Irish Hunger Strikes Chapter 8

Maintaining Humanity Inside the H-Blocks:
The "Craic"

Martin Hurson, who died on 13 July, 1981, after 46 days on hunger strike, was typical of most of the men. He had a lousy singing voice. Only a few of the men could sing a passable song much less get the words right, but in an environment like the H-blocks where there were no books, no newspapers, no TV, no radio and no exercise -- and the Blanketmen were locked up 24 hours a day -- the only entertainment was what the men could provide for each other.

"Singsongs"

Singsongs were perhaps the easiest way for the men to entertain themselves. Often they derived more fun from "slaging" the awful singers than from praising the good ones. Martin Hurson was so bad, the whole wing would give up a spontaneous, communal moan at the clearing of his throat. And for the most part he knew only one song. At least he had the courage to blast away.

Tom Holland's cell was next to Martin's. "Well, what did you think of that, Dutch?," Martin shouted to Tom after singing a song, who replied, "Martin, I've heard the words before but I can't recognize that tune."

Once Hurson announced when it was his turn to sing that he would pass because he was singing the same song over and over again and wouldn't sing until he learned a new one. A sigh of relief was heard around the wing, until he was ordered by the wing OC to sing the new song that was handed to him at mass. But Martin replied that he hadn't memorized it, and because it was near midnight, there was no light to read from. At that a particularly sadistic screw on night duty turned Martin's cell lights on and walked off to the safety of his room. The words to a crackling, off-tune "Sean South" rang throughout the wing. The screw was cursed for his cruelty.

Even though the men would howl and carry on during these "performances", no matter how bad the singer was, he always got applauded at the end, with banging and yelling across the cells.

The Prisoners Best Friend: Imagination

Felim O'Hagan recalls the men saying to each other, "When this is all over, we'll remember only the good bits." In Nor Meekly Serve My Time, Felim writes about what it was like: "Craic and camaraderie there was; they provide the golden memories of the Blanket. There was plenty of brutality in the H-Blocks but no doubt everyone who has ever seen the inside of a prison will agree that it's the sheer boredom that sometimes gets you.

"But imagination is a wonderful thing. Put a blanket lengthways on the floor, wrap another one around you, five steps, turn, five steps, turn and you were off to a wild headland in Donegal, or a cozy fire at home, or the last female company you knew outside, or with your comrades in the haven of a safe house."

Perhaps the most dreamed about memory was of food, and not necessarily a wonderful Christmas dinner or a fancy steak. Mostly the men fantasized about eating a bowl of cornflakes with real milk or an order of chips from the take out. One reason for this was the severe deprivation that the men were subjected to. Different screws had their own ways of doing things. If one of the bad ones would take over as "class officer", the men would be near starved from lack of a proper diet.

"The Ugliest Man in the Wing"

Singing wasn't the only form of entertainment where "the worst" was often "the best" in terms of the craic. Periodically there would be contests such as "Bore of the Wing" or "Ugliest Man in the Wing". These contests were often rigged for maximum laughs. Quizzes were also rigged. Without books or resources, the answers to the questions were adjudicated by a referee or Quizmaster. But the person asking the question would normally also be the referee.

Teams would be set up, for example, one side of the wing against the other. Often these contests were taken very seriously. But not for long. The Quizmaster on one side might ask who is the main character in a TV series or star of a movie. Of course, if the answer didn't suit the Quizmaster, he'd say, "Wrong! It's ____" -- a minor character. Or the improper pronunciation would get a "Wrong!" along with appropriate slaging because of the man's Derry or Belfast accent. The Quizmater was an absolute dictator. But the point was to be ridiculous and have maximum laughs.

In a place like the H-Blocks, humor had to have a uniqueness or a "sick edge" to it. Joe McNulty, for example, wanted to know what his name was in Irish. He was told it was, "Seosamb Arrachtach". This is what he called himself until he found out it meant "Joe Monster". However, it was too late; he was now permanently "the Monster". They probably still call him that.

Incredibly, Bingo games were also played [and sometimes fixed]. One cell was organized with "cards" for all the men drawn on the wall which were shouted out to each of the men. A central board on the floor was used to keep track of the game, a small piece of paper being placed on each number as called. The prizes? Usually some inedible cake or other resistible treasure.

The Wildlife & "Ben the Bowler Hat"

One of the best pastimes was watching the wagtails fly outside. At least it gave the men something free to contemplate. Feeding the seagulls was also a popular way to pass the time, the food being nearly inedible to begin with.

During the summer of 1978, a nervous rat took up residence in the yard below the men. As a gag, they feed him all of the crap they couldn't get down their throats. He was called "Ben the Bowler-hat." Soon he became huge and tame as a puppy. Ben came to an untimely end when several screws and orderlies found him waddling along as they were cleaning up the yard which had been glutted with broken up beds and cell furniture.

Joe McQuillan, a Blanketman, described the scene as if it were high comedy: "Ben, as fat as a balloon with his easy lifestyle, was running along the yard wall pursued by one of the orderlies who was the same shape, fat and obscene, closely pursued by his two companions. Ben reached the bottom of the yard but for some reason didn't go out the hole to freedom. He turned and ran back towards his perusers. It was like a sketch out of a comedy as the screws and the orderlies turned and ran in the opposite direction. Ben having noticed them also turned and ran in the original direction. The orderlies reached him and kicked him several feet along the ground, where he lay motionless. We called the orderlies all the murderers of the day."

Of course, Ben came back to life when examined by the orderly, sending orderlies and screws knocking into each other and screaming to hoots of laughter from the men. Ben was eventually murdered, but he gave his life in a good cause -- a few moments of laughs for men in incredible need of a laugh.

Political Discussions and "Reading" Books Out the Cell Door

Bobby Sands was a classic republican prisoner: enthusiastic, committed and resourceful. Not that he was different in kind to the other men, but he seemed to have it all. Bobby would organize political discussions with cellmates and within the wing. He also taught the men around him the Irish language, which was not an easy task without any writing material or tapes. And of course, he was a prolific writer of songs, prose and poetry. His fame as a writer is not dependent only upon his subsequent fame as the leader of the second hunger strike and the first to die. He was a really good writer, sometimes even a great one. These activities didn't only keep the men busy and therefore sane; it also helped them understand the nature of the struggle they were engaged in.

Another entertainment with a political purpose was the "telling" of books. A man would tell the story of a book he read, often years ago, when the screws put the lights out at night. The men would listen well into the night or fall peacefully to sleep listening. Bobby once told the story of Leon Uris's "Trinity". It took him weeks to prepare for the "telling" and when he told it, he spent two to three hours each night for three weeks speaking out the cell door to the wing. Bobby was a perfectionist when it came to his commitment to the struggle and the Republican cause. He was perfectionist period.

Morale was never higher! The men were enduring all the Brit regime could deliver and could still retain their humanity. But they were not any closer to gaining political status.

Next: More Brutality and Talk of Hunger Strike