometimes | really long £0
hear those voices. | know if they shout louder they will scare the mon-
‘ster avay and my suffering will be ended.” And, in the same article,
written more than two-and-a-half years ago, he concluded: “/ remember,
and | shall never forget, how this monster took the lives of Tom Ashe,
Terence MacSwiney, Michael Gaughan, Frank Stagg, and Hugh Coney,
‘and | wonder each night what the monster will do to me tomorrow.”








‘THE WRITINGS OF BOBBY SANDS


Ionce had a life
[Fic pciibedin a Pha Renan News or T1979]

‘THE SUN hung high above, seemingly like a gaping hole in the still blue
sky, out of which the golden light came pouring down like honey to
feed the land and ripen the barley, while sending shimmering hazes
quivering above the melting tarmacadam surfaces. It was hot and
hhumid, the beads of sweat lined my forehead like an ornate jewel.

I walked along the well-trodden path that lay on the perimeter of
the forest and which rose steeply before me. | was in no hurry. | had
plenty of time to take in and enjoy the beautiful surroundings. A gentle
breeze sighed, sending ripples across an ocean of shining green and
rustic brown ferns that lay ahead of me.

Clusters of timid yellow primroses lined both sides of my avenue. A
young rabbit scurried across my path and vanished. Everything was
alive and buzzing, but there was peace in the activity of nature. A
passing crow cawed but the bees fed undisturbed upon the flowers,
while the refreshing scent of pine carried upon the breeze.

CLIMB

| mastered the twisting rising climb and crossed a clearing of tush

‘green grass, where 2 solitary young sycamore threw its shadow towards

a family of blucbells that flourished by a litle trickle of a stream, | sat

down upon an earthen mound and gazed down the hillside at the

sweeping landscape of deep green and every shade of brown, speckled
with orange and yellow and splashed with a million white dots,

Where the life of the forest receded and fought to guard its flanks
and outermost perimeter, a road ir. its infancy lay hollowed out in the
black hardened clay, clustered with machinery. A row of houses appear-
ed beyond, then another, leading to a massive concrete jungle where
tiny figures moved to and tro.

There were deck-chairs in the gardens where the sun-worshippers
gloated in contentment. A group of young lads played with a garden
hose, the cool white jet of water rising into the air before toppling
down upon them in a thousand shining litte silver drops.

BELFAST

To the right lay Belfast, belching out the sweat of the early morning
isers, and the cranes of the shipyard towered towards the cloudless
sky; in the distance stood another dogged giant, the Divis Tower, in the
shadow of its like-named mountain; and, nearer by, ‘Napoleon's Nose’
kept @ watch on the city, perhaps in rememberance of Wolfe Tone who

9














‘THE WRITINGS OF BOBBY SANDS.

visited it all those years ago.

| retraced my gaze and found with ease our old house. Nobody
knew was there any more, just strangers, who trimmed the lawn around
the ash tree that | grew up with. The fence needed a coat of paint and
‘the front garden had been deflowered of its colour, my mother and
father's pride and joy. An old dog chased ‘on the street where we
once played ‘kick the tin’ and the old fellows made their way to the
bookies for the first two across the card.

Farmer Thompson's old faithful dog brought his sheep in, a few fields
away, and @ wood pigeon fell to a distant shotgun, as | arose, not trom
my panoramic platform, but out of the inky blackness in the corner of
my filthy, cold cell, where, wrapping a dirty, flimsy blanket around me
‘to cover my naked body, | stepped towards the barred window and
leant my head against it.





10
The harvest
Britain
has sown

A STRETCH of tarmac surrounded by barbed wire and stee! is the only
view from my cell window. I'm told it's an exercise yard. | wouldn’t
know. In my fourteen months in H-Block 5, | haven't been allowed to
walk in the fresh air. I’m on ‘cellular confinement’ today. That is the
three days out of every fourteen when my only possessions, three
blankets and a mattress, are removed, leaving a blanket and a chamber
pot.

I'm left to pass the day like this, from 7.30 a.m. to 8.30 p.m. How
| spend my day is determined by the weather. If it's reasonably warm,
it’s possible to sit on the floor, stare at the white wails, and pass a few
hours day-dreaming. But otherwise | must spend my day continuously
pacing the cell to prevent the cold chilling through to my bones. Even
after my bedding is returned at 8.30 p.m. hours will pass before the
Circulation returns to my feet and legs.

TIME
Methods of passing the time are few and far between, so | am left
with many hours of contemplation: good times, bad times, how I got
here, but, most importantly, why I am here. During moments of weak-
ness’ try to convince myself thal a prison uniform and conforming
wouldn't be that bad. But the will to resist burns too strong within

To accept the status of criminal would be to degrade myself and to
admit that the cause that | believe in and cherish is wrong. When think-
ing of the men and women who sacrificed life itself, my suffering seems
insignificant. There have been many attempts to break my will, but each
fone has made me even more determined, | know my place is here with
my comrades.

I think of the only break in the monotony, the forty minutes |
spend at Mass each Sunday — ‘turn the other cheek’, ‘love thy
rneighbour’ — and | wonder, because over the months | know that
bitterness has grown inside me, A hatred go intensive that it frightens

| see it also in the faces of my comrades at Mass: the hatred in their
eyes. One day these young men will be fathers and these attitudes will

"






‘THE WRITINGS OF BOBBY SANDS
inevitably be passed on to their children,
FRIGHTENING

This is the harvest Britain has sown: her actions will eventually seal
the fate of her rule in Ireland,

It is frightening to see men become aged at eighteen and nineteen.
‘Young men wito were fit and strong in mind and body a year ago, now
resemble shrunken shells of human beings. Every aspect of H-Block life,
from cold, empty cells and denial of every comfort, to refusal of
‘medical tréatment, is designed to grind down our resistance, but it will
not succeed,

‘They may hold our bodies in the most inhuman conditions, but,
while our minds remain free, our victory is assured!





2
The window
of my mind

(Eve pubiched in Republican News, November 25%h 1978)
















WHEN one spends each day naked
and erouched in the corner of 2 cell
resembling a pigsty, staring at such
eye-sores as piles of putrifying
rubbish infested with maggots and
flies, a disease-ridden chamber pot,
for a black, disgustingly-scarred wall,
it is to the rescue of one’s sanity to
be able to rise and gaze out of a
window at the world.

Hele em a a eae
ore ae
saplings ee provide ne we
Snes unkegwn ples ree 4

Oa a dren alt wet, morale aang Noes SRST
ene’ staan is tpt and ahen tne tetany epee to apr ta
Sora i scotg'n many repecytocpenas havent wi
Sere ee frees tat the Cree ake getee Ie ae, ead
ita eae ante Bho ween oro young Rati ooo feet
few stale crusts of bread. Circling, swooping, sizing up and daring an
Sainte Society on Shee sued at Best ry sare on
Sse young anes feud ee transla, te ee one ear
Staal wang to aoenate an akeeys ara te wheke hel
Ca ara on ring te whale tnd
ree ene

But the ruler of the kingdom of my little twenty-yard arched view

13




‘THE WRITINGS OF BOBBY SANDS

of the outside world, is the seagull, who dominates, steals, pecks, and
denies the smaller birds their share. The seagull takes it all. In fact, his
‘appetite seems insatiable. He goes to any length to gorge himself. Thus
I dislike the seagull, and | often wonder why the starlings do not
direct their attention to the predator, rather than each other. Perhaps
this applies to more than birds.

SUMMER

During the summer months, finches were abundant, and the music
Of the lark a constant symphony of sound and a reminder of life. The
various crows, the odd magpie, and the little wagtails are still to be seen
and heard from dawn to dusk.

In the late evening, when most of the prisoners of war are sleeping,
when a hush descends, amplifying the gentle sound of a breeze, one can
gaze upon the ocean of sky and the multitude of stars that seem
‘embedded and ablaze in that black root of nothingness that not even
the moon in all her beaming regalia can penetrate, and one can dream
2 thousand dreams of yesterday, of childhood and happiness, of love
land joy, and escape through make-believe and fantasy. The evils that
engulf each day, forgotten about, and tomorrow as far away as the un
reachable stars.

‘On many a summer evening and cold winter night | stand with only
‘my old shabby bienket wrapped tightly around me, my breath pouring
‘out into the blackness, in ghost-like clouds, just dreaming, Many a day
in the eternal hours, | stand watching the birds and listening to the lark,
trying to discover its whereabouts in that stagnant blue ocean above me
‘hat represents the outside world, and I long for the liberty of the lark.



| suppose, to many, a few birds, the sound of a lark, a blue sky, of
full moon, are there, but unnoticed most of the time. But, to me, they
mean existence, peacefulness, comfort, entertainment, and something
to view, to help forget the tortures, brutalities, indignities and evils
that surround and attack my everyday life.

Today, the screws began blocking up all the windows with sheets of
steel. To me this represents and signifies the further torture of the tor-
tured, blocking out the very essence of life: natur

A ‘few words | once read came echoing back to me today: ‘No-one
‘can take away from a person his or her ability to contemplate. Throw
them into prison, give them hard labour, unimaginative work to do,
‘but you can never take away from them the ability to find the poetry
land music in life.’ And | also realised that, here, my torturers have long
‘90 started, and still endeavour, to block up the window of my











14
Athought
in the night

First published in Republican News, January 6th 1979,









THE WIND howled mournfully and swept across the brilliance of a
thousand lights illuminating the surrounding sky, while from the outer
darkness the heavy rain came hurtling down in sheets of silver crashing
upon the black tarmac surface, sending a million fairy-like figures
jigging and leaping in a frenzy of movement.

‘A thousand miles of grey barbed wire wavered and shook in protest
as the wind weaved and attacked it relentlessly. An unlocked gate
Clanged, and the panic-stricken barks of a distant guard dog hugged the
wind and were carried into the night. Then, as if the Good Lord had
snapped his fingers, a silence fel

‘The wind was tamed and the fairies clung to the grey wire like a mul:



Bobby Sands’ mother and sister, Marcella

16
‘THE WRITINGS OF BOBBY SANDS.

titude of sparkling pearls. The ensuing calm and sudden hush were eerie
Until disturbed by a moan from the unlocked gate and the sharp
piercing cries of the unseen night travellers, the snipe and the curlew.
The pools of silver rain glimmered as the passing night settled to re-
cuperate from its raging ordeal and | gazed at a distant star to dream in
the newly born tranquillity, as the cold dampness of the December even:
ing descended.

FAMILY
My thoughts were of my home and family, my wife and son. | tried,
to visualise the fading faces of my mother and father whom I have not
seen for along time, whom | fear | will not see again, Then came an old,
companion of mine: depression! It tore at my heart and engulfed me
with its unseen shroud of misery. The more I thought of home and
family, the deeper | plunged into its darkest depths.
‘The smile, she soft warm tender smile of my wife, kept coming up
out of the darkness in front of me, and | heard her plaintive gentle
“I miss you, and | love you, come home’. And my son lay sleep:
ing like an angel, innocent and unaware of his mother’s hardship and
loneliness, with no father to tuck him into bed, to love or emulate as he
grew; and he sighed as only an innocent sighs, and rolled over in his
dreamy sleep.









FACES

‘Then came the faces of my family, my sisters and brother, growing
up in my absence. And | knew just how much I loved them, and how |
longed to share this short life with them and my poor mother. Lord,
my poor tortured mother, grey and marked with a lifetime of worry
and hardship that only she knows the entirety and toll of. And I said:
‘Vm sorry that you have suffered through my sufferings, mother.’ As
ever, she replied: ‘Don't be humble. You're my son, and Ill always
stand by you.’ My father, quiet as always in his own way, stood beside
hher. ‘Take heart, son’, he said, ‘take heart’.

‘The sky began to grey as the dawn threatened, and the birds awoke
to proclaim the existence of life and nature. In the outer corridor of
silence a key jingled and footsteps epproached from afar. Depression
slipped away unnoticed, as tension attacked my nerves and fear fell
with the dawn.

‘Three hundred and fifty naked bodies stirred, a million thoughts and
dreams fled, and a nightmare decended as the sun shone clear. Another
‘day began. The footsteps grew louder and louder, and a voice said: ‘Get
up, you bastards’. | braced myself and thought: ‘Oh for the darkness of
a stormy night.”



16
A break in
the monotony

Firs published in se, January Doth 197S



A THIN LAYER of virgin snow covered all but a few spaces on the
raven-black surface of the small, barren, tarmac yard which lay dormant
outside my cell window. The first snow of an unwelcome winter had
just fallen as the grey light of another dying day faded.

‘The sky was @ swirling mass of white snow clouds which hung
threateningly, biding their time, waiting to release their monster load
of freezing wintry flakes to consume the land and to paint the country
side a brilliant white.

It was bitter cold. | had been huddled up in the corner of my
freezing cell. The thin foam mattress which serves as my bed upon the
cold concrete floor was damp, worn and dirty. | was sitting upon it,
trying to find some warmth with the flimsy worn blankets that ! had
tightly wrapped around my body.

Suddenly. I was drawn to the window by the burst of chatter and
excitement that came from two or three of my naked comrades a short
distance away, as they announced the nasty change in the weather from.
the windows of their cave-like cells. It was a break in the almost eternal
boredom and an unexpected change in the eye-sore scenery of the grey
steel crisscrossed wire and corrugated timbers.

‘The thin covering of snow glistened and glittered, blocking out the
freyness and painting a new picture. It was something new to view to
help pass the never-ending hours, end, with the imminent promise of
more to fall,,the attraction drove the rest of the lads to the windows
and the chatter built up.











MEMORIES

Old, almost forgotten memories of winters gone by were dug up
from the back of scarred minds and were shared one after the other out
the windows. The latest news was passed across to the boys on the
other side of the wing who, being unable to see out of their recently.
blocked-up fortified windows, were driven to their doors by cui
to seek the answer to the abnormal commotion from their excited
comrades.

‘Another thin fall of snow fluttered through the descending dark-
ness and a thousand coloured lights of orange, white, and red, illum-
inated the surrounding area, sparkling and reflecting off the frosted
timbers, flashing upon the miles of snow-covered barbed-wire, varnish:

”




‘THE WRITINGS OF BOBBY SANDS

ing the smooth carpet that lay upon the yard. The snowflakes appear-
ed like magic from out of the blackness above, floating as if to the
‘music of the sighing wind to their earthly destination.

Clouds from my warm breath daparted out of the paneless window
Into the night, Flakes of snow and frost clung to my long shaggy beard,
land my eyes watered as the cold cut at my face and attacked my naked
body. Who would imagine such a beautiful night could be found in a
place filled with so much misery and pain, | thought, as | rubbed my
inands and stamped my bare feet in an attempt to bring some
warmth back into them, The chatter was dying at the windows, only
the hearty and lonely remained braving the cold. Another sleepless
night, | thought.



coLD

The concrete floor was so cold that to pace the floor would be
impossible in one’s bare feet. Three small flimsy blankets and lying
upon a damp mattress would not provide enough warmth for escape
through sleep. This night will be another night, huddled up in the

18
ABREAK IN THE MONOTONY

corner, fighting the intense cold amidst despairing thoughts when
pain and depression become almost overwhelming,

‘The wind is rising and growing angry; it will carry the blankets of
falling snow in through the paneless windows. | am very, very cold now.
Vean stand here and freeze at the window gazing upon this barbed:
wire jungle of colour and whiteness, or | can retreat to my little den in
the corner of my tomb and gaze at my nightmarish surroundings upon
the dark sinister shadows which the filthy walls conjure up, or on the
piles of scattered, once putrifying, now stinking rubbish which scars the
floor.

Cold, tasteless porridge for breakfast tomorrow morning, the prom:
ise of yet another beating and another eternity, and another cold, cold
night.

‘The monster is shedding its coat of a million snowflakes, the other

sleeping somewhere, tomorrow is the last day of the year.
jr windows now. Dear God, | wonder how things,





are in Siberia?

19
THE WRITINGS OF BOBBY SANDS

The woman cried

20

From humble home in dead of night,
‘A flitting shadow fled,

The yellow moon caught sharpened pike,
Where the night shades danced and played.

A bramble clawed at trembling hand,
‘And a night ow! watched unseen,

Through bog and glen a United man,
‘Marched out to win a dream.

Cold black wate lashed and splashed,
‘And played around a tattered reed,

By dying embers, to God a woman prayed,
That the Gael might but succeed.

The silver nails of a rugged boot,
Scarred a lonely lifeless stone,

‘Cross rambling hill he marched afoot,
To fight along with Tone.

Six days he fought,

‘Midst dying piles of gory mutilated heroes,
And the English cannon roared,

Upon the ghosts of Celtic bones,
A nation’s blood was poured.

Thousands fell in screaming bloody terror,
Whilst the informer hid cowering close by,

But there were none left amongst that bloody fray,
To hear the woman cry.


The battle
for survival

First published in An Phablachi/Republican News, January 27¢h, 1979)





THE GREATEST part of each seemingly eternal day that | face, is
filled with thought. | have nothing else to help pass the time during the
long, never-ending hours. Boredom and loneliness are terrible things,
continual and unrelenting. | have but one weapon to overcome them:
‘my own thoughts.

To pass the time and to keep warm | pace the floor. Sometimes |
stand gazing out of the cell window at the grey barbed wire or simply
just sit upon my dirty damp mattress on the floor in the corner of my
dungeon-like tomb. But all of the while I'm thinking of something,
somebody, or some place. It may be deep, serious thought or da
dreaming fo escape the reality of my nightmarish situation.

‘Again, | might be, and often as not | am, worrying, thinking of what
is going on around me, or what may lie before me. Each day my com-
rades and | face a psychological battle for survival. It is a very intense
struggle and the enemy is unmerciful

For someone who is contented, or unconcerned with any great
worry, living what is termed an everyday life, you may find my
Psychological circumstances hard to comprehend. For two reasons:
firstly, my inability to describe the psychological struggle of myself

2






‘THE WRITINGS OF BOBBY SANDS

and of my three hundred and fifty comrades; secondly, it is terribly
hard, if not inconceivable, to conjure up in one’s imagination the pain
and stress of psychological torture or to know its many forms or to
Understand its various effects.

IMAGINE

Imagine how it would feel to be locked up naked in solitary confine
ment, twenty-four hours a day, and subjected to total deprivation of
not only common, everyday things, but of basic human necessities,
fuch as clothes, fresh air and exercise, the company of other human

ings.

In short, imagine being entombed, naked and alone, for a whole
day, What would it be like for twenty torturous months!

‘Now again, with this in mind, try and imagine just what it i like
to be in this situation in surroundings that resemble @ pigsty, and you
are crouched naked upon the floor in a corner, freezing cold, amid the
lingering stench of putrifying rubbish, with crawling, wriggling white
maggots all around you, fat bloated flies pestering your naked body,
the silence is nerve-wrecking, your mind is in turmoil

You are sitting waiting on the screws coming to your cell to drag
you out to be forcibly bathed, You have heard and seen the horrible
results of this from many of your comrades at Mass. You know only
‘too well what it means: the skin scrubbed from your body with heavy
brushes. The screws have told you that you are next. You wait all day,
just thinking. Your mind is wrecked. Maybe they've forgotten, you kid
‘yourself; but you know they never forget.

‘They don’t come, The next day is the same, and the next, and the
next. You become more and more depressed. For days your thoughts
have been the same, a mass of fear, fearing what lies ahead,

BEATEN

Consider being in that frame of mind every day! Knowing in your
mind that you're to be beaten nearly senseless, forcibly bathed, or held
down to have your back passage examined or probed. These things a
common facts of everyday H-Block life,

It is inconceivable to try to imagine what an eighteen-year-old naked
lad goes through when a dozen or so screws slaughter him with batons,
boots, and punches, while dragging him by the hair along a corridor,
or when they squeeze his privates until he collapses, or throw scalding
water around his naked body. It is also inconceivable for me to
describe, let alone for you to imagine, our state of mind just sitting
waiting for this to happen. I can say thet this physical and psycholog:
ical torture in the H-Blocks has brought many men to the verge of in-
sanity.

We are in a very, very bad state now. What will we be like at the end
of the day, or in the years to come? My mind is scarred deep. It is as
equally @ worrying thought that we may end up unable to even think
at alll With that in ‘your’ mind, | will leave off. Think about it, but just
don’t leave it at that

22











Alone and
condemned

First published in Repu





iran News, January 130h, 1979







THE HEAVY steel door of the punishment cell slammed shut behind
me, In a bewildered daze | vaguely heard the jingle of keys and the
steady footsteps fading away in the wake of its thunderous echo. An
ungodly silence fell, leaving only the sound of my sharp rasping breaths.

My eyes flashed at the bareness of my humble surroundings. A
wooden board for a bed, a concrete block for a stool, a conerete slab
as a table, A bright light burned high above me, reflecting off the chalk-
white walis, and the severe cold bored through my body and numbed my
bare feet. Naked, alone, and condemned, | began to pace the small,
freezing cold cell; my thoughts in an entangled mess, riddled with
panic, worry and fear. Condemned! ‘We'll be back in eight hours’,
that’s what they said, Jesus, what time is it now? Eight hours, that’s
all I've left,

It will hurt. | know it will hurt, Everyone says it hurts. Oh God, it's
not happening to me. It’s not happening, I'm trapped. Entombed! | No
escape! Nowhere to hide. And nowhere to run. I'm condemned to face
what awaits me in eight hours. | can’t appeal, | can’t plead, they won't
even listen, they just laugh, they're glad, they revel In it. That's why
they give me 2 warning of eight hours, to watch me sweat and worry.
‘They have it well planned.





WATCHING
They're watching me now. They're watching me through that little
-slit im the cell door. They won't give me peace, but what peace can |
find? I'm so seared, | can’t even think right. I wish | was at home, |
‘wonder what the family are doing now? Sitting around the fire in a nice
warm room having tea. Jesus, it's getting colder. My feet are blue. |
wonder what they are thinking? What would they think if they knew
what ig to happen to me? It would only make it worse, they would
suffer, they would worry so much, but maybe they have secretly been
‘expecting this, and never said so. Maybe it’s better they don’t know.
‘They won't break my spirit. | won't let them do that. They can do
What they will with me, but I won't concede my spirit. Yes, that’s
it. Calm down, fight back, show them your spirit, settle down, and get
ready for them..... There's a bible in the corner ~ flick through it and
stop thinking about it. Six hours! Take heart... The prophet Sirach:
“Blessed is he whose heart does not condemn him, and who does not



23
THE WRITINGS OF BOBBY SANDS

BOBBY SANDS





give up his hope.’ Remember that. Remember those words. I'm alright.
won't give up hope. No, | won't give up hope.





‘get your body warm. How long left now? What time is it? I'm los
track. Have a guess. Five hours left, maybe less. | must be ready. 1
shaking again. Don't fail now. Get it right, they'll be back. I'm
depressed! Jesus Christ! I'm cracking, I'm going insane... | wish |
hhad someone to talk to, even for a few minutes.

Keys! The jingle of keys. Footsteps! They’re coming back. Jesus
i's not time yet. They've tricked me, they're coming for me now.
Don't fail, remember your spirit. ‘Blessed is he who does not give up
this hope.” Jesus, Mary and Joseph, watch over me and protect me. Key
in the door. It’s open. Oh, dear God.

“Grub up! What are you gaping at, son? Take it.” (You'll pay some
day, you bastard, you'll pay.) “Don’t stir. Take it in, you tramp.”

Got it. He's shutting the door. Slam! Keys jingling. They'te going,
they're leaving. Thank God. Thank God, they've gone. Don't give up
hope, there's hope still

Cold food, no knife, no fork, only @ plastic spoon. I'm not hungry,
my stomach’s turning, Nerves again. | must calm down. Meet them
dignity. That's a word: ‘dignity’. They can’t take that from me either.
Naked as | am, treated worse than an animal, | am what I am, They
can’t and won't change that.

‘A cigarette would be nice. It’s so long since I've had a cigarette or

24










ALONE AND CONDEMNED

warm clothing or slept in a dry bed, I forgot what it’s like to live. |
must be shocked, 1 don’t even feel the cold any more. I've lost the
feeling in my poor tortured feet. It doesn't matter. It won't be long
now. It’s creeping closer.





FOOTSTEPS

Two hours. Time waits on no man, I'm exhausted. God, I'm tired.
| wish I could lie down and go to sleep, and wake up out of t
nightmare. They're watching me again. Keep walking. I'm sure they
don’t even feel guilty. Money consoles their conscience. That is their
Purpose in life, to gain as much of it as possibl
‘merciless parasites. Torture mongers. Yes, that’s what they are. Some
day their turn will come. They'll have to answer for everything!

It’s getting dark. Winter nights. | hate winter. It's so cold and dark
‘and lonely. | wish | was free... God, my head's splitting, migraine
‘again. | feel really bad. It’s the waiting, that’s worse than anything.
When it happens it will be over and that will be it, but it’s the
waiting.

1 feel like the only person left in the world, I'm so isolated. Fear is
a terrible thing, but | must keep my head up. My spirit will survive.
They expect me to give up, to break down, but they're going to be
disappointed. | shall resist. It’s only natural that ! should be afraid. Who
wouldn't be? It must be nearly time. I can hear them moving about.
There will be plenty of them, there always is. God, life is hard for the
oppressed, but to fight back is a victory. To remain unbroken in spirit
isa great victory.

Here they come, keys jingling and their heavy footsteps clattering.
Get ready, face them. Jesus, this is it. This time, dear God, protect
me. “Get on your feet, tramp, we're coming.” \'m shaking again. Re-
member your spirit. They won't break that. Keys in the lock, the door
is open. Jesus, there must be a dozen of them. “Ai

“1m... I'm not going.” (Laugh all you want you torture mongers.)

“What did you say?”

id 17m not going.” (Some day you will lgh on the other
your faces
‘You're going alright, son. Get him out.”
Jesus, they're on top of me, kicking and punching... I'm out of the
‘cell, and in the corridor. Jesus, they're dragging me by the hair. My
head's on fire, my eye is bleeding, they'll kill mel

“Right, get him into it. Get him into it!” Jesus, it’s stinging the
eyes out of me! “Get the brushes.” They're scrubbing the skin from
my back, my flesh is burning, they're murdering me. My face and body
{are covered in blood and marks.

“Give it to him right. Give it to him right, s0 the rest of these
bastards will see what they're going to get too.”

‘Jesus! They're killing me. They're killing me. My head's light. Re-
tember your sit. ‘Bese is he who doesnot ive uphishope.’ Don’t

























25
THE WRITINGS OF BOBBY SANDS

Modern times

{It is said we live in modern times,
In the civilised year of ‘seventy-nine,
But when | look around, al! | soe,
Js modern torture, pain, and hypocrisy.

In modern times little children die,
They starve to death, but who dares ask why?
And litle girls without attire,
Run screaming, napalmed, through the night fire.

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.

In the gutter les 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

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!
Iam Sir,
you are 1066!

I MUST have died last night, because when I awoke this morning | was
in hell. | don’t really know how I got here. | don’t think I've done any:
thing to deserve being here. But | am here, and | am suffering terribly.
think | am in some sort of tomb. | can not see, as everywhere is in
‘total darkness. | have no clothes on, except some sort of rag around
my waist

The floor of my tomb is covered in a wet mushy substance, the
source or nature of which | don't know. There is a revolting stench
lingering in the darkness and the air is warm, heavy and humid. Ther
js something soft and damp lying in the corer, which seems to be
some sort of bedding to lie upon

| can hear heavy booming noises echoing all around me like thunder,
Somehow it reminds me of heavy doors closing. | check the four walls
of my tomb; there appears to be some sort of a door in one of ti
walls

can’t understand my being here. What, | wonder, will become of
me? I know | am a human being, although I'm naked and bearded. 1
‘can think and breathe. Am ! in hell or some sort of limbo?

APPROACHING
| can hear heavy footsteps approaching. They stop quite near to me.
“There is someone or sumething nearhy. | can hear it moving and breath:
ing, It is watching me, More noise directly outside my tomb, a rattle of
metal against metal. A square form of light begins to materialise, reveal-
ing an entrance as a door swings open. A figure stands in the grey dim
light of the doorway. It is a human figure, dressed in what appears to
bbe some sort of black uniform. It stands scrutinising me in silence for
several seconds, before letting out a terrifying yell that sends shivers
through my body,

“1 am Sir!” The words echo around my tomb. “I am Sir!" it bellows
again. “I am Sir, you are 1066!” The door slams shut with a loud
explosive boom, killing the dim light where the entrance had been. Still
afraid to move I'stand in the total darkness.

What is 1066, I think? Obviously it is me, but I can think, speak,
smell and touch, | have all my senses, therefore | am not a number, |
‘am not 1066, | am human, | am not a number, | am not 1066! Who, or

2





iy Ta 19)














THE WRITINGS OF BOBBY SANDS



what, is @ Sir? It frightened me, Itwasevil | sensed its hatred of me, its
eagerness to dominate me, and its potential violent nature. Oh, what
will become of me? | remember | once had a family. Where are they
‘now? Will | ever see or hear of them again?

WATCHING

It’s watching me. Once more the door opens. The dim light gives off

2 little ‘illumination, revealing the black uniformed figure at the

doorway. “am Sir,” it says, “here is your food, 1066.” A bowl is

thrust. into my hands as the door slams. Before the light dies I catch a

limpse of the floor. It is covered in filth and rubbish. There are several

‘maggots clinging to my legs. The walls are covered with a mass of fat
bloated flies.

‘Once again I am terror-stricken. | pace the floor, aghast at my sur:



28
1AM SIR, YOU ARE 1066

oundings. The bow! in my hand is cold, it contains some sort of porr-
idge or gruel. The smell from it revolts me. | set it down on the floor.
Pacing the floor in total darkness, | become engulfed with depression
‘and despair. | wish | was dead. “But / am dead,” | say aloud. | can't
even kill myself, | think.

‘A breeze: | feel a breeze coming from the wall behind me. Feeling
about, | touch a piece of cloth. | tug it and it fais. A light of great
intensity hits my eyes, temporarily blinding me. My tomb becomes
illuminated with light, revealing a window divided with conerete bars.
Stepping closer, thousands of lights of every size and colour appear in
my view. These lights are perched upon mountains of barbed wire that
litter and sparkle on the ink-black horizon,

‘Another step forward, and still looking straight ahead, a small build.
ing looms up in front of me, displaying a dozen or so windows all of
Which are brightly lit up. Several naked figures appear at the windows,
‘The building is thirty yards away. | can see that all the figures are
bearded, they all seem to be fairly young, but all their faces are pale
and haggard. They are young men, but have old men’s faces. Am |
gazing at death? These figures keep staring out at nothing, or pacing
to and fro.









FOOTSTEPS

Footsteps again! 1 turn, apprehension again gripping me, to await,
my door being opened’ again. My new-found curiosity having
diminished, | fall deeper into the depths of depression and despair.
‘The thought of what lies on the other side of that door tortures me.

The door swings open, and several black uniformed figures stand
there, surrounding a very small, fat, evl-looking person who evidently is.
their leader. They all glare at me, and then begin to shout at me: “/ am
@ Sir,” “1 am a Sir,” “You will conform,” “Conform,” “Conform.”
‘They all grab me and start to beat and kick me while screaming: “You
will conform,” “You will conform in H-Block 5.""

awake, ‘shouting and rolling on a filthy mattress on the floor.
“Where am 1?”

“Are you alright?” asks my cell

“Where am 1?”

“You are in your cell, you must've been having a nightmare,” he
says.

‘Our cell door opens and a black uniformed figure stands there,
“Food,” he says.

“What was that, Mister?””| ask.

“You call me Sir. You're in the H-Blocks now! You're in H-Block
5. Don’t forget it, 1066!”











ate,

29
‘THE WRITINGS OF BOBBY SANDS


I fought
a monster
today





Fn 1978



| FOUGHT a monster today and once more | defeated the monster's
army. Although | did not escape, | survived to fight another day. It
was hard; harder today than ever before, and it gets worse every day.
You see I am trapped and all | can do is resist. ! know some day | will
defeat this monster, but | weary at times. | think and feel that it may
killime first

The monster is shrewd. It plays with me, it humiliates me, and tor
tures me. I'm like a mouse in comparison to this giant, but when |
repel the torture it inflicts upon me | feel ten feet tall for | know | am.
right. know that | am what | am, no matter what may be inflicted
upon me, it will never change that fact.

RESIST

When 1 resist, it doesn’t understand. You see it doesn’t even try
to comprehend why | resist. ‘Why don’t you give in to me?” it says.
‘Give in! Give in to us!’ the monster's army jibes. My body wants
to say: ‘Yes, yes, do what you will with me. | am beaten, you have
beaten me.” But my spirit’ prevails. My spirit says: ‘No, no, you
cannot do what you want with me. Iam not beaten. You cannot do
what you want with me. I refuse to by beaten.”

This angers the monster. It goes mad. It brutalises me to the point of
death. But it does not kill me. | often wonder why not? But each time
1 face it, death materialises before me. The monster keeps me naked.
It feeds me. But it didn’t feed me today because it had tried so hard
to defeat me and failed. This angered it once more you see. | know why
it won't kill me. It wants me to bow before it, to admit defeat.







INHUMAN
If we don’t beat it soon it will murder me. Of this | am certain, It
keeps me locked up in a dark smelly tomb and it sends its devils to
keep me on edge, to keep the torture going. Each time the door of my
tomb opens, the black devils attack me! They nearly won yesterday.
It was inhuman, They beat me into unconsciousness. | think, ‘is this
really happening to me?" and, ‘can this happen in this day and age?”



a
‘THE WRITINGS OF BOBBY SANDS.

oe
oy

ii

Monsters do not exist. Nor do devils. There cannot be so many
devils. I'm mad. Yes, that's it; I'm insane. But my pain, suffering, and
Grief are real. It must be al real. No, I’m right, ! know I'm right. | must
resist, | have nowhere to run, My tomb may be my grave. I'm surround.
fed by a barbed wire jungle. The monster roars at me: "Vou shall never,
get out of here. If you don’t do as I say | shall never release you.’ |
refuse.

My body is broken and cold. !'m lonely and I need comfort. From
somewhere afar | hear those familiar voices which keep me going: ‘We
{are with you, son. We are with you. Don't let them beat you."

Uneed to hear those voices. They anger the monster. It retreats. The
voices scare the devils. Sometimes I really long to hear those voices. |
know if they shout louder they will scare the monster away and my
suffering will be ended.

remember, and I shall never forget, how this monster took the
lives of Tom Ashe, Terence MacSwiney, Michael Gaughan, Frank Stago,
‘and Hugh Coney, and | wonder each night what the monster and his
black devils will do to me tomorrow.

They always have something new. Will | overcome it? | must. Yes, |
must. Tomorrow will be my seven hundred and fortieth day of torture
="an eternity. Yes, tomorrow I'll rise in the H-Blocks of Long Kesh,
Yes, tomorrow I'll fight the monster and his devils again!

32




The Lark
and the
freedom

fighter

‘First published in An Phoblacht/ Republican News, February 3rd 1979









MY GRANDFATHER once said that the imprisonment of the lark
is a crime of the greatest cruelty because the lark is one of the greatest
symbols of freedom and happiness. He often spoke of the spirit of the
lark relating to a story of @ man who incarcerated one of his loved
friends in a emall cage.

The lark, having suffered the loss of her liberty, no longer sung her
little heart out, she no longer had anything to be happy about. The man
who had committed the atrocity, as my grandfather called it, demand:
(ed that the lark should do as he wished: that was to sing her heart out,
to comply to his wishes and change herself to suit his pleasure of

33




‘THE WRITINGS OF BOBBY SANDS

benefi

“The lark refused, and the man became angry and violent. He began
-0 pressur'se the lark to sing, but inevitably he received no result. So
he took more drastic steps. He covered the cage with a black cloth,
spr ving the bird of sunlight. He starved it and left it to rot in a dirty
‘cage, but the bird still refused to yield. The man murdered it.

‘As my grandfather rightly stated, the lark had spirit — the spirit of
freedom and resistance. It longed to be free, and died before it would
conform to the tyrant who tried to change it with torture and imprison:
ment. | feel | have something in common with that bird and her tor
ture, imprisonment and final murder. She had a spirit which is not
commonly found, even among us so-called superior beings, humans.

Take an ordinary prisoner. His main aim is to make his period of
imprisonment as easy and as comfortable as possible. The ordinary
prisoner will in no way jeopardise a single day of his remission, Some
will even grovel, crawl, and inform on other prisoners, to safeguard
themselves or to speed Up their release. They will comply to the wishes
of their captors, and unlike the lark, they will sing when told to and
jump high when told to move.

‘Although the ordinary prisoner has lost his liberty he is not pre-
pared to go to extremes to regain it, nor to protect his humanity. He
Settles for a short date of release. Eventually, if incarcerated long
enough, he becomes institutionalised, becoming a type of machi
Not thinking for himself, his captors dominating and controlling him.
‘That was the intended fate of the lark in my grandfather's story: but
the lark needed no changing, nor did it wish to change, and died making
that point,















CONTRAST

This brings me directly back to my own situation: | feel some-
thing in common with that poor bird. My position is in total contrast
to that of an ordinary conforming prisoner: | am a political prisoner,
a freedom fighter. Like the lark, | too have fought for my freedom,
hot only in captivity, where | now languish, but also while on th
‘outside, where my country is held captive. | have been captured and.
imprisoned, but, like the lark, | too have seen the outside of the wire
cage.

Tam now in H-Block, where | refuse to change to suit the people
who oppress, torture and imprison me, and who wish to dehumanise
me. Like the lark I need no changing. It is my political ideology
and principles that my captors wish to change. They have suppressed
my body and attacked my dignity. If | were an ordinary prisoner they
‘would pay litte, if any, attention to me, knowing that | would conform
{to their institutional whims.

| have lost over two years! remission. | care not. | have been stripped
fof my clothes and locked in a dirty, empty coli, where | have been,
starved, beaten, and tortured, and like the lark | fear | may eventually
be murdered. Sut, dare | say it, similar to my little friend, | have the
spirit of freedom that cannot be quenched by even the most horren-

34




dous treatment. Of course | can be murdered, but while I remain alive,
remain what | am, 2 political prisoner of war, and no-one can change
‘that.

Haven't we plenty of larks to prove that? Our history is heart-
breakingly littered with them: the MacSwineys, the Gaughans, and the
‘Staggs. Will there be more in H-Block?

Vdare not conclude without finishing my grandfather's story. 1
‘once asked him whatever happened to the wicked man who imprison-
ed, tortured and murdered the lark?

“Son,” he said, “one day he caught himself on one of his own traps,
‘and no-one would assist him to get free. His own people szorned him,
‘and turned their backs on him. He grew weaker and weaker, and finally
toppled over to die upon the land which he had marred with such
blood. The birds came and extracted their revenge by picking his eyes
‘out, and the larks sang like they never sang before.””

“Grandfather,” \ said, “could that man’s name have been John
Bun?”