«Who among those so-called humanitarians who had kept their silence on the H-Blocks, who among them could put a name on this type of humiliation and torture, when men are forced by extreme torture into the position that they had to embark upon a dirt strike to highlight the inhumanity poured upon them ! How much must we suffer, I thought. An unwashed body, naked and wrecked with muscular pain, squatting in a corner, in a den of disease, amid piles of putrefying rubbish, forced to defecate upon the ground where the excreta would lie and the smell would mingle with the already sickening evil stench of urine and decaying waste food. Let them find a name for that sort of torture, I thought, rising and moving towards the window to seek fresh air, the beatings, the hosing-downs, starvation and deprivation, just let them bloody well put a name on this nightmare of nightmares.
(...)
I find it startling to hear myself say that I am prepared to die first rather than succumb to their oppressive torture and I know that I am not on my own, that many of my comrades hold the same. And I thought of my dead comrades again. My friends who had stood beside me one day and were dead the next. Boys and girls just like myself, born and raised in the nationalist ghettos of Belfast to be murdered by foreign soldiers and lecky sectarian thugs. How many have been murdered at their hands throughout the occupied Six Counties. Too many ! One boy or girl was too many ! How many more Irish people would die ? How many more lives would be lost before the British had decided they had murdered enough and were forced to get out of Ireland forever ?»
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