Over the holidays I don't know why I had been thinking about the potentially explosive political subject of Bobby Sands. He was a man I'd never even heard of before he began his fatal hunger strike in Long Kesh prison nearly twenty years ago, in protest over Thatcher's treatment of political prisoners as criminals - something not remotely connected to me, and that, admittedly, at the time I cared little about. Here in the U. S. his ordeal had been given an occasional acknowledgement by the mainstream media, mostly to unemotionally chronicle the number of days it had been since he had eaten. Reporters seeking to fill a slow news day took the opportunity to educate their viewers and listeners, contrasting with clinical detachment the estimated length of time the body could survive without food to the number of days of survival without water. I could almost imagine the off-camera betting pools being circulated throughout newsrooms across the country as to when or if he would abandon his commitment to starvation, or when the lack of food would ultimately result in his demise.

I was sitting in a bar that early part of May, customarily knocking back a few with a friend after another uneventful and unrewarding day at work when the news of Bobby Sands' death came over the radio the bartender had just switched on. Sixty-six days after he had initiated his hunger strike, at a time when spring's sails were unfurled and full of wind, Bobby Sands was dead.

"So much for that," my friend dismissed off-handedly. "What a stupid thing to do. And what has he accomplished? Nobody cares, and besides, he's no longer alive to protest anything now."

I thought about what he said. What had he accomplished? For sixty-six days he focused the world's attention on the plight of political prisoners in Long Kesh, an issue that otherwise would have gone unnoticed. He brought a political struggle down to the individual's level and gave it a name. He demonstrated to others that a person's convictions could run so deep as to favor the pangs of a slow and agonizing death over life in its present condition. Whether history branded him a thug or a hero, he had done more than anyone I had encountered in my generation to bring to the political forefront the central themes of Ireland's problems.

I tried explaining that to my friend; that regardless of one's own personal feelings towards the subject, to willingly sacrifice one's life for something as abstract as a cause or belief was the most profound statement of protest one could make. He was more worried about who was buying the next round.

Now, when I think of political struggles and sacrifice, and when bands like Rage Against The Machine proclaim, "Anger is a gift," I think of Bobby Sands. I sometimes wish that I too felt as deeply about something, anything - that to feel that way must be a blessing, notwithstanding the inevitable trials and tribulations that surely accompany such feelings.

Neil Lowe