Today's the anniversary of Internment. Thirty nine years. History books will recall the big picture. I was seven. I only recall a little moment. I guess they're both the truth.
What I recall is seeing a 17-year-old boy, who I knew was at school with my brother, shifting crates of petrol bombs behind a barricade on the main road near our house. His sister was in my class. She always had more sweets than anyone else.
“What's he doing here?” I thought. “They're posh!”
As he turned with the crate in his hands I noticed the gloves. He was wearing gloves. But they weren't black and woolly, they were light tan, pigskin leather, driving gloves. The ones with the hole in the back and the wee button. Wow! Even as a seven year old I registered the moment's incongruity.
If someone wearing posh gloves could riot the world must be about to turn upside down.