148,000 reasons why we fail to cherish nation’s children equally

THE teachers knew that Timmy was supposed to be starting school, but they were too busy with the new intake of kids to notice that he never turned up. Not the first day, nor the second, nor the third.

His mum had been to the school to enquire about what he needed, and she had seemed absolutely determined to bring Timmy herself. One of the teachers knew the family, and when she saw Timmy's mum on the street, she stopped her to ask why Timmy hadn't started.

That's when Timmy's mum started to cry. She couldn't send Timmy, she said. She hadn't the price of the uniform, and she couldn't afford new shoes for her son. And because the teacher was sympathetic, it all came out. She was being terrorised by a moneylender. Ever since Timmy's dad had left, she just hadn't been able to keep up with the bills.

The teacher knew that Timmy's mum loved him desperately, and wanted nothing but the best for him. But she had passed the point of coping. And it's such a loss, because Timmy is bright. He seems to be bursting to learn.

Margaret, on the other hand, a little girl the same age as Timmy, hasn't spoken for two years. It's hard to say how intelligent she is, because even when she is encouraged to play, she does so silently.

There's a sadness in her eyes that you should never see in a four-year-old.

Both of Margaret's parents are on methadone. The last four years, ever since Margaret was born, have been chaotic for them. They've done everything they can to quit the drugs to which they have both been addicted since they were 16. They were together then, and in its own way it's a small miracle that they're still together.

Margaret is the glue. Although they can't really cope with their own lives, they never miss an appointment at Margaret's playgroup. They have both said they would willingly give her up if it was a way of guaranteeing a better life. But once, Margaret heard them saying that, and became hysterical. The sadness in her eyes deepened from that moment on, and the staff in the playgroup are convinced that Margaret believes she is going to lose the only mum and dad she has ever known. And there's a third kid. Robert is four, and already a problem child. He lives with his grandparents, along with three brothers and sisters. He never had a dad, and his mum is in and out of hospital.

She suffers from chronic depression, and has several times tried to take her own life. The grandparents, already well into their 60s and living on a combined pension, do everything they can. But with four kids who need clothes and heating and school gear and lunches every day, it's harder and harder.

They simply don't know what to do with Robert. He's disconnected from the rest of the family, uses foul language that no four-year-old should ever have heard, and has regularly hits his two sisters.

Recently, he tried to bite one of the other kids in the playgroup. There's no way the staff there are willing to give up on him, but they know he needs a lot of intensive, one-to-one help. They're doing their best to find it for him, but there's a very long waiting list and no guarantee it will be the right type of help.

Poverty is the thing that binds these children together. These are true stories by the way, though none of the children's names is real. Poverty is the thing that puts them 'beyond the Pale,' that makes services hard to come by, that puts them at the end of every queue.

Poverty excludes them. And they know they're excluded. They feel it.

Even at four.

If I knew them all, I could tell 148,000 stories like these, some better maybe, some worse for sure. Because 148,000 children live in consistent poverty in Ireland. That's every seventh child we have.

We tend not to see it. It's hidden away from us, especially if we drive fast enough past the places where it is most concentrated. And many of us don't really experience it. We think of poverty as a thing of the past and if we feel poor ourselves, it's only because the neighbours seem to have so much more. And if we do occasionally see poverty, we reckon there's someone to blame a shiftless dad, a drug-addicted mum.

BUT here are two simple thoughts. Consistent poverty, the kind that affects every seventh child in Ireland today, means you're cold a lot of the time. It means you're hungry more often than not. It means you wash in cold water, and sometimes sit in the dark because the electricity has been turned off. It means you've been bullied, and could well turn into a bully yourself.

And the second thought. The causes of poverty are many and complex.

Yes, not all parents are ideal (and not all parents got much of a chance themselves). But there are thousands of loving parents in Ireland who simply can't afford to give their children the basics we take for granted. Income supports are too small, and services are still too poor and inadequate. Despite all our wealth, we haven't got around to breaking the cycle of poverty. And as a result, poverty, and the exclusion, marginalisation and alienation that go with it are likely to be life sentences for a great many of the children who are poor now.

When we think about poverty in Africa, we understand it readily enough. And frequently we're moved by the size of the problem. Here, in our own place, perhaps it ought to be the shame of the problem that moves us.

Because we can fix this. We have the resources to ensure that every kid in Ireland gets the best possible start in life, whatever their circumstances. Yesterday, the Taoiseach launched an important programme in Tallaght aimed at breaking the cycle of poverty through early intervention and family support. Today, the organisation I work for, Barnardos, is launching a national campaign to highlight the fact that poverty really does exist for nearly 150,000 children in Ireland, and that it hurts.

We're doing it because we really believe that if we become aware of the issue, if it can be put on the political map, it's a solvable problem. And guess what? Solve the problem of child poverty and we'll be taking a giant step to bring down crime figures in the future, to bring down drug addiction figures, to end anti-social behaviour, and to reduce the amount of money we spend on treating mental health problems.

We have a saying in Barnardos every childhood lasts a lifetime. A childhood of poverty, of the kind of poverty that excludes children from their peers, that makes them hate themselves and the world, leaves scars that in many cases never go away. Timmy, Margaret and Robert may carry those scars forever. And we could fix that. Not overnight, maybe, but in a reasonable time. Wouldn't it be worth trying?