James KearneyBeside the graves of my comrades, Bobby Sands, Kieran Doherty, Joe Mc Donnell, Mairead Farrell and Brendan O Callaghan a young boy laughs. 


He is unaware of the sacrifice that has been made, the huge price that has been paid, the long road of rags and sorrows which have led to this place.

He can not hear the sound of gunfire, the bullets cutting through skin, the moans and cries from the dying for their mothers. He can not hear the steel doors slamming, the women weeping for their sons and daughters, the pangs of hunger in the night.

He can not hear the thud of the distant explosion, the ticking time bomb, the front door being kicked in, the screech of a Saracen armoured car. He can not hear the dying gasps of men on hunger strike, he can not see their glazed eyes.

Instead, all he hears is the birds singing, the music on a gentle breeze. He hears the sound of an ice cream van, or a bee humming, or catches a glimpse of a sparrow hawk in flight.

His dreams are now filled with sugar plum fairies, not with smoke and horror, as only mine were. His laughter has become my revenge and the revenge of my lost brothers, my brothers in arms.

James Kearney is a former Blanketman.

Our Revenge Will Be The Laughter Of Our Children

James KearneyBeside the graves of my comrades, Bobby Sands, Kieran Doherty, Joe Mc Donnell, Mairead Farrell and Brendan O Callaghan a young boy laughs. 


He is unaware of the sacrifice that has been made, the huge price that has been paid, the long road of rags and sorrows which have led to this place.

He can not hear the sound of gunfire, the bullets cutting through skin, the moans and cries from the dying for their mothers. He can not hear the steel doors slamming, the women weeping for their sons and daughters, the pangs of hunger in the night.

He can not hear the thud of the distant explosion, the ticking time bomb, the front door being kicked in, the screech of a Saracen armoured car. He can not hear the dying gasps of men on hunger strike, he can not see their glazed eyes.

Instead, all he hears is the birds singing, the music on a gentle breeze. He hears the sound of an ice cream van, or a bee humming, or catches a glimpse of a sparrow hawk in flight.

His dreams are now filled with sugar plum fairies, not with smoke and horror, as only mine were. His laughter has become my revenge and the revenge of my lost brothers, my brothers in arms.

James Kearney is a former Blanketman.

2 comments:

  1. Another thread written into the fabric of history James.

    I took my own daughter over to the plot when she was very young and wrote shortly after it:

    At the grave of Bobby Sands our three-year-old daughter skipped and laughed. She had only recently been told the story of 'Brave Bobby Sands, the wicked witch Maggie Thatcher and the H-Blocks.' No matter how much I dress it up she insists it is a 'terrible story' and demands to be told Dora The Explorer instead. Nevertheless, she advocates that we should get a rope and 'pull poor Bobby out from the bury hole.'

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  2. A very moving piece such young joy amongst such horror

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