Showing posts with label Internment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Internment. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Saturday, October 5, 2013
DEAD ALIVE ? NEWRY INTERNMENT
Newry people survey the damage in the town centre on the morning of Internment when many Civil Rights activists were taken from their homes.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
MI5 MASSACRE AGENTS RELEASED ON INTERNED BIRTHDAY 63 MARTIN COREY
The proof that Britain's Secret Services MI5 in British Occupied ireland, are hell bent on undermining the Irish Peace Process, can be found in the contrasting treatment of Orange Order Loyalist Stephen Irwin, perpetrator of the Greysteel Massacre and the internment without charge or trial of traditional irish Republican, Martin Corey. If the Irish Peace Process works, MI5 will be out of their multi-million pound, State of the Art Palace Barracks in Holywood, County Down, minus their multi million pound budget, the prize of their turf wars with competing Secret Service MI6.
Releasing a loyalist mass murderer early, to do so some more of their British State Terrorism, dirty work, coupled with provoking republicans, with the injustice of their internment without charge, trial and prejudiced secret evidence against Martin Corey, is precisely the same injustice, that fuelled the conflict for more than the last 40 years. As every interdenominational mongrel on an Irish street knows, enduring peace with such provocative injustice, is simply impossible
Orange Order mass murderer Stephen Irwin has been freed again from prison, for the second time, just before the 20th anniversary of his Greysteel massacre. Irwin 40 was released previously under the terms of the Good Friday Agreement but was imprisoned again 8 years ago, for visciously slashing a fellow football fan at a soccer match with a knife. He was told at that time, he would have to serve out his full sentence, for the eight murders at the Rising Sun Bar massacre. He was granted early release last week by the parole board and walked out of prison after commissioners ruled his release immediately. East Derry's John Dallat one of the very few Members of Stormont Parlaiment {SDLP MLA} who is not compromised to the British Secret Services, described it as “unbelievably insensitive” coming so soon, before the anniversary of the Greysteel massacre.
John said: “This will only fuel the widely-held belief that Irwin and his fellow killer Torrens Knight were and most likely still are on the payroll of British Secret Servic MI5 and that that affords them the kid glove treatment.I have it on excellent authority from a well placed source that both Irwin and Knight were agents and met their MI5 handlers at Ebrington and Shackleton Barracks when they were in operation.
People are not stupid and they know there are many unanswered questions about the Greysteel slaughter and the killing of four men in Castlerock earlier the same year that Torrens Knight also committed using the same weapon.Those questions will only be answered if an independent inquiry is held and access is given to files on Irwin and Knight.I am sure the relatives of those murdered and maimed in Greysteel 20 years ago will be sickened as I am that someone who was clearly unbelievably insensitive thought it was a good time to put this killer back on the streets.”
Sentence Review Commissioners contacted declined to comment. This purports to be Due Process in Peace Process Ireland, when on October 30, 1993, Stephen Irwin, Torrens Knight, Geoffrey Deeney and Brian McNeill, all fellow Orange Order members, went into the Rising Sun Bar in Greysteel armed.They massacred eight people, six Catholics and two Protestants. The victims were: John Burns, Moira Duddy, Joe McDermott, Victor Montgomery, James Moore, John Moyne, Stephen Mullan and Karen Thompson. One of the gang after release stated, his only regret, was that he didn't kill more. Irwin was given eight life sentences but was released after just a few years under the Good Friday Agreement.
Martiin Corey was born in the "Murder Triangle" of British Occupied Ireland and saw first hand the sectarian work of the"Glenanne gang." From being a teenage vigilante protecting his community, he volunteered for the IRA, the only defence his community had at 19. The name "Glenanne gang" is derived from a farm at Glenanne near Markethill, County Armagh, used as the Orange Order gang's arms dump and bomb-factory.Most of the Glenanne gang's attacks took place in parts of County Armagh and mid-Ulster, which later became known as the "murder triangle." The Orange Order loyalist extremists carried out sectarian attacks, from the beginning of the 1970s on a sectarian basis, against Irish Catholics, in a violent campaign, that eventually provoked a tit for tat reaction. Commanded by British Military Intelligence and RUC Special Branch, they also carried out attacks all over Ireland.
This gang of British State terrorists, included soldiers in the British Army, its Ulster Defence Regiment (UDR), British Police in the form of the Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC), the loyalist Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF) some Ulster Defence Association (UDA) members. Former members alleged they were commanded from London and the one common bond, everyone belonged in the Orange order. The Pat Finucane Centre has listed 87 murders, as the crimes of the Glenanne gang, which includes the Dublin and Monaghan bombings, the Miami murders and the Reavey and O'Dowd murders. A sworn affidavit in the 2003 Barron Report by Glenanne gang member and RUC Special Patrol Group officer John Weir confirms this. The RUC Special Patrol Group, a specialised police unit tasked with counter-terrorism was instead engaged in sectarian murders
It is important to understand this background, in the context of Martin Corey volunteering to join the IRA and be the only protector of his totally defenceless community in Lurgan, being systematically murdered by British State terrorism and the later disbanded paramilitary police of the RUC. Martin was found guilty of shooting two of them in an IRA ambush almost 40 years ago. He served almost 20 years and was released unconditionally at that time. This then is the background to a heavily censored discussion on why Martin is interned almost 4 years again without charge and without trial.The censored debate in the pensive quill, followed an opening piece from Jim McIlMurray afriend of Martin's, on the the continued internment of Martin Corey' on hi s63rd birthday which went as follows:
" September 2, 2013, is the 63rd birthday of Martin Corey.
Today is also the date the Parole Commissioners were to commence Martin’s annual Parole hearing. We received communication on Friday, the 30th of August, informing us that this open hearing to review Martin’s ongoing detention would not commence on this date, with no alternative date being suggested or discussed with us.
Martin is entitled by law to an annual Parole hearing, and yet he has not received one in over two years.
A variety of reasons have been given for the delay, including blaming Martin himself for his "legal challenges" against his detention under Article 5 (4) (the right to have a court decide the lawfulness of his detention under the European convention of Human Rights).
Recent violations of Human Rights in the Middle East have received worldwide condemnation, including by the British government who stated that they 'will continue to play an active and forthright role in international institutions that promote and protect human rights.' They also emphasised the UK’s own commitment to strengthen human rights, both domestically and internationally.
The European Court of Human Rights ruled in 2012 that it was unacceptable to deny an annual parole hearing to anyone held in custody. This ruling ollowed a case of a man who waited 14 months for a parole hearing. Martin Corey has now waited 25 months.
The Secretary of State in a recent communication stated, 'an individual who served a life sentence
can be returned to prison if they pose a risk to the public or commits further offences.' Since Martin’s arrest in April 2010, he has never been charged with a crime, questioned by police regarding a crime, or given any explanation as to the risk he poses to the public.
Martin served 19 years in prison prior to his release in 1992. He has now served the equivalent of a
seven year sentence since his arrest in 2010.
Martin has not committed any crime. He poses no risk to the public and I am calling for his immediate release today.
I spoke with Martin this morning and he wishes to express his gratitude to those who sent messages and cards and also for their continued support in highlighting the ongoing injustice perpetrated upon him by
the British government.
Posted in: Martin Corey
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10 comments:
Pauline says:
10:06 AM, September 02, 2013Reply
Martin Corey is a name that pops into my head almost daily. I can't understand why there isn't more of an outcry outside of the campaign for him. The man is held at the whim of a politician with no mandate in north on alleged advice from the parole commission that she employs and if she so chooses can dismiss. Held on the strength of evidence that neither he nor his legal team are give access to, which begs the fundamental question, how do you challenge what you can't see?
In England MPs have spoken out against the use of 'closed material' branding it the product of Tyrants and repressive regimes. This puts a question mark over the attitude of the Stormont Executive's position on the use of closed material evidence, and I believe that the parties and MLAs in Stormont whether holding ministerial positions or not should clarify their individual and party position on the use of such draconian measures. I would urge all interested parties to write to their MLA's and ask them do they support the use of closed material evidence and if not what they are doing about it?
A very dangerous precedent has been set here!
AM says:
10:45 AM, September 02, 2013Reply
The PSNI probably have it in for him given the conviction he has for killing two of their colleagues. They are getting their revenge because they can.
Now, that might be understandable in terms of sheer human emotions. But if human emotions hold a veto over what goes on in society, there would never be any progress, the jails would be packed and we would probably have the death penalty for offences considered trivial by modern era standards.
Martin Corey is being held for what a court said he did in the 1970s - for which he has served his time - not for anything a court said he has done in recent years. He is being held at the whim of a politician - political policing par excellence.
itsjustmacker says:
3:13 PM, September 02, 2013Reply
Firstly , Birthday Greetings to Martin , I have intentionally omitted "Happy".
Martin is being held on secret evidence , It stems from the HET/ex RUC Special Branch and MI5 ,That's the Brits way of getting their own way. Every Ex pow should be out onto the street enforce demanding his release , lest they forget , He is still a comrade. As Anthony stated, Martin served his time , How many ex RUC murderers are going to be arrested under the secret evidence scam, Dare I say it , "NONE" , nor , any Murdering British Soldier. Its heart rendering to say the least, so called ex comrades allowing a 63 year old pensioner still interned and they do nothing about it, I hope some of them, especially in the Fellons club are reading this and I hope they die in shame.
Fionnuala Perry says:
1:42 PM, September 03, 2013Reply
What happened to putting manners on the Brits?
Last night we went as a family to watch a play written by Rosaleen Watson about the short life and tragic death of Tom Williams.
Throughout the short and very moving drama there was an atmosphere of shock and disbelief that something as horrendous as Tom's eventual murder took place.
There was an atmosphere of past- tense, an atmosphere of having moved away from these awful times.There was almost a feeling of detachment an invisible line drawn to distinguish past from present.
I wondered as I left the prison was I the only person there who felt, all these years later nothing has changed they would hang us all over again if they could? Who knows?
itsjustmacker says:
4:16 PM, September 03, 2013Reply
Fionnuala:
"as I left the prison was I the only person there who felt, all these years later nothing has changed they would hang us all over again if they could?"
They wouldn't take a millisecond to hesitate.
Pauline says:
7:22 PM, September 03, 2013Reply
My husband's grandfather was interned in Crumlin Road Gaol with Tom Williams at the time he was executed. My husband would often remark that his grandfather never spoke of it, such was the impact it had on him. Any time the name of Tom Williams comes up you can be sure my husband will be muttering the following passage from Tom Williams' letter to Hugh McAteer. As he was reading this thread earlier he went into it!
''But shall we make the mistake of '21? no, no, tis men like you and your staff will see to it. That no farcical so called Treaty shall in no way be signed by a bunch of weak-kneed and willed Irishmen. Better that the waves of the mighty oceans sweep over Erin than take and divide our nation, murder her true sons again. Better would be that heavens would open and send fire to destroy Erin, than to
accept another Treaty like it''
Another point of interest is that Paddy McGrory the father of the current DPP was actually taking a case to Europe over the internment of my husbands grandfather and others around 1958, I think, how times have changed you definitely couldn't say like father like son.
Maitiu Connel says:
9:11 PM, September 03, 2013Reply
I simply find this a crime against human rights. At the weekend I was researching through a few articles / writings about loyalism and part of my results included recent UTV and BBC articles in which they stated openly, the names of well known UDA men and that they were leaders. The same man who openly speaks from time to time on the news with the title " UDA leader " under his name. How can these people be publicly named as leaders of an illegal terrorist group and never face arrest. Today we have 5 supposed PIRA men being charged with membership from 1997 - 2000. We watched Marian Price spend years in prison there for holding a piece of paper. It seems MI5 love to turn a blind eye to it's operators whilst still the Irish suffer.
frankie says:
10:56 PM, September 03, 2013Reply
I think you hit the nail on the head Anthony...Pure and simple bitterness.
Judges can't find a reason to hold him, cops aren't interested.
Unless, as several posters have mentioned before they (powers that be) are simply testing the water to see how far they can push the boundaries..
itsjustmacker says:
12:20 AM, September 04, 2013Reply
Maitiu Connel:
Those five are out on £250 bail , They are SF, That's unheard off in Nationalists terms, not that I would want to see them being remanded , I am just making a point , Its the same on both sides of the divide, Its not what you know , its who you know , but , there is more to this case than just being accused of being a member of PIRA.
Frankie:
I have always stated that. They are pushing as far as they want now because they won't bang up any Pro treaties. I was well pleased on the Anti Internment March , all the banners of those still Interned , Also those of Michael Campbell, and of course those of Martin Corey.
Snowtorch says:
9:05 AM, September 04, 2013Reply
If Shinners such as Padraig Wilson support the British rule of law then I'm sure he would have no problem facing due process and taking a spell on remand, after all Sinn Fein are fond of due process. However I think what's keeping them off remand is that Padraig Wilson had requested to go on the republican wing when it was looking like he was going to be locked up a few months ago. Now that wouldn't look to well for the shinners one of their leading members requesting to be housed with those they have condemned as criminals and traitors."
#ReleaseMartinCorey
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Monday, August 26, 2013
INTERNMENT ; Which Side Are You On ? PROVIE
Martin Galvin letter to the Irish News on 16 August 2013.
The injustices which drew so many nationalists to the streets on Internment Day in Belfast must not be overlooked because of loyalist reaction. Internment Day had long been a day to march against British injustice. The symbolism was self-evident.
Internment went beyond imprisonment without charge or trial which began on August 9, 1971. British forces had shot down those who got in the way at Ballymurphy, hooded and tortured selected internees, and then given their final answer to Internment protests on “Bloody Sunday.” Compton and Widgery rubber-stamped it all.
Internment revealed Britain’s willingness to mete out and cover-up injustice whenever it served British interests. After Internment became untenable, it was replaced by Diplock Courts, forced confessions and a thinly veiled conveyor belt to the H-Blocks or Armagh.
As the first step in Britain’s new system, Republicans were arrested, denied bail on flimsy pretexts and taken off the streets for lengthy periods before trial. Often the charges were dismissed or case collapsed. Republicans during the 1970s coined the phrase ‘Internment by Remand’ to describe this tactic. Today the British have updated Internment by Remand. Some waited as long as three or four years to be acquitted.
For years, Internment Day marches were a launching pad for successive campaigns supporting Republican prisoners against each new British injustice. In recent times the Internment Day rallies were wound down then ended, perhaps in hopes that new structures including a compromised justice ministry and constabulary boards could be worked to end British repression from within.
There is no question that the number of Republicans wrongfully imprisoned today is dramatically less than in the past. However the plight of any Republican prisoners, who are victims of injustice and of their families, is not eased because there are fewer of them.
During past Internment Marches, Republican speakers repeatedly charged that British rule was irreformable and that nationalist politicians who joined the British system would end up as partners in its injustices. Perhaps those who taught me and so many others that truth were reminded of it on Internment Day.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Monday, August 19, 2013
Boycott British Death Threats, Journalist Intimidation and Internment
The detention of David Miranda, partner of Glenn Greenwald, a Guardian journalist, at London’s Heathrow airport, coupled with death threats relayed by agents aligned with Britain's secret services, to an Irish Human Rights activist and journalist, covering the internment of Martin Corey in British Occupied Ireland, marks a new low in Britain's brutish abuse of Human Rights.
The British government needs to clarify immediately why it detained Miranda for nine hours and where these death threats to the Irish journalist were issued from, precisely . The British also confiscated the journalist's electronic equipment. The British Secret Services also need to clarify, who exactly issued these orders and death threats.
The Irish journalist, who is also a human Rights activist was told that he would be "whacked' if he did not stop covering the internment without trial of Irish political activists and in particular Martin Corey. He was also told to cease calling for a boycott of all British goods because of Human Rights abuses in British Occupied Ireland.
David Mepham, UK director at Human Rights Watch, said, “It’s incredible that Miranda was considered to be a terrorist suspect. His detention looks intended to intimidate Greenwald and other journalists who report on surveillance abuses.”
British Secret Services held Miranda at the airport for nine hours the maximum time allowed under the UK Terrorism Act of 2000. The law also allows for immigration stops, even in the absence of reasonable suspicion. Human Rights Watch has consistently criticized British terrorism laws for being overly broad, allowing police to carry out stops on British streets, without suspicion, already severely criticised, by the European Court of Human Rights.
In British Occupied Ireland perfectly innocent people are being interned without trial. In the instance of Martin Corey who has been politically interned more than three years, having being incarcerated previously for almost twenty years. While censorship of journalists, has always been a major factor in British Occupied Ireland. Greenwald and the Guardian report, that the British Secret Service at Heathrow confiscated equipment, including mobile phone, camera, laptop, , DVDs, memory sticks and consoles. Human Rights Watch have demanded that the equipment and the data be immediately returned.
Greenwald said officials questioned his partner about his extensive reporting on surveillance by the National Security Agency (NSA). Greenwald said his partner Miranda, was in transit to his home in Brazil after being in Berlin, where he had stayed with a journalist colleague on the NSA story. The Guardian newspapers said it paid for the trip.
The UK director of Human Rights Watch, also said; “UK lawmakers should urgently demand answers from the government. Who authorized this detention and was it at the request of the United States? Parliament should also review this power to determine whether it is inherently abusive of rights.The confiscation of Miranda’s equipment seems a flagrant misuse of the UK Terrorism Act to snoop on the legitimate work of a journalist.”
British State Terrorism has already been involved in the murder of journalists, Human Rights Lawyers, police men and women, soldiers and politicians in Ireland.Because of these considerable Human Rights abuses by the British Government over a considerable number of years there are now calls for an international Boycott of all British goods and services. The publ;ic are asked for their help to publicize this Boycott by resharing on Facebook and re-tweeting the Boycott.
Monday, August 12, 2013
GERRY ADAMS WRONG ATTACKING 10,000 HUMAN RIGHTERS & MARTIN COREY
Some Provisional Sinn Fein supporters are currently very angry with Gerry Adams latest outburst, attacking more than 10,000 human rights demonstrators, who marched against internment at the weekend in Belfast and who were also commemorating, more than 42 years of internment without trial, as human rights activists have done annually, for almost a hundred years in Ireland.
People are now calling Gerry Adams' party, British Sinn Fein, because of the extent of their collaboration with the British, particularly with regard to internment without trial, censorship and prevention of free political expression. Some say, British Sinn Fein are now more British, than the British themselves. The following statement of a Sinn Feiner from County Limerick, is an example of the growing dissatisfaction within Adams's party ranks, when he said of the anti internment protest, "Well done on your dignified march at the weekend to highlight an important issue. I've always been a SF supporter but your analysis of Gerry Adams is spot on. Their rhethoric these days is the same as that of The Workers Party about 30 years ago."
The political negativity or doom and gloom of Provisional Sinn Fein, is in marked contrast, to the very positive vibe around the Anti-Internment March at the weekend. While Provisional propaganda called it the 'Dissident March in the Irish News, with a frontal assault, attacking Republican Unity, the Organizing Committee, Stewards and Participants, despite extreme provocation also from Loyalist extremists, remained united and disciplined.
While it was disappointing for traditional Irish republicans, to see Adams' party align themselves divisively, with the sectarian fascist thugs of the orange order, who attempted to prevent the march going through Belfast, it is also not helpful to republican unity, for any band, despite the extreme provocation, to be playing "Take it Down from the Mast" entertaining, drunken alcoholics in any felons club, who were afraid to march themselves. It is unhelpful whatever the level of collaboration.
This is history repeating itself, as during the hunger strikes, when the stickies started fighting among themselves, as the principles of the hunger strikers started to shine through. Unfortunately good people were badly misled and betrayed, some paying the ultimate price, as both officials and provisionals consigned themselves to the dustbin of history.
This Rally was the Phoenix rising, from the ashes of both, once proud traditions, once again. Unity must be the watchword and lesson from that experience, with the Irish people of no property, being the only guarantors to be trusted, after the experience of so many betrayals, from native gombeen men, political careerist carpetbaggers, morphing into active alcoholic felons, riding on the backs of other Irish men and women's wounds.
Both Adams and the Loyalist thugs failed miserably on the 9th of August 2013, while demonstrating how prejudiced and bigoted their hatred for human rights' activists, socialists and genuine traditional Irish republicanism really is. The 10,000 strong marchers, succeeded not alone in commemorating the anniversary of internment with respect but also highlighted the continued injustices in British Occupied Ireland today. Praise goes to the steadfastness of the marchers, along with the continued humanity and loyalty of everyone involved in the anti Internment events, which is in marked contrast to highly paid collaborators of ongoing internment 42 years later.
During the Hunger strike rallies, Adams and his felons, regularly rallied around West Belfast, shouting that Gerry Fitt is a Brit, before he was burned out of his home. Seamus Lynch of the Belfast stickies gave Adams a lot of stick about it at the time. Adams and British Sinn Fein, are walking the well worn path of the Fitts and Lynchs, who stood all idly by as their Irish brothers and sisters bled. They are again walking into the same political oblivion collaborating in the internment of old republicans like Martin Corey, who has served 23 years for the Irish Cause. British Sinn Fein are in effect administering internment and damning internees with feint protest.
Eamon de Valera, covertly co-operated with Britain to crush the IRA. Papers reveal that De Valera and entire cabinet in the late 1930s, former IRA members, asked London to help smear the IRA's Chief of staff as a communist agent. De Valera's government executed more IRA members than Britain and borrowed Albert Pierrepoint, to hang one of them.During the war, more than 1,500 were interned, while several died on hunger strike in Irish jails. Gerry Adams hasn't hung anyone yet with his own hands that we are aware of but he has hung Martin Corey out to dry with more than 3 years interned, who alreadygave almost 20 years of his life, as a Provisional IRA volunteer imprisoned in Long Kesh. There are many more currently interned by remand in Maghaberry, while British Sinn Fein share power administering it in Stormont.
Unlike the SDLP,. British Sinn Fein will not do a principled boycott of Stormont like their predecessors the SDLP, a) Because they are too fond of the Queen's shilling, B)Because they are the political sock puppets of MI5, politically blackmailed. When British SS MI5 say jump, British Sinn Fein say how high! George Orwell described their mentality as follows: “Now I will tell you the answer to my question. It is this. The Party seeks power entirely for its own sake. We are not interested in the good of others; we are interested solely in power, pure power. What pure power means you will understand presently. We are different from the oligarchies of the past in that we know what we are doing. All the others, even those who resembled ourselves, were cowards and hypocrites. The German Nazis and the Russian Communists came very close to us in their methods, but they never had the courage to recognize their own motives. They pretended, perhaps they even believed, that they had seized power unwillingly and for a limited time, and that just around the corner there lay a paradise where human beings would be free and equal. We are not like that. We know what no one ever seizes power with the intention of relinquishing it. Power is not a means; it is an end. One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish the dictatorship. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture is torture. The object of power is power. Now you begin to understand me.”
Now I have been warned, by someone, who professes to have strong connections with the British and American intelligence community, that I will be whacked, I.e. murdered, for campaigning against internment or divulging anymore Provisional Sinn Fein not so secrets activity, as a former Chairperson of Newry Sinn Fein before they went totally British. There is nothing personal in any of this towards any member of British Sinn Fein and I wish all of them well in their private lives outside politics. I would however strongly advise Gerry Adams and ask his fellow travelers, including his alcoholic felons, that for once, just once, to put their communities and dysfunctional Ireland first, before they go on their merry way into the dustbin of Irish history, like Gerry Fitt and the Stickies.
They need to sit down and work out a common strategy, with all the groups involved in the Anti Internment Rally at the weekend and work towards republican unity, instead of undermining it. That is if they can convince them, at this late stage with something positive like ending internment once and for all in Ireland. and building a lasting peace with justice for everyone, including the loyalists. Can we for once stick together and put Ireland's interests first, like our Republican martyrs of yesteryear. None of us are an island and none but a fool or child, can see the ultimate self destruction of selfishness and self-centredness, we must rebuild community Ireland.
Both Adams and the Loyalist thugs failed miserably on the 9th of August 2013, while demonstrating how prejudiced and bigoted their hatred for human rights' activists, socialists and genuine traditional Irish republicanism really is. The 10,000 strong marchers, succeeded not alone in commemorating the anniversary of internment with respect but also highlighted the continued injustices in British Occupied Ireland today. Praise goes to the steadfastness of the marchers, along with the continued humanity and loyalty of everyone involved in the anti Internment events, which is in marked contrast to highly paid collaborators of ongoing internment 42 years later.
During the Hunger strike rallies, Adams and his felons, regularly rallied around West Belfast, shouting that Gerry Fitt is a Brit, before he was burned out of his home. Seamus Lynch of the Belfast stickies gave Adams a lot of stick about it at the time. Adams and British Sinn Fein, are walking the well worn path of the Fitts and Lynchs, who stood all idly by as their Irish brothers and sisters bled. They are again walking into the same political oblivion collaborating in the internment of old republicans like Martin Corey, who has served 23 years for the Irish Cause. British Sinn Fein are in effect administering internment and damning internees with feint protest.
After the deaths of the 10 hunger strikers, Adams and his Chameleon republican careerists, replaced the SDLP, who boycotted Stormont on political principle unlike Adam's party. They also stole their middle class agenda and middle class British salaries. Now their Gaelic Chameleon Lord Mayor, from their Gaelic Chameleon party or was that Official Sinn Fein? wants to be addressed as Lord Millar of Belfast, while professing republican principles more akin to the entreprenuerial spirit of the Republican Bush Family of Texas. Nevertheless it is important for Ireland's sake, not to resent British Sinn Feiners as individuals, but instead what Brit Feiners, are doing to the traditional Noble Spirit of Republicanism and Ireland, like their collaborating opportunists in Fianna Fail and the blue shirts before them.
Eamon de Valera, covertly co-operated with Britain to crush the IRA. Papers reveal that De Valera and entire cabinet in the late 1930s, former IRA members, asked London to help smear the IRA's Chief of staff as a communist agent. De Valera's government executed more IRA members than Britain and borrowed Albert Pierrepoint, to hang one of them.During the war, more than 1,500 were interned, while several died on hunger strike in Irish jails. Gerry Adams hasn't hung anyone yet with his own hands that we are aware of but he has hung Martin Corey out to dry with more than 3 years interned, who alreadygave almost 20 years of his life, as a Provisional IRA volunteer imprisoned in Long Kesh. There are many more currently interned by remand in Maghaberry, while British Sinn Fein share power administering it in Stormont.
Unlike the SDLP,. British Sinn Fein will not do a principled boycott of Stormont like their predecessors the SDLP, a) Because they are too fond of the Queen's shilling, B)Because they are the political sock puppets of MI5, politically blackmailed. When British SS MI5 say jump, British Sinn Fein say how high! George Orwell described their mentality as follows: “Now I will tell you the answer to my question. It is this. The Party seeks power entirely for its own sake. We are not interested in the good of others; we are interested solely in power, pure power. What pure power means you will understand presently. We are different from the oligarchies of the past in that we know what we are doing. All the others, even those who resembled ourselves, were cowards and hypocrites. The German Nazis and the Russian Communists came very close to us in their methods, but they never had the courage to recognize their own motives. They pretended, perhaps they even believed, that they had seized power unwillingly and for a limited time, and that just around the corner there lay a paradise where human beings would be free and equal. We are not like that. We know what no one ever seizes power with the intention of relinquishing it. Power is not a means; it is an end. One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish the dictatorship. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture is torture. The object of power is power. Now you begin to understand me.”
Now I have been warned, by someone, who professes to have strong connections with the British and American intelligence community, that I will be whacked, I.e. murdered, for campaigning against internment or divulging anymore Provisional Sinn Fein not so secrets activity, as a former Chairperson of Newry Sinn Fein before they went totally British. There is nothing personal in any of this towards any member of British Sinn Fein and I wish all of them well in their private lives outside politics. I would however strongly advise Gerry Adams and ask his fellow travelers, including his alcoholic felons, that for once, just once, to put their communities and dysfunctional Ireland first, before they go on their merry way into the dustbin of Irish history, like Gerry Fitt and the Stickies.
They need to sit down and work out a common strategy, with all the groups involved in the Anti Internment Rally at the weekend and work towards republican unity, instead of undermining it. That is if they can convince them, at this late stage with something positive like ending internment once and for all in Ireland. and building a lasting peace with justice for everyone, including the loyalists. Can we for once stick together and put Ireland's interests first, like our Republican martyrs of yesteryear. None of us are an island and none but a fool or child, can see the ultimate self destruction of selfishness and self-centredness, we must rebuild community Ireland.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
THE POLITICS OF INTERNMENT #ReleaseMartinCorey
‘Internment’ by John McGuffin (1973)
Chapter 7
THE POLITICS OF INTERNMENT 1971
IN the mid-1960's people might have been forgiven for thinking that internment was a thing of the past. (True, the obnoxious Special Powers Acts were still on the Statute Book, but they were in abeyance). Such thinking was not to be right, however. The monolithic structure of Unionism proved incapable of reforming itself under the onslaught of the civil rights campaign. Terence O'Neill might have been able to save the Unionists with his pragmatic approach and his appreciation of the need for change, but their diehard 'not an inch' backwoodsmen would have none of it. And so the week of 12 – 16 August 1969 saw the old familiar pattern: a police force unable, and, in many cases unwilling,[1] to prevent the sectarian attack upon the Falls Road periphery, led in some cases by the B specials. That month was to see house burning, intimidation and murder – ten civilians dead, including a 9-year-old boy asleep in his bed, shot by a high-velocity Browning machine-gun used with murderous recklessness by the police in their Shorland armoured cars; 145 injured, hundreds of families burnt out of their homes, 90% of them Catholic. Free Derry was born that week. The barricades went up in Belfast. The first steps towards the irrevocable demise of Stormont were taken. And, predictably, men were detained, without charge or trial.
At 6.45 a.m. on 14 August, 28 Republicans were arrested and taken from their homes. As usual, no 'Loyalist' extremists or gunmen were arrested.
When the English Special Branch men arrived next month to sort out the RUC they asked for the files on all the 'terrorists'. They were handed the records, mostly out-of-date, on the IRA. "What about the UVF," they asked. "It doesn't exist," was the reply. "We have no records on Loyalists."
But this time it was not to be internment. The British army had had to be called in. Callaghan and Wilson had summoned Chichester Clark to Downing Street. The B men were 'phased out'. The Scarman Tribunal was set up. The Labour Government was tired of the old-fashioned traditional Unionist methods. Moreover, from behind the barricades a campaign was being mounted. Illegal radios proliferated. Street newspapers were born. The detainees were released after 17 to 20 days. The message should have been clear; internment should have no place in the 1970's.
But the Unionist hierarchy learn nothing from history. The gangling figure of Chichester Clark, the stand-in PM, shambled off into obscurity as 1970 and 1971 saw an escalation of the violence by the Provisional IRA, themselves a reaction to the attempted 'Loyalist' pogrom of 1969.
On 23 March 1971 Brian Arthur Deane Faulkner achieved his lifelong ambition and became PM. The English press warned that he was the 'last man in'. If he couldn't control the situation, direct rule was a certainty. But despite the obvious immensity of the task, Faulkner was confident.
This was the moment for which he had schemed, intrigued and betrayed, for so long. With a staggering record of disloyalty to previous PMs, he could hardly expect to be trusted or liked, but surely all could agree on his shrewdness and ability.
In fact, Faulkner's intelligence was always greatly over-rated by the media. And his biggest mistake was soon to come. The Sunday Times 'Insight' team claim[2]that "when he took over the issue was not whether internment was to come, but when and on what scale. By then Faulkner had been an advocate of internment inside Chichester Clark's Joint Security Committee, for six months." Whether this is true or not, and on balance it seems a reasonable statement, it is certain that Faulkner had completely failed to learn the lesson of how and when internment 'worked'. He had been Minister for Home Affairs in 1959 under Brookeborough, and, with the help of his trusty aide, the civil servant William Stout, he bad been responsible for the implementation of internment, which he apparently felt to be responsible for the defeat of the IRA border campaign. As is made clear already, this just was not so. The campaign failed, for lack of popular support, and, most important, the internees could languish in Crumlin because there was no campaign to get them released.
Nevertheless, one of Faulkner's first actions upon becoming Northern Ireland's last PM was to order the RUC Special Branch to work with the Director of Military Intelligence at Lisburn in drawing up a list of those Catholics who should be interned. The army were unhappy. General Tuzo, the GOC in Northern Ireland since February 1971, consistently opposed internment, believing, rightly, as it turned out, that they could not get the right people. But as the violence escalated, Faulkner became more and more insistent. On 9 July he telephoned Heath. "I must be able to intern now" he demanded. Accordingly, with some reluctance, a 'dry run' was agreed upon. At dawn on 23 July, 1,800 troops and RUC raided Republican houses throughout the province, searching for documents. They got enough to encourage them. The decision to intern was only a matter of time then, despite army objections.
The position was complicated by the mistrust and, in some cases, downright hostility between the army and the RUC. As the Sunday Times team put it: "The army believed the police list was politically motivated, and the police believed that the army's list showed inadequate local knowledge." Both were correct. Some sections of the army had favoured a small internment in the spring of 1971, with only 50 or 60 men being lifted. They had been overruled. Now the task was to be much greater.
The list had more than 500 names on it. Of these only 120 or 130 were gunmen or officers in the IRA. The vast majority were regarded either as 'Fellow-travelling sympathisers' or troublesome political activists – like PD socialists. The police contribution was the names and addresses of former internees. But Faulkner was determined. At the Joint Security Committee meeting at Stormont, Shillington, the Chief Constable, agreed with Tuzo that internment would not work. That made no difference. Faulkner secretly flew to London that afternoon. There he convinced the Cabinet. Tuzo could offer no alternative. Maudling was his usual indolent self. Whitelaw said nothing. Internment without trial was acquiesced to. The date was set for 10 Augnst. On Sunday 7 August, however, Harry Thornton, an innocent building worker, was driving his car past Springfield Road barracks when it backfired. Soldiers opened up and killed him. His friend Murphy was dragged from the car, covered with Thornton's blood, and savagely beaten by police and army. Within minutes the people of Clonard went wild. The fighting went on all night but had died down the next day. But the army were taking no chances. At midnight on Sunday the order went out: operation internment was brought forward 24 hours. Brian Faulkner had unwittingly signed himself his own political death warrant – and that of Stormont, too.
At 6.45 a.m. on 14 August, 28 Republicans were arrested and taken from their homes. As usual, no 'Loyalist' extremists or gunmen were arrested.
When the English Special Branch men arrived next month to sort out the RUC they asked for the files on all the 'terrorists'. They were handed the records, mostly out-of-date, on the IRA. "What about the UVF," they asked. "It doesn't exist," was the reply. "We have no records on Loyalists."
But this time it was not to be internment. The British army had had to be called in. Callaghan and Wilson had summoned Chichester Clark to Downing Street. The B men were 'phased out'. The Scarman Tribunal was set up. The Labour Government was tired of the old-fashioned traditional Unionist methods. Moreover, from behind the barricades a campaign was being mounted. Illegal radios proliferated. Street newspapers were born. The detainees were released after 17 to 20 days. The message should have been clear; internment should have no place in the 1970's.
But the Unionist hierarchy learn nothing from history. The gangling figure of Chichester Clark, the stand-in PM, shambled off into obscurity as 1970 and 1971 saw an escalation of the violence by the Provisional IRA, themselves a reaction to the attempted 'Loyalist' pogrom of 1969.
On 23 March 1971 Brian Arthur Deane Faulkner achieved his lifelong ambition and became PM. The English press warned that he was the 'last man in'. If he couldn't control the situation, direct rule was a certainty. But despite the obvious immensity of the task, Faulkner was confident.
This was the moment for which he had schemed, intrigued and betrayed, for so long. With a staggering record of disloyalty to previous PMs, he could hardly expect to be trusted or liked, but surely all could agree on his shrewdness and ability.
In fact, Faulkner's intelligence was always greatly over-rated by the media. And his biggest mistake was soon to come. The Sunday Times 'Insight' team claim[2]that "when he took over the issue was not whether internment was to come, but when and on what scale. By then Faulkner had been an advocate of internment inside Chichester Clark's Joint Security Committee, for six months." Whether this is true or not, and on balance it seems a reasonable statement, it is certain that Faulkner had completely failed to learn the lesson of how and when internment 'worked'. He had been Minister for Home Affairs in 1959 under Brookeborough, and, with the help of his trusty aide, the civil servant William Stout, he bad been responsible for the implementation of internment, which he apparently felt to be responsible for the defeat of the IRA border campaign. As is made clear already, this just was not so. The campaign failed, for lack of popular support, and, most important, the internees could languish in Crumlin because there was no campaign to get them released.
Nevertheless, one of Faulkner's first actions upon becoming Northern Ireland's last PM was to order the RUC Special Branch to work with the Director of Military Intelligence at Lisburn in drawing up a list of those Catholics who should be interned. The army were unhappy. General Tuzo, the GOC in Northern Ireland since February 1971, consistently opposed internment, believing, rightly, as it turned out, that they could not get the right people. But as the violence escalated, Faulkner became more and more insistent. On 9 July he telephoned Heath. "I must be able to intern now" he demanded. Accordingly, with some reluctance, a 'dry run' was agreed upon. At dawn on 23 July, 1,800 troops and RUC raided Republican houses throughout the province, searching for documents. They got enough to encourage them. The decision to intern was only a matter of time then, despite army objections.
The position was complicated by the mistrust and, in some cases, downright hostility between the army and the RUC. As the Sunday Times team put it: "The army believed the police list was politically motivated, and the police believed that the army's list showed inadequate local knowledge." Both were correct. Some sections of the army had favoured a small internment in the spring of 1971, with only 50 or 60 men being lifted. They had been overruled. Now the task was to be much greater.
The list had more than 500 names on it. Of these only 120 or 130 were gunmen or officers in the IRA. The vast majority were regarded either as 'Fellow-travelling sympathisers' or troublesome political activists – like PD socialists. The police contribution was the names and addresses of former internees. But Faulkner was determined. At the Joint Security Committee meeting at Stormont, Shillington, the Chief Constable, agreed with Tuzo that internment would not work. That made no difference. Faulkner secretly flew to London that afternoon. There he convinced the Cabinet. Tuzo could offer no alternative. Maudling was his usual indolent self. Whitelaw said nothing. Internment without trial was acquiesced to. The date was set for 10 Augnst. On Sunday 7 August, however, Harry Thornton, an innocent building worker, was driving his car past Springfield Road barracks when it backfired. Soldiers opened up and killed him. His friend Murphy was dragged from the car, covered with Thornton's blood, and savagely beaten by police and army. Within minutes the people of Clonard went wild. The fighting went on all night but had died down the next day. But the army were taking no chances. At midnight on Sunday the order went out: operation internment was brought forward 24 hours. Brian Faulkner had unwittingly signed himself his own political death warrant – and that of Stormont, too.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
ANTI INTERNMENT RALLY IN BELFAST #BoycottBritish
Martin Corey is a 63 year former Provisional IRA member,
who before being interned without trial for more than
the last three years, spent almost twenty years
previously in Long Kesh Concentration Camp in British
Occupied Ireland. He was released in June 1992.
He was taken back into custody on April 16, 2010, on the
basis of British SS, "closed material". On July 9, Judge
Treacy ruled, that Martin Corey's human rights had been
breached, and he should be released immediately on
unconditional bail. This was overruled by the English
Viceroyal again and Martin was interned again without
trial charge.
Martin Corey is an innocent Irishman who has
absolutely no idea why he has been interned in Ireland
for over three years now without trial, on the order of
a non elected English Viceroyal. Martin is but one
example of Many Irish people, interned by remand, or
without trial and many other guises in British Occupied
ireland.
Below is the story of Internment introduced in Ireland on
the last occasion 42 years ago. Internment without trial
has been a fact of life in every generation, since the
foundation on a mentored sectarian, headcount of the
failed, scum, sectarian, state of British Occupied
Ireland, based on the privilege of the old British
colonial policy of divide and conquer.
‘Internment’ by John McGuffin (1973)
Chapter 1
IT HAPPENED HERE
IN the early hours of Monday 9 August 1971, I was kidnapped from my bed by armed men, taken away and held as a hostage for five and a half weeks. I was not in Uruguay, Brazil, Greece or Russia. I was in the United Kingdom, an hour's flight from London. I was in Belfast.
A crashing on the door awoke me. It was 4.45 o'clock. I went down stairs in my pyjamas to answer. As I opened the door I was forced back against the wall by two soldiers who screamed at me "Do you live here?" Overwhelmed by their perspicacity I admitted that this was so, whereupon they ordered me to get dressed. I foolishly asked why. "Under the Special Powers Act we don't have to give a reason for anything," an officer said. "You have two minutes to get dressed." Through the window I could see in the dawn light half a dozen armed men skulking in our tiny front garden.
I was given exactly two minutes to get dressed while a young soldier boosted his ego by sticking an SLR up my nose. My wife, not surprisingly, was almost in tears as I was dragged down the stairs and into the street. She ran after me to give me my jacket and was roughly ordered back into the house. Our quiet residential bourgeois neighbourhood hadn't seen such excitement in years as I was frogmarched and escorted at the double down the avenue by eight soldiers. As we sped down we were joined by a dozen more who had been hiding in nearby gardens, wreaking havoc on the horticultural efforts of various OAPs. People who looked out into the early morning mist must have imagined that a Vietcong patrol had been sighted in the locale.
"Tie him up and gag the fecker" [sic] an educated English accent ordered. "That's hardly necessary," I said, as I was frisked for the second time up against a lorry, or 'pig' as they called it. This was accepted, albeit reluctantly in the case of a corporal who was positively twitching with desire to practise his boyscout knots upon me. My shoes were taken off me and I was put none too gently into the back of the 'pig'. Two men with sten-guns covered me. "Nice morning," I ventured. "Shut your fecking Fenian mouth."
I sat there and watched the army manoeuvres. Back up the avenue they scurried, to a friend's house, I thought. Obviously, however, they were out of luck. But, never men to return empty-handed, they came back with another friend, Liam, who lived at my house. He was barefoot and, it subsequently transpired, had been arrested in error for someone else. The two other houses they raided in the area were empty and so, after casually wrecking the two flats they hastened back, each man covering the other. There wasn't a soul about and their antics began to assume a somewhat surreal aspect. Any amusement to be derived from the situation soon evaporated, however.
Sitting shivering in the back of the 'pig' I began to try to work out what was happening. I had known, as of course had anyone involved in Irish politics, that internment was on the cards, but I had never expected to be involved. For three years I had been a member of the People's Democracy, a libertarian socialist group, and had attended meetings, marches and pickets, all perfectly legal. I had contributed articles to their weekly paper The Free Citizen, again perfectly legal. My wife and I had received compensation from the government for being beaten. up at Burntollet by B Specials. But the public had been told over and over by the Prime Minister, Brian Faulkner, that only IRA and UVF men could be interned. What, therefore, were Liam and I doing freezing in a lorry with sten-guns covering us at this ungodly hour? Could the discredited Faulkner have panicked to the extent that in order to prop up his Orange State he had resorted to arresting unarmed socialists? It appeared so.
We were driven to Annadale TA camp and forced to stand, legs apart, against the nissen huts. Then back to the 'pig' where we were joined by another PD member, Michael Farrell, and an unknown man whom I later discovered was Harry McKeown. They, too, were barefoot and when ten soldiers joined us in the back of the 'pig' we were very cramped. We sped through the deserted early-morning streets, with no idea where we were being taken. Each time we passed a police station I mentally crossed it off the possible list of destinations. Up through Carlisle Circus and past Crumlin jail. "Christ, it must be Rathlin Island," McKeown said. No one spoke, and the 'pig' made a sudden sharp right turn through to the Antrim Road. Then up a side street and into what we were later to learn was Girdwood barracks.
Four lorries were in front of us and slowly disembarking were other men, mostly in pyjamas. A helicopter, engine revving, stood on the turf outside the TA hail. Another half an hour was spent shivering in the back of the lorry until we were told to jump down, without our shoes, into the mud and make our way, guns in our backs, into the hall. Soldiers, RUC and Special Branch men thronged the corridor and entrance hall. As we were 'processed', polaroid flash pictures were taken and affixed to a card. A further search. Watches, rings, belts were taken and we were pushed into the gym hail where about 150 other people were squatting on the floor. Many were in pyjamas or shirtless. Heavily armed soldiers walked up and down, risking apoplexy or a coronary by incessantly bellowing, "No talking, you scum."
Every five minutes or so groups of six of us were called out. The first three groups didn't return. The fourth did. They were dishevelled and several were bleeding, including a young man I knew, called Murphy. Was this the treatment we could all expect? I tried to comfort myself by thinking "Westminster must have sanctioned this internment; they'll have to behave themselves." Then I remembered Cyprus and Aden and Hola Camp in Kenya. My optimism flagged. The familiar lines of R. W. Grimshaw came back to me: "what can you expect from a pig but a grunt?" I braced myself and looked around. Very few faces I recognised. Mostly old men and very young boys. A man was led in by the police. Good Christ! He was blind! What sort of people were these, at whose mercy we were?
[The army also detained three winos, picked up drunk at Dunville Park bus shelter, and a dog. All were released after 24 hours. It is not reported what the dog was suspected of – people will find this hard to credit, but it is absolutely true.]
My name was called. Apprehensively I shuffled forward. I was taken by two young SB officers who identified themselves – the only ones to do so during my four interrogations – into a room and desultorily questioned. They obviously knew very little about me and cared even less. Name, address, occupation (lecturer) and a few general comments such as "Well, it's at least five years for you." What interested me more was the view past them through the window. On the lawn outside, the helicopter stood, engines still revving and blades rotating. A dozen or so barefoot men were being forced to run the gauntlet between two rows of military policemen who were clubbing them with sten-gun butts and batons. Those who fell were badly kicked. When they reached the helicopter they were grabbed in and then thrown out again almost immediately. The noise of the helicopter drowned any screams.
The interrogators noted my concern. "That's nothing to do with us," one said. "That's just the army letting off a bit of steam."
"I'd like to see my lawyer," I said, feeling foolish. They laughed. "I'm entitled to see a lawyer and to know what I'm being charged with," I tried again. They stopped laughing. "Listen, you smarty bastard, under the Special Powers Act we can keep you here as long as we like. You can't see anyone. No one will know where you are and we don't have to charge you with anything. If one of those soldiers happens to shoot you, there'll be no inquest either, you bastard." Having read the SP Acts I knew this to be unfortunately all too true. They lost interest and led me out again, this time upstairs to a crowded room where about 220 people were crammed on the floor. A faded sign on the door, under a regimental motto, said 'Merry Xmas'. Beside that a portrait of Her Serene Highness Elizabeth R. gazed serenely down.
People were still being brought in and I saw another two PD members, John Murphy and Oliver Cosgrove, president of St. Joseph's Students' Council. I sprawled down beside Liam, who was looking very pale. I glanced down and saw congealed blood on his leg. "What happened?" I whispered. "Helicopter run," he grunted. It was only later I learned that he and others had been taken about four feet up in the air and pushed out backwards, believing that they were much higher off the ground, having been told so by the soldiers.
The door opened and a young lad, his arm covered in blood, was thrust onto the floor. A policeman completed the task by going over and kicking him in the ribs. I later discovered that the lad's name was Patrick McGeogh and that he'd had to run the gauntlet three times.
Military police patrolled us, preventing anyone from dozing off or talking, but with over 200 sprawled on the floor whispered conversation was possible at times. The young man in front of me was obviously in pain. He was Eamonn Kerr. Then I saw the pus oozing out of the sores on the back of his neck. Soldiers under command of Major Lloyd had stubbed out four cigarette butts on his neck in the 'pig'. William Burroughs has said "a paranoid is someone who has some small idea of what is really going on." I began to see his point.
New military police wandered in and out making jocular remarks about getting the Fenians to sing 'the Queen'. No one stirred. At about 11 a.m. we were ordered to the door in groups of six, to get a cup of warm swill. An English gentleman put his head around the door and announced that he was a priest. Did anyone want to see him? His accent seemed to put off many. Only four queued up, shamefacedly. "You'll all be needing the last rites soon enough," the military policeman beside me smirked. Slowly they began to call out names. These were taken away in groups of six, apparently the mystic number, and disappeared from sight. By lunchtime our numbers had been reduced to 87. We were then taken downstairs again for 'lunch'.
Again we sat in ranks on the floor. No talking, no dozing, no sprawling. As different NCOs came on duty the 'rules' changed. We were shuffled in order and made to walk in circles. Throughout the afternoon we were called out for further questioning. The boredom and uncertainty dragged on. We had little idea of time, of what was happening outside, of where our friends were, of what was going to happen to us. Most of the 87 were old men or youths. The blind man, Peter Farran, was still there. By now they had given him a table to sit at.
The sergeant began to play a very real role in our lives. It was apparently his job to invent as many petty regulations as possible to make our lives uncomfortable. To go to the toilet necessitated queuing in a corner, looking straight ahead and putting one's hands on the shoulders of the man in front. Failure to comply exactly with this occasioned anything from a rebuke to a sten-gun butt in the kidneys, depending upon which NCO was guarding this vital installation. Time dragged on. 'Tea' was as unappetising as 'lunch'. Watery 'stew' "and you're fecking lucky to get anything." "Eat it, it may be your last." More reassurance. RUC men sat around the room, but it was clear that they were mere message boys; the army was in control. Some requests for a doctor were scornfully refused.
Uncertainty was the worst enemy. A man, later identified as Geordie Shannon, was taken off to hospital. He suffered from ulcers and had been forced to squat, head between knees, for an hour. It was four days before he was brought over to the jail.
The night shift came on to guard us. They, of course, had new sets of rules for us to obey. A new 'game' was introduced. It consisted of going down the line pointing at men and saying "tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, fecking nailbomber!" Whereupon the fifth man would be set upon and beaten. Exhaustion had set in but people were still being called out and interrogated. At about 11 p.m. we were ordered to erect camp beds and given two blankets each. "Those Irish bastards smell; give them showers," the sergeant said. That we smelt was true, but hardly surprising, since men, still in their pyjamas in many cases, had been dragged through the mud. Everyone's feet, with or without socks, were encrusted with filth.
The showers proved another opportunity for jocular fun. Several youths were forced into showers that were boiling hot, the next lot into freezing ones. We were issued with army socks and toothbrushes. "Compliments of her majesty," I was told. At midnight lights were dimmed and we piled into the rows of camp beds. I fell asleep but was soon awakened by a soldier shining his torch into my face. "O'Hara?" he asked. "No," I mumbled. He moved down the line. I dozed off again. Suddenly there was a thunderous sound. Batons hammered on the walls. "Get up you bastards." We fell out of bed. It was 3 a.m. 'Rollcall'. A Branch man came round and solemnly took everyone's name yet again. "What are you doing standing there, get to bed!" We dropped off once more only to be aroused at 5.30 am for 'breakfast'. Half a bowl of stale cornflakes. The beds were dismantled and we resumed squatting on the floor. People were still called out singly for further interrogation. Police walked in grinning and held up the morning newspapers to show us headlines "13 shot dead". "Ardoyne burnt to the ground" (an exaggeration). The sergeant, refreshed from his sleep, was also forthcoming. "That's 13 less of you Irish pigs; none of ours was got." Word filtered back from those who'd been interrogated again. The death toll had risen to 18, including four women and a priest.
I got talking in whispers with my neighbour, George O'Hara. After doing the 'helicopter run' he, too, had been dragged into it, but, unlike the others, he had been taken up some 200 feet into the air. Two military policemen had then told him to "talk or we'll shove you out." Shades of Vietnam!
My further three interrogations were tragi-comic. At no time was I questioned about the IRA, UVF or bombs. All questions which could be termed in any way relevant were concerned with what was socialism. Bizarre jokes were thrown in, such as "did I know that Farrell was getting Moscow gold?" So help me! Moscow gold! I explained that libertarian socialism as advocated by the PD and Farrell in particular was directly opposed to state capitalism as carried out by totalitarian regimes like the USSR. "That's just the KGB's cleverness," I was told. They clearly didn't believe it for a minute, but any smear in a storm. Next I was asked about Jerry Rubin. Was it not all a part of the international conspiracy, the trouble here? The next questioners were the most bizarre. A lugubrious gentleman gave me a lecture on the evils of atheism (I am an agnostic, but this theological distinction passed my Presbyterian inquisitor by). Did I believe in hellfire? Did I know that I would burn in all eternity? He didn't quite spell it out but the clear implication was that if I confessed to some crime or other – unspecified – he would be able to get on some kind of supernatural shortwave and put in a good word for me. Next I was asked what I was doing in the same room with a band of child murderers, rapists and mad bombers. All of them? All of them! "Even the blind man?" I explained that I had been dragged there by armed men, knew virtually none of the men and boys in the room, and rather doubted the allegations so wildly hurled about them. A view backed up by the Special Branch themselves when they released over 80 of them that day. They didn't seem very interested in me after these exchanges and contented themselves with telling me that I'd get "at least five years." For what? For speaking at civil rights meetings (perfectly legal meetings, in fact) which had led to "all this trouble."
Their tactics with me may have been innocuous enough, but what others suffered was not. Quite a few were badly beaten – a fact obvious to all who saw them emerge from the interrogation room; many were told that the streets where their families lived had been "burnt down by the Orangemen," that their relatives had been shot, sons arrested, their friends had "squealed and told all about them," that everyone believed that they had squealed and that only the SB could smuggle them out of the country, that they had lost their jobs (about the only true statement made) and finally, that if they didn't talk "we'll rip out your teeth with pliers" – which were brandished by a well-known Branch man named Harry Taylor.
By lunchtime on the second day discipline had relaxed slightly. The sergeant graciously permitted one cigarette per man before and after the 'meal'. Then we had a period; of exercise – five minutes walk outside. Soldiers gathered to make humorous remarks about 'the animals'. A playful corporal kept slipping the leash of his Alsatian as we passed him until the bewildered beast turned and tried to bite him., We were hastily rushed back inside lest we should laugh.
Rumours began to spread that they couldn't keep us more than 48 hours without officially charging or interning us. This was incorrect. They can do anything they like. under the Special Powers Act, and most of the men we met in Crumlin Road jail who were from out of Belfast were kept six days without being issued detention notices, let alone internment notices.
We continued to squat on the floor. Many were afraid to go to the toilet because of the blows some received there. Everyone was stiff and very tired, but still we were told nothing. Eventually, at 9.30 p.m., we were ordered to collect the bags containing our 'personal effects' and to put on our shoes. Suddenly there was a bustle of activity. About 25 military policemen and a dozen RUC men entered and surrounded us. Guns were cocked. Special Branch men entered and a senior officer appeared with a list. As he read from it, those called were to stand up and move over towards the door. The list was obviously incompetently compiled. Many of those called weren't in the hall or had been released earlier. The dates of birth of several people were incorrect but the Branch refused to recognize this and so sons were still mistaken for their fathers and vice versa. Eventually, 17 men were marched out. Were they being interned? Or released? We had no idea. My friend Liam, who had been arrested in error for someone else, was last to go.
Then it became really frightening. The SB withdrew, leaving the soldiers. They began to drill us, shouting what presumably to them were merry quips. "You're the feckin' bomber then, are you?" (This to a 77-year-old dignified man who never for a minute deigned to complain). "Haven't got your Thompson now, have you? You'll have to be fitter than that to join the British army" (this to a 70-year-old asthmatic who had had seven hours sleep, and that interrupted, in the last 65 hours, and who was quite unable to keep up with the exercises). Some of us were given 'fatigues' to do, which ranged from cleaning out toilet bowls with our bare hands to dishwashing. I was more fortunate and was given the task of sweeping the floor under the tutelage of a pimply teenager, eager to impress his superiors with his wit. My efforts were dearly regarded as inadequate and he let me know by constantly prodding me with the butt of his sten-gun. "Keep awake, you dozy sods," they continually yelled. It was now 2 a.m. My mind started to drift off. Things took what I felt was a very surrealistic turn. In front of me was the company notice board, upon which were pinned three notices – all of them blank! During the day one had been taken down and replaced with a blue notice, but it, too, was blank. (On looking back, I thought that I must have imagined this, but others who were standing in the front row with me have confirmed it). I kept trying to work out some kind of secret message from the board. Was it in the colour of the drawing pins? In the different shapes of the blank paper? Invisible ink? I felt myself falling asleep and a kind soldier awakened me with his baton across my back. "Feckin' bastard." I began to wish that if they must swear so repetitiously, they would at least say 'fuck' instead of using this emasculated surrogate.
A quarter to four. Surely they must let us go. After all, the blind man was still in our group along with most of the very old men, and the only two other people in the hall whom I knew were not only not terrorists, but clearly couldn't be mistaken for terrorists. I wasn't even a Republican, a political belief quite legal in any democratic society. But then William Craig had banned Republican clubs, hadn't he, and the House of Lords had upheld the ban. I began to think of getting home and getting some sleep; surely it was just all a bad dream? About 3.50 a.m. the military police massed in strength again, this time even more threateningly. Most of us had had only a disturbed seven-hours sleep out of the last 67 hours. Was it to be a mass beating? Mentally I tried to resign myself to it. But no. Out came the lists again.
Of the 60 still remaining, 48 of us were called up in groups of six. As I stood waiting to be taken out an SB man began to talk to me. "It's Crumlin for all you lads," he said, "and they've brought back the B men."
"Not even Faulkner's that stupid."
"Just joking, lads." Some joke!
"Are you interning the blind man?"
"Yes, at night he can see better than all of you put together."
We were taken out into the entrance hall and photographed again with a RUG man holding us by the collar. We had been 46 hours in Girdwood barracks. At no time since our arrest had we seen a doctor, although later Brigadier Marston Tickell was to claim: "Those arrested were given a medical inspection both on arrival at the 'police station' and again on moving into the place of detention." (Army press briefing, Belfast, 20 August). "These medical tests are available for inspection," he went on to say. This, in fact, was totally untrue. No one was inspected. About ten men saw someone who, it was alleged, was a medical orderly. His only action was to order Edward Campbell to have his head completely shaven because he had 'venereal scabies'. (No such disease exists). Pressmen who asked to see the mythical medical records were refused.
"Draw pistols," came the order. The group of six of us who had been called out of the hall together were forced down a corridor to our right, a RUC man holding each of us by the scruff of the neck and a redcap with a pistol at our heads, beside each of us. I could hardly stand for fatigue. "If there's any sniping out there we can afford to lose two of you bastards on the way over," a corporal said.
Then we were out of the building and onto the path; We were rushed over the by now infamous 'obstacle course – broken glass, barbed wire, sharp stones. We were more fortunate than people like Michael Farrell who had had to traverse it in daylight – with bare feet. We at least had our shoes on, but one slip meant a cruel beating. Then we were rushed through a hole in a wall and found ourselves in the grounds of Crumlin Road jail. A rapid dash over the football pitch, with soldier snipers all around it. A final dash down a grassy slope and inside the walls of the prison itself. We were out of the hands of the soldiers. The screws couldn't be as bad? They weren't. Most seemed very subdued. There was no violence shown towards us.
Two to a cell. Initially, we found the usual plethora of petty and nonsensical regulations. All the conditions the old internees had fought for, over the last 50 years, had to be fought for again, but, within two days, a prisoners committee had been elected and began to demand changes from the Governor, Major Albert Mullin. Because the treatment accorded in Crumlin was tolerable, Mullin was addressed as 'governor', unlike 'commandant' Kerr of the Long Kesh camp.
We retained our civilian clothes, although most of these were torn and filthy; it took time to get fresh clothes sent in. We could get food and books sent in, and for the first time got to see newspapers. Free copies were sent in by the Irish News, Newsletter and Belfast Telegraph as well as a few Independents. The day after we arrived we were joined by those who had been sent over from Girdwood a day before us. They had been put up in D wing and had, by and large, received worse treatment than we had – more beatings, attacked by the guard dogs, put over the 'obstacle course' in bare feet. Most of them bore the marks of rough treatment and some were still confined to hospital, but the medical authorities didn't want to know about any allegations of maltreatment.
From the papers we learned that about 110 men, mainly from rural areas, had been detained on the HMS Maidstone, a hulk moored at the coal wharf. They were getting only four hours on deck out of 24 and were apparently much more cramped than we were. At first we also had been limited to four hours but strenuous protests had forced the prison authorities to extend this, after the first week, to letting us out of the cells from 7.30 a.m. to 8 p.m. (4 p.m. on Sundays) and this was later extended to 9 p.m. After the first week we were able to eat together in the small recreation hall, although this necessitated some men having to eat with the toilets only a few yards away. Still, for most it was better than being forced to eat in our cells every day. Lights went out at 10 p.m.
Most of the time, if the weather was dry, we spent in the small prison yard. The yard was overlooked by both C wing and D wing where the convicted prisoners were, and the first day when we entered it we were greeted by an incredible spontaneous outburst. From every cell window cigarettes, food, books, papers and encouragement showered down. That these men, whose conditions were worse than ours (though as some of them pointed out, "At least we've got a release date on our cell doors"), were so generous was, to me at least, a morale booster.
Helicopters flew over every day, landing in Girdwood, a sordid reminder for most of us, exacerbated when they swooped low and gesticulated and mocked us.
We were not allowed to contact lawyers for several weeks and our initial postcards out were held up for four days, presumably while SB men perused them. Later, "as a favour" we were permitted two postcards a week and eventually a 20-minute visit from relatives, with a warder sitting between us. It had been harder on relatives and wives. In most cases they had been trying without success to find out where we were being held. Some, like Mrs. Shivers of Toome, were only told where their husbands were after nine days. All had been fobbed off with bland lies by the Ministry for Home Affairs and shuttled from one authority to another. One army official evidently believed that it was a good joke to give the number of Paisley's 'Dial-a-Prayer' to relatives requesting a phone number to get permission to apply for a visit.
On 14 September 12 of us were released. The next day the other detainees were moved to Long Kesh.
A crashing on the door awoke me. It was 4.45 o'clock. I went down stairs in my pyjamas to answer. As I opened the door I was forced back against the wall by two soldiers who screamed at me "Do you live here?" Overwhelmed by their perspicacity I admitted that this was so, whereupon they ordered me to get dressed. I foolishly asked why. "Under the Special Powers Act we don't have to give a reason for anything," an officer said. "You have two minutes to get dressed." Through the window I could see in the dawn light half a dozen armed men skulking in our tiny front garden.
I was given exactly two minutes to get dressed while a young soldier boosted his ego by sticking an SLR up my nose. My wife, not surprisingly, was almost in tears as I was dragged down the stairs and into the street. She ran after me to give me my jacket and was roughly ordered back into the house. Our quiet residential bourgeois neighbourhood hadn't seen such excitement in years as I was frogmarched and escorted at the double down the avenue by eight soldiers. As we sped down we were joined by a dozen more who had been hiding in nearby gardens, wreaking havoc on the horticultural efforts of various OAPs. People who looked out into the early morning mist must have imagined that a Vietcong patrol had been sighted in the locale.
"Tie him up and gag the fecker" [sic] an educated English accent ordered. "That's hardly necessary," I said, as I was frisked for the second time up against a lorry, or 'pig' as they called it. This was accepted, albeit reluctantly in the case of a corporal who was positively twitching with desire to practise his boyscout knots upon me. My shoes were taken off me and I was put none too gently into the back of the 'pig'. Two men with sten-guns covered me. "Nice morning," I ventured. "Shut your fecking Fenian mouth."
I sat there and watched the army manoeuvres. Back up the avenue they scurried, to a friend's house, I thought. Obviously, however, they were out of luck. But, never men to return empty-handed, they came back with another friend, Liam, who lived at my house. He was barefoot and, it subsequently transpired, had been arrested in error for someone else. The two other houses they raided in the area were empty and so, after casually wrecking the two flats they hastened back, each man covering the other. There wasn't a soul about and their antics began to assume a somewhat surreal aspect. Any amusement to be derived from the situation soon evaporated, however.
Sitting shivering in the back of the 'pig' I began to try to work out what was happening. I had known, as of course had anyone involved in Irish politics, that internment was on the cards, but I had never expected to be involved. For three years I had been a member of the People's Democracy, a libertarian socialist group, and had attended meetings, marches and pickets, all perfectly legal. I had contributed articles to their weekly paper The Free Citizen, again perfectly legal. My wife and I had received compensation from the government for being beaten. up at Burntollet by B Specials. But the public had been told over and over by the Prime Minister, Brian Faulkner, that only IRA and UVF men could be interned. What, therefore, were Liam and I doing freezing in a lorry with sten-guns covering us at this ungodly hour? Could the discredited Faulkner have panicked to the extent that in order to prop up his Orange State he had resorted to arresting unarmed socialists? It appeared so.
We were driven to Annadale TA camp and forced to stand, legs apart, against the nissen huts. Then back to the 'pig' where we were joined by another PD member, Michael Farrell, and an unknown man whom I later discovered was Harry McKeown. They, too, were barefoot and when ten soldiers joined us in the back of the 'pig' we were very cramped. We sped through the deserted early-morning streets, with no idea where we were being taken. Each time we passed a police station I mentally crossed it off the possible list of destinations. Up through Carlisle Circus and past Crumlin jail. "Christ, it must be Rathlin Island," McKeown said. No one spoke, and the 'pig' made a sudden sharp right turn through to the Antrim Road. Then up a side street and into what we were later to learn was Girdwood barracks.
Four lorries were in front of us and slowly disembarking were other men, mostly in pyjamas. A helicopter, engine revving, stood on the turf outside the TA hail. Another half an hour was spent shivering in the back of the lorry until we were told to jump down, without our shoes, into the mud and make our way, guns in our backs, into the hall. Soldiers, RUC and Special Branch men thronged the corridor and entrance hall. As we were 'processed', polaroid flash pictures were taken and affixed to a card. A further search. Watches, rings, belts were taken and we were pushed into the gym hail where about 150 other people were squatting on the floor. Many were in pyjamas or shirtless. Heavily armed soldiers walked up and down, risking apoplexy or a coronary by incessantly bellowing, "No talking, you scum."
Every five minutes or so groups of six of us were called out. The first three groups didn't return. The fourth did. They were dishevelled and several were bleeding, including a young man I knew, called Murphy. Was this the treatment we could all expect? I tried to comfort myself by thinking "Westminster must have sanctioned this internment; they'll have to behave themselves." Then I remembered Cyprus and Aden and Hola Camp in Kenya. My optimism flagged. The familiar lines of R. W. Grimshaw came back to me: "what can you expect from a pig but a grunt?" I braced myself and looked around. Very few faces I recognised. Mostly old men and very young boys. A man was led in by the police. Good Christ! He was blind! What sort of people were these, at whose mercy we were?
[The army also detained three winos, picked up drunk at Dunville Park bus shelter, and a dog. All were released after 24 hours. It is not reported what the dog was suspected of – people will find this hard to credit, but it is absolutely true.]
My name was called. Apprehensively I shuffled forward. I was taken by two young SB officers who identified themselves – the only ones to do so during my four interrogations – into a room and desultorily questioned. They obviously knew very little about me and cared even less. Name, address, occupation (lecturer) and a few general comments such as "Well, it's at least five years for you." What interested me more was the view past them through the window. On the lawn outside, the helicopter stood, engines still revving and blades rotating. A dozen or so barefoot men were being forced to run the gauntlet between two rows of military policemen who were clubbing them with sten-gun butts and batons. Those who fell were badly kicked. When they reached the helicopter they were grabbed in and then thrown out again almost immediately. The noise of the helicopter drowned any screams.
The interrogators noted my concern. "That's nothing to do with us," one said. "That's just the army letting off a bit of steam."
"I'd like to see my lawyer," I said, feeling foolish. They laughed. "I'm entitled to see a lawyer and to know what I'm being charged with," I tried again. They stopped laughing. "Listen, you smarty bastard, under the Special Powers Act we can keep you here as long as we like. You can't see anyone. No one will know where you are and we don't have to charge you with anything. If one of those soldiers happens to shoot you, there'll be no inquest either, you bastard." Having read the SP Acts I knew this to be unfortunately all too true. They lost interest and led me out again, this time upstairs to a crowded room where about 220 people were crammed on the floor. A faded sign on the door, under a regimental motto, said 'Merry Xmas'. Beside that a portrait of Her Serene Highness Elizabeth R. gazed serenely down.
People were still being brought in and I saw another two PD members, John Murphy and Oliver Cosgrove, president of St. Joseph's Students' Council. I sprawled down beside Liam, who was looking very pale. I glanced down and saw congealed blood on his leg. "What happened?" I whispered. "Helicopter run," he grunted. It was only later I learned that he and others had been taken about four feet up in the air and pushed out backwards, believing that they were much higher off the ground, having been told so by the soldiers.
The door opened and a young lad, his arm covered in blood, was thrust onto the floor. A policeman completed the task by going over and kicking him in the ribs. I later discovered that the lad's name was Patrick McGeogh and that he'd had to run the gauntlet three times.
Military police patrolled us, preventing anyone from dozing off or talking, but with over 200 sprawled on the floor whispered conversation was possible at times. The young man in front of me was obviously in pain. He was Eamonn Kerr. Then I saw the pus oozing out of the sores on the back of his neck. Soldiers under command of Major Lloyd had stubbed out four cigarette butts on his neck in the 'pig'. William Burroughs has said "a paranoid is someone who has some small idea of what is really going on." I began to see his point.
New military police wandered in and out making jocular remarks about getting the Fenians to sing 'the Queen'. No one stirred. At about 11 a.m. we were ordered to the door in groups of six, to get a cup of warm swill. An English gentleman put his head around the door and announced that he was a priest. Did anyone want to see him? His accent seemed to put off many. Only four queued up, shamefacedly. "You'll all be needing the last rites soon enough," the military policeman beside me smirked. Slowly they began to call out names. These were taken away in groups of six, apparently the mystic number, and disappeared from sight. By lunchtime our numbers had been reduced to 87. We were then taken downstairs again for 'lunch'.
Again we sat in ranks on the floor. No talking, no dozing, no sprawling. As different NCOs came on duty the 'rules' changed. We were shuffled in order and made to walk in circles. Throughout the afternoon we were called out for further questioning. The boredom and uncertainty dragged on. We had little idea of time, of what was happening outside, of where our friends were, of what was going to happen to us. Most of the 87 were old men or youths. The blind man, Peter Farran, was still there. By now they had given him a table to sit at.
The sergeant began to play a very real role in our lives. It was apparently his job to invent as many petty regulations as possible to make our lives uncomfortable. To go to the toilet necessitated queuing in a corner, looking straight ahead and putting one's hands on the shoulders of the man in front. Failure to comply exactly with this occasioned anything from a rebuke to a sten-gun butt in the kidneys, depending upon which NCO was guarding this vital installation. Time dragged on. 'Tea' was as unappetising as 'lunch'. Watery 'stew' "and you're fecking lucky to get anything." "Eat it, it may be your last." More reassurance. RUC men sat around the room, but it was clear that they were mere message boys; the army was in control. Some requests for a doctor were scornfully refused.
Uncertainty was the worst enemy. A man, later identified as Geordie Shannon, was taken off to hospital. He suffered from ulcers and had been forced to squat, head between knees, for an hour. It was four days before he was brought over to the jail.
The night shift came on to guard us. They, of course, had new sets of rules for us to obey. A new 'game' was introduced. It consisted of going down the line pointing at men and saying "tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, fecking nailbomber!" Whereupon the fifth man would be set upon and beaten. Exhaustion had set in but people were still being called out and interrogated. At about 11 p.m. we were ordered to erect camp beds and given two blankets each. "Those Irish bastards smell; give them showers," the sergeant said. That we smelt was true, but hardly surprising, since men, still in their pyjamas in many cases, had been dragged through the mud. Everyone's feet, with or without socks, were encrusted with filth.
The showers proved another opportunity for jocular fun. Several youths were forced into showers that were boiling hot, the next lot into freezing ones. We were issued with army socks and toothbrushes. "Compliments of her majesty," I was told. At midnight lights were dimmed and we piled into the rows of camp beds. I fell asleep but was soon awakened by a soldier shining his torch into my face. "O'Hara?" he asked. "No," I mumbled. He moved down the line. I dozed off again. Suddenly there was a thunderous sound. Batons hammered on the walls. "Get up you bastards." We fell out of bed. It was 3 a.m. 'Rollcall'. A Branch man came round and solemnly took everyone's name yet again. "What are you doing standing there, get to bed!" We dropped off once more only to be aroused at 5.30 am for 'breakfast'. Half a bowl of stale cornflakes. The beds were dismantled and we resumed squatting on the floor. People were still called out singly for further interrogation. Police walked in grinning and held up the morning newspapers to show us headlines "13 shot dead". "Ardoyne burnt to the ground" (an exaggeration). The sergeant, refreshed from his sleep, was also forthcoming. "That's 13 less of you Irish pigs; none of ours was got." Word filtered back from those who'd been interrogated again. The death toll had risen to 18, including four women and a priest.
I got talking in whispers with my neighbour, George O'Hara. After doing the 'helicopter run' he, too, had been dragged into it, but, unlike the others, he had been taken up some 200 feet into the air. Two military policemen had then told him to "talk or we'll shove you out." Shades of Vietnam!
My further three interrogations were tragi-comic. At no time was I questioned about the IRA, UVF or bombs. All questions which could be termed in any way relevant were concerned with what was socialism. Bizarre jokes were thrown in, such as "did I know that Farrell was getting Moscow gold?" So help me! Moscow gold! I explained that libertarian socialism as advocated by the PD and Farrell in particular was directly opposed to state capitalism as carried out by totalitarian regimes like the USSR. "That's just the KGB's cleverness," I was told. They clearly didn't believe it for a minute, but any smear in a storm. Next I was asked about Jerry Rubin. Was it not all a part of the international conspiracy, the trouble here? The next questioners were the most bizarre. A lugubrious gentleman gave me a lecture on the evils of atheism (I am an agnostic, but this theological distinction passed my Presbyterian inquisitor by). Did I believe in hellfire? Did I know that I would burn in all eternity? He didn't quite spell it out but the clear implication was that if I confessed to some crime or other – unspecified – he would be able to get on some kind of supernatural shortwave and put in a good word for me. Next I was asked what I was doing in the same room with a band of child murderers, rapists and mad bombers. All of them? All of them! "Even the blind man?" I explained that I had been dragged there by armed men, knew virtually none of the men and boys in the room, and rather doubted the allegations so wildly hurled about them. A view backed up by the Special Branch themselves when they released over 80 of them that day. They didn't seem very interested in me after these exchanges and contented themselves with telling me that I'd get "at least five years." For what? For speaking at civil rights meetings (perfectly legal meetings, in fact) which had led to "all this trouble."
Their tactics with me may have been innocuous enough, but what others suffered was not. Quite a few were badly beaten – a fact obvious to all who saw them emerge from the interrogation room; many were told that the streets where their families lived had been "burnt down by the Orangemen," that their relatives had been shot, sons arrested, their friends had "squealed and told all about them," that everyone believed that they had squealed and that only the SB could smuggle them out of the country, that they had lost their jobs (about the only true statement made) and finally, that if they didn't talk "we'll rip out your teeth with pliers" – which were brandished by a well-known Branch man named Harry Taylor.
By lunchtime on the second day discipline had relaxed slightly. The sergeant graciously permitted one cigarette per man before and after the 'meal'. Then we had a period; of exercise – five minutes walk outside. Soldiers gathered to make humorous remarks about 'the animals'. A playful corporal kept slipping the leash of his Alsatian as we passed him until the bewildered beast turned and tried to bite him., We were hastily rushed back inside lest we should laugh.
Rumours began to spread that they couldn't keep us more than 48 hours without officially charging or interning us. This was incorrect. They can do anything they like. under the Special Powers Act, and most of the men we met in Crumlin Road jail who were from out of Belfast were kept six days without being issued detention notices, let alone internment notices.
We continued to squat on the floor. Many were afraid to go to the toilet because of the blows some received there. Everyone was stiff and very tired, but still we were told nothing. Eventually, at 9.30 p.m., we were ordered to collect the bags containing our 'personal effects' and to put on our shoes. Suddenly there was a bustle of activity. About 25 military policemen and a dozen RUC men entered and surrounded us. Guns were cocked. Special Branch men entered and a senior officer appeared with a list. As he read from it, those called were to stand up and move over towards the door. The list was obviously incompetently compiled. Many of those called weren't in the hall or had been released earlier. The dates of birth of several people were incorrect but the Branch refused to recognize this and so sons were still mistaken for their fathers and vice versa. Eventually, 17 men were marched out. Were they being interned? Or released? We had no idea. My friend Liam, who had been arrested in error for someone else, was last to go.
Then it became really frightening. The SB withdrew, leaving the soldiers. They began to drill us, shouting what presumably to them were merry quips. "You're the feckin' bomber then, are you?" (This to a 77-year-old dignified man who never for a minute deigned to complain). "Haven't got your Thompson now, have you? You'll have to be fitter than that to join the British army" (this to a 70-year-old asthmatic who had had seven hours sleep, and that interrupted, in the last 65 hours, and who was quite unable to keep up with the exercises). Some of us were given 'fatigues' to do, which ranged from cleaning out toilet bowls with our bare hands to dishwashing. I was more fortunate and was given the task of sweeping the floor under the tutelage of a pimply teenager, eager to impress his superiors with his wit. My efforts were dearly regarded as inadequate and he let me know by constantly prodding me with the butt of his sten-gun. "Keep awake, you dozy sods," they continually yelled. It was now 2 a.m. My mind started to drift off. Things took what I felt was a very surrealistic turn. In front of me was the company notice board, upon which were pinned three notices – all of them blank! During the day one had been taken down and replaced with a blue notice, but it, too, was blank. (On looking back, I thought that I must have imagined this, but others who were standing in the front row with me have confirmed it). I kept trying to work out some kind of secret message from the board. Was it in the colour of the drawing pins? In the different shapes of the blank paper? Invisible ink? I felt myself falling asleep and a kind soldier awakened me with his baton across my back. "Feckin' bastard." I began to wish that if they must swear so repetitiously, they would at least say 'fuck' instead of using this emasculated surrogate.
A quarter to four. Surely they must let us go. After all, the blind man was still in our group along with most of the very old men, and the only two other people in the hall whom I knew were not only not terrorists, but clearly couldn't be mistaken for terrorists. I wasn't even a Republican, a political belief quite legal in any democratic society. But then William Craig had banned Republican clubs, hadn't he, and the House of Lords had upheld the ban. I began to think of getting home and getting some sleep; surely it was just all a bad dream? About 3.50 a.m. the military police massed in strength again, this time even more threateningly. Most of us had had only a disturbed seven-hours sleep out of the last 67 hours. Was it to be a mass beating? Mentally I tried to resign myself to it. But no. Out came the lists again.
Of the 60 still remaining, 48 of us were called up in groups of six. As I stood waiting to be taken out an SB man began to talk to me. "It's Crumlin for all you lads," he said, "and they've brought back the B men."
"Not even Faulkner's that stupid."
"Just joking, lads." Some joke!
"Are you interning the blind man?"
"Yes, at night he can see better than all of you put together."
We were taken out into the entrance hall and photographed again with a RUG man holding us by the collar. We had been 46 hours in Girdwood barracks. At no time since our arrest had we seen a doctor, although later Brigadier Marston Tickell was to claim: "Those arrested were given a medical inspection both on arrival at the 'police station' and again on moving into the place of detention." (Army press briefing, Belfast, 20 August). "These medical tests are available for inspection," he went on to say. This, in fact, was totally untrue. No one was inspected. About ten men saw someone who, it was alleged, was a medical orderly. His only action was to order Edward Campbell to have his head completely shaven because he had 'venereal scabies'. (No such disease exists). Pressmen who asked to see the mythical medical records were refused.
"Draw pistols," came the order. The group of six of us who had been called out of the hall together were forced down a corridor to our right, a RUC man holding each of us by the scruff of the neck and a redcap with a pistol at our heads, beside each of us. I could hardly stand for fatigue. "If there's any sniping out there we can afford to lose two of you bastards on the way over," a corporal said.
Then we were out of the building and onto the path; We were rushed over the by now infamous 'obstacle course – broken glass, barbed wire, sharp stones. We were more fortunate than people like Michael Farrell who had had to traverse it in daylight – with bare feet. We at least had our shoes on, but one slip meant a cruel beating. Then we were rushed through a hole in a wall and found ourselves in the grounds of Crumlin Road jail. A rapid dash over the football pitch, with soldier snipers all around it. A final dash down a grassy slope and inside the walls of the prison itself. We were out of the hands of the soldiers. The screws couldn't be as bad? They weren't. Most seemed very subdued. There was no violence shown towards us.
Two to a cell. Initially, we found the usual plethora of petty and nonsensical regulations. All the conditions the old internees had fought for, over the last 50 years, had to be fought for again, but, within two days, a prisoners committee had been elected and began to demand changes from the Governor, Major Albert Mullin. Because the treatment accorded in Crumlin was tolerable, Mullin was addressed as 'governor', unlike 'commandant' Kerr of the Long Kesh camp.
We retained our civilian clothes, although most of these were torn and filthy; it took time to get fresh clothes sent in. We could get food and books sent in, and for the first time got to see newspapers. Free copies were sent in by the Irish News, Newsletter and Belfast Telegraph as well as a few Independents. The day after we arrived we were joined by those who had been sent over from Girdwood a day before us. They had been put up in D wing and had, by and large, received worse treatment than we had – more beatings, attacked by the guard dogs, put over the 'obstacle course' in bare feet. Most of them bore the marks of rough treatment and some were still confined to hospital, but the medical authorities didn't want to know about any allegations of maltreatment.
From the papers we learned that about 110 men, mainly from rural areas, had been detained on the HMS Maidstone, a hulk moored at the coal wharf. They were getting only four hours on deck out of 24 and were apparently much more cramped than we were. At first we also had been limited to four hours but strenuous protests had forced the prison authorities to extend this, after the first week, to letting us out of the cells from 7.30 a.m. to 8 p.m. (4 p.m. on Sundays) and this was later extended to 9 p.m. After the first week we were able to eat together in the small recreation hall, although this necessitated some men having to eat with the toilets only a few yards away. Still, for most it was better than being forced to eat in our cells every day. Lights went out at 10 p.m.
Most of the time, if the weather was dry, we spent in the small prison yard. The yard was overlooked by both C wing and D wing where the convicted prisoners were, and the first day when we entered it we were greeted by an incredible spontaneous outburst. From every cell window cigarettes, food, books, papers and encouragement showered down. That these men, whose conditions were worse than ours (though as some of them pointed out, "At least we've got a release date on our cell doors"), were so generous was, to me at least, a morale booster.
Helicopters flew over every day, landing in Girdwood, a sordid reminder for most of us, exacerbated when they swooped low and gesticulated and mocked us.
We were not allowed to contact lawyers for several weeks and our initial postcards out were held up for four days, presumably while SB men perused them. Later, "as a favour" we were permitted two postcards a week and eventually a 20-minute visit from relatives, with a warder sitting between us. It had been harder on relatives and wives. In most cases they had been trying without success to find out where we were being held. Some, like Mrs. Shivers of Toome, were only told where their husbands were after nine days. All had been fobbed off with bland lies by the Ministry for Home Affairs and shuttled from one authority to another. One army official evidently believed that it was a good joke to give the number of Paisley's 'Dial-a-Prayer' to relatives requesting a phone number to get permission to apply for a visit.
On 14 September 12 of us were released. The next day the other detainees were moved to Long Kesh.
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