For decades, Ireland's mother and baby homes were shrouded in secrecy. Some say the veil still hasn't lifted

A memorial at the former site of the Tuam Home, where hundreds of babies who died there were put into what is now thought to be a series of chambers located inside a decommissioned sewage tank.

Tuam, Ireland (CNN)The day after Michael O'Flaherty was born, his mother tried to see him. But, she told him, she was stopped by a nun who told her, "Go mind your own business, your baby is gone."

Like other women who gave birth at the Tuam mother and baby home in Ireland, the nuns didn't forbid O'Flaherty's mother from seeing her newborn son again, they just didn't tell her who her baby was, or that he was in the same building. The very same home where she was required to stay for 12 months after giving birth.
"My mother could have picked me up, but she couldn't have necessarily known," O'Flaherty told CNN.
    The boy would stay in the home for another five and a half years. He doesn't remember his time inside; his first memory of it was from the day that he left.
      Today, at 71, O'Flaherty retraces the steps he took that day with a group that's become like family.
      They walk in front of an unassuming patch of grass, a square bit of land flanked by a children's playground on a housing estate. Behind them, a Virgin Mary statue hangs on the site's gray walls, a perimeter of aging stone punctuated by green vines that climb over the parapet. In the corner, a tiny pair of children's shoes are attached to the wall in memoriam.
      Below their feet lie the bodies of hundreds of babies.
        Any of the group walking there today could have been among them. But they were the fortunate ones.
        They are the survivors.
        Bound together by being born into one of Ireland's most notorious mother and baby homes -- church-run institutions where unmarried women were sent to deliver their children under a veil of secrecy, silence and shame for decades -- the Tuam Mother and Baby Home Alliance believe that their stories are at risk of being wiped from history.
        In February, a commission set up to investigate what happened in those homes will release its final report. The Commission of Investigation into Mother and Baby Homes and Certain Related Matters has heard testimony from survivors for more than four years. But activists say while it has operated under the pretext of transparency, it follows a pattern of the state muzzling the victims. And as the state edges closer to passing a bill that could prevent other survivors' testimony from being made public, those activists say the time for survivors' voices to be heard is paramount.
        The commission would not answer any of CNN's questions but said that "the Commission's final report is scheduled for completion in February 2020. Your questions will be answered in that report."

        'I felt like a slave'

        Michael O'Flaherty was fostered out of Tuam home to abusive foster families who were paid by the Irish state.
        Life for children like O'Flaherty, born at the Tuam home which operated from 1925 to 1961 and was run by the Sisters of Bon Secours, was plagued by malnutrition, neglect and trauma.
        Mortality rates for children were far higher than national averages, with 802 child deaths recorded during the 36 years it was in operation.
        The picture was similar in other homes around the country. In County Cork's Bessborough Mother and Baby Home, infant mortality rates peaked in 1944 at 82%, according to records from the Department of Local Government and Public Health which were unearthed by Irish journalist Conall Ó Fátharta -- who has extensively reported on the mother and baby homes.
        Children who survived were either adopted, fostered, or sent to industrial schools -- workhouse-style, church-run institutions where abuse was rampant.
        When O'Flaherty was 5, he was moved to a foster home where he lived for 10 years. There, he says he was subjected to daily abuse. "I was like a whippet, skin and bone," he remembers, saying that "there wasn't a day that wouldn't go by that I wouldn't get a clip across the ear."
        While O'Flaherty knew that his foster family weren't his biological parents, he hadn't been given any further details as to who his mother or father were.
        "I was treated low caste. You weren't in the same genes as they were," he added.
        When he turned 15, O'Flaherty was sent to another foster family, as his first foster father was no longer entitled to receive state payments for housing him.
        The conditions at the next home, on a dairy farm, were even worse.
        O'Flaherty slept in an 8-by-4-foot shed, away from the rest of the family. He never ate at the same table with them and toiled the land from dawn until dusk.
        "I felt like a slave," O'Flaherty said. "You wouldn't do to an animal what was done to me."
        He believes his life took a positive turn when he joined the army at age 24, finally learning what it felt like to be in a family. But he still had no idea who his birth parents were. He came to learn that the army acquired that information when it ran checks on him before accepting him.
        He is among many survivors of the mother and baby homes who have found themselves blocked when they try to find out information such as who their parents are, their medical records, and their experiences in the homes.
        It took numerous freedom of information requests, a chance encounter with a priest who had connections to many families in the community, and the help of a social worker before O'Flaherty and his wife, Ann, were able find some of his records and to track down his mother, Patricia.
        Patricia had been sent away from the parish a week after returning from Tuam just 12 months after she gave birth. The local priest there had told her family that she had brought shame on them and the community.
        When they reunited in 1998, Patricia told O'Flaherty th