Bloody Sunday, also known as the Bogside Massacre, was a massacre of Irish anti-internment protesters by the British government that took place on this day in 1972 in the Bogside area of Derry, Northern Ireland.
Bloody Sunday resulted in the highest number of people killed in a shooting incident during the Troubles and remains the worst mass shooting in Northern Irish history. This violence was in response to a protest organized by the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association (NICRA) in opposition to a state policy of internment without trial, introduced in August of 1971.
On January 18th, 1972, Prime Minister of Northern Ireland Brian Faulkner banned all parades and marches in response to widespread civil unrest. The protest march was organized despite this order.
On the day of the protest, approximately 10,000-15,000 joined the march, however their path was blocked by British Army barriers. The protest descended into chaos, with British soldiers chasing down protesters and attacking them indiscriminately. 26 people were shot, 14 were killed. Many of the victims were shot while fleeing from the soldiers or attending to the wounded, while others were injured by shrapnel, rubber bullets, batons, or being ran down by army vehicles.
The soldiers were from the 1st Battalion Parachute Army, which had perpetrated the Ballymurphy Massacre just months prior. The events of Bloody Sunday greatly increased hostilities between Northern Ireland and the British government. Support for and recruitment by the Provisional Irish Republican Army (IRA) rose following the massacre.
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I’m reading The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime. I wasn’t expecting such a real portrayal of autism.
It reminds me of my friend. The one who won’t talk to me anymore.
And how the world has hurt them so much when all they ever wanted was to watch cartoons and draw and collect tiny spoons and eat candy.
When they were 16 they were sent away to a fucked up school for “troubled teens.” It fucked up their entire life. And I wasn’t lying to them or tweaking or being melodramatic when I told them that if I could go back and take their place, I would. (Though I did hyperfixate on that a bit too much, another sad regret.)
I didn’t cry when my mother died. But I’ve cried thinking of them. I’ve never grieved the loss of anyone before, and I’m grieving the loss of them.