Consider This from NPR - How hundreds of babies and children ended up in a mass grave in Ireland

Episode Date: August 19, 2025

Anna Corrigan grew up in Dublin, Ireland. She thought she was an only child, until she was in her 50s and discovered a family secret. Corrigan found documents showing her mother had spent time in one of Ireland’s so-called mother and baby homes — places where single women went to give birth. And that she had given birth to two sons there. Two brothers that Corrigan never knew she had.It's part of a sad history in Ireland that is now being unearthed, literally. Scientists believe that nearly 800 babies and children are buried in a mass grave behind one former mother and baby home in Tuam, Ireland.NPR’s Lauren Frayer reports on the work that forensic scientists are now doing to bring those remains to light.For sponsor-free episodes of Consider This, sign up for Consider This+ via Apple Podcasts or at plus.npr.org. Email us at [e-mail] episode was produced by Emma Klein and Michael Levitt. It was edited by William Troop and Nick Spicer. Our executive producer is Sami Yenigun.Learn more about sponsor message choices: podcastchoices.com/adchoicesNPR Privacy Policy

This is me, and this is me making my Holy Communion. Anna Corrigan, pages through family photos, looking back at her childhood in Dublin, Ireland, where she still lives today. An only child, I was born on the 1st September, 1956, so I'll be 70 next year. Or at least she thought she was an only child. It wasn't until Corrigan was in her 50s that she discovered a family secret. This is John's birth certificate. He was born on Friday, 22nd February, 1946. Corrigan discovered that she had two older brothers who were born before her mother got married.

Her mother had never mentioned them, and while researching her family tree, Corrigan found documents showing her mother had spent time in one of Ireland's so-called mother-and-baby homes, places where single women went to give birth. This is the actual slip that was written to admit my mother to the home. home. To the matron, please admit, Bridget Tollen, 26 years of age of comfort. Conditions inside these homes were often poor and thousands of babies and children died there. Corrigan's mother died in 2001 without ever telling her daughter about her connection to that history. I never knew what she was going through. And then the fact that I didn't know my brothers,

I mean, that was, I was deprived. Consider this. There are thousands of stories just like Anna. of families whose loved ones suffered and died in Ireland's notorious mother and baby homes. Forensics experts are now unearthing some of that history. From NPR, I'm Elsa Chang. This message comes from Wise, the app for using money around the globe. When you manage your money with Wise, you'll always get the mid-market exchange rate with no hidden fees. Join millions of customers. And visit wise.com.

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It's Consider This from NPR. For decades, many unwed pregnant women in Ireland were forced to give birth in places known as mother and baby homes. Then a few months after giving birth, these women were forced to leave without their babies. Thousands of babies and children died there. and the graves are just now beginning to be unearthed. Anna Corrigan was already in her 50s when she learned of her own ties to this grim legacy,

with the discovery that her mother had two sons in one of those mother and baby homes. This all happened at a time when the Catholic Church dominated life in Ireland and pregnancy outside marriage brought shame. NPR's Lauren Freyer picks up the story from here. This was 1940s Ireland. Altar boys shower rose petals and a special place is reserved for women wearing hooded cloaks. There was no sex ed. Birth control and abortion were illegal.

And children born outside of marriage were seen as illegitimate. Corrigan scours old photos for any hint of the secret her mother kept. And as you can see, the grip my mother has holding me. And what was going through her mind after losing two children? taken away, dead, adopted. Corrigan's search for her missing brothers has brought her to a town called Tomb in County Galway, where a mother and baby home closed in 1961

and was demolished about a decade later. Beyond this metal fence, it's just a scrubby, muddy ground, a flagpole, and I can see a tall stone wall behind it, which used to encircle the home. It's now covered. It was a prison. And if you look out, all you've seen was a high wall all around. You've seen nothing. P.J. Haverty was one of the babies born on the other side of that wall. And he still lives down the road. He's 73 now. I was born in the mother and baby home. They didn't want any

bonding between the baby and the mother. You couldn't hold the baby and rock her. She lived there for 12 months. And when the 12 months was opened, then they opened the door and told her to get out. decades later PJ found letters his mother had written to nuns who ran the home begging for custody of him and then she gets a letter from the nuns demanding money

she wrote back to the nuns and this is your mother's handwriting the nuns refused and demanded she make monthly payments instead for his care she used to come down every so often and she'd give them the money and she was hoping

that she get to see me but no and then the final day she came down then the nuns said you don't need to come here anymore. He's gone. He was sent to foster care on a farm outside town just before his seventh birthday. One day, he was milking cows there when a stranger pulled up to ask directions. The lady in the person said, roll the window down, and she looked up and a big smile. She said, could you tell me where Hansberries are? They were the foster parents. I said, and the houses down the back there, I said like that to her. And as we were walking along,

the smile and the look and she was doing at me, I got scared. Because I thought then, did I, let the cows out in front of them. So when I turned down... That was your mom? That was my mother. Haverty's birth mother told him that was her decades later when they finally reunited. Oh, my being, yeah. This is, yeah, that's the first time now we met in 1977.

That's you and your mom. Yeah. Same smile. Same smile. That's what everybody says. He visited his mother several times in London, where she lived out her days and where she died in 2011. P.J. was her only child. Thousands of other children never made it out of that mother and baby home.

And in 1975, local boys were playing on the grounds of the home when they fell down a hole into a disused septic tank filled with tiny skeletons. And the fate of those other children became known. Did you grow up in this house? No, I grew up in this house. Oh, you, sir. I meet Ellen on a rain-slicked street behind where the skeletons were found. She didn't want to give her surname because of the shame she says this has brought her and her community.

We always knew there's a master every year. Everybody knew it was consecrated ground. We were told when we went out to plate, do not go in the baby's graveyardyard, stay out of the baby's graveyard. And no, it was fine. We all knew what it was and you didn't go in your respected. We're a Catholic so you don't mess on consecrated ground. Everyone knew, she says. Throughout the 1980s and 90s when she was growing up,

All the neighbors knew there was a mass grave of infants behind their homes. But out of respect for the Catholic Church, nobody did anything. I'll say what we do with it? We're usually all together. It's probably in here. Until Catherine Corlis started nosing around. You have a whole research library here. This is only a tiny part of it. And what was your profession before this?

I was a secretary. typist. Corlis is an amateur historian who went to school with kids born in the home. Just vaguely remember them. They said at the back of the class, they were skinny looking and they did have sores sometimes on their faces and hands.

And more or less, I think we were told not to go near them or would pick up the disease or whatever. Corliss always wondered what happened to those kids. She too heard rumors about a mass grave and decided to chase them up. In 2012, she asked a clerk at City Hall for death certificates of anyone who died in the mother and baby home during its years of operation, from 1925 to 1961. She was expecting one a year, maybe. And she said there are hundreds.

No, I kind of got a cold shiver. Hundreds, I said. Yes, she said. I said, in the home itself, yes, she said. Eventually, a few weeks later, she made a sort of a list for me. A list of 796 children who died in the facility. And this is the printout? That's the printout.

They're from age infants up to four years old. She spreads their death certificates across her kitchen table. Next to a paper-michet model she's built of the sprawling facility where they died. Measles, diphtheria, hoop and cough. Some of them bounds all over the body. There was a lot of children in Ireland at the time before Penison, they were dying with. but the home had a rate of four times higher than the death rate of children and infants in Ireland of those diseases. Why would the nuns not take them to a hospital, I ask?

And why are their death certificates but no burial records? There's a Catholic cemetery right across the road. It's blatantly obvious. They had no regard for those children because they're illegitimate. And it didn't seem to matter. They didn't bother bringing them to the cemetery across the road. And they just hid them. And then when that sewage system became different,

in 1937, that's when they started putting them into that tank. And it was a way of hiding, I suppose, all the deaths, all the babies that were dying. After Corlis published her findings in a local history journal, the Irish government ordered an investigation into several mother and baby homes across the country. In 2017, the Irish Taoiseach, or Prime Minister, called the Tomb Home, A Chamber of Horrors. In 2018, Corliss was named one of Ireland's people of the East. The actor Liam Neeson is making a film about her now. And in 2021, the Catholic Order of Nuns that ran the tomb home issued an apology,

saying they were part of a system that didn't live up to their Christianity. At a dark stone cathedral that still towers over this town, the daily mass is sparsely attended. And nobody is willing to talk to me about any collective responsibility. Thank you, darling. We don't know anything. A nun who didn't want to give her name because she's not authorized to speak for her order, the Sisters of Mercy, tells me she thinks the clergy have been treated unfairly. Because these children, there's a lot of misinformation about it.

These children, they were very well cared for as best they could. They didn't have the resources. You know, today people would say, like children have too much and families. Excavations are now underway on a mass grave of children who died here with nothing, led by forensics experts who normally work in war zones. Among those who've given DNA samples is Anna Corrigan, the Dubliner who thought she was an only child and is now searching for two brothers. She's located their birth certificates, but only one death certificate.

So her brother, William Dolan, born in 1950... He's not on the list of the 796, so are they digging for him in Chum? In your heart of hearts, what are you hoping for? Well, I believe he was adopted, the state side. Do you even know if his name is still William? No, it wouldn't be, but anyone that was adopted would give him a new family name. She believes her brother may have survived and been sent to the United States for adoption, like thousands of Irish babies from this era.

Some of those adoptions were legal, but many were private, arranged by the nuns. Names were changed, and money also changed hands. And if anybody knows anything about William Joseph Dolan, born 1950 in Galway. Through DNA testing, biological relatives are only now finding each other. And while reporting this story, I even found out one of my own cousins, adopted into my extended family in New Jersey, was born in another mother-and-baby home in Tipperary, Ireland, where more than a thousand babies went missing, and no excavations have been done there.

And so, standing on the edge of this one mass grave, Corrigan tells me this is only the tip of the iceberg. That was NPR's Lauren Freyer, reporting from Chume, Ireland. This episode was produced by Michael Levitt and Emma Klein. It was edited by William Troop and Nick Spicer. Our executive producer is Sammy Yenigan. It's Consider This from NPR. I'm Elsa Chang.

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