Across the 19th and early 20th centuries, countless men and women left the Creggan region in search of opportunity, escape, or survival. Some travelled alone; others in groups of siblings or neighbours. They boarded ships for Liverpool, Glasgow, Boston, New York, Quebec, or Melbourne — often with little certainty about what awaited them on the other side. For those left behind, the greatest link to these absent sons and daughters was the letter: carefully written, posted across oceans, and often read aloud around kitchen tables or firesides.
These letters were more than personal messages. They were records of struggle and adaptation, of longing and hope, of small family updates that carried enormous emotional weight. A mention of improved health, a promise to send money, news of a wedding or job — all were savoured. Even the arrival of the letter itself, with its foreign stamp and unfamiliar paper, was an event. These documents were rarely discarded. Many were kept in family Bibles or boxes, folded and re-folded over decades. In this post, we reflect on what these letters reveal about the emigrant experience, and the continuing emotional ties between the diaspora and the Creggan homeland.
A Paper Bridge Across the Sea
Letters home functioned as a bridge — connecting the emigrant to the hearth they had left behind. Often written in cramped script, sometimes by candlelight, they described both the novelty and hardship of life abroad. For a young farmworker in Pennsylvania or a servant girl in Boston, the act of writing home was one of continuity: “I am still one of you. I have not forgotten.”
Typical letters might include references to wages earned, rooms shared with other emigrants, church attendance, the price of food, or illnesses suffered. But they also contained reassurance. Writers often downplayed their own suffering to avoid worrying those at home. “I am in good health,” many would begin — even when this was far from the truth.
A few were more poetic or humorous. They joked about American fashions, missed Irish bread, or described snow as something out of fairy tales. Through all of it ran a thread of tenderness: longing for the familiar, pride in survival, and often, a quiet sadness.
Requests and Remittances
Many letters home included requests — sometimes for small favours, but often for paperwork or family news. A common theme was genealogy in reverse: emigrants asked for baptism dates, confirmation sponsors, or proof of family burial plots in order to establish identity abroad. This was especially true for those seeking American citizenship or entry into certain parishes and societies.
Equally common were remittances — money sent home to support family, pay rents, or help siblings emigrate. These sums, though modest by today’s standards, were lifelines. A few shillings sent in 1860 could help keep a household going, buy new boots, or contribute to a neighbour’s fare to join them abroad.
Some letters also included promises: “I will send for you when I have saved enough.” While not every promise was fulfilled, many were — leading to chain migrations that brought entire families, one by one, from the Creggan hills to the tenements and suburbs of distant cities.
What the Letters Reveal
The letters of emigrants tell us what mattered most. They rarely discuss politics or global affairs. Instead, they speak of family, faith, and the delicate balance between hope and homesickness. They reflect the emigrant’s wish to remain part of home life, to hear who had married whom, who had died, how the crops were growing.
These were emotional documents. Sometimes they reveal guilt — for leaving elderly parents, for missing funerals. Other times, there is pride — in being able to send money, or in finding work in a land that had once been only rumour and dream.
Language, too, is telling. Some letters were written in Irish, others in heavily accented English, phonetically spelled. Many were dictated to a more literate neighbour or priest. But all were rooted in the deep need to communicate across distance and time.
Surviving Examples
Some original letters from Creggan emigrants survive today — preserved by families, stored in drawers, or donated to local archives. Others may lie forgotten in attics or among private collections abroad.
A letter dated 1884 from a young man in Boston speaks of working long hours in a shoe factory and missing the green hills of home. Another from 1911, sent from Queensland, thanks a brother for prayers and tells of “heat and cattle and strange birds.” Such letters provide rich historical insight, not just into emigration, but into personal psychology, community ties, and the changing experience of Irish identity.
If you have such a letter — or even part of one — we encourage you to consider sharing a copy with the Creggan History Society. With permission, excerpts could be transcribed and made part of our Archive or featured in future publications.
A Call to the Diaspora
This blog post is also a message of our own — sent out to those whose roots lie in the Creggan region, but whose branches now reach across the globe. If your family left this area in generations past, we would love to hear from you. You may still have stories, photographs, or letters that connect back to these hills and fields.
Even a short memory — “My grandfather always talked about a place called Lisleitrim” — can help us stitch together the larger narrative of emigration, belonging, and return.
From Letters to Legacy
The emigrants of Creggan carried more than their luggage. They carried songs, surnames, and customs. And they carried the sense of place — of parish, of people — that shaped their view of the world. Their letters home are not only documents; they are acts of love, of survival, and of remembrance.
As we read their words today, we honour their voices and renew the connection between past and present, home and away. In every “Dear Mother” or “Your loving son,” there echoes a timeless truth: we are never fully parted from the place we call home.