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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?

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).”
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 700 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.
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.
In Conversation:
Illustration by:
{
"article":
{
"title" : "Indigenous Motherhood",
"author" : "Jenan A. Matari",
"category" : "essays",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/indigenous-motherhood-jenan-a-matari",
"date" : "2025-07-20 17:35:46 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/JiddosGarden_int_all24.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Magical. Heart-wrenching. Soft. Brutal. Sacred. Revolutionary.",
"content" : "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?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).”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 700 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.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."
}
,
"relatedposts": [
{
"title" : "100+ Years of Genocidal Intent in Palestine",
"author" : "Collis Browne",
"category" : "essays",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/100-years-of-genocidal-intent",
"date" : "2025-10-07 18:01:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/1920-jerusalem.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Every single Israeli prime minister, president, and major Zionist leader has voiced clear intent to erase the Palestinian people from their lands, either by forced expulsion, or military violence. From Herzl and Chaim Weizmann to Ben-Gurion to Netanyahu, the record is not ambiguous:",
"content" : "Every single Israeli prime minister, president, and major Zionist leader has voiced clear intent to erase the Palestinian people from their lands, either by forced expulsion, or military violence. From Herzl and Chaim Weizmann to Ben-Gurion to Netanyahu, the record is not ambiguous:{% for person in site.data.genocidalquotes %}{{ person.name }}{% if person.title %}<p class=\"title-xs\">{{ person.title }}</p>{% endif %}{% for quote in person.quotes %}“{{ quote.text }}”{% if quote.source %}— {{ quote.source }}{% endif %}{% endfor %}{% endfor %}"
}
,
{
"title" : "Dignity Before Stadiums:: Morocco’s Digital Uprising",
"author" : "Cheb Gado",
"category" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/dignity-before-stadiums",
"date" : "2025-10-02 09:08:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/EIP_Cover_Morocco_GenZ.jpg",
"excerpt" : "No one expected a generation raised on smartphones and TikTok clips to ignite a spark of protest shaking Morocco’s streets. But Gen Z, the children of the internet and speed, have stepped forward to write a new chapter in the history of uprisings, in their own style.The wave of anger began with everyday struggles that cut deep into young people’s lives: soaring prices, lack of social justice, and the silencing of their voices in politics. They didn’t need traditional leaders or party manifestos; the movement was born out of a single hashtag that spread like wildfire, transforming individual frustration into collective momentum.",
"content" : "No one expected a generation raised on smartphones and TikTok clips to ignite a spark of protest shaking Morocco’s streets. But Gen Z, the children of the internet and speed, have stepped forward to write a new chapter in the history of uprisings, in their own style.The wave of anger began with everyday struggles that cut deep into young people’s lives: soaring prices, lack of social justice, and the silencing of their voices in politics. They didn’t need traditional leaders or party manifestos; the movement was born out of a single hashtag that spread like wildfire, transforming individual frustration into collective momentum.One of the sharpest contradictions fueling the protests was the billions poured into World Cup-related preparations, while ordinary citizens remained marginalized when it came to healthcare and education.This awareness quickly turned into chants and slogans echoing through the streets: “Dignity begins with schools and hospitals, not with putting on a show for the world.”What set this movement apart was not only its presence on the streets, but also the way it reinvented protest itself:Live filming: Phone cameras revealed events moment by moment, exposing abuses instantly.Memes and satire: A powerful weapon to dismantle authority’s aura, turning complex political discourse into viral, shareable content.Decentralized networks: No leader, no party, just small, fast-moving groups connected online, able to appear and disappear with agility.This generation doesn’t believe in grand speeches or delayed promises. They demand change here and now. Moving seamlessly between the physical and digital realms, they turn the street into a stage of revolt, and Instagram Live into an alternative media outlet.What’s happening in Morocco strongly recalls the Arab Spring of 2011, when young people flooded the streets with the same passion and spontaneity, armed only with belief in their power to spark change. But Gen Z added their own twist, digital tools, meme culture, and the pace of a hyper-connected world.Morocco’s Gen Z uprising is not just another protest, but a living experiment in how a digital generation can redefine politics itself. The spark may fade, but the mark it leaves on young people’s collective consciousness cannot be erased.Photo credits: Mosa’ab Elshamy, Zacaria Garcia, Abdel Majid Bizouat, Marouane Beslem"
}
,
{
"title" : "A Shutdown Exposes How Fragile U.S. Governance Really Is",
"author" : "EIP Editors",
"category" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/a-shutdown-exposes-how-fragile-us-governance-really-is",
"date" : "2025-10-01 22:13:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/EIP_Cover_Gov_ShutDown.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Each time the federal government shutters its doors, we hear the same reassurances: essential services will continue, Social Security checks will still arrive, planes won’t fall from the sky. This isn’t the first Governmental shutdown, they’ve happened 22 times since 1976, and their toll is real.",
"content" : "Each time the federal government shutters its doors, we hear the same reassurances: essential services will continue, Social Security checks will still arrive, planes won’t fall from the sky. This isn’t the first Governmental shutdown, they’ve happened 22 times since 1976, and their toll is real.Shutdowns don’t mean the government stops functioning. They mean millions of federal workers are asked to keep the system running without pay. Air traffic controllers, border patrol agents, food inspectors — people whose jobs underpin both public safety and economic life — are told their labor matters, but their livelihoods don’t. People have to pay the price of bad bureaucracy in the world’s most powerful country, if governance is stalled, workers must pay with their salaries and their groceries.In 1995 and 1996, clashes between President Bill Clinton and House Speaker Newt Gingrich triggered two shutdowns totaling 27 days. In 2013, a 16-day standoff over the Affordable Care Act furloughed 850,000 workers. And in 2018–2019, the longest shutdown in U.S. history stretched 35 days, as President Trump refused to reopen the government without funding for a border wall. That impasse left 800,000 federal employees without paychecks and cost the U.S. economy an estimated $11 billion — $3 billion of it permanently lost.More troubling is what happens when crises strike during shutdowns. The United States is living in an age of accelerating climate disasters: historic floods in Vermont, wildfire smoke choking New York, hurricanes pounding Florida. These emergencies do not pause while Congress fights over budgets. Yet a shutdown means furloughed NOAA meteorologists, suspended EPA enforcement, and delayed FEMA programs. In the most climate-vulnerable decade of our lifetimes, we are choosing paralysis over preparedness.This vulnerability didn’t emerge overnight. For decades, the American state has been hollowed out under the logic of austerity and privatization, while military spending has remained sacrosanct. That imbalance is why budgets collapse under the weight of endless resources for war abroad, too few for resilience at home.Shutdowns send a dangerous message. They normalize instability. They tell workers they are disposable. They make clear that in our system, climate resilience and public health aren’t pillars of our democracy but rather insignificant in the face of power and greed. And each time the government closes, it becomes easier to imagine a future where this isn’t the exception but the rule.The United States cannot afford to keep running on shutdown politics. The climate crisis, economic inequality, and the challenges of sustaining democracy itself demand continuity, not collapse. We need a politics that treats stability and resilience not as partisan victories, but as basic commitments to one another. Otherwise, the real shutdown isn’t just of the government — it’s of democracy itself."
}
]
}