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Via Workers World News Service
Reprinted from the Jan. 30, 1997
issue of Workers World newspaper
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An Irish republican remembers 'Bloody Sunday'

By Matt Morrison

Matt Morrison was 16 when, on Jan. 30, 1972, British troops shot and killed 13 people taking part in a civil-rights march in Derry, Northern Ireland. That experience caused him to join the Irish Republican Army and fight to end the British occupation.

He was arrested and served 10 years in prison before being released. He married and eventually moved to the United States, where he lives with his family. But today Morrison is fighting extradition because of his past. For more information about Matt Morrison and others facing deportation check out the following web page: http://www.larkspirit.com/larkaction/dontdeport.html)

Following is his personal account of "Bloody Sunday" 25 years ago.

It was a beautiful sunny winter afternoon when I, my father Paddy, and my cousin Liam set out on foot from Shantallow for a march in the Creggan. We were all good walkers and were moving at a good clip up the fairly steep incline that is Rosemount Hill.

As we strode by the park, we met a British army foot patrol. The sergeant, using his rifle as a pointer, indicated he wanted us to stop.

We knew the drill. We were spread-eagled against the cold iron perimeter railings of the park.

We were warm because of the fast pace we had been maintaining in order to reach the assembly point at the common ground known as the Bishop's Field. I can still recall the strong smell of waterproofing on the Brit's uniform as he gave me a "rub down" that was anything but perfunctory.

I can still see my father raise his eyebrow in a quizzical manner as this same soldier warned us to be very careful today.

We were late. When we arrived at the Bishop's Field, the main body of civil-rights marchers had already departed for Free Derry corner. We were part of a tardy rearguard of stragglers who decided to take a shortcut through the city cemetery so we could catch up with the rest of our friends and neighbors.

At 16, I was already a "veteran" of numerous civil-rights marches and riots, including a stint at the barricades during the Battle of the Bogside in August 1969. Ironically, however, Bloody Sunday was the first time I accompanied my father with his permission.

Normally, I would leave the house for a march a few minutes after my father. I would be careful not to let him see his first-born at any stage in the proceedings.

As we walked down William street, I noticed a Brit sniper walk up toward the apex of the roof of Stevenson's bakery. I commented to Paddy and Liam that even if the Brits wanted to shoot us all today, they wouldn't have enough ammunition, we were such a large crowd.

The first person shot on Bloody Sunday was actually shot by this sniper.

We were all in good spirits as we moved toward Rossville Street. People were bantering in a typically Derry way. Everyone knew almost everyone else there by sight, if not by name. There was almost a carnival atmosphere, reflective in many ways of the hope, the optimism, the joy inherent in even painful struggle.

I became separated from my father and cousin. I could not see them in the vicinity of the Free Derry corner, where a variety of speakers were addressing the rapidly assembling crowd from a truck bed.

I decided to backtrack to the corner of William and Rossville Streets to search for them. There was a small group of teenage stone throwers and a much larger group of spectators. I became part of a tightly packed group in a narrow alley.

We were showered with purple dye from a British army water cannon. When they shot tear gas I could not manage to get my hand up to my eyes, such was the crush. I decided it was time to move on.

I was about one-third of the way up Rossville street when I heard the distinctive sound of rifle fire. Looking back over my shoulder, I could see British paras crossing some waste ground. They were running forward, some pausing to shoot. They were sweeping the crowd before them.

I crouched over low and started to run. I knew that if I fell I would be trampled.

In a brief surreal moment, I saw an old man sitting on a low brick garden wall in Glenlada Park. He was laughing maniacally. Even in a moment of panic, this scene struck me as memorably bizarre.

Running for the shelter of a barricade at Free Derry corner, I had the silly notion that once there I would be safe. An Olympic hurdler could not have hopped over that barricade as quickly as I did.

No sooner had I reached "safety" than I heard a very plaintive voice: "Oh son, could ye help me? I think my foot is stuck."

Cursing like a trooper to myself and damning this woman, her seed, breed and generation for being so inconsiderate as to get her foot stuck at such an inopportune moment, I reluctantly remounted the barricade. "Give me your hand, missus!" I yelled. I grabbed her outstretched hand and tugged her free.

I was most certainly not one of those brave souls who risked their lives for others in the middle of the para killing zone. Several were shot for their courageous acts. Thankfully I was not one of those who lost a family member in the slaughter. I was a scared 16-year-old who did everything he could to stay alive in a situation of utter confusion and carnage.

Suffice it to say that I saw several people shot that day. I realized instantly that I had witnessed an event that would feature large in Irish history. I know at a visceral level that I was done begging for my rights.

I would rather be scared and armed than scared and empty-handed. Bloody Sunday was a personal watershed for me. I could not realize then how it would unalterably change my life and impact on the lives of my future wife and unborn children.

As I recall this event of 25 years ago, I know that my current deportation battle is a replay in some ways. Both events are born of the same struggle to live our lives in safety, in justice and free from British interference.

The INS [Immigration and Naturalization Service] wields paper in the same way the Brits wield their guns and batons. They both show the same callous disregard. They demean and devalue our right to raise our families in peace.

Don't remember Bloody Sunday! Learn from it!

- END -

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