Written by Eoin Buckley.
As we all know by now,
In the quiet outskirts of Clonmel, County Tipperary, a cluster of 82 modular homes rises from the earth on Heywood Road—a site that has become a lightning rod for both hope and outrage. Ostensibly a humanitarian gesture to shelter Ukrainian families fleeing war, this rapid-build project, driven by the Office of Public Works and the Department of Integration, has morphed into a profound symbol of skewed priorities, opaque governance, and a troubling disconnect between the state and its people. As the current date ticks past April 02, 2025, with the site nearing completion, the questions it raises cut deeper than the foundations of its prefabricated walls.
At €550,000 per unit—funded entirely by Irish taxpayers—the cost of this development is staggering. Built by John Sisk under a “cost-plus” contract, where budget overruns are shrugged off as inevitable, the price tag has ballooned beyond reason. Each home, designed to house up to four people, comes with a monthly management fee of €1,600, paid to Tuath Housing Association, a private NGO entity handed a three-year contract to oversee the site. Tuath, which manages 15,000 homes across Ireland, invested nothing in the construction, yet stands to reap €131,200 monthly—or nearly €4.73 million over the contract’s lifespan—from public coffers. This arrangement prompts an unsettling question: is this a humanitarian mission or a wealth transfer dressed in altruistic garb?
The stated purpose of Heywood Road is noble: to provide refuge for “persons fleeing the war in Ukraine.” Yet, Eibhlin Byrne of the Department of Integration has let slip a remark that chills the narrative. When asked why the site couldn’t house Tipperary’s 500 homeless residents, she replied that the standard “would not be suitable for Irish people.” The implication hangs heavy—modular homes deemed adequate for war-torn Ukrainians are somehow beneath the dignity of the Irish. What does this say about the state’s valuation of human need? If rapid-build technology can deliver 82 homes in months for one group, why does the same urgency evaporate when it comes to the locals languishing on housing lists or sleeping rough?
The Tipperary County Council’s role only deepens the enigma. As the local authority, it greenlit the site’s connection to utilities it manages, yet later claimed ignorance of the project’s inception. Homeowners living just 60 meters away were blindsided—no public consultation preceded the diggers’ arrival in early 2024. Protests erupted, met with Gardaí and private security, The council’s amnesia strains credulity, Even the then mayor CLL RITCHIE MOLLOY Denied any knowledge, how can a body sanction infrastructure for a €45 million development yet disclaim knowledge of its existence? And why, in a county where housing scarcity gnaws at the fabric of communities, was this site not offered as a lifeline to its own?
The numbers alone provoke unease. At €550,000 per unit, the Heywood Road project dwarfs the cost of traditional housing—Irish homes typically range from €200,000 to €300,000 to build. For the total outlay, the state could have constructed a small village of permanent residences, owned outright by the public, rather than leasing temporary units from a private operator. Tuath’s €1,600 monthly fee per unit—€19,200 annually—means each home will cost taxpayers €577,600 over three years, not counting construction. After that, the site’s fate is murky; the government once hinted modular homes could bolster social housing, but no commitment has materialized. Will these units sit vacant, or will Tuath extend its lucrative tenure?
This is not to begrudge Ukrainians sanctuary—war’s toll demands compassion. But compassion need not be blind, nor should it excuse a system that prioritizes one crisis while ignoring another. Tipperary’s homeless and housing-waitlisted are not abstract statistics; they are neighbors, families, and workers whose plight predates Ukraine’s tragedy. If the state can mobilize such resources—land, funds, and political will—in mere months, why does the same ingenuity falter for its citizens? The lack of consultation, the astronomical costs, and the outsourcing of management to a private entity suggest a deeper malaise: a government more adept at performative aid than structural solutions.
The Heywood Road site is a mirror reflecting uncomfortable truths. It reveals a council evasive or inept, councillors silent or complicit, and public servants presiding over a process that sidesteps accountability. Taxpayers, who foot this bill, deserve answers. Who decided Tuath should profit so handsomely? Why was transparency sacrificed? And most hauntingly, why is a “rapid-build” revolution reserved for outsiders while Tipperary’s own wait in limbo?
This is not just about 82 homes. It’s about a nation’s moral compass—whether it points toward equitable care or selective generosity. As the modular units take shape, they stand not only as shelter but as a question: what kind of society builds palaces for some and shrugs at the rest? The people of Clonmel, and all of Ireland, must demand more than silence from those who govern. For in the shadow of Heywood Road lies a challenge—to reconcile compassion with justice, and to ensure the next rapid build lifts all who need it, not just those the state deems worthy.