One Day In My Life

Diary of an Irish Republican Hunger Striker

Bobby Sands Trust

• Publisher: Mercier Press
• Year: 2001
• Print ISBN: 9781856353496
• eBook ISBN: 9781781172179
• Topic: Politics & International Relations
• Subtopic: Political Biographies
• Index: Politics & International Relations

Bobby Sands was 27 years old when he died. He spent almost nine years of his life in prison because of his Irish republican activities. He died, in prison, on 5 May 1981, on the sixty-sixth day of his hunger strike at Long Kesh Prison, outside Belfast. This book documents a day in the life of Bobby Sands. It is a tale of human bravery, endurance and courage against a backdrop of suffering, terror and harassment. It will live on as a constant reminder of events that should never have happened – and hopefully will never happen again.

One Day in My Life

I

t was still dark and snowing lightly when I woke. I don’t think I got more than an hour’s sleep during the long restless torturous night. The cold was intense, biting at my naked body. For at least the thousandth time I rolled over on to my side, hugging the blankets close to my body. The sleep that the bitter cold had denied me, hung above me, leaving me tired and drowsy. I was somewhat exhausted, and every bone in my body seemed to be protesting at the ordeal of having spent yet another night on a damp foam mattress on the floor. No sleep again worth mentioning! I was frustrated, cross and curled up in a little ball to get warm. If I had had something to boot, I would have booted it, that’s just how I felt. I had tried lying in every sort of position to get warm, but the cold still penetrated. My three flimsy blankets were no match for the bitter, biting cold that came creeping through the bars of my window, situated above my head.

Dear God, another day I thought, and it was a far from pleasant thought. Naked, I rose and crossed the cell floor through the shadows to the corner to urinate. It was deadly cold. The stench rose to remind me of my situation and the floor was damp and gooey in places. Piles of rubbish lay scattered about the cell and in the dimness dark, eerie figures screamed at me from the surrounding, dirty, mutilated walls. The stench of excreta and urine was heavy and lingering. I lifted the small water container from amongst the rubbish and challenged an early morning drink in a vain effort to remove the foul taste in my throat. God it was cold.

It was beginning to grey outside as dawn approached, and the crows began to assemble themselves in long black lines upon the snow-covered barbed wire fencing. One morning I am going to wake up out of this nightmare, I thought, as I huddled in under the blankets again. Apart from the caws of the crows it was sinisterly quiet. I was sure many of the lads lay awake, probably just lying huddled up trying to get warm. The prospect of cold, tasteless porridge along with two slices of bread and half a mug of lukewarm tea for breakfast was depressing. It was simply demoralising just thinking of it.

The dawn broke and out of the shadows of the dead night materialised the daily nightmare. The dirt and filth, the scarred walls – the inner confines of my stinking, smelly tomb greeted me once again. I lay listening to my own gentle breathing and to the caws of the crows.

The snow lay deep upon the outside yard. Didn’t I know it only too well, having spent half the night huddled up in the corner while it fell in through the bars of my window to its earthly destination upon my bed. In the first light of morning boredom began to set in. The day ahead would seem like eternity and depression would soon be my companion again. I lay there, freezing cold and uncomfortable, feeling a bit sorry for myself with the thought of yet another day churning around in my head.

A key clinked against the steel. Footsteps came charging along the outside corridor breaking the silence. The crows fled in an explosion of chattering caws; my mind fought to register the meaning of the disturbing confusion. Panic gripped me as the heavy steel door rattled and flew open. A wave of black uniforms swept into my cell blotting out the door space. A gruff, intimidating voice yelled, ‘Right you, get up!’

I was already halfway to my feet before the last syllable left his rowdy mouth, wrapping my threadbare old blue towel around my shivering waist.

‘Bears in the air’ echoed throughout the wing as those awake and alerted by the invasion warned the rest of the lads that there were screws in the wing.

‘Wing shift,’ someone shouted, leaving me in no doubt as to what was to come.

‘Right you, out and up to the top of the wing and be quick,’ rowdy mouth snapped. I moved out of the cell, the corridor was black with uniforms, batons dangling by their sides.

‘Not quick enough,’ rowdy mouth snapped again.

Two strong pairs of arms gripped me from behind. My arms were wrenched up my back and my feet left the floor. A mass of black thronged around me and moved in a sudden burst of speed dragging me along with it. I came back to earth and a well-polished pair of leather official-issue boots ground into my feet. A screw on the perimeter of the now excited gang kneed me in the thigh. I felt like vomiting and screaming surrender but I remained mute. A table loomed up before me where half a dozen or so screws converged, gaping and inspecting me – their first intentional prey. I was left standing in the midst of the black horde who awaited their cue from the mouthpiece.

‘Right,’ screamed the self-appointed tyrant. ‘Drop that towel, turn round. Bend down and touch your toes.’

I dropped my towel, turned a full circle and stood there embarrassed and naked, all eyes scrutinising my body.

‘You forgot something,’ the mouthpiece grunted.

‘No I didn’t,’ I stammered in a fit of bravado.

‘Bend down tramp,’ he hissed right into my face in a voice that hinted of a strained patience. Here it comes, I thought.

‘I’m not bending,’ I said.

Roars of forced laughter reinforced by a barrage of jibes and abuse erupted.

‘Not bending!’ the confident bastard jibed.

‘Not bending! Ha! Ha! He’s not bending, lads,’ he said to the impatient audience.

Jesus, here it comes. He stepped beside me, still laughing and hit me. Within a few seconds, in the midst of the white flashes, I fell to the floor as blows rained upon me from every conceivable angle. I was dragged back up again to my feet and thrown like a side of bacon, face downwards on the table. Searching hands pulled at my arms and legs, spreading me like a pelt of leather. Someone had my head pulled back by the hair while some pervert began probing and poking my anus.

It was great fun; everybody was killing themselves laughing, except me, while all the time a barrage of punches rained down on my naked body. I was writhing in pain. They gripped me tighter as each blow found its destination. My face was smashed against the table and blood smeared the table under my face. I was dazed and hurt. Then they dragged me off the table and let me drop to the floor. My first reaction was to wrap the towel which lay beside me around my reddened waist. Again I was gripped by the arms from behind and dragged towards the other wing. I just caught a glimpse of one of my comrades being beaten and dragged to the table, while in the background someone else was being kicked out of his cell. A cell door opened and I was flung inside. The door slammed shut and I lay on the concrete floor, chest pounding and every nerve in my body strained. Could have been worse, I tried to tell myself as a consolation. But this didn’t convince me or my aching body one bit.

The cold drove me off the floor. Every part of my body protested as I made the slow ascent to my feet. A trickle of blood ran from my mouth on to my long shaggy beard and dripped on to the floor. My skin was finely emblazoned with a host of bruises and marks. I was trembling. I hadn’t really had very much time to be frightened; everything had moved too fast. Thank God I had not been asleep when they came.

‘We’ll get those bastards someday,’ I told myself. We’ll see how big they are then, I thought, as I spat out a mouthful of blood into the corner.

‘We’ll see how great they are then.’

I began pacing the floor. The cold streamed in through the open window and still clad in only a towel, I really felt it. God I was sore.

More bodies were dragged down the wing.

The bastards were shouting their sadistic heads off, revelling in the blood and pain, all of it ours, of course. God only knows how long it will be before they decide to throw us in a blanket. An empty, freezing-cold cell, an aching black-and-blue frozen body, a bunch of psychopaths beating men to pulp outside the door and it isn’t even bloody well breakfast time yet!

‘Suffering Jesus, can it get any worse?’ I asked myself, and then answered, ‘you know bloody well that it will.’ That’s what was worrying me.

Regardless of my aching body, I continued to pace the floor trying to get some sort of warmth into my body. My feet were now blue with the cold and I thought my entire body was going to give up to the freezing cold. The shock had worn off and the pain and cold were attacking me relentlessly. The snow had begun falling again. On the outside wire there wasn’t a crow to be seen.

A few of my comrades shared their experiences and injuries out the windows of a few cells down the wing. I heard the rattle of the trolley and I knew breakfast was coming, and still no blankets or mattress. Don’t forget to see which screws are on the wing today, when the door opens, I reminded myself. We could do with a few quiet screws after this morning’s episode, I thought, as the cell door opened and two orderlies with sneers on their freshly washed faces planted the morning offering right into my hands – mug of tea in one hand and a bowl of porridge with two slices of bread lying on top of it in my other hand. A little rat-faced figure with a black hat poked his head round the open door he was leaning against and wearing a smirk said, ‘Good morning! Would you care to put on the prison clothing and go to work, clean your cell, wash yourself or polish my boots? ...

‘You wouldn’t! Ah well, we’ll see after!’

The door slammed shut.

‘Bastard,’ I said, retreating to the corner to inspect the second catastrophe of the day – the breakfast. I salvaged whatever dry bit of bread I could, and having fished the two slices from the soggy porridge I threw the remainder, porridge and all, against the far wall. Disgusted, I literally forced the meagre bit of bread and lukewarm tea into me. It was bitter cold, so cold that in between sips of tea I had to keep pacing the floor. I thought of the three screws who had stood outside the door while I received my breakfast. Warders ‘A—’, ‘B—’ and ‘C—’. That was all I needed. Three out-and-out torture-mongers and they’d be here all day. Bloody marvellous, I thought.

The screw who had just spoken to me was ‘A—’. He was heartless, sly and intelligent when it came to torturing naked men. There was no physical stuff from him. All purely psychological attacks and cunning tricks. He was a right-out-of-Belsen type, and like the majority of the screws he took great pleasure in attacking the dignity of the naked Prisoners-of-War. He was on a constant ego trip, but then weren’t they all once they donned their little black suits with the shining buttons, and were handed their baton and pistol?

The second screw that I had seen was ‘B—’, a sectarian bigot. He was of medium build, black hair, good-looking and all go. He was also an alcoholic and handy with his baton, especially on the younger lads, and that was a regular practice of his.

The remaining screw, and perhaps the worst of the three, was ‘C—’. He hated us more than ‘B—’ the bigot, and he constantly went out of his way to prove it. He never smiled, never spoke unless to make a derogatory remark or hurl abuse. He carried an extra large chip on his shoulder, which we had to bear.

Three perfect bastards, I thought, and I cursed the cold, my aching body and the pangs of hunger that never left me. I continued on my journey to nowhere as I circled the cell floor like a guinea pig, stopping here and there for a moment or two to identify the scratched names on the door and walls; the simple testimony and reminder that others had been and still were in my position. A certain quality of pride seemed to attach itself to the scrawled names of the tortured writers. They were entitled to be proud, I thought, as I moved off to read the scribbled Gaelic phrases and words, noting the progress of the other wings in the Gaelic classes.

‘Gaelic classes,’ I said it again. I sounded rather odd. But then it was odd, considering that it meant standing at the cell door listening to your mate, the teacher, shouting the lesson for the day at the top of his voice from the other end of the wing when the screws happened to be away for their d...

Table of contents

• Introduction
• One Day in My Life
• About the Publisher