Ceann Comhairle, I want to begin today by welcoming to the House the Stardust families who are gathered here in the gallery today.

I know that there have been many, many times when you thought this day would never come. Over far too many, many years. I know that you were forced to endure a living nightmare which began when your loved ones were so cruelly snatched from you in a devastating fire. Their unfinished stories became your story. The defining story of your lives and the lives of your parents and other family members who left this life before ever seeing justice. I am deeply sorry that you were made to fight for so long that they went to their graves never knowing the truth. Today we say formally and without any equivocation, we are sorry.  We failed you when you needed us the most.  From the very beginning, we should have stood with you, but instead we forced you to stand against us.    48 young people lost their lives in the Stardust disaster, many more were injured, and even more still had their lives broken and shattered forever. When I met with you in Government Buildings last Saturday, you reminded me of another time when four of your family members waited for days in the cold security hut, protesting your exclusion and hoping for access. I hope the days since last Thursday have marked a turning point and here today, in Dáil Éireann, we begin to put things right. To bring you in from the cold and end the neglect of 43 years waiting and fighting for the only thing you ever wanted – the truth. Nothing else. No other agenda. Just the truth. I hope this is a moment when the State, which rubbed salt in your terrible wounds, starts to help you heal. You asked me to try to really understand your experience, to really feel your pain and to immerse myself in your world as set out in your eloquent pen portraits to the inquest. There I found not only terrible anguish and unimaginable heartbreak but also love and joy and laughter. Personalities, promise and potential. Slagging. Messing. Pride. Dignity. Talent. Innocence. And the deep abyss of loss. And loneliness. On 13 February 1981, 48 daughters and sons, husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, cousins and in-laws, uncles and aunts, neighbours and friends and co-workers, went out to the Stardust on the night of the dancing competition and never came home. For their families, in the nightmare that was to follow, their loved ones not only lost their lives, they lost their identities. They were much, much more than numbers. They were bright, beautiful people. They had plans and dreams, their whole lives ahead of them. Today, as their families did in their pen portraits to the Stardust inquest, we remember: Michael Barrett, who was working that night as an assistant DJ, he was wise beyond his years and had an infectious laugh. He was 17 years old. Richard Bennett, who loved horses and took on the role of breadwinner for his family, described as ‘an angel in disguise’. He was 17. Carol Bissett, a singer in the choir and a Girl Guide, quiet in her ways, much loved by all. She was 18. Jimmy Buckley, the life of every party, who loved hurling and had won a competition for his Elvis impression. Father figure, brother, hero. He was 23. Paula Byrne, always the peacemaker, she loved to draw, and was the epitome of kindness.  She was 19. Caroline Carey, a talented Irish dancer who took up disco dancing, a Dublin City Council clerical officer, who had recently found out she was going to be a mother. Her family asked me to say this baby was the 49th victim of the Stardust tragedy.  Caroline was 17. John Colgan, “Johnny”, always upbeat, he lit up every room and performed the ‘Hucklebuck’ as his party piece. He was going to be an uncle. He was 21. Jacqueline Croker, a heart of gold, who brought music into her family’s lives on her red record player and used her wages to dress and treat her brothers and sisters.  She was 18. Liam Dunne, training to be a butcher, which he loved, with a passion for music, he was a loving boy with many friends.  He was 18. Michael Farrell, his family’s bundle of joy, he worked at Cadbury, a dapper young man who always tried to look his best. He was a deep thinker and a diarist. He was 26. Michael Ffrench, “Horsey”, an auto electrician and the rock of his family, a role model who worked hard to share his wages and thought of everyone before himself.  He was 18.  David Flood, a rocker at heart, who loved the guitar and was known for his ‘Jagger swagger’, he never missed a day of work and had all of life’s possibilities before him.  He was 18. Thelma Frazer, gentle and kind, loved Friday nights and disco moves, remembered by her brothers and sisters for her treats and hugs and kisses.  She was 20.