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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."
}
,
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{
"title" : "Black Liberation Views on Palestine",
"author" : "EIP Editors",
"category" : "essays",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/black-liberation-on-palestine",
"date" : "2025-10-17 09:01:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/mandela-keffiyeh.jpg",
"excerpt" : "",
"content" : "In understanding global politics, it is important to look at Black liberation struggles as one important source of moral perspective. So, when looking at Palestine, we look to Black leaders to see how they perceived the Palestinian struggle in relation to theirs, from the 1960’s to today.Why must we understand where the injustice lies? Because, as Desmond Tutu famously said, “If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.”{% for person in site.data.quotes-black-liberation-palestine %}{{ person.name }}{% for quote in person.quotes %}“{{ quote.text }}”{% if quote.source %}— {{ quote.source }}{% endif %}{% endfor %}{% endfor %}"
}
,
{
"title" : "First Anniversary Celebration of EIP",
"author" : "EIP Editors",
"category" : "events",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/1st-anniversary-of-eip",
"date" : "2025-10-14 18:01:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/WSA_EIP_Launch_Cover.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Celebrating One Year of Independent Publishing",
"content" : "Celebrating One Year of Independent PublishingJoin Everything is Political on November 21st for the launch of our End-of-Year Special Edition Magazine.This members-only evening will feature a benefit dinner, cocktails, and live performances in celebration of a year of independent media, critical voices, and collective resistance.The EventNovember 21, 2025, 7-11pmLower Manhattan, New YorkLaunching our End-of-Year Special Edition MagazineSpecial appearances and performancesFood & Drink includedTickets are extremely limited, reserve yours now!Become an annual print member: get x back issues of EIP, receive the End-of-Year Special Edition Magazine, and come to the Anniversary Celebration.$470Already a member? Sign in to get your special offer. Buy Ticket $150 Just $50 ! and get the End-of-Year Special Edition Magazine Buy ticket $150 and get the End-of-Year Special Edition Magazine "
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,
{
"title" : "Miu Miu Transforms the Apron From Trad Wife to Boss Lady: The sexiest thing in Paris was a work garment",
"author" : "Khaoula Ghanem",
"category" : "",
"url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/miu-miu-transforms-the-apron-from-trad-wife-to-boss-lady",
"date" : "2025-10-14 13:05:00 -0400",
"img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/Cover_EIP_MiuMiu_Apron.jpg",
"excerpt" : "Miuccia Prada has a habit of taking the least “fashion” thing in the room and making it the argument. For Spring 2026 at Miu Miu, the argument is the apron; staged not as a coy retro flourish but as a total system. The show’s mise-en-scène read like a canteen or factory floor with melamine-like tables, rationalist severity, a whiff of cleaning fluid. In other words, a runway designed to force a conversation about labor before any sparkle could distract us.",
"content" : "Miuccia Prada has a habit of taking the least “fashion” thing in the room and making it the argument. For Spring 2026 at Miu Miu, the argument is the apron; staged not as a coy retro flourish but as a total system. The show’s mise-en-scène read like a canteen or factory floor with melamine-like tables, rationalist severity, a whiff of cleaning fluid. In other words, a runway designed to force a conversation about labor before any sparkle could distract us.From the opening look—German actress Sandra Hüller in a utilitarian deep-blue apron layered over a barn jacket and neat blue shirting—the thesis was loud: the “cover” becomes the thing itself. As silhouettes marched on, aprons multiplied and mutated—industrial drill cotton with front pockets, raw canvas, taffeta and cloqué silk, lace-edged versions that flirted with lingerie, even black leather and crystal-studded incarnations that reframed function as ornament. What the apron traditionally shields (clothes, bodies, “the good dress”) was inverted; the protection became the prized surface. Prada herself spelled it out: “The apron is my favorite piece of clothing… it symbolizes women, from factories through to serving to the home.”Miu Miu Spring 2026 Ready-to-Wear. SuppliedThis inversion matters historically. The apron’s earliest fashion-adjacent life was industrial. It served as a barrier against grease, heat, stain. It was a token of paid and unpaid care. Miu Miu tapped that lineage directly (canvas, work belts, D-ring hardware), then sliced it against domestic codes (florals, ruffles, crochet), and finally pushed into nightlife with bejeweled and leather bibs. The garment’s migration across materials made its social migrations visible. It is a kitchen apron, yes, but also one for labs, hospitals, and factories; the set and styling insisted on that plurality.What makes the apron such a loaded emblem is not just what it covers, but what it reveals about who has always been working. Before industrialization formalized labor into factory shifts and wages, women were already performing invisible labour, the kind that doesn’t exist on payrolls but sits at the foundation of every functioning society. They were cooking, cleaning, raising children, nursing the ill. These tasks were foundational to every economy and yet absent from every ledger. Even when women entered the industrial workforce, from textile plants to wartime assembly lines, their domestic responsibilities did not disappear, they doubled. In that context, the apron here is a quiet manifesto for the strength that goes unrecorded, unthanked, and yet keeps civilization running.The algorithmic rise of the “tradwife,” the influencer economy that packages domesticity as soft power, is the contemporary cultural shadow here. Miu Miu’s apron refuses that rehearsal. In fact, it’s intentionally awkward—oversized, undone, worn over bikinis or with sturdy shoes—so the viewer can’t flatten it into Pinterest-ready nostalgia. Critics noted the collection as a reclamation, a rebuttal to the flattening forces of the feed: the apron as a uniform for endurance rather than submission. The show notes framed it simply as “a consideration of the work of women,” a reminder that the invisible economies of effort—paid, unpaid, emotional—still structure daily life.If that sounds unusually explicit for a luxury runway, consider the designer. Prada trained as a mime at Milan’s Piccolo Teatro, earned a PhD in political science, joined the Italian Communist Party, and was active in the women’s rights movement in 1970s Milan. Those facts are not trivia; they are the grammar of her clothes. Decades of “ugly chic” were, essentially, a slow campaign against easy consumption and default beauty. In 2026, the apron becomes the newest dialect. An emblem drawn from leftist feminist history, recoded into a product that still has to sell. That tension—belief versus business—is the Miuccia paradox, and it’s precisely why these aprons read as statements, not trends.The runway narrative traced a journey from function to fetish. Early looks were squarely utilitarian—thick cottons, pocketed bibs—before migrating toward fragility and sparkle. Lace aprons laid transparently over swimmers; crystal-studded aprons slipped across cocktail territory; leather apron-dresses stiffened posture into armor. The sequencing proposed the same silhouette can encode labor, intimacy, and spectacle depending on fabrication. If most brands smuggle “workwear” in as set dressing, Miu Miu forced it onto the body as the central garment and an unmissable reminder that the feminine is often asked to be both shield and display at once.It’s instructive to read this collection against the house’s last mega-viral object: the micro-mini of Spring 2022, a pleated, raw-hem wafer that colonized timelines and magazine covers. That skirt’s thesis was exposure—hip bones and hemlines as post-lockdown spectacle, Y2K nostalgia framed as liberation-lite. The apron, ironically, covers. Where the micro-mini trafficked in the optics of freedom (and the speed of virality), the apron asks about the conditions that make freedom possible: who launders, who cooks, who cares? To move from “look at me” to “who is working here?” is a pivot from optics to ethics, without abandoning desire. (The aprons are, after all, deeply covetable.) In a platform economy that still rewards the shortest hemline with the biggest click-through, this is a sophisticated counter-program.Yet the designer is not romanticizing toil. There’s wit in the ruffles and perversity in the crystals; neither negate labor, they metabolize it. The most striking image is the apron treated as couture-adjacent. Traditionally, an apron protects the precious thing beneath; here, the apron is the precious thing. You could call that hypocrisy—luxurizing the uniform of workers. Or, strategy, insisting that the symbols of care and effort deserve visibility and investment.Of course, none of this exists in a vacuum. The “tradwife” script thrives because it is aesthetically legible and commercially scalable. It packages gender ideology as moodboard. Miu Miu counters with garments whose legibility flickers. The collection’s best looks ask viewers to reconcile tenderness with toughness, convenience with care, which is exactly the mental choreography demanded of women in every context from office to home to online.If you wanted a season-defining “It” item, you’ll still find it. The apron is poised to proliferate across fast-fashion and luxury alike. But the deeper success is structural: Miu Miu re-centered labor as an aesthetic category. That’s rarer than a viral skirt. It’s a reminder that clothes don’t merely decorate life, they describe and negotiate it. In making the apron the subject rather than the prop, Prada turned a garment of service into a platform for agency. It’s precisely the kind of cultural recursion you’d expect from a designer shaped by feminist politics, who never stopped treating fashion as an instrument of thought as much as style.The last image to hold onto is deceptively simple: a woman in an apron, neither fetishized nor infantilized, striding, hands free. Not a costume for nostalgia, not a meme for the feed, but a working uniform reframed, respected, and suddenly, undeniably beautiful. That is Miu Miu’s provocation for Spring 2026: the work behind the work, made visible at last."
}
]
}