Innu and Atikamekw women’s connection to the land through pregnancy and birthing practices

Abstract

In an effort to offset the marginalization of Indigenous women’s knowledge, we used a qualitative participatory approach to co-construct the meaning of the pregnancy and birthing knowledge of Innu (Indigenous people in Quebec, Canada) and Atikamekw (Indigenous people in Quebec, Canada) women in terms of connection to the land. Through thematic analysis of interviews, we show that the women have maintained a deep connection to the land, even though they may not be practicing land birth anymore due to restrictions imposed by governments and the medical profession. Despite the invisibilization of their connection to the land, Innu and Atikamekw women still perceive it as essential to the expression of their identity and the well-being of their communities. They emphasized the importance of rematriation, which is restoring sacred matrilineal relationships between people and land, as a way to restore their roles and leadership within their communities.

Introduction

I recently saw a lady who wanted to go and see where she had given birth. . . . But she’s very old, 85, I think. She was there for four days . . . she walked around, and it reminded her of a lot of things. She had given birth to one of her children there. A death had occurred there too. And she saw it all. She was very happy to go there. (E3, Innu (Indigenous people in Quebec, Canada) Elder woman, 71 years old)

Women took the time to take good care of the placenta. Because when you look at the placenta, it looks like a tree. That’s what I was taught. [The midwives] wrapped the placenta before burying it, because it’s the placenta that will take care of the Earth afterwards. . . . I really liked what my mother told me, she taught me a lot of things. The placenta will grow, and beautiful things will grow. (O1, Atikamekw (Indigenous people in Quebec, Canada) Elder woman, 54 years old)

The above quotes, from an Innu woman and an Atikamekw woman, illustrate their deep connection to the land, which is rooted in pregnancy and birthing practices. Within these peoples, and other Indigenous peoples in Canada, connection to the land establishes both the fact of being Indigenous and the fact of being a woman, thereby shaping identity and social organization (Kermoal & Altamirano-Jiménez, 2016). Community and family activities are orchestrated by rites of passage within a framework of intergenerational complementarity (Anderson, 2011; Basile et al., 2017). Coming into the world, the first rite of passage, is a pivotal, spiritual, and sacred moment (Anderson, 2011; Simpson, 2006). Childbirth is a fundamental moment of cultural identification and spiritual connection, as “by giving birth to a new person, the woman is spiritually joined to both the past and the future” (Begay, 2004, p. 556). A young woman’s first birthing experience usually corresponds to her passage to adulthood (Anderson, 2011). For Indigenous theorists Aileen Moreton-Robinson and Maggie Walters (2009, p. 6), respectively belonging to the Goenpul people (Indigenous people in southern Queensland, Australia) and the Palawa people (Indigenous people in Tasmania, Australia):

Because ancestral beings gave birth to humans, [Indigenous women] share a common life force with them, which connects them with the Earth. [Their] belonging is based on blood line to country. As such, Indigenous women’s bodies are tangible evidence of [their] sovereignty, and [their] embodiment as Indigenous women is evidence of [their] ontology; it is born of the interrelationship between ancestral beings, humans and country.

Indigenous women held an important position within their families and communities, and they were vested with decision-making authority and recognition. However, this key role has gradually been taken away from them due to colonialism (Basile et al., 2017, 2022). In Canada, the Indian Act of 1876—still in force today—has been decisive in restructuring gender relations and subordinating women to men, particularly as it imposed a model of patriarchal rights and institutionalized discrimination against Indigenous women (Basile, 2017; Van Woudenberg, 2004). Moreover, colonial policies and economic development practices have overall favored men’s activities such as hunting big game, fishing and trapping, keeping mostly invisible the so-called secondary or accessory activities exercised by women, such as picking berries and medicinal plants (Nadon-Legault et al., 2022). Hence, Indigenous women’s knowledge systems—including those about pregnancy and birthing—have been gradually invisibilized by colonialism. This “is not an accident but is rather an expression of the power relations that flow into the social, political, and historical structures that shape Indigenous women’s lives and the challenges they confront in the present” (Kermoal & Altamirano-Jiménez, 2016, p. 12). To this day, Indigenous women are largely excluded from decisions concerning the land (Basile, 2017; Maertens & Basile, 2022; Nadon-Legault et al., 2022).

Despite the consequences of colonialism, Indigenous women still see their relationship to the land as an expression of their identity and as essential to the well-being of their communities (Basile et al., 2017; Kermoal, 2016; Van Woudenberg, 2004). Indeed, “Indigenous women’s ontology is not destroyed by colonization” and their knowledge system provides “a moral code, rules and laws for behavior based on the principles of respect, reciprocity and obligation” (Moreton-Robinson, & Walter, 2009, p. 6).

This research was co-developed with Innu and Atikamekw women with the explicit purpose to record narratives that would offset the marginalization of their knowledge of the land, particularly with respect to pregnancy and birthing practices. We worked with rematriation in mind, that is, the reclamation, by Indigenous women, of their roles, authority and leadership within their communities (Kuokkanen, 2019).

Background and methodology

Participating communities

Three Indigenous communities participated in the project, all located in what is now known as Quebec, Canada. Two communities are within the traditional territory of the Innu people: Ekuanitshit, formerly known as Mingan, and Nutashkuan. Ekuanitshit is 182 km east of the town of Sept-Îles on the north shore of the St-Lawrence River, whereas Nutashkuan is 154 km further east. Both communities are accessible by road year-round. Founded in 1963, Ekuanitshit has an area of 3,838 ha (Government of Canada, n.d.), and 552 persons resided in the community in 2021 (Statistics Canada, 2023). Nutashkuan was officially created in 1953. It has an area of 118.9 ha (Government of Canada, n.d.), and 915 people resided in the community in 2021 (Statistics Canada, 2023). The third community, Opitciwan, is within the traditional territory of the Atikamekw people and was founded in 1950. Located on the north shore of the Gouin Reservoir, 274 km to the northwest of the closest urban center which is Roberval (Atikamekw Sipi, 2022), the community is accessible by forestry road year-round. Opitciwan has an area of 927 ha (Government of Canada, n.d.), and 1,991 people were living there in 2021 (Statistics Canada, 2023).

Nowadays, each Innu and Atikamekw family identifies with part of the nitassinan (our land) or nitaskinan (our land), respectively. Colonialism imposed a mode of land stewardship under the responsibility of a territory chief, often also head of the family, generally a man. Starting in the 1950s, the government of Quebec grew increasingly interested in the potential of the land for the exploitation of forest, mineral, and hydroelectric resources, which contributed to forced settlement into reserves. The loss of access to land and resources was devastating and pushed Indigenous people to turn to wage jobs to be able to survive (Gentelet et al., 2005), which created competition and power imbalances between Indigenous and non-Indigenous people, but also between genders.

The compulsory enrollment of children in day schools built to accelerate the process of settling and evangelization contributed to the decline in women’s use of the land. Women were tied down to the communities, as school attendance limited their movements on the land, therefore creating a disruption of knowledge transmission. Furthermore, the restructuring of the Indian Health Service in 1945 led to forceful federal government medical programs and policies (Rendez-vous d’histoire de Québec, 2021), which imposed the biomedical model of pregnancy and childbirth management onto Indigenous women. Forced evacuation to hospitals—often far away—for childbirth led to a breakdown of women’s mutual support and guidance networks, including the role of midwives.

Data collection and analysis

We conducted semi-structured interviews with 15 women from Ekuanitshit, Nutashkuan, and Opitciwan, selected on the basis of their expertise about pregnancy and childbirth, having served as midwives and childbirth assistants. The interviews were conducted in the participant’s mother tongue and audio recorded. The participants were accompanied by someone they trusted, usually a family member, who helped with translation from the Innu or Atikamekw language to French. The interviews focused on the women’s knowledge of pregnancy and birthing, its production, transmission, and revitalization despite colonialism. Due to the sensitive nature of some of the information shared by the participants, especially about the death of infants or the fact that some newborns had gone missing while in the healthcare system, follow-ups and support services were offered to make sure the participants were not left dealing with these sensitive issues on their own. Some sensitive information were purposefully excluded from the results at the participants’ request.

From an Indigenous feminist standpoint, to avoid reproducing unequal power relationships in the production of scientific knowledge, we recognized the research participants as experts. We paid them and we co-constructed the research project and data collection tools with them to ensure the results would be relevant and useful to them and their communities (Anderson, 2011; Basile et al., 2018; Kermoal & Altamirano-Jiménez, 2016). By focusing on Indigenous women’ voices, this project was informed by Indigenous epistemologies and methodologies as a way to decolonize research (Asselin & Basile, 2018; Kovach, 2021; Smith, 2021; Wilson, 2020). We subscribed to the epistemological project of Unangax̂ (Indigenous people in Alaska, USA) scholar Eve Tuck (2011) who advocates for rematriation anchored in an Indigenous vision of justice and social change. We also followed the Guidelines for Research with Aboriginal Women (Quebec Native Women, 2012) and implemented good practices in terms of ethics of research with Indigenous peoples (Asselin & Basile, 2012; Assembly of First Nations Quebec-Labrador, 2014; Canadian Institutes of Health Research, Natural Sciences and Engineering Research Council of Canada, & Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada, 2022). The research was approved by the band councils of the three participating communities, and a certificate was obtained from the Ethics Review Board of Université du Québec en Abitibi-Témiscamingue.

The transcripts were provided to the participants in their preferred language so that they could ensure their accuracy. We conducted an inductive thematic analysis of the transcripts with NVivo 10, to identify themes that captured the essence of the participants’ life experiences. The preliminary list of themes was discussed with the participants, and the final results were transferred to them and to the community research coordinators. All participants and communities agreed to the results being published. The interview recordings and transcripts are stored on a password-protected secure server at Université du Québec en Abitibi-Témiscamingue.

In the following section, each participant is identified by a code consisting of a letter indicating the community of origin: E = Ekuanitshit; N = Nutashkuan, and O = Opitciwan, followed by a sequential number.

Results and discussion

Six themes emerged from the thematic analysis of the interviews: (1) the importance of pregnancy and birthing practices to develop and maintain the connection to the land, (2) the ceremonies related to consolidating the link to the land, (3) how access to the land is necessary to perpetuate the knowledge on pregnancy and birthing, (4) the intergenerational mechanisms of knowledge transmission, (5) the consequences of colonialism on knowledge transmission, and (6) how knowledge is revitalized to reconnect with the land.

The place where I come from

Pregnancies and births are fundamental spatiotemporal markers in the life of Indigenous women (Basile et al., 2017). Indigenous societies attach great importance to birthplaces, even if the federal and provincial governments have intentionally invisibilized these sites, thus ignoring the customary and spiritual aspects binding women to the land (Kermoal, 2016). Generally, birthplaces located on the land carry the surname of the person who was born there, and these surnames are known and remembered in family toponymy (Anderson, 2011; Éthier et al., 2019; Olson & Kuntz, 2016). Atikamekw women born in a hospital sometimes refer to their place of origin by the name of the land they grew up or lived on (Basile, 2017). The terms notcimik, in the Atikamekw language, and nutshimit, in the Innu language, are used to designate the forest, but also refer more broadly to “the place where I come from” (Basile, 2017, p. 190). This is not only a clear reference to place of birth or belonging, but it also describes a place to be in symbiosis with the land, plants, and animals, which contributes to one’s health and well-being (Basile, 2017; Labra et al., 2023). Being on notcimik, or nutshimit, from birth reinforces the attachment and relationship between children and the land (Éthier et al., 2019). Innu and Atikamekw women have their own way of knowing the land and speaking of it, of “giving voice to the experiences through which their relationship to the land is continually renewed and made present” (Kermoal, 2016, p. 115).

Both Innu and Atikamekw women identified very strongly with the land. “I’m proud of that. I talk about where I was born on the land” (N1, Innu Elder woman, 85 years old). “I come from Opitciwan, but I was brought up in the woods” (O1, Atikamekw Elder woman, 54 years old). Being on the land is associated with responsibilities and obligations, not only toward the land, but also toward members of the extended family. It is also associated with teaching and learning, notably about basic survival skills such as hunting for food or gathering medicinal plants, and about practices and ceremonies related to pregnancy and childbirth. All participants had spent their childhood on the land and had witnessed other women’s deliveries, including their own mothers, aunts, and sisters. Their stories demonstrate that their strong attachment to places is still much alive, and while some have been able to return since settling permanently in the community, others never did, but continue to nurture vivid memories of spending time on the land: “When I was young, we lived in the woods. We always stayed there. We left in the spring . . . travelling to our father’s territory . . . How I’d love to go back” (O2, Atikamekw Elder woman, 69 years old).

During the interviews, women who had experienced both land and community lifestyles expressed melancholy for the ancestral way of life and emphasized its benefits:

I remembered my parents bringing us [on the land]. I cried when I thought of it. They weren’t tears of sadness, but of joy. . . . That’s why I always go in the woods. I always have to be in the woods. (O2, Atikamekw Elder woman, 69 years old)

Ceremonial link to the land

The way to dispose of the afterbirth was also discussed during the interviews. While practices in this respect can vary from place to place, they usually involve a traditional ceremony (Anderson, 2011; Basile, 2017; Havard & Laugrand, 2014; Olson et al., 2019). In many Indigenous communities around the world, the placenta and the umbilical cord have great symbolic importance as they connect the newborn child to the land. For example, among the Māori (the Indigenous people of New Zealand), the term whenua means both “placenta” and “land” (Higgins & Meredith, 2011) and because of the great respect shown by the Māori to both, the placenta is buried to establish a “home place” for the newborn child (Simmonds, 2017). Much like the Māori, among the Innu, after the delivery, the uatshishtun-ishkueu (placenta; woman’s nest) in the Innu language, or tatuashun (the baby bag)—was buried near a tree or burned: “When they gave birth in the tents or on the land, the women put them [the placentas] in the fire” (N4, Innu Elder woman, 83 years old) so it was not left “lying around for the animals to eat” (E1, Innu Elder woman, 74 years old). The midwife would usually be the one to take care of the placenta. Also, according to another participant:

In the tradition of the Innu nation, in the whole culture, the teueikan [drum] is highly revered, it’s a sacred object that women can’t touch or play. It’s only for men. But our own teueikan is our placenta. It’s sacred. . . . That’s why we can’t leave it just anywhere. . . . You have to give it to the fire as an offering. (N1, Innu Elder woman, 85 years old)

Among the Atikamekw, as among the neighboring Anicinape (an Indigenous people in Quebec and Ontario, Canada; also known as Anishnaabe; Bousquet, 2016), the placenta is also often buried at the foot of a tree to consolidate the spiritual connection between the child and the land (Basile, 2017). This practice takes the form of a ceremony called otepihawson, which translates as “returning the heart to the land” (Jérôme, 2008, p. 10). In addition to its spiritual significance, returning the placenta strengthens the sense of belonging to the land (Éthier et al., 2019; Jérôme, 2008). However, the otepihawson has been undermined by the medicalization of childbirth, with the placenta considered a biomedical waste in Quebec until 2017 (Ministère de la Santé et des Services sociaux, 2017). While for several decades, women were denied the request to retrieve their placenta following a hospital delivery (Basile, 2017; Éthier et al., 2019), the otepihawson is now making a comeback (Basile, 2017).

Access to the land and birthing knowledge

Older women are the main holders of birthing knowledge. An Atikamekw participant described how the midwife applied her knowledge when the time came: “On one occasion, the baby hadn’t turned over and the mother was increasingly in pain. The midwife spoke to the baby and asked him to turn around . . . because the mother was very tired” (O1, Atikamekw Elder woman, 54 years old). Innu and Atikamekw women also knew the plants or the animal parts that could be used for medicinal treatment to induce or accelerate childbirth. An Innu woman shared what she learned from another woman:

She told me there was a plant; it’s useful for childbirth. To induce or accelerate, I think. She told me that when I was young. But I don’t remember the name [of the plant]. But for pain, for contractions, it was beaver kidneys. It was probably soaked in water, as she used to tell me. She would give it to drink, and it would numb the pain. (E1, Innu Elder woman, 74 years old)

Women used plants to fortify their metabolism and to get energy to prepare for childbirth. The Atikamekw used maskominanatikw (bear plant, red baneberry, mountain ash; Uprety et al., 2012):

When I take [it], I drink it for a week, I stop for two weeks. Half a cup in the morning, half a cup in the evening. Then I stop. You mustn’t take too much. Personally, I think that’s what they [pregnant women] should do so they don’t get sick when they give birth. Today, they take the epidural. They don’t feel any pain. (O3, Atikamekw Elder woman, 58 years old)

Another Atikamekw participant expressed regrets that knowledge about plants was not passed down to her:

In the old days, women used to cover their bellies with it [unknown plant] to keep them strong. . . . There’s another plant, atocipi [speckled alder, American green alder], that helps children with sores. . . . Personally, these teachings were never passed on to me. (O1, Atikamekw Elder woman, 54 years old)

More broadly, the participants often made the connection between access to the land and health of the family. A participant explained with the help of her interpreter:

It’s true that [her parents] were in good health. When they were walking with their children, raising their children. She said: “I don’t remember being sick very often. We were always outside playing with my brothers and sisters. I don’t remember being very sick. We were told to drink medicinal plants. . . . Then it all stopped.” [Her brother] said it was the government’s fault. “The government was against us having our own medicine . . . [the government] decided that we should stay here [in the reserve].” (O6, Atikamekw Elder woman, 75 years old)

Intergenerational knowledge transmission

When childbirth occurred while the family was on its way to their territory or to the summer gathering site, everyone would stop for a few days at the place where the mother gave birth, and then set off again. A participant recalled how childbirth was everyone’s business:

Of course, there were a lot of births on the land, people were always on the move. . . . When they left, it was for six months. If you gave birth within the six months . . . [an elderly woman] would assist with the delivery. . . . Yes, there are important places for them [older women who have given birth on the land]. (E3, Innu Elder woman, 71 years old)

Some participants indicated that they learned a lot about pregnancy and birthing from their grandmothers: “She showed me a lot of things. I’m still learning today. . . . Medicines, in the woods. I believe in that. I’m a big believer in Atikamekw medicines. It’s my tradition” (O3, Atikamekw Elder woman, 58 years old). The knowledge of the grandmothers was also required to stop the bleeding when women had miscarriages:

I knew I was two months and a few weeks pregnant. I was in a canoe with my husband, and at one point I had backache and stomachache, and I didn’t tell anyone. I was losing a lot of blood . . . . At night, that’s when it really hurt. There was a kukum [grandmother]; who came to help me with one of her friends who was the same age as me. They started putting resin on my belly to stop the bleeding. They changed my clothes and made sure I didn’t lose too much blood. I was starting to turn pale and confused. I’d lost too much blood and miscarried in the tent. The next day, I laid down in the tent, as the kukum didn’t want me to move. . . . Two days later, we set off again to continue our journey, and I was taken into the canoe, swaddled in lots of blankets because I was cold. (N4, Innu Elder woman, 83 years old)

The extended family—aunts, mothers, mothers-in-law, sisters, grandmothers—played a major role in helping and supporting women in labor: “In the old days, when the kokom [grandmother] gave birth, there were no nurses. When one of them was pregnant, another woman would help her, and the latter would wait a few months before becoming pregnant, and so on” (O1, Atikamekw Elder woman, 54 years old). This mutual assistance manifested itself through the mobilization of several women, including midwives, around the mother who was about to give birth:

In those days, some women gave birth in the winter, and we were very worried that they would get cold. But midwives knew what precautions were needed. For two or three days, the wood stove was always burning. It had to be fully loaded at all times, so that the mother who’d just given birth didn’t catch a chill. The Innu tent was under watchful eyes. (N1, Innu Elder woman, 85 years old)

This intergenerational support system included the transfer of knowledge and skills about childcare. Among the Atikamekw, young girls were initiated to midwife practices called ka odapanaso (midwife; the one who welcomes the child) or ka otapinawoso (midwife; the one who catches the child). However, for some, the experience was intimidating:

I could already see the child coming. I told the grandmother I had to go out first. Shortly afterwards, she called out: “Where did she go? She’s the one who’s supposed to catch the child.” She was angry. I told my mother and she got mad at me too. She told me I shouldn’t behave like that when someone was trying to teach me something. I answered that I was afraid to see the child being born. (O5, Atikamekw Elder woman, 77 years old)

Among the Innu, when the time came to give birth, if the family had arrived at their camp, the birth would take place with the help of the mother, sister or, if necessary, the father would go and find a woman at a nearby camp: “When a pregnant woman was close to giving birth, they would return to the great Nutashkuan River to find a midwife. A midwife was needed so that women could give birth on the land” (N2, Innu Elder woman, 72 years old). Another participant remembered, thinking of her mother:

She was roasting a porcupine. After preparing her porcupine, she quietly returned to her tent. She didn’t expect to give birth [right away]. She woke my father in the night. She said: “I think I’m going into labour.” Then my father said: “I’m going to get my mother.” She said, “Never mind, don’t ask your mother.” But her mother-in-law came. Her contractions didn’t last, only an hour, and she gave birth. (E2, Innu Elder woman, 89 years old)

Consequences of colonization on knowledge transmission

Older Atikamekw women transmitted their knowledge of birthing and medicinal practices to younger girls and women to help new mothers cope with pregnancy and delivery. However, due to the Catholic religion’s pervasive influence up until quite recently, there was a taboo around pregnancy and childbirth among the Innu. Children were often told that they were born in wood baskets: “When I was little, my mother told me: ‘we found you in the firewood basket, there in the trail while gathering broken branches,’ . . . I believed it” (N2, Innu Elder woman, 72 years old). Another participant told how information about a pregnant woman was hidden to her: I said, “‘What’s in her belly?’ [Grandmother answered] ‘Stop talking about that! You shouldn’t ask that kind of question.’ . . . They’d rather have us believe that the baby was going to come from a tree stump and had hibernated there” (N3, Innu Elder woman, 81 years old). She went on:

I asked my grandfather “What’s happening in there?” He answered “We’re waiting for a baby very soon.” I said “Where will it come from?” He said “He’ll run through the snow then into the tent.” All sorts of things they had us believe. (N3, Innu Elder woman, 81 years old)

According to the participants, these myths endured and were adapted with the onset of home births when Innu families settled:

I didn’t know that my mother gave birth here . . . . After the birth, my grandmother came to show me my little sister. . . . [She] said to me “You didn’t see a child outside under the stairs when you were playing?” I said “No!” [laughter]. I didn’t know she was pregnant. (E2, Innu Elder woman, 89 years old)

Participants talked about the lack of information about pregnancy:

When I was young, I remember hearing the kukum . . . helping a woman give birth in a tent. The kukum would say “No. You can’t see that, you mustn’t stay around, you can’t see that, you’re not allowed to see that.” . . . It was a disservice to those who followed because I could have carried on the tradition and known what to do when a pregnant woman is having contractions. (N1, Innu Elder woman, 85 years old)

The taboos surrounding childbirth have complicated the transmission of knowledge about pregnancy and birthing practices. Moreover, taboos led to a loss of trust in midwives among younger generations, while the presence of nurses and doctors was on the rise in communities. Hence, knowledge transmission has historically been hampered by both religion and medical interventions:

I was scared in those days. I didn’t want those three kukum to deliver my baby. I would have preferred to have a doctor. We had a doctor, but he was miles away. I was waiting for the doctor to come. I didn’t want these midwives delivering the baby in the tent, because I was afraid it wouldn’t go well. Or that the baby would be, I don’t know. . . I didn’t trust them, and I didn’t know how to give birth. I didn’t even know where the baby was going to come out. . . . That’s why I was afraid of the midwives. I had no idea how they were going to get the baby out. (N4, Innu Elder woman, 83 years old)

On their part, Atikamekw women perpetuated the ways of their mothers and grandmothers with their own children and did not embrace so-called modern methods despite pressure from medical staff to discontinue using the wepison (hammock) and tikinakan (cradleboard): “We didn’t have to buy a little bed . . . We used hammocks and tikinakan” (O4, Atikamekw Elder woman, 82 years old). The tikinakan were used to keep children strong: “I was told why they were wrapped up. Not to tie them too tight. It’s to keep them strong” (O1, Atikamekw Elder woman, 54 years old).

Revitalizing knowledge and reconnecting to the land

The survival of these practices to the present day is one of the major differences between the paths of the Atikamekw and Innu women. However, the Innu participants mentioned they were considering reintroducing midwifery into their communities to emancipate themselves from the hospital setting and structure. As one participant noted: “it would be nice if women could give birth at home. But today, we no longer have women who deliver pregnant women. . . . you’d need competent people for that, midwives” (E3, Innu Elder woman, 71 years old). Another participant added: “We could show women what it was like in the past, the challenges. . . . That there be a program to educate, to give training to our Innu women . . . so that they can become midwives and revive the traditions” (N1, Innu Elder woman, 85 years old).

The training of the midwives could include information on traditional medicine, so that the women would learn to recognize the plants and other traditional remedies, as with the “Innu pharmacy” that already exists in one of the participating communities:

It would be nice if we could preserve this, the way we lived there. How women were treated after giving birth, and how the baby was cared for. . . . They [Innu women in the past] took measures to . . . properly clean the mother, properly clean the baby. . . . They used to boil water and wash with the boiled water, then with the fir tree, all the Innu medicines they took. (N3, Innu Elder woman, 81 years old)

In addition to traditional medicine to support pregnant women, certain key moments in the life cycle were cited by several Innu women as opportunities to celebrate their connection to the land. Some mentioned wanting to be buried on the land where they were born:

The lady, the one who died, was buried there [on the land] by her family. The grandmother, she said she didn’t want her body brought back to Mingan. She wanted to be buried there [on the land] because she said that the Creator is there in nutshimit. (E2, Innu Elder woman, 89 years old).

Others emphasized the need to come back to traditional names instead of English or French names for newborns as a way to consolidate the connection to the land for younger generations. One participant explained the origin of her name:

I also have an Innu name. My mother never called me by my French name. . . . My mother always called me Nata, the first four letters of Natashkuan, because I’m a native of Natashkuan. And my father’s last name was Nuna [land—in Inuktitut, the language of the Inuit, an Indigenous people in northern Canada], because he was from Nunavut. (E1, Innu Elder woman, 74 years old)

Atikamekw women discussed the value of mutual aid surrounding pregnancy and birthing practices. They all expressed the need to reintroduce traditional practices into the communities as a way of building stronger bonds between women, even though some of the older women wondered whether the younger generations could be as competent as the midwives they knew, or as strong as the women who used to give birth on the land. Although many already assist new mothers after the birth of a baby, all the participants would see a great benefit in reintroducing midwifery practices as a way of ensuring the safety of mothers who cannot travel to the hospital, often far from their community (Basile et al., 2022): “Bringing back their role of catching, delivering the babies that are born. . . . I’d like to do that. I’d like someone to teach me” (O2, Atikamekw Elder woman, 69 years old). As another participant put it, “Some women don’t always come to the hospital. When the delivery comes suddenly, they [other women] could go and help them. Help the baby to be born” (O4, Atikamekw Elder woman, 82 years old).

All participants agreed that the preservation of certain traditions of crafting objects for babies such as the wepison and tikinakan, as well as the knowledge of medicinal plants and animals, has to be transmitted to younger generations. They also insisted on the importance of language and ceremonies for consolidating the connection to the land among the younger generations.

Conclusion

Innu and Atikamekw women see themselves as the custodians of unique knowledge, playing a key role in maintaining the health and well-being of their family and community. As Kanien’kehà:ka (Indigenous people in southeastern Canada and northeastern part of United States; also known as Mohawk) scholar Kahente Horn Miller (2016) notes, by (re)asserting their social roles through their knowledge and stories, Indigenous women have the power to transform their communities and families. The trust generated by their experience allows them to exercise leadership, not only as knowledge keepers and caretakers, but also as stewards of the land. To them, knowing the land and how to speak its language, through observation and listening, through the use of medicinal plants, and through pregnancy and birthing practices, is central to their identity and to strengthen younger generations’ connection to the land.

Despite attempts to deprive them of the control they had over their destiny, and specifically over their bodies, by imposed hospitalization and a biomedical model of health, the Innu and Atikamekw women spoke of the importance of recognizing informal channels of participation and leadership within their peoples. The results presented here contextualize, explain, and warrant the demands of Innu and Atikamekw women for the creation of social pediatrics facilities and expansion of prenatal care in their communities. By reclaiming their ways of knowing and their connection to the land, and by strongly voicing their aspirations for culturally safe pregnancy and birthing practices, the Innu and Atikamekw women are on the path toward rematriation of their roles and their leadership within their communities.