Forensic team digs for remains of nearly 800 babies buried at former ‘mother and baby home’

In the small town of Tuam, in County Galway, Ireland, the quiet hum of excavation machinery now overlays decades of silence. On the grounds of a former mother and baby home once run by Catholic nuns, a forensic team is undertaking a grim but necessary task: the exhumation of what are believed to be the remains of nearly 800 children, buried in unmarked, unrecorded graves. Most of them died between 1925 and 1961, their lives cut short by malnutrition, disease, and neglect—and their deaths largely unacknowledged by the society that failed them.

The effort follows years of tireless research and advocacy by local historian Catherine Corless, whose work revealed the names and death records of 798 children linked to the institution. Her findings, first made public in 2014, sparked outrage and sorrow across Ireland and beyond, exposing a dark chapter in the country’s recent past—when unwed mothers were shamed, children were institutionalized, and compassion was often conditional.

Uncovering a Hidden Tragedy

For decades, the story of the nearly 800 children who died at the Tuam Mother and Baby Home remained buried—both literally and figuratively. These were the children of unmarried mothers, housed in a Catholic-run institution in County Galway, Ireland, between 1925 and 1961. Their short lives, often marked by neglect and illness, ended without ceremony, recognition, or individual remembrance. Only two were formally buried in a nearby cemetery. The rest, it is now believed, were laid to rest in unmarked, mass graves on the premises—some in what was once a sewage tank. The indignity of their burial reflected a wider societal contempt for what was then deemed “illegitimacy,” shaped by a powerful intersection of Catholic morality and state policy.

The effort to bring this history into the public eye was led by Catherine Corless, a local historian whose quiet determination led to a national reckoning. In 2014, Corless published detailed research confirming the deaths of 798 children at the Tuam home. Her work was built on meticulous documentation and years of archival digging, a stark contrast to the silence and dismissal that had long surrounded the site. Corless’s findings forced Ireland—and the world—to confront an uncomfortable truth: that institutions claiming to provide care had instead become places of stigma, neglect, and systemic cruelty. Her work also drew attention to a haunting discovery made decades earlier, when local boys stumbled upon human remains on the site in the 1970s. At the time, the bones were dismissed as relics from the famine era, and no official investigation followed.

St. Mary’s Home in Tuam, operated by the Sisters of Bon Secours, was one of many institutions established to house women who became pregnant outside of marriage. These homes were intended to offer refuge but often functioned as punitive environments where women were shamed, isolated, and in many cases, separated from their children. Between 1922 and the late 1990s, it is estimated that over 35,000 unmarried women passed through at least ten such facilities across Ireland. The children born in these homes were not only denied the protection and care that all children deserve—they were also denied dignity in death. The prevailing religious doctrine at the time deemed these children “illegitimate,” which meant they were often excluded from Christian burial rites and buried without gravestones, records, or ceremony.

A 2021 inquiry by the Irish government into the broader network of mother and baby homes concluded that the level of infant mortality was “appalling.” At Tuam alone, death records cite causes like measles, tuberculosis, and malnutrition—conditions often exacerbated by overcrowding, poor hygiene, and limited medical care. Nationally, the inquiry found that roughly 9,000 children died in these institutions, painting a devastating portrait of institutional failure. These were not isolated oversights but systemic issues deeply embedded in the moral and social fabric of mid-20th-century Ireland.

Today, the excavation at Tuam is not just about recovering remains; it is an attempt to restore humanity to lives that were treated as disposable. Forensic teams are carefully unearthing what was long hidden, with the hope of identifying as many children as possible through DNA testing. The process, expected to take up to two years, marks a turning point in a long and painful journey toward justice. For Corless, who has spent over a decade advocating for the dig, the moment is both emotional and hard-won. “It’s been a long, long journey,” she told Sky News. “Not knowing what’s going to happen—if it’s just going to fall apart or if it’s really going to happen.”

A Culture of Silence and Control

The horrors uncovered at Tuam are not isolated anomalies but emblematic of a broader system that once governed Ireland’s approach to reproductive rights, morality, and social conformity. At the heart of this system were the mother and baby homes—facilities meant to conceal and manage what was, in the eyes of Church and State, a societal stain: unwed motherhood. These institutions were deeply rooted in the cultural and religious framework of mid-20th-century Ireland, a time when Catholic doctrine held tremendous sway over both public policy and private lives.

Women who became pregnant outside of marriage were often shunned by their families and communities, leaving them with few choices. The State, in partnership with religious orders, offered these homes as solutions. In reality, they became spaces of forced separation, coerced adoption, and institutional neglect. Historian and former Senator Máiría Cahill described them as part of “a machinery of containment,” where women were stripped of agency and children were commodified or neglected. The goal was not to support young mothers, but to conceal their “shame” and return them to society purified of scandal. In practice, this meant isolating women from the outside world and severing the bonds between mother and child—often permanently.

Religious orders, such as the Sisters of Bon Secours who ran the Tuam facility, were given enormous authority in managing these homes, yet were subject to little oversight. While they claimed to offer care and shelter, investigations have revealed a pattern of indifference, neglect, and punitive discipline. Reports from survivors describe a harsh regimen, where affection was scarce and compassion conditional. Children, many of them sick or malnourished, were sometimes left unattended, their cries met with silence. The death records—when they exist—show a tragic pattern of preventable deaths from treatable illnesses, underscoring the lack of adequate medical care in these institutions.

This system persisted for decades because of a cultural climate that discouraged dissent and prioritized institutional authority over individual well-being. The collusion between Church and State, described by Taoiseach Micheál Martin in 2021 as a “warped attitude to sexuality and intimacy,” created a setting where accountability was elusive and human rights were subordinated to religious and moral imperatives. The marginalization of unwed mothers was not just a failure of policy—it was a failure of empathy, reinforced by a society that often looked the other way.

The silence surrounding these institutions was not accidental—it was structural. Families were discouraged from asking questions, records were poorly kept or deliberately obscured, and survivors who spoke out were often met with disbelief or dismissal. It took the persistence of individual advocates, like Catherine Corless, and the courage of survivors to finally bring these stories to light. Their efforts forced a nation to confront uncomfortable truths and pushed the government to launch official inquiries and issue formal apologies. Yet for many, especially the surviving mothers and adopted children still seeking answers, those steps—while important—can never fully make up for what was lost.

The Human Toll and National Reckoning

Behind the statistics and institutional histories are deeply personal stories—of mothers who were forced to surrender their babies, of children who died nameless, and of families who have lived with unanswered questions for generations. The Tuam revelations have cast a long emotional shadow, particularly for survivors who were once residents of the home, adopted under questionable circumstances, or who lost siblings they never knew they had. For these individuals, the excavation is not just a historical event—it is the opening of long-sealed wounds, and a painful, necessary step toward truth and closure.

Many survivors have spoken of the lasting trauma they carry. Some recall the emotional abuse they experienced in the homes, while others still grapple with the knowledge that they were separated from their mothers under coercion. There are women who never had the chance to hold the children they gave birth to; in some cases, they were told their babies had died when they may have been placed for adoption without consent. For those adopted abroad—as many Irish children were, particularly to the United States—the path to reconnecting with their heritage has been fraught with bureaucratic obstacles and emotional anguish. For all of them, the acknowledgment of these past wrongs is critical to healing.

The broader Irish public has also been profoundly affected. While some had long suspected or quietly known of the harsh realities in mother and baby homes, the scale and detail of the Tuam findings—and the stark imagery of human remains in a disused sewage system—have sparked widespread horror and soul-searching. The contrast between the ideals of compassion preached by religious institutions and the suffering endured behind closed doors has been a point of national introspection. As Corless poignantly observed, “The church preached to look after the vulnerable… but they never included illegitimate children.” Her words resonate with a public now grappling with the legacy of moral rigidity and the cost of social conformity.

In response, the Irish government has made formal apologies and begun offering compensation to survivors. The Taoiseach’s 2021 address acknowledged the failures of both Church and State, describing the past treatment of unmarried mothers and their children as “profoundly wrong.” The Sisters of Bon Secours, too, issued a rare public apology, admitting that children had been “buried in a disrespectful and unacceptable way.” While these statements have offered a measure of validation, many advocates argue that apologies alone are insufficient. They call for transparent record-keeping, access to adoption files, and an ongoing commitment to memorialization and justice.

The Human Toll and National Reckoning

Behind the statistics and institutional histories are deeply personal stories—of mothers who were forced to surrender their babies, of children who died nameless, and of families who have lived with unanswered questions for generations. The Tuam revelations have cast a long emotional shadow, particularly for survivors who were once residents of the home, adopted under questionable circumstances, or who lost siblings they never knew they had. For these individuals, the excavation is not just a historical event—it is the opening of long-sealed wounds, and a painful, necessary step toward truth and closure.

Many survivors have spoken of the lasting trauma they carry. Some recall the emotional abuse they experienced in the homes, while others still grapple with the knowledge that they were separated from their mothers under coercion. There are women who never had the chance to hold the children they gave birth to; in some cases, they were told their babies had died when they may have been placed for adoption without consent. For those adopted abroad—as many Irish children were, particularly to the United States—the path to reconnecting with their heritage has been fraught with bureaucratic obstacles and emotional anguish. For all of them, the acknowledgment of these past wrongs is critical to healing.

The broader Irish public has also been profoundly affected. While some had long suspected or quietly known of the harsh realities in mother and baby homes, the scale and detail of the Tuam findings—and the stark imagery of human remains in a disused sewage system—have sparked widespread horror and soul-searching. The contrast between the ideals of compassion preached by religious institutions and the suffering endured behind closed doors has been a point of national introspection. As Corless poignantly observed, “The church preached to look after the vulnerable… but they never included illegitimate children.” Her words resonate with a public now grappling with the legacy of moral rigidity and the cost of social conformity.

In response, the Irish government has made formal apologies and begun offering compensation to survivors. The Taoiseach’s 2021 address acknowledged the failures of both Church and State, describing the past treatment of unmarried mothers and their children as “profoundly wrong.” The Sisters of Bon Secours, too, issued a rare public apology, admitting that children had been “buried in a disrespectful and unacceptable way.” While these statements have offered a measure of validation, many advocates argue that apologies alone are insufficient. They call for transparent record-keeping, access to adoption files, and an ongoing commitment to memorialization and justice.

The excavation at Tuam has become a focal point for this reckoning. As the forensic team works to recover and identify the remains, families wait in hope that DNA testing might finally offer the answers they’ve long been denied. For some, this could mean learning the fate of a missing sibling. For others, it might be the first time their stories are truly seen and heard. What unites them all is a desire for dignity—for themselves, for their lost loved ones, and for a country still coming to terms with the darkest corners of its past.

The Forensic Mission to Restore Dignity

The excavation currently underway at the former Tuam Mother and Baby Home is one of the most sensitive and complex forensic operations in Irish history. Led by a team of experts in archaeology, anthropology, and forensic science, the mission is not only to recover the physical remains of an estimated 796 children but also to restore their identity, dignity, and rightful place in the historical record. After decades of denial and delay, this process represents a scientific response to what was for too long treated as a moral and bureaucratic inconvenience.

The site itself presents a unique set of challenges. The area believed to contain the remains includes what was once a sewage treatment facility—now infamously referred to as “the pit”—which complicates excavation due to contamination, irregular terrain, and decades of environmental exposure. Unlike traditional cemeteries, the Tuam site lacks individual burial plots, headstones, or official documentation, requiring forensic teams to work with extreme care to preserve bone fragments and trace evidence. The excavation, which may take up to two years, is being conducted under the oversight of Ireland’s Office of the Director of Authorised Interventions, a body established to ensure that such sites are treated with the necessary respect and legal rigor.

One of the central goals of the operation is identification. Using DNA technology, forensic scientists hope to match recovered remains with living relatives, many of whom have submitted genetic material in the hope of finally learning what became of a sibling, cousin, or grandchild. Identification will not be possible in all cases, especially given the state of the remains and the passage of time. Still, even partial identifications or the ability to confirm burial at the site could bring profound emotional relief and a sense of closure to surviving family members.

The scientific aspect of the dig is also deeply entangled with ethical considerations. Families and advocacy groups have emphasized the importance of conducting the work with transparency, sensitivity, and survivor involvement. There is a careful balance to be maintained between scientific objectivity and the human need for reverence and compassion. Experts have stressed that this is not merely an archaeological investigation—it is a humanitarian one. Each recovered child represents a life that was hidden, a family that grieved in silence, and a national failure to protect the most vulnerable.

Internationally, the Tuam excavation is being watched closely. Human rights organizations and truth-and-reconciliation bodies have recognized it as a model—albeit a painful one—for how nations can begin to address institutional abuse and historical injustice. Forensic anthropologist Dr. René Gapert, who has worked on human rights cases around the world, has noted that Ireland’s effort to identify and memorialize the children of Tuam is significant not only for families but for the global conversation about accountability, transparency, and dignity in death.

What is being unearthed in Tuam is more than just evidence—it is memory, truth, and testimony. In a country that once shrouded these homes in secrecy, the decision to physically exhume and name the dead is a radical act of recognition. It affirms that every child mattered, and that no life should be erased simply because it arrived under circumstances deemed inconvenient or shameful by society.

From Reckoning to Responsibility

The excavation at Tuam is not just an effort to uncover the past—it is a test of how a society honors truth, justice, and its most vulnerable. As forensic teams recover remains and attempt to piece together the final moments of lives once forgotten, Ireland is faced with an enduring question: what does true accountability look like after such profound institutional harm? The answers cannot rest solely in apologies, compensation schemes, or inquiries, important though they are. The true measure of responsibility lies in how a nation ensures that such tragedies are never allowed to repeat—and how it listens to those still seeking answers.

For survivors and the families of those who died at Tuam and in similar institutions, this moment must be one of inclusion, not paternalism. It means centering their voices in policy decisions, granting full access to personal records, and removing the bureaucratic and legal hurdles that have long prevented adopted individuals from discovering their origins. It also means memorializing these sites in ways that do not sanitize or obscure history, but confront it directly—educating future generations about what happens when shame replaces compassion and institutions operate without oversight.

There is also an international relevance to Tuam’s unfolding story. Countries across the world—Canada, Australia, the United States, and others—have their own histories of institutional abuse, particularly targeting Indigenous peoples, unwed mothers, or the poor. Tuam serves as a grim reminder of the universal consequences of dehumanization when state and religious powers collude under a veneer of moral authority. But it also offers a blueprint: that through truth-telling, scientific rigor, and moral clarity, justice—however delayed—can still be pursued.

For many, this moment brings profound grief. But it also holds the possibility of transformation. Catherine Corless’s tenacity, the resilience of survivors, and the public’s willingness to confront the past have already reshaped the national narrative. Still, remembrance must not be passive. It must compel action: to preserve memory, reform policy, and protect the vulnerable—not only in Ireland, but everywhere systems have failed them.