Unlearning colonial constructs: conception,pregnancy,birth and infancy

Whānautanga

Whānautanga speaks of bringing a new child into the whānau and taking responsibility for nurturing and raising that child. Whānautanga also emphasises that the well-being of the child is interdependent with the well-being of their whānau and community (Ministry of Education, 2017). One of the kaumātua recalled preparing for the birth of his first mokopuna (grandchild):

I remember our baby daughter having her first child. We made her stay at our house until she had the baby. The baby came home and I lit the fire for one whole month. . .it never went out. . .and that baby was brought up there for that whole month. Once her mother had taught her how to take care of a baby she went home.

Emotional, social and cultural strength

By providing this emotional, social and cultural caring of their daughter before and after the birth of their mokopuna, the kaumatua felt connectedness with their mokopuna. This strengthened and remained:

Those boys who are 15 and 16 now, you could be watching TV and one of them would just turn up with their clothes and just stay. A lot of people know that, today they just come and stay. And my wife would say, “Why do these kids do that? Is the mother not looking after them or something?” “No, no, no. It’s more than that. This is their comfort zone, and this is where they were brought up as babies.” So that’s what I thought was the key for that happening. It happened yesterday. . . happens next week. And I tell them about that, and just recently I told them that is why they come.

Of equal importance to the emotional, social and cultural support was spiritual support and strength.

Spiritual strength

From a Maori worldview, spiritual beliefs are a central feature of a person’s overall well-being, identity and strength. The physical and spiritual potential of the person come together at conception becoming an individual entity, gifted with spiritual qualities. These spiritual qualities are known as wairua, an unseen energy that impacts upon all aspects of a person’s being and is according to Durie (1985), an essential dimension of Māori health. All children are born with wairua which can be translated as one’s soul or spirit (Mead, 2003). From ancestors, the child inherits spiritual traits fundamental to their well-being and strength. One kaumatua described the importance of reclaiming such knowledge:

When I’ve looked at our culture and the dominant society in which we live, the point of difference is te ao wairua [the spirit world]. Our life starts before death, when you look at our whakapapa our koroua would tell you: “heke mai i to tātou matua nui i te rangi”[we descend from our father in the sky]. We have preserved that and I think we have a responsibility to teach our whānau now. This house [the carved cultural house in which we were meeting] is built that way and so it tells that story—heke mai i te ara a Tāne-nui-a-Rangi [descend on the path of Tāne-nui-a-Rangi (son of Ranginui and Papatūānuku)]. And those heke [descents]come to the top of each of our tipuna. And that’s where the information comes from. I can tell you stories about my father and my mother and what was special to them, in our case it was te ao wairua and lots of our uncles were like that. This house was built by those men who thought like that. And the stuff I’m talking about, you can’t do that in a couple of interviews. . .that could be a whole wānanga [workshop]. . .but for me, that’s what I want to see enshrined in anything going forward.

Important related concepts include but are not limited to: tapu, mana and mauri. Mead (2003) translates tapu as “being with potentiality for power” (p. 32). He points out that personal tapu is the person’s most important spiritual attribute, influencing all other attributes. It is similar to a personal force field that can be felt and sensed by others, a sacred life force which reflects the state of the whole person. Mana is the actual power, the realisation of the tapu of the person (Love, 2004). Mana can be translated as “authority, control, influence, prestige, power, psychic force, effectual, binding, authoritative . . . and take effect” (Hemara, 2000, p. 68). It is a critical feature of Māori perceptions of the world and of the self. Mauri is a generic life force. All things are connected and all living things have a mauri, the spark of life, the active element that indicates life and self (Mead, 2003).

Physical strength

Kaumātua talked about the gathering and preparation of special foods for the pregnant woman. One recalled the benefits during pregnancy of a particular local shellfish:

Earlier we were talking about the tuangi [cockle, Austrovenus stutchburyi]. When you see the Waikareao [the nearby harbour] empty out, the first bank that shows is Te Whāngai a Tamarawaho [The Bank Where the Tuangi Grew]. The tuangi were used for the young pregnant mothers who were carrying the babies. Those tuangi are fat three times a year, so you’re guaranteed to catch any māmā whose carrying, they would go there and only the mothers and the old people were allowed to go there and harvest. They’d bring the tuangi back and paopao [crush] them. Tuangi aren’t big, they’re only as big as my thumb nail. When you go out and look for them, I wouldn’t even bend over to pick them. Well, that’s how I’d look at it. But if you look back to why they were going there to do that, when they were fat, they were white and milky, and you could bounce them on the sand. They’d come back and wash them, paopao them, put them in a cold dish. Next morning, all of the cream had emerged, and the mothers would get a cup and drink it and spit the shell out. That was an awesome kai for our māmā.

The benefits of appropriate nutrients were understood to be important for the woman but also for the unborn child.

Recitation of karakia at birth

Through the recitation of karakia, connections were made to the child’s godly beginnings and as such they were acknowledged and re-affirmed. The recitation would also fulfil the aspirations and intentions of the karakia and help the child grow to their potential (Jenkins et al., 2011). One of the women shared with us an experience that she had determined for her second child:

I learnt about karakia, different types of karakia, and I got to do one when my son was born. I always thought that the karakia had to be done by a koroua [male elder], but when I got more in depth in karakia, I was able to welcome my son into this world myself.

Her older daughter had been born within the public health system:

I believed that the Pākehā [Anglo-Eurocentric; New Zealanders of predominantly English or European ancestry] way was the only way even though I’m Maori and had my upbringing and tikanga behind me. I just felt like, those were old wives stories. That doesn’t work today, science proves that doesn’t work today so we’ll go with the Pākehā [medicine].

However, as her daughter grew up, she began to learn and think otherwise:

I think our people are very clever. So why would I not take their advice on it? Or why would I not carry on a tikanga that was used so many years ago. I understand more now as an adult why they did that, and why I should carry on with that.

She participated in an antenatal course on the marae with Māori midwives who followed Maori knowledge and practices. This opened her eyes to new possibilities about what she wanted for her next baby:

Doing wahakura [woven sleeping basket], learning how to do harakeke [flax fibres] to tie off the umbilical cord, using pounamu [greenstone blade] or mussel shell to cut his cord. We need to educate ourselves when it comes to birthing babies, and why women would stand at a pou [pole] and give birth. All of those sorts of practices. I’m glad that they’re getting revived—because now I truly stand by them. And I saw why Māori women birthed how they did back then.

She recalled her daughter’s birth:

You see woman lie on a bed, and push a baby. That’s not how you birth a baby. Well it is how some choose to birth. Maori women knew hundreds of years ago what position they needed to be in when they birthed. So with my daughter, I never got to do a course like this, so I never knew how to birth—I just got used to what I saw on TV, and you’ll lie on a bed and just push. By the time my son came, I was better educated [according to Te Ao Maori] and I birthed on my knees. Back then they would use pou [a sturdy pole], and stand at it for a support beam, and they were standing. That was almost the same position I was in and I see why they did it. Gravity agreed with it, everything agreed with that position. Whether you’re on your hands or knees or you’re standing, you can rock off a pou. I found it really, really helpful. All of that was based around tikanga Māori [Māori custom or lore].

Once the baby was born, looking after the afterbirth was the next important job to prepare for.

Whenua ki te Whenua—Placenta returned to the Earth

The whenua (placenta) was buried in the Whenua (Earth) maintaining the connection of the child to the land and to Papatūānuku the Earth Mother, thereby establishing a home for the child (Simmonds, 2017). The dried umbilical cord was buried or placed somewhere, such as a tree or cleft of the rock. If it was in a tree, the whole tree would often be named after the child, Te Rangi Hiroa (Sir Peter Buck), 1949/1987. This was a practice mentioned by several of the kaumātua including:

In the burying of the whenua, at the homestead we have a special place for that and it’s not that big, so we’re burying on top of each other but by the time you dig down it’s all gone. So, the next mokopuna will go, and the next and the next. No wonder our old people don’t sell their house. Because if that’s where the whenua is, how are you going to sell that? So that’s up in our homestead, all our baby’s whenua are up there.

Some of the older women recalled that they did not know what the hospital had done with their afterbirth or that they should have asked for it. This was in line with hospital policy until the late 1980s when the whenua was either disposed of in the rubbish or burned, completely disregarding or dismissing Māori caring practices (Simmonds, 2014, 2017). Today, however, whenua ki te whenua practice is being revitalised in a range of ways. A young mother talked of her very recent experience:

We made pots out of clay. Rather than it being given in a bag from the hospital, we got to put it in clay and it all goes back into Papatūānuku. Another tikanga I get to revive for my whānau, is that we put it under a tree—the whenua. We put it under a tree, and give it back to Papatūānuku. I think that’s cool because that placenta helps grow that tree which feeds many. In my whānau, their whenua was always put under fruit trees. So, my daughter and son went under that Peach tree. In return, it helps strengthen that tree and grow it and help feed more. I felt really blessed to be able to give that back you know what had come out of my body, and give that back to the whenua.

Whakaingoa—Naming

According to Walker (1996) personal names meant a great deal in Māori society, often commemorating important events and people. The naming of a child was important, as names hold and carry mana. Choosing a name was often viewed as a means of ensuring the child would have a strong Māori identity by linking the child to their tupuna (ancestors) and whakapapa, thus providing spiritual protection for the baby. Furthermore, being named after an ancestor afforded not only a connection but also a sense of pride in being associated with that ancestor (Cameron et al., 2013). The importance of naming children is highlighted by the following kaumatua:

Names are given for a child. And it’s important. Our old people were very careful, how their mokopuna were named. There are names that can be used, and names that can’t be used. That’s one thing that I’ve observed. I have an experience with that, with my son, he’s the first mokopuna. My father said to my mother: “You name him. You name our first mokopuna.” So, what does she do? My mother rings my grandmother because she was still alive then, and then through whakapapa she said to our mother . . . this is the baby’s name.

As exemplified by another kaumatua, the benefits of finding the appropriate name meant that the links through whakapapa and important historical events could be maintained.

Our uncle asked each of us our Māori names. I give him my name, and he said, “oh yeah boy your name came from the battle of Te Ranga.” “How did it happen?” I asked. “Our Taranaki whanaunga [relations from Taranaki] came up to help. During the battle—during the murder, they [the colonial army] were firing on our people. As they were walking out and being killed, that Taranaki warrior threw his taiaha [wooden staff], and that’s one thing you don’t do is throw your taiaha. And that’s how I got my name.

Whakapapa is fundamental to Māori views of knowing and implicit to what it means to be Māori today; however, through colonial processes of assimilation, much of this knowledge has been removed or severely compromised.

Whakapapa

Literally, whakapapa means to place in layers. These multiple layers and interpretations form the basis of Māori values and beliefs, acting as an essential form of knowing and an epistemological template. Whakapapa has many meanings but is usually related to genealogy and history. It is a continuous lifeline from those who existed before to those living today, and encompasses everything that has been passed from one ancestor to the next and from one generation to the next. From a traditional Māori perspective, whakapapa makes you who you are and is fundamental to being Māori. Reciting whakapapa is a way of shaping identity. Through the telling and retelling of whakapapa, connections to ancestors, land and deities and the universe become apparent. This is central to Māori ways of structuring and knowing the world and one’s place in it (Rameka, 2017).

All kaumātua referred to the importance of maintaining the accurate whakapapa of the hapū through art, through waiata (song) and through the ancient narratives. These were often the story of notable tribal events or members. In talking about one of the carved pou within their ancestral house a kaumatua shared a story of conception, birth and marriage:

History has been a great part of my life. . . I’ll move to the first pou because. . . that pou there is all about Monotahuna and Rangiihaia [ancestors to whom the kaumatua was genealogically connected]. So how did that come about? When they had a child, the child was born and called Matatu. Anyway, as time went on the Father [Monotahuna] could hear the village talking about this child. In our waiata, it describes better than what I am doing here. So the kōrero [talk] around this young baby was about being a pōriro [illegitimate]. He looks at the child and holds his daughter and says, “whatever’s been said within my hapū, and within my people, you are my gain. We gain you for the reasons why you’re on earth.” So, from there she lived and married our chief Koikoi, and that’s why we are here because of that marriage.

Whānau parenting

Traditionally, parenting was not the sole responsibility of the birth parents (Morehu, 2005), the raising of children by the extended whānau prior to European settlement, meant everyone helped, assisting in the development and maintenance of the child’s individual mana. A woman explained her own experience as a child and then as a mother herself:

You know there was an Aunty or an Uncle or a Nanny that would help with our upbringing. My son is very lucky because he gets the same. You know he’s surrounded by a lot of nannies and a lot of aunties, and I’m the same. Most times I don’t have to do my son, because everyone else just sort of comes in and does it.

The benefits for this parent were clear:

All that [being a mum] wasn’t a whole new experience because we were always around babies growing up. . .and always doing our younger cousins or younger nieces and nephews. The only thing about having my own children, you couldn’t give them back. You know, I had to give them back [nieces and nephews]. This one you know he’s with me all the time. So, it wasn’t something new being a Mum to be honest. You already had all the skills there because I was brought up in quite a big whānau and, it was. . .we all did the babies, and we all sort of knew our place. I don’t know how though but you just did. You saw that, okay the babies crying so pick up baby.

Her experience was similar to one of the kaumatua who as a new mother recalled:

I had all the support from my grandmother and when my baby would cry, she’d come and get her and waha [carry] her all around the house. She would do that, and take the babies from me at night. She would do this so I could sleep. My mother, my grandmother—she was my everything.

Traditionally, being raised by grandparents was a common and important means of transmitting and preserving knowledge of whakapapa, culture and traditions for future generations (Morehu, 2005). Te Rangi Hiroa (Sir Peter Buck) (1949/1987) adds that the shared intergenerational living arrangements allowed grandparents to take the primary role in the child’s early teaching and learning, offering a basis from which knowledge of tribal history, culture and knowledge could be communicated. The childrearing practice included teaching through modelling and experiential learning (Morehu, 2005). Children raised by their grandparents often slept with them as well. Metge (2015) makes the point that this exposed children to conversations, karakia, oriori (lullaby), waiata, moteatea (traditional lament) and mātauranga (knowledge) during their everyday life, while they were awake and asleep. This indirect, experiential learning was internalised by the young child, often without them realising the direct implications for the development of language and culture and thus the interdependent nature of languaculture.

One kaumatua said:

The old adage of it takes a village to raise a child, I’m very much one of those children that grew up in that whole marae environment. She’s [indicating one of the other elders present] another one. We all grew up together on the marae and we played with each other. My first experience of mahi was in the māra kai [food garden] as a small child helping our parents to nurture, grow kumara [sweet potato] and then store them in the pits. We were small enough to go down and stack the kumara in the pits, that our parents had dug. But taking that whole upbringing from the marae, from the village.

In some instances, this relationship led to the actual sharing of children within extended whānau on the more permanent basis of whāngai.

Whāngai

The concept of whāngai which literally means to feed or nourish was discussed by kaumātua and whānau. Traditionally, parents shared parental rights and childrearing responsibilities while other members of their whānau and hapū provided support for both the immediate whānau and the child (Metge, 1976). However, sometimes children were given and raised by others, especially if whānau were unable to have their own children. As the whāngai practice takes place within the child’s kinship group it means birth and whakapapa links are affirmed and maintained. A number of related kaumātua, one who was a whāngai herself, explained how the generosity of whāngai occurred in their whānau,

in terms of whāngai, it happened again with our baby sister. Our mother gets a call, and it’s our cousin, telling my mother to come and pick the daughter up. So, she didn’t have any children, couldn’t have any children, his sisters [indicating another member of the group] couldn’t have any children. But their brother, my father, he had heaps of children. So, my father says, “here you are sis, you can have this child.” That’s how I came to be there. Then he said to his baby sister, “you can have this child.” Then one of my mum’s sisters, she needed a baby, so one went with her. And then there was another one, “you can have this child.”

From all accounts, whāngai was welcomed and common. McRae and Nikora (2006) conclude that: “Whangai children are seen as a gift of love . . . . The whangai institution recognises the interests of the child but is also concerned with establishing, nurturing and strengthening relationships between whānau members and the broader kin group” (p. 3). In fact, birth parents of whāngai children were often praised for their act of generosity. William Colenso (1868) made the point that no one with a large family was permitted to raise all the children themselves, rather, uncles, aunts and cousins would claim them, whether the parents agreed or not (as cited in Salmond, 2017). Unsurprisingly, the European law system had a destructive impact on the whāngai practice, eroding the whāngai system through European derived laws and regulation (McRae & Nikora, 2006).