 of whether one agreed with the actions themselves or not. Their goal was the ending of British rule in the north of Ireland as a way of winning equal treatment and rights for all.
They had been convicted in juryless courts, where the burden of proof was shifted to the accused, and statements extracted by physical abuse were often used against them. The prisoners were demanding not to be forced to wear prison uniforms, not to do prison work, for the right of free association, including the right to organize educational and recreational pursuits, the right to receive one letter, one parcel, and one visit a week, and restoration of any reduction in time served due to good behaviour, which had been lost as a result of the protest. Winning these demands would amount to recognition of their status as political prisoners.
I knew no one in Ireland but obtained the address of a bookshop in West Belfast and wrote a note saying I was arriving on a specific day and would appreciate any help they could offer.
On my way into Belfast from the Aldergrove airport, I noticed slogans painted on the walls of buildings. One said, “Victory to the Blanket Men. Grant the Five Demands.” Further along, another replied, “Let them die!”
I didn’t know how to reach the bookshop, and after arriving at the bus station, was directed to the Linen Hall Library. A person at the front desk offered to phone a local newspaper, The Andersonstown News. I was handed the receiver and spoke with a man who told me to get a black taxi and tell the driver to let me off at the Busy Bee.
I walked back outside and saw two men lounging against a black taxi. After I explained where I wanted to go, both men stared at me for a moment. Then one of them pointed down the street at a line of black vehicles in the distance and said, “You want to get your taxi in Castle Street. This one goes up the Shankill.” I thanked him and headed off with the newly acquired understanding that these men only drove into the unionist areas of Belfast. That was not where I was headed.
From the rear seat of a black taxi, I peered out at the Falls Road as we made our way to Andersonstown. After the driver pulled over, he tapped the glass partition separating him from those of us in the back and announced, “The Busy Bee.” I scrambled out, paid him my fare, and noticed a supermarket set back from the roadway. Along its right flank, several smaller stores extended towards me. One had a sign that said, “Connolly Books.”
The bookshop was run by a political group called People’s Democracy, a socialist organization that was part of a broader coalition supporting the prisoners’ demands. In a surprising development, two of its members had been elected to Belfast city council a couple of months earlier, at a time when Sinn Féin was still boycotting the elections.
As I entered the sparsely furnished shop, I was greeted by a woman who told me they had received my letter. Shortly after, a young man named Brendan dropped by and said he would be looking after me for the rest of the day. He’d just completed his first year of studies at Queen’s University and wanted to check his examination results posted on campus.
After a long walk to the university, we entered a building and joined others gathered around a board in the hallway. Brendan seemed pleased with what he read. On our return, he suggested heading over to a place called the PDF before meeting up with his brother later in the evening.
We made our way down a narrow alley and emerged in an area of waste ground. He pointed to a squat, single-storey structure in the distance. As we approached it, a husky young man with red hair and a bushy beard was coming towards us wearing a black jacket.
“Kieran,” Brendan said.
The man looked over. “Brendan,” he replied, before giving me a nod.
As we walked on, Brendan said, “That was Kieran Nugent, the first blanket man.”
In 1972, a hunger strike by jailed republicans had forced the British government to recognize them as political prisoners who did not have to wear a prison uniform or do prison work. In an effort to crim