Back when I was a young journalist, I had a friend who had been born into the Mother and Baby Home. And before I ever shook his hand, I could tell that here was a man with a story, a tale that had traced its way across his face, into his furrowed brow and wrapped itself around all of his humble demeanour.
He was a man who I encountered everyday on my way to get a cup of tea and eventually, he joined me and asked me if I would do him a favour. He told me of the hardship in the home, the coldness, the harsh words, the lack of any encouragement. Then he told me of how he was sent from there to live and work on a farm, to be a substitute son, virtually a slave worker. One who would eat his meals on his own, the only communication of compassion coming from the family dog with whom he’d share the spoils of the leftovers. I can still see his face wince and the shake of his head when he recalls just how unkind they were to him.
You see, people are like flowers. Treat them well and they will bloom. But instead as a country we decided to that there were only some flowers who should burst into colour; and others, many others, who would be condemned to a life of greyness, of permanent cloud. From the start of his life, those who could have given him empathy and compassion and love had shunned him, subliminally stamping it into his mind that he might never amount to much and that he should be glad to be alive at all. A pre-determination of how his life would turn out.
He stopped me on the corner one day with a carrier bag of musty documents, stamped and sealed by the official bodies who had shaped his life that far. He asked me if I would help him find his family, as he knew his mother was out there somewhere. And so that night after night, that musty carrier bag was emptied, document by document, put into order, until we could make shape of it all. To start making calls and writing letters and sending faxes, back in those pre-internet days.
In the next year, he would meet his mother several times, and while she was very old, and not as welcoming as he might have thought, it was something for him to grab onto. But there was light at the end of his tunnel, because he had a sibling; and they were reunited one Sunday afternoon in a county town hotel not far from here.
He scrubbed himself up, his chiselled face bursting with tears and joy as he sat around and enjoyed the company of his brother and his brother’s family. There was a slight awkwardness about it at first, but then it dissipated and they melted into each other’s arms; and hugged each other like they wished they could have on many a dark night in cold poorly-lit rooms when they both looked out at a world that did not seem willing to offer them a chance.
He told me that while his living circumstance had not changed much after the meeting because he was used to his own company, life was different. To look up at the stars at night and know that somewhere out there was someone who cared for him. A novel feeling after a life of putdown and rejection.
Everyone has their story and it is right that these are heard and recorded because it is only by learning from the mistakes of yesterday that we can plan for a better tomorrow.
But are we learning? Or are we just turning one blind eye, while tut-tutting at the Tuam findings. The way in which some people are treated as the Others in this country has always become back to haunt us; and so it will when a decade from now, we begin to hear of what really goes on in the Direct Provision programme and in the housing of Travellers. And in the way we expect those with mobility issues to be able to use our towns and cities. The way we apply different rules to school pupils with different needs, such as those in our community who have been denied their education in this new lockdown.
Let this report ensure that we record the lessons of the last century, that those whose lives were upturned are helped in different ways, so that we can use the knowledge to paint the canvas for a better Ireland.
