Indigenous Motherhood

Magical. Heart-wrenching. Soft. Brutal. Sacred. Revolutionary.

What does it mean to be an Indigenous mother? I don’t know of any word or collection of words that will ever encompass what it feels like to mother Indigenous children in a world hell-bent on erasing the Indigenous.

At least no word(s) in the English language that I know of. How do you describe something other-worldly using this world’s language, anyway?

A page from my children’s book, “Everything Grows in Jiddo’s Garden.”

What I can describe about Indigenous motherhood is how the inherent feeling of simply existing is an act of defiance. It is the feeling of everyone around you telling you you’re doing it wrong while knowing that your instincts are stronger, more capable, and more qualified than their certifications or degrees could ever authorize them to dream of being. It’s the feeling of knowing that creating, caring for, and nurturing life is in your DNA.

Being an Indigenous mother comes with the unspoken responsibility of raising good and honorable stewards of land and life. It’s knowing that the survival of our planet and all good things on it, depend on the future protectors you have been Divinely selected to raise.

It is no easy task to raise children who thank the trees for giving us clean air and learn to embrace each cold, dewy blade of grass kissing the bottoms of their feet in the early mornings, in a world that teaches them that they are to cut or mow down whatever is in “their way.” Or children who extend kindness and care to the smallest creatures who can offer you nothing in return, in a place that evaluates one’s value in life based on material offerings, financial status, and proximity to power.

It’s raising tiny humans with the gentleness this world insists you are incapable of, while instilling in them the power and strength to stand up to those who have poured billions into stripping you (and them) of that power. The kind of tiny humans who will argue with their teachers to the point of exhaustion about the trees being able to talk and the birds being dinosaurs. The kind of tiny humans who insist that tending to our garden here on Turtle Island is the same as taking care of Palestine from afar. Every part of this planet is part of one living relative.

It’s raising tiny humans with the concept of reciprocity being not: “If I do this for you, I expect you to do it for me,” but: “If we care for the earth and all Her beings, maybe she’ll take care of us with the blessing of life in return (even though she doesn’t have to).”

It’s raising tiny humans with the gentleness this world insists you are incapable of…

Indigenous motherhood is living life while straddling two realms.

Since becoming a mother, I often find myself needing to remember to tether my mind to this plane of existence. My body is physically here, but the ancestral world speaks loudly these days, especially when it comes to offering unsolicited parenting advice (they are brown ancestors, after all). Instead of drowning in a sea of parenting books written by people—many of whom don’t have children—who view children as accessories to be seen and not heard, I’ve invited the mothers I’m descended from to come forward and guide me on my motherhood journey. I have never before been so comfortable and content with myself, and so proud of who I am, as I am now.

I am descended from thousands of years of Indigenous mothers whose ways have ensured my people’s—my family’s—survival. And we haven’t just “survived.” From humble, soulfully easy but laboriously difficult beginnings as shepherds and farmers, to fleeing genocide resulting in decades of displacement, my people—my family—have thrived. The women of my family are storytellers, doctors, lawyers, and professors. And still, what keeps our bond solid, and our children thriving, is our rootedness in Indigenous motherhood. In just knowing what it takes, what has to be done, to keep our lineage alive and ensure that our children grow to become the healers, helpers, and do-gooders this world so desperately needs.

People question whether to have children in a world that seems doomed to anyone who is paying attention. They ask me, and other Indigenous mothers, how we can claim to care for the planet they have been convinced by colonizers is overpopulated (but only with our children) and bring children into this world that will inevitably end, though no one knows when. To them, my answer will always be that having children in this world, as an Indigenous woman, is a revolutionary act. Indigenous people have watched our worlds end over and over again. Palestinians in Gaza have been watching the end of their world every day for nearly 1,000 days straight. And still, they are having children. Because every Indigenous child born to their Indigenous mother is a threat to the colonizer’s existence. It is proof of survival, and it is a promise to the land that there will be at least one more child to grow up to protect it. To protect Her.

My body is physically here, but the ancestral world speaks loudly these days…

Indigenous motherhood is an act of revolution. It is defiance because it refuses erasure. It promises goodness and offers radical hope in ensuring that the sacred connection between the land and Her people—her real people—will live. For as long as She lives, we live to protect Her, to nurture Her, to respect and show gratitude to Her.

---

This piece was originally written for and published on Everything is Political.