The IRA

I am not a terrorist.

Being the son of Irish immigrants living in Manchester in the 1970s I got called Paddy quite a bit. My name is John so I'm guessing it was supposed to be an offensive term. Occasionally we'd go back home for our holidays.

My cousin was older than me and was heavily into the IRA. I loved the passion behind it all, it was a far cry from the dreariness of racist mancunians. It gave me a drive and a purpose. It was something to believe in. Every Christmas, Summer and Easter I would go back and join my cousin fighting for independence. There was something liberating about teenagers being able to chase the army off armed only with stones and bottles.

In 1972 all that changed.

We'd been in Derry for Christmas and New Year and had a relatively peaceful time. We went back to Manchester on the 20th. The last thing Mikey said to me was to never give up the fight, to always fight for what you believe is the right thing to do.

Ten days later he was shot, unarmed, in the face by the British paras.

I haven't been back since, and my interest in freedom faded. I am a coward, I can't even die for the things I believe in. I have betrayed Mikey. Sometimes I wish I still believed in things as fiercely as I once did. I don't believe in anything anymore. Nobody does.