Now that may be the case - I reserve judgement for the minute. However, The Sikh Archives are completely hypocritical in the fact that they also carry a story in praise of a convicted terrorist who committed suicide.
Ironically, they title their article 'Our Revenge Will Be The Laughter Of Our Children', a quote from the terrorist himself. The terrorist in question, Bobby Sands, joined an organisation which murdered children.
Between 1969 and 2001, the IRA which Sands joined in the 1970s, killed 43 children 16 years of age and younger. The IRA killed twice as many children as any other single organisation during the Troubles in Northern Ireland.
Sands is lauded by the blog site as being some kind of hero. They particularly admire the fact that he wrote poetry. Tugs on yer heart strings, doesn't it? Even serial killers can write poetry.
They describe how Sands was, "recognized and adored all over the world". Perhaps. But it seems to me that he was 'recognised' and 'adored' in certain places in particular, and quite obviously for political expediency. I imagine many an ignorant US citizen, perhaps from Boston direction, 'admiring' and 'adoring' this convicted terrorist. Equally, I imagine supporters of the likes of the PLO 'admiring' and 'adoring' Sands.
Sands had a choice. Sands chose to subvert democracy. Sands was a scumbag.
People have, insanely, chosen to name streets after the scumbag.
How many of those people considered naming a street after an actual hero, such as Michael Willetts?
Sergeant Willetts protected civilians and police officers by using his body as a shield, after the IRA had bravely thrown a short-fused bomb into a police station in Belfast in 1971.
In a station in the city a British soldier stood
Talking to the people there, if the people would
Some just stared in hatred, and others turned in pain
And the lonely British soldier wished he was back home again
Come join the British Army! said the posters in his town
See the world and have your fun come serve before the Crown
The jobs were hard to come by and he could not face the dole
So he took his country's shilling and enlisted on the roll
For there was no fear of fighting, the Empire long was lost
Just ten years in the army, getting paid for being bossed
Then leave a man experienced, a man who's made the grade
A medal and a pension, some mem'ries and a trade
Then came the call for Ireland as the call had come before
Another bloody chapter in an endless civil war
The priests they stood on both sides, the priests they stood behind
Another fight in Jesus's name: the blind against the blind
The soldier stood between them, between the whistling stones
And then the broken bottles that led to broken bones
The petrol bombs that burnt his hands the nails that pierced his skin
And wished that he had stayed at home surrounded by his kin
The station filled with people, the soldier soon was bored
But better in the station than where the people warred
The room filled up with mothers, with daughters and with sons
Who stared with itchy fingers at the soldier and his gun
A yell of fear a screech of brakes the shattering of glass
The window of the station broke to let the package pass
A scream came from the mothers as they ran towards the door
Dragging their children crying from the bomb upon the floor
The soldier stood and could not move, his gun he could not use
He knew the bomb had seconds and not minutes on the fuse
He could not run and pick it up and throw it in the street
There were far too many people there, too many running feet
Take cover! yelled the soldier, Take cover for your lives
And the Irishmen threw down their young and stood before their wives
They turned towards the soldier their eyes alive with fear
For God's sake save our children or they'll end their short lives here
The soldier moved towards the bomb, his stomach like a stone
Why was this his battle God why was he alone
He lay down on the package and he murmured one farewell
To those at home in England, to those he loved so well
He saw the sights of summer, felt the wind upon his brow
The young girls in the city parks, how precious were they now
The soaring of the swallow the beauty of the swan
The music of the turning world so soon would it be gone
A muffled soft explosion and the room began to quake
The soldier blown across the floor, his blood a crimson lake
There was no time to cry or shout, there was no time to moan
And they turned their children's faces from the blood and from the bones
The crowd outside soon gathered and the ambulances came
To carry off the body of a pawn lost in the game
And the crowd they clapped and cheered and they sang their rebel song
One soldier less to interfere where he did not belong
And will the children growing up learn at their mothers' knees
The story of the soldier who bought their liberty
Who used his youthful body as a means towards an end
Who gave his life to those who called him "murderer", not friend
 | |
| Sergeant Michael Willetts, hero. Copyright Airborne Forces Archive 2007 |
Willetts was a man who died saving the lives of others. He died selflessly and the children he saved from that explosion were able to laugh in subsequnt years. Sands, on the other hand, lived and died selfishly - he took to the gun because others disagreed with him. He starved himself to death because he felt he was somehow special or better than others.
Where are the Michael Willetts Streets?
