Michael Lowry (Tipperary, Independent) | Oireachtas source

I am sharing time with Deputy Canney.

Today is a day that will be recorded in the history of our country. Today we lay bare a chapter that is already soaked in the tears of many of our citizens. Today is the day that we publicly acknowledge the shame and suffering inflicted on countless women and their children. Today should have come a long time ago.

Last October, I voted for legislation that preserved and protected the database of information and allowed it to be transferred to the control of the Minister. It also enabled publication. Without publication, this day would still be a distant hope for many people. We had no right to deny them their truth. I welcome the fact that the Government is committed to passing legislation to give easy access to information and tracing records. I welcome the commitment to establish a redress scheme. I firmly believe that all religious orders involved should join the State and church in a public apology.

The report has confirmed to us what many people already knew. It is distressing and difficult to read this catalogue of neglect. A written account creates a mental image for those who read it. It can tell us the truth about what happened during this shameful era. It can give us a glimpse into the tormented minds of those who suffered. We fervently hope it can help to heal the broken hearts of those who still carry the pain.

The Ireland of the mother and baby era was a different place to the Ireland of today. These were the times when men ruled and the role of a woman was to cater for their needs. This applied across the class divide. Disgrace and shame knew no class. The church ruled with an iron fist. A devoutly Catholic people lived by its teachings. To go against those teachings, particularly by becoming pregnant outside wedlock, was the ultimate shame. Innocence, naïveté, incest, abuse and rape were the cause of many of these girls becoming pregnant. The finger of blame did not point towards the man, but the fist of the church slammed the women. Even in homes where a daughter was loved and a family tried to protect her, the church stepped in and insisted that she be taken from her family. More commonly, rather than face the disgrace, families took their daughters to be looked after by the nuns until after the babies were born. Looking after a sick relative in England was a typical excuse for a girl suddenly vanishing. We can never fully understand what it was really like. I refer to the anguish of the family, many of whom had no idea that in hiding their shame they were walking their traumatised daughters into the hands of people who would leave them with a lifetime of sadness and emptiness. Church-run institutions funded by the Irish State would inflict months, years and, indeed, lifetimes of tragedy on these young girls. One can only imagine the terrifying confusion each of these young women felt on waking up in a place where she was scorned or referred to as fallen woman, a sinner. Such was their innocence that many did not even understand how they had become pregnant. The thought of childbirth was a mysterious terror. They were not allowed to mix with each other. Friendships were forbidden by the nuns although shared suffering drew the girls together. At night, these frightened girls lay in bed. The screams rang out along the corridor as one of them went through childbirth without a hint of mercy or even a kindly word, yet those were not the screams that haunted these women for the rest of their lives; rather, it was the unnatural, heart-rending cries of a mother who discovered that her baby was gone, gone without any warning, gone without a mother's kiss goodbye.

One of the mother and baby homes, Sean Ross Abbey, Roscrea, was located in my constituency, Tipperary. From the day it opened in 1930, approximately 6,000 girls and women, passed through its doors.

In its opening year, 60 of the 120 babies born there died. Approximately 800 mothers and babies died between 1930 and 1950. The report highlights the glaring absence of official records. I visited Sean Ross Abbey mother and baby home after it closed. I instinctively made the sign of the cross. It is a formidable building and it struck me that it wore its sadness on its sleeve. It was cold, eerie and soulless. Its walls hold hidden stories of appalling mental abuse and neglect. While meandering through the building, it is possible to sense the pain, the grief and the sorrow of innocent victims. One is enveloped by the stark truth of a system that condemned women to be enslaved in a nightmare.

Thankfully, the present generation of politicians have faced up to the sins of the past and are prepared to acknowledge in a meaningful way the suffering endured by so many. Much work remains to be done to meet the justified expectations of those grievously wronged. The doors of these homes of shame are closed forever. The anguish of craving the comfort of a listening voice is gone. The call to have their voices heard has been answered. The hurt and injustice has been recognised and we look to a future of hope and healing.

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