2 days ago
Rosita Sweetman: I was poor when the country was — being poor in a rich Ireland must be torture
Being 'poor' is miserable. Being poor in an affluent society is torture.
Ireland is now, statistically, one of the richest countries in the world - but child poverty, or children in consistent poverty, has increased by an astonishing 78% in the past year, according to a new report. And renting a house, never mind buying a house, for you and your children, has never been more difficult.
This week the Government serendipitously announced its plans for the housing market where rents on Daft show new build apartments in Dublin (seemingly made mostly of MDF) are €2,300 for a single bed, €3,500 for a double.
So what does our delightful new government do?
Sadly, far from beating their breasts, saying, our nation's children should not be in 'consistent poverty', our lovely young people should not be beggaring themselves to rent or buy a home, our old people should definitely not be forced to sell their homes and go into so-called 'homes' where they could be neglected or even unsafe, the Government plan to bring in legislation that will enable landlords to raise rents even higher.
They say it's the only way to increase supply.
In a way, it's not surprising.
We've been bastards to each other over property ever since the Famine, when Gombeenism, (ie taking over your dying or emigrating neighbour's gaff) signalled the birth of native capitalism. It's a tradition so ingrained that many of our politicians run side hustles as landlords.
Remember the Celtic Tiger, when Bertie and Co whipped the country into a frenzy of acquisition that everyone knew was going to end in a massive crash? And when the crash hit the property boys circled the wagons, bailed out the banks, created Nama.
Welfare was slashed. Supports for the vulnerable were slashed. Social and affordable builds came to a stop. Hospitals and schools had their budgets shaved to the bone. New entrants to teaching, nursing, the police, the civil service got salaries a fraction of their predecessors'. Housing regeneration projects in the most deprived areas were abandoned.
To top it all the 'poor' were openly derided. Remember a plush, well fed Leo Varadkar and his 'Welfare cheats cheat us all?' schtick? A slogan that whitewashed the reality: since the crash the wealthy have been increasing their take, worldwide. A 2024 Oxfam report showed that billionaire wealth increased by €13 billion in 2024, or €35.6 million per day. It's the dodgy ground on which our current crisis is built.
Poverty in the 90s
Going through papers and photograph albums recently for my memoir, ' Girl with a fork in a world of soup', I was struck over and again how poor my children and I were in the 90s when my marriage crashed.
We were lucky in one way, I'd managed to keep our home (despite vigorous attempts to ensure the opposite by my ex), we had a roof over our heads.
But with the charmingly named 'Deserted Wives Allowance' then IR£69 a week, heating the house was not possible. Mould marched the walls. Eating right was not possible either. We went from proper hot dinners to yellow pack pizzas. All our clothes came from charity shops. I had unpaid bills in every small supermarket for miles.
"Everything in this house is broken," said the son of one of the school mums who came to visit. She was mortified but he was right.
You think you live in a decent society, that there will be a safety net when you fall, but no. The children and I fell and fell through a whistling void. As we went down I sold paintings, rugs, desks, cabinets, more paintings. Anything I could lay my hands on to keep us afloat.
I went to the family lawyer to find he was now working for 'the other side', ie my ex. I went to Social Welfare who said they couldn't help since I was still 'technically' married.
I went to a GP who said I should take a holiday, away from the children; I seemed "very stressed". Through gritted teeth I explained I didn't have enough money to get to the end of the week, never mind go on holiday, never mind getting someone to mind the children who anyway were also deeply traumatised and would have suffered more if I'd left.
I went to the local priest. He almost tore his soutane in half, slamming the drawer of his desk, stuffed with cheque books and see-through envelopes bulging with rolls of notes.
Once a film company used the house as a location. When their cheque for IR£1,300 was read by our local bank as IR£3,300 I whooped. Money! When the bank took me to court their representative said: "She went to DID Electrical the next day and bought a new washing machine, and a fridge!" As if I'd blown their precious loot on heroin.
Thankfully that judge was just. The case was dismissed. For once, it wasn't Josephine Soap's fault. It was the bank's. For not reading the cheque properly. Hurray!
The Dublin housing market
When, after 17 years, the children and I were forced to leave our home for other reasons, we encountered the Wild West that is the Dublin rental market. Oh boy. The first home we got was a beauty but at €2,300 a month roared through the money my mum had left us. The next house - about one tenth the size of the first - was a former groom's habitat off South Circular Road.
Then it was an old Georgian off Leinster Road with cartoonishly avaricious landlords. When we asked permission to strip out an old and stinking carpet and paint the three flights of stairs white they agreed. Then they served notice. The place looked so lovely it was going back on the market the following week at twice the price.
The next landlord was an ex-garda. When he couldn't legally hike his rent he booted us on the grounds his daughter was moving in and charged us for 'cleaning' new curtains, bringing the pine table and the sofa we'd left behind to the dump. When I looked through the window a month later there were strangers, enjoying our stuff with nary a daughter to be seen. When I tried to take up the case with the PRTB - the Private Rental Tenancies Board, it went nowhere, and of course the PRTB replaces all recourse to the courts, so that was that.
Happy Gombeening.
Rosita Sweetman: 'When, after 17 years, the children and I were forced to leave our home for other reasons, we encountered the Wild West that is the Dublin rental market. Oh boy.'
Throughout our shenanigans I had the advantage of being educated. Of having a voice, however small. Imagine the despair trying to navigate this entanglement without those advantages?
Being poor is miserable. Being poor and at the mercy of landlords who've basically been given free rein is going to be terrifying for so many. Being the child of poor parents at the mercy of this system has got to be the worst of all.
Come on Irish government. We're rich. We have billionaires amongst us. We can do better than this, for everyone. Can't we?
