Relational sensemaking: understanding connections between babies and their people beginning from conception

Abstract

Recollections about procreation, by descendants of iwi (Indigenous tribes) in Aotearoa New Zealand, and authenticated writings from seminal Māori (Indigenous peoples of Aotearoa New Zealand) scholars reveal how relational sensemaking with babies may be understood by beginning with ancient creation pūrākau (narratives). Together, these ancient and contemporary pūrākau can inform a future that sustains our own culture and can be used as a basis for informing how we communicate with babies today. The article interweaves literature concerning ancient tribal pūrākau related to creation, conception, pregnancy, and birth with recollections from our contemporary research settings. We consider how tairongo (a sixth sense or intuition) might well affect sensemaking between babies and their whānau (single or extended family members). In ancient times, this relational sensemaking began before conception, continued in the womb, and was shared by a network of carers from birth. Three pūrākau reveal how these practices played out in the contemporary world today.

Introduction

This article seeks to make sense of an event that occurred in the field when we were interviewing whānau with their five-month-old pēpi (baby). The event raised a question about affect. In particular, the affect that the reo a kanohi (facial expression) of a very young pēpi had on his father. It might have been a facial expression, certainly not a sound, that anyone else picked up on; but from which the father was affected and responded to from across the room. He moved to his son who was being held by his sister, looked into his son’s eyes, and spoke to him softly in te reo Māori (Māori language). The pēpi gazed up at his father and smiled. It appeared that from this relational sensemaking all was well in their cultural domain of interdependence and mutual, reciprocity.

Affect refers to emotional influences, arising from moments of intensity. Affect includes influences from the wider set of relations who are involved in the moment (the pēpi, dad, aunt, others involved in the adult conversation) from which the intensity arises (dad senses his pēpi), and potential responses emerge (father moves towards his pēpi, lifts him up, and speaks to him) (Gregg & Seigworth, 2010). Was what we were seeing in this example, affect, or was this emerging from the Māori concept of tairongo? Hohepa (2014) suggests that tairongo “. . . refers to the power of intuition that sometimes outweighs that of conscious reasoning” (p. 4). In the context of aromatawai, the Ministry of Education (2014) used tairongo to suggest a broader, mātauranga Māori (Māori knowledge) approach, which should be used to assess potential by understanding what influences learners to respond to a task or to act in a particular way (Kerr & Averill, 2021).

While these are more recent references, tairongo was a term used by the parents of one of the writers of this article. She recalled them referring to tairongo in the context of listening to her puku (stomach) to prevent something bad from happening. Tairongo has also been used in the context of matekite (spiritual abilities) (NiaNia et al., 2024). However, literature on ancient waiata identifies tairongo as one of the earliest descendants of the Ōhiwa harbour (Black, 2000; Orbell & McLean, 2013). Phrases such as Te whānau a Tairongo and Te Kete o Tairongo (the Food-basket of Tairongo) connect to one’s ability to make sense of their place in the world through their whakapapa (genealogy) and their links to the land. While there are parallels, links to identity may be less clearly connected to our ability to make sense through feeling or knowing. This article explores tairongo through the relational sensemaking between whānau and their pēpi. It seeks to understand how ahurea (culture) affects and mediates our ahureo (language) as foundational to relational sensemaking and knowing our place in the world.

People’s perceptions of reality, what they regard as actual, probable, and possible, are conceptualised according to what they perceive their reality to be (Wearmouth et al., 2005). This view of the world is generally patterned on traditional experiences, belief systems, and ways of thinking. These conceptualisations and patterns of life extend from the past and are inherent in the beliefs, narratives, and logic that form a people’s culture or ways of being in the world (Berryman, 2008). Indigenous pūrākau (narratives) and logic were severely disrupted by the colonists who prioritised their own knowledge and sensemaking and imposed these on Indigenous peoples rather than listen to, understand, or respect the knowledge of the first peoples of the lands (Berryman et al., 2022a, 2022b). While the power of colonial assimilation saw much Indigenous knowledge marginalised, belittled, and erased, generations of Māori elders and scholars have saved and continue to nurture aspects of traditional knowledge for their future generations (Berryman et al., 2022a, 2022b).

To make sense of the cultural knowledge related to the creation of life, this article begins by considering relational sensemaking from the beginnings of time as raised by our participants and confirmed through the literature. Through these precolonial, pūrākau about creation, we explore how Māori understood pēpi developed, were nurtured, learned, and grew to understand the relationships they shared with people who were influential to them. We then use three pūrākau from different, contemporary whānau (single or extended family members), who, over time, were learning about communication in response to their pēpi and other whānau members. This learning helped their pēpi to become stronger in their cultural identity and on a pathway of acquiring communication and language strategies. This relational sensemaking occurred whether these relationships were familial, metaphoric, or as part of an extended whānau.

Pūrākau 1 begins before a child is even conceived. A learning pathway was determined by this mother to study and claim the language that education in Aotearoa New Zealand had systematically erased (Ka’ai-Mahuta, 2011). A pathway so that her child would be brought up within a world where Māori culture and language were renormalised.

Pūrākau 2 involves a young woman who enrolled in a year-long, Level 5, Te reo Māori programme and at the same time discovered she was pregnant. This pūrākau considers how being deeply immersed in authentic cultural experiences influenced her as a student and as an expectant mother, and how this changed over time.

Pūrākau 3 tells the story of an extended whānau welcoming a new pēpi into the home and over her first year of life. Mum and Dad live with their three daughters and one set of grandparents. The other set of grandparents and an uncle and aunt live close by. This story reflects on this pēpi coming to know who she is from within her cultural connections, and her relationships with extended whānau.

Te Ao Māori

According to Marsden (2003), traditional Māori narratives were “deliberate constructs employed by the ancient seers and sages to encapsulate and condense into easily assimilable forms their view of the World, of ultimate reality and the relationship between the Creator, the universe and man” (p. 56). Walker’s (1978) seminal work adds further support to this argument by referring to the themes or myth-messages embedded in these stories that he also suggests offer:

precedents, models and social prescriptions for human behaviour. In some cases, the myth-messages are so close to the existing reality of human behaviour that it is difficult to resolve whether myth is the prototype or the mirror image of reality. (p. 32)

Marsden and Henare (1992) suggest that a worldview forms the central system of “conceptions of reality to which members of a culture assent and from which stems their value system. The worldview lies at the heart of the culture, touching, interacting with and strongly influencing every aspect of the culture” (p. 3). Three states of being are essential to understanding one’s reality as foundational. These include ontology, what we understand as actually existing in the world and from which we can acquire knowledge; epistemology, that is concerned with the nature and scope of knowledge; and axiology, what we really value as being right and, therefore, what we ought to do. Many Māori are reclaiming these traditional systems of knowledge creation to better understand mātauranga Māori and maximise its full potential for the future well-being of their next generation (Berryman et al., 2022a, 2022b).

The beginnings of time

Reverend Māori Marsden was a tohunga (healer and spiritual leader), a graduate of a whare wānanga (kaupapa Māori [Māori ways of knowing and doing] tertiary institute), a writer, a philosopher, and an ordained Anglican minister. These experiences placed him in a unique position to theorise knowledgeably about Te ao Māori while being at the interface of a worldview imposed through colonisation and the theology represented by the Christian faith. Marsden’s (1977, 2003) story of creation begins with Io (the Supreme Being) who in the beginning dwelt alone within the tranquillity and Te Kore (the Void). Io used his essence to fertilise Te Kore and then laid out all the essential foundations for the creation of the universe. Next, Io created the night realms, dividing them into various temporal planes from Te Pō Nui (The Great Night) to Te Pō Tahuri Atu (The Night that Borders Day), finally illuminating them with various degrees of soft light. Io then divided Te Pō Tahuri Atu into Te Wheiao (the Dawn Light) and Te Ao Mārama (the World of Light). While Te Kore and Te Pō (the Night) are often seen as times of darkness, they are also understood as containing all the elements required for potential and growth.

In the night regions of soft light, Io established the realms of Hawaiki that became the sacred dwelling places of other gods and heroes. Having thus created the nights and the realms of Hawaiki (traditional Māori place of origin), Io created the first two gods, and with them, the male and female principles from whom all life is derived. These gods were Rangiawatea (the god of space and light), often referred to as Ranginui, and Papatūānuku (the earth mother). Marsden’s (2003) view of creation as descending from Io, a single supreme God, is generally accepted today as being influenced by Christianity, however, his abridged genealogy of the cosmos, provides greater insight into a view of creation and of life that is more deliberately Māori-centric. These foundations continue to be debated by other tribal groups today.

Ranginui and Papatūānuku

Ranginui, symbolising the heavens, and Papatūānuku the earth, clung together in a tight embrace. In this space of potential, the earliest accounts of relational sensemaking in Te ao Māori may well have been located. Ranginui and Papatūānuku are said to have given birth to many sons, and it is in relation to their parents’ embrace and to each other that the strength, personalities, and skills of their sons developed and grew. While many pūrākau suggest that this environment was congested and over-crowded, with minimal room for expansion or exploration, the sons would have been making sense of their world. Perhaps through the senses: acts of reo a tinana (body language), acts of mirimiri (massage), and romiromi (applying physical pressure), these sons would have explored their world and as they did so they grew and developed within it. In trying to understand their reality, the sons may have drawn on Te reo whakarongo (the language of sounds) that they were surrounded by; te reo a rongo (understandings drawn from the scent and smell of things); and understandings of te reo a wairua (intuition, spirituality, faith), drawing on their intuition as a means of making sense within the darkness—he ao e kore e kitea (a world with limited visibility). This embedded knowing of their world through this familial relational embrace and through all their senses may well have been the genesis of both whānautanga (acting as family) and whanaungatanga (making deep relational cultural connections).

This narrative of creation and the discontentment with their world of continual darkness, prompted the brothers to resolve their situation. Together, they problem solved, developing solutions, trying out ideas, persevering with their endeavours to investigate a pathway to freedom. These deliberations may well have been the inception of wānanga (place of learning) resulting in the parents finally being levered apart and light being brought into the world.

Tāne (the god of forests and birds) took on tasks critical to the development of humanity. First Io commissioned Tāne to complete the heavens thus earning him the name of Tānenuiarangi (the great heavens of Tāne). This completed, Tāne delegated tasks to his brothers so that the creation and population of the universe could be continued (Marsden, 1977, 2003). As deities the brothers took responsibility for creating and maintaining guardianship over their own domains within the environment (Durie, 1998; Marsden, 1977, 2003). Their role as guardians was to protect and care for their own domain, understood to be a part of an interacting network of inter-related elements, an ecosystem requiring maintenance and balance for future generations (Durie, 1998).

Interrelationships are exemplified in this creation narrative with Ranginui, the personification of the sky and Papatūānuku the earth, the well-being of their offspring, and in turn the well-being of all life (Durie, 1998). The land, therefore, is fundamental to being Māori and one’s sense of belonging. This pūrākau explained the origin and nature of the sky, the earth, and the elements, as well as the creatures, and plants that inhabit the world. It also laid the foundations for defining the characteristics and roles of men and women and the nature of the cultural roles, relationships and responsibilities that exist between them. These traditional roles and responsibilities continue to be important for Māori today in many contexts including the rituals of encounter when new groups meet. These include encounters in traditional cultural settings such as occur during pōwhiri (rituals of encounter using traditional protocols and places). Males will take on the roles of whaikōrero (speechmaking) and karakia (prayers) that involve tapu or sacredness that only the complementary and inseparable female role can return to the state of noa (removal of tapu) sometimes by means of waiata (singing) and, or, the sharing of food.

The creation of the female element

This complementary and inseparable role between male and female was prescribed when Tāne took responsibility for creating the female element so that humanity could begin. Although supernatural females were present at this time, it is said that a union between these male and female deities could not result in humanity (Mikaere, 2003). Therefore, to complete this task Tāne took kurawaka, the sacred red earth from his mother Papatūānuku, and shaped it into the form of Hineahuone (the first woman, earth-formed woman). Tāne breathed mauri (life force) out through his nostrils and in through hers. This sharing of mauri imparted life into Hineahuone (Marsden, 2003; Walker, 1990) and godliness into humankind, thus maintaining the genealogical linkage to the children of Papatūānuku and Ranginui (Paki, 2007; Reedy, 1995). Barlow (1991) asserts that mauri not only represents the “power of the gods” (p. 83), mauri also enables the human body “to move and live in accordance with the conditions and limits of its existence” (p. 83).

This practice of sharing one’s mauri is still practised today in the meditative pressing of noses when two people greet in the traditional hongi (traditional Māori greeting performed by two people pressing their noses together) following formal rituals of encounter when new groups come together. It is often also used informally when renewing relationships with friends and acquaintances after periods of separation. The phrase, “tihei mauri ora” (I sneeze, it is life), regularly heard in Māori oratory, also links back to this narrative and to the practice of hongi.

From the union of Tānenuiarangi and Hineahuone, came a daughter Hinetitama. Tānenuiarangi went on to father children with Hinetitama. When Hinetitama found that her husband was also her father, she fled in shame to the underworld where she transformed into Hinenuitepō (the guardian of all those who through death were returned to the spiritual realm). She would receive the children of Tānenuiarangi into the underworld when they died. According to some tribal groups, the genealogical descent of the progeny of Tānenuiarangi and Hineahuone was finally to produce the demigod Māui and then down to the first human, Tawhaki (Berryman, 2008).

Te Whare Aituā (the house of the deities): Te Whare Tangata (the house of humanity)

According to Yates-Smith (1998), through this female lineage from Hineahuone, Hinetitama, to Hinenuitepō, a bridge is created between the physical and the spiritual realms. She also suggests that the female productive organs serve two purposes, “as whare aituā during the sexual act and whare tangata when carrying the baby” (p. 144). A whakataukī (a Māori proverb), me aro koe ki Te hā o Hineahuone (pay homage to the essence of womankind) in particular, commemorates the pūrākau of Hineahuone and reminds us of the essential role of women as Te whare tangata, literally the womb or house for the procreation of humanity.

Given this dual role, as the place where the sperm enter and may fertilise an egg to become the home for the pēpi during hapūtanga (pregnancy), teenage girls and women must be taught and supported to look after themselves specifically for this role. This begins with the menstrual flow that signals the mana (personal prestige) and tapu (sacred) nature of the body of the kōhine (young woman) which is being prepared for the important job of hapūtanga (Murphy, 2014). If, or when, they become pregnant their holistic well-being requires additional support (Murphy, 2013). In some instances, this requires special foods to nurture the mother and the foetus (Berryman et al., 2022b); it may involve periods of rest and mirimiri to help the body grow and stretch to accommodate the growing child within. While mirimiri is often translated as massage, it includes a range of acts that ensure the body is aligned and in synergy (Kapa, 2023). The connection between the moon and the menstrual cycle reinforces the link to Hineteiwaiwa (guardian of childbirth, cycles of the moon and weaving) who Murphy (2014) asserts “resides over women’s ritual arts and knowledges, particularly related to the whare tangata.” (p. 35). The act of being hapū (pregnant) signals that through whakapapa and from being a member of one’s whānau, the child will also become a part of one’s hapū (subtribe). In precolonial times, whānau and hapū were the most important social constructs by which early Māori lived and were organised (Cox, 2017).

Te Ira Tangata (one’s genetic makeup)

This whakapapa (the layering of connections back to the beginnings of time) is explained by Mead (2003) as Te Ira Tangata. Mead explains that:

Ira tangata refers specifically to a human life that has inherited a collection of genes from the parents. The genes are more than biological elements. There is a godlike and spiritual quality to all of them because as human beings, Ira Tangata descends from Ira Atua, the Gods. (p. 1)

Within Te Ira Tangata, the genetic makeup of the child was set along with all the dimensions that worked together to provide their life principle or holistic development. These included the spiritual, cultural, and physical source of their human potential. In Reedy’s (2003) view, these inherent powers, including knowledge and ability to make sense of their world, exist within the child from conception. Then, according to Rose Pere (2010, cited in Murphy, 2013) “. . . the whare tangata and the mother energy is paramount! She is the waka (canoe, vehicle, conveyance) that conveys the generations” (p. 105). Learning is understood by many Māori as beginning in Te whare tangata. Another concept that links to the female element is Te Ūkaipō (the place where one is nurtured or sustained).

Te Ūkaipō

Most commonly, Te Ūkaipō means the place where one is nurtured and sustained. This meaning comes from the literal translation “to be fed from the breast at night” (Dell, 2016, p. 9) so is related to the act of breastfeeding. However, metaphorically Te Ūkaipō can also refer to a physical place, one’s home or turangawaewae, the place where one draws their cultural strength and identity from. Te Ūkaipō can also refer to other sources from which we draw such strength. For example, Hikuroa (2016) contends that Mātauranga Māori is the ūkaipō of knowledge in Aotearoa New Zealand, because it extends scientific knowledge back to the first arrival of Māori. Traditionally because of the role of Papatūānuku in mātauranga Māori, the whakapapa and role of women is aligned with the land. Just as the world was born from Papatūānuku, so too, humanity is born from women. Whenua is both the Māori term for land and the term for placenta through which sustenance is provided to the growing foetus creating another special link between the mother and baby.

This link is also represented in the whakataukī, whenua ki te whenua (all humanity is born out of the whare tangata of the female, and we return to Hinenuitepō at death). These links are also represented in the cultural practices of burying the placenta in a place that is significant to whānau, and, at death, burying the body in the land, also in a place of cultural significance (Berryman et al., 2022b). This act completes the symbolic and physical connection through Hinenuitepō to Papatūānuku and to the land (Rameka, 2018). However, the essential role of whānau is important for the baby, once they are born and until they die.

The role of whānau

This relationship begins between the mother and the baby, and in many cases, this happens even before conception starts. Kaumātua (elders), in all research settings, shared that before colonisation planned decisions were often made about how bloodlines would be strengthened through strategic alliances between male and females. Often these discussions occurred when the children were quite young (Berryman et al., 2022a, 2022b). This was especially important when bloodlines included rangatira (high rank) status. Such alliances were often about strengthening mauri. Pere and Nicholson (1991) viewed mauri from conception, as being central to all living things. Mead (2003) understood mauri as bringing balance and harmony and being essential for survival:

The mauri is the life force that is bound to an individual and represents the active force of life which enables the heart to beat, the blood to flow, food to be eaten and digested, energy to be expended, the limbs to move, the mind to think, control over body system, and the personality of the person to be vibrant, expressive, and impressive. (p. 54)

In precolonial times grandparents were seen as being essential in raising their mokopuna (grandchild), a term which literally means the spring or flow (puna) of their genetic imprint (moko). Many of the elders we interviewed talked of being raised by and learning from their grandparents.

Research methodology

Kaupapa Māori methodology was used in this research. Kaupapa Māori research legitimises the revitalisation and privileging of mātauranga Māori. For researchers, this means creating spaces where Māori participating in the research are in control of what and whose stories will be told, how these stories will be told, and the lens through which they will be authenticated (Lee, 2009). In doing so, Kaupapa Māori provides a means to revitalise traditional mātauranga Māori that has been removed through colonisation (Smith, 1999). Therefore, kaupapa Māori research must deliberately challenge dominant western theory and bring a much more critical perspective to the research. Accordingly, it can be seen as a process of decolonisation as it rejects the idea of researcher imposition over the lives and experiences of Māori and requires researchers to model cultural knowledge and show deep relational respect so that, as in processes of mahi ngatahi (working together as one), participants can both contribute to, and benefit from, the research endeavours.

Ethics requirements to undertake this research were sought and granted through formal university procedures.

Research procedure

Researchers with close relational connections to specific marae (a complex of carved buildings and grounds that belong to a particular Indigenous tribe) communities undertook this research. They spoke with kaumātua, who helped to identify whānau members who were hapū or with newborns, who could also become participants in this research. Once whānau had agreed to participate, open-ended questions and group-focussed interviews as culturally located learning conversations were used. Whānau and their babies became part of an iterative, analytical process that shifted back and forth between collaborators over time as new insights were generated. Whānau used cellphones to capture videos of their relational sensemaking with pēpi. Researchers, including kaumātua and whānau, considered the cultural contexts in which acts of communication were visible on the videos.

This article focuses on members of three whānau. The first case is undertaken with a familial group. The second case involved a metaphoric whānau that included a mother who was a tertiary student and her teacher who was also one of the researchers. The experiences of the class throughout this pregnancy are told through the lens of the teacher with this mother and her pēpi. The third case involved an extended whānau. Conversations and video interactions were used to write three separate pūrākau. Pūrākau is an ancient form of creating shared meaning used in this study as an Indigenous method for reclaiming authentic Indigenous narratives and as a tool for decolonisation (Lee, 2009). Pūrākau were returned to participants for checking and agreement, and later, whānau also gave feedback on the article.

Purākau 1: ngā tamaiti te pūtake o te ao (children are the greatest purpose in the world)

The voices in this pūrākau all come from a Māori couple in their late twenties. Women and their whānau often make sacrifices to ensure their pēpi will have the best start in life (Berryman et al., 2022b). They might make changes to their diets or give up smoking or drinking alcohol while they’re hapū or they might, make a determined effort to learn the language that was taken from them by their colonial schooling system. For example, this mother recalled “When my Popa died, the reo [language] died with him in my whānau. So, a lot of our knowledge is lost.”

The decision to ensure knowledge is developed and strengthened through her own learning of Te reo Māori came when she had finished university and was thinking about what she would want for her own children if, or when, she became a mother. She explained:

I started doing my reo journey and learning the language about six or seven years ago now. When I finished at University, I did a full immersion course because I knew when I did have babies that I wanted to raise them in te reo. And it was super like, ka u ki te kaupapa [hold tight to that agenda], for the purpose of being able to raise my children, my tamariki [children] in te reo. It was never really part of a discussion. I think the assumption was that te reo was going to just automatically be part of my baby’s upbringing.

Learning te reo Māori had been quite different for the man who was to become her partner: “We [her partner and herself] had quite different journeys [towards learning te reo Māori]. He grew up with the reo, and I didn’t.”

When they first met, she recalled “we actually spoke to each other in English, and I knew that whatever your first language is that you meet someone in, it’s the language you’ll stay in.”

A sobering thought when they started thinking about babies and became pregnant: “So, I was like, once baby comes, if we start with te reo, then that’ll just be the natural language. And it is—anytime we interact with baby, it’s in te reo Māori.”

Today, between these parents and their wider whānau, this is what their home has become: “I’m so proud that this home is he kāinga reo [a Māori speaking home]. Te reo tuatahi kōnei [Māori language is first here], pono reo tuatahi te reo [it’s right the first language is Māori language]”

This was the whānau who had prompted our question at the start of this article. While this pūrākau had begun with the learning of te reo Māori, it had become te reo Māori deeply embedded in ahurea, the cultural knowledge and ways of being that are Māori. Ahurea influenced how this baby would be named and come to learn his whakapapa. After the birth of their son, they discussed how they could maintain his connections both physical and spiritual to his tūrangawaewae. The mother explained “I’m down here in Masterton, and all my whānau and whakapapa are in the far north, so I’m quite far away from my kāinga [home].”

His name would ensure that his hononga (connections) to his whakapapa and whenua could be maintained. The father suggested:

You know, we just need to find a place where he connects to. We had options, we had up North. We thought, because we’re living down here, it might be nice for him to have a physical connection and a spiritual connection with the North, given that most of our life is likely to be spent down here.

After due consideration including not wanting the name to be disrespected with incorrect pronunciation, or take too long to learn to write, or when filling out forms, the mother explained:

When you are up north with the name . . ., everyone knows that’s where you’re from. So, because he’s growing up down here, we gave him my last name, and my dad’s last name, so he would always have his own hononga to the far North.

Then, as if recognising the mana of both sides of the family needed to, and had been respectfully considered, she added:

And we knew we were going to put his whenua in the whenua here at Te Whiti, which we’ve done. And also, that’s pretty close to Rotorua, where his dad lives [referring to her husband’s dad] and his dad’s very knowledgeable in their whakapapa, so he’ll pass that on.

She turned to her son, who she was holding, and addressed him formally using his name in full, then turned to us and shared “Although we call him Punipuni, and we think he thinks his name is Punipuni.”

Purākau 2: Me tiaki i te whare tangata (care for the womb of the mother)

This mother became immersed in te ao Māori, and at the same time, she became hapū. Every day would start and end with karakia (ancient blessings). Every week the kōnae ako (units of learning) that constituted her programme of learning meant that she would engage in traditional forms of mihimihi (greetings) and pepeha (establishing one’s identity and connections to the land) that included the establishment of genealogical links through whakapapa. As well, the arts were explored in the form of waiata (song), haka (ceremonial chant that incites challenge), and mōteatea (ancient waiata, often recalling significant historical events). She was not only learning about mātauranga Māori; she was also immersed in how this knowledge played out through cultural practices.

Every week within the classroom, all her peers and the kaiako (teacher) would communicate in te reo Māori to the mother and to her unborn pēpi. Kōrero (speaking, talking) such as the quite formal term of endearment: “tēnā koe e te taonga (greetings to our treasures)” and the more informal, “kia ora Bubba” (be well our baby), were communicated to the baby on a daily basis. It was as though she was already physically present, a living and breathing manifestation of what she would become. At times, classmates would mirimiri the mother’s pregnant belly as they talked and sang to them both. Often, when things were mentally challenging for this mother, and she had to think critically about the task at hand, she would say, “Ooh—baby’s moving”. In that instance, she knew that her baby was with her and deeply inter-related with her spiritual, intellectual, physical, and emotional well-being. Everything she was experiencing through wānanga was influenced and connected to what was happening to her baby in her kōpū (womb).

Staying on marae around the area was also part of their learning journey. At each marae, the mother and her unborn pēpi learned about the whenua upon which the marae were located, and they learned about each of the tribal groupings within the region, their historical narratives and how these continue into contemporary times. This mother was passionate to learn about and make tribal connections to her tribe located in the Waikato, Maniapoto regions. When she learned the story between Takakopiri (of Waitaha [name of a tribe with ancestry to Arawa waka] descent in Tauranga Moana [territory of the three Māori tribes of this area, literal translation the seas of Tauranga]) and his wife Kahureremoa (of Tainui [name of a tribe with ancestry to Tainui waka] descent in Waikato, Maniapoto), she became emotional and felt a huge connection to the marae, Whetu O Te Rangi (marae located in Welcome Bay, Tauranga) in which these connections were being shared. At the time she said that being in this ancestral house felt like a home away from home. A familiar whakataukī was discussed—mate kāinga tahi, ora kāinga rua meaning, if one home is unable to be sustaining, the second home can be sustaining.

One of her units of learning required her to go home to Te Tokanga a Nui (marae in Te Kuiti township) and research the significance of her home marae to her people. She had to research ngā haepapa (the roles and responsibilities of the tribe to any visitors), and the history surrounding her marae and her hapū (subtribe) of Ngāti Rora (name of subtribe). Being pregnant and going back to Ngāti Rora proved to be an emotional experience for her. At the end, when she presented her oral assessment back to classmates, she spoke about the learnings she had gained, but also, the learnings that her unborn child had gained. Being in Maniapoto territory at Te Kuiti enabled her to connect her unborn child to their own cultural knowledge, to their whakapapa and to those from whom they are both derived.

A daughter, Hinekura, was born in early October. The next noho marae (stay on the marae) would see Hinekura with her mother, now both in class, observing, reacting, and responding to the voices, laughter, waiata, karakia, and mihimihi as the ahurea of the noho marae enveloped them. Often at times of noisiness, chaos, singing, laughter, role-plays, and during the sharing of food, Hinekura was settled. Yet when there was quietness, Hinekura would start to cry. When she was spoken to, or sung to, the pēpi would stop crying and settle down, stretching her head forward to where the sounds were coming from. All forms of communication that Hinekura had been exposed to during the nine months enclosed in her mother’s womb, were continuing to mediate her behaviour. Although Hinekura had experienced a very different world within her mother’s womb, through ongoing exposure to the range of cultural events, it was clear that she had been able to hear, see, feel, and make sense of these experiences through her mother, and that from birth, through relational sensemaking to those around her, she was continuing to do so.

Purākau 3: He taonga te pēpi ki te whānau (the baby is a treasure to the family)

In this pūrākau, we use the whānau preferred terms of Mum and Dad. The birth of this pēpi, into a large, extended whānau happened towards the end of summer. Mum went to hospital for the birth but was brought home by Dad within hours, to sisters and grandparents wanting to see, hold and express their feelings on meeting the newest member of their whānau. Her closeness to Mum was evident; with Mum, she would be relaxed and settled, either feeding or sleeping. However, a realisation that breast feeding was not working saw Dad and bottles also enter this nurturing relationship as he took a regular hands-on role, making bottles, feeding, and changing. Bottle-feeding also meant the wider whānau were able to enter this nurturing circle. Bath-time also saw her relational sphere and cultural experiences widen; new textures of water, mirimiri on skin, smells of creams and powders and the incessant chatter of whānau. The pēpi took a growing interest in those around her and the rituals she was engaging in. Cultural relationships of whānautanga and awhi (care for, to nurture and cherish) were being modelled by the wider whānau. In the early days, this often resulted in long quizzical stares from their pēpi, rather like pulling faces, as she focussed on who was holding her.

By her third month, she was smiling and gurgling back, taking notice of the people around her. As she learned to reach out to things, whānau understood that she wanted you or that thing. This invite seldom included one of her grandmothers who was often not present during the week. In the early stages when Nani returned home, she was met with quizzical stares. Long after this pēpi had got everyone else in the wider whānau attending to her every desire, this Nani was having to wait for cuddles or be met by rejection and tears.

When Mum returned to work, Dad continued the job of parenting. Rather than sit her securely while he set about his tasks, he held his daughter on his hip, as he got his older daughters ready for school, did house-work or prepared food. The first day Mum returned from work she got the quizzical stare. Koro (grandfather) was also at home, so she quickly got used to two males to hiki (carried in the arms) her around. This meant she was able to see what was happening, a position she preferred. It was not long before she got used to having whānau in two homes, with her being the centre of everyone’s attention.

By her fourth month reaching out for things and associated facial expressions became very determined acts, indicating through her body language and sounds what she wanted to have, see, or do. Being outside was her favourite place especially if something had upset her. Having a hiki outside would quickly settle her down. This might just be in the garden or watching as Bob, the dog, was played with or the chooks were fed. She had begun to recognise words including her own name, the names of whānau members which included the dog and words related to kai (food) or moe (sleep).

By six months, she did not want to sit on Mum or Dad’s lap and be fed penupenu (mashed vegetables). She tried to turn around to see what others at the table were doing and reached out, indicating she wanted what they were eating. The highchair was used so that she could see and be part of what whānau were doing. Refusal to take food from a spoon meant that Mum began to chew or soften food from her own plate and place that in front of her. This was a practice that she had heard used by her own elders, and this became the preferred way that solids were finally included into the diet of this pēpi. The big smile and “mmmmm,” as some of the food started to find its way into her mouth let the whānau know that they had finally got it right.

She had begun to copy sounds and actions. The whānau attributes Great Nan as being responsible for teaching her to be cheeky for it was from her that their pēpi found her tongue and learned to poke it out with associated babbling. She was also learning at appropriate times to throw kisses and respond to high fives. Communicating with others had become two-way and reciprocal. She understood and acknowledged a range of ideas in Te reo Māori or English. This included a little squeak that the whānau soon learned meant “yes!” and a growl which meant “NO!” Her first recognisable word was “Bob!”

By nine months, she was crawling and exploring freely, eating confidently with her hands but demanding to use utensils like her sisters and able to have her needs and wants attended to by all members of this wider whānau.

Developing contexts for ahurea through traditional understandings

We know from Paraone Gloyne (Buchanan, 2023) and Hemara (2000) that oriori (chanted narratives) provided curricula for intergenerational transmission of mātauranga Māori and were often the beginning of the unborn child’s exposure to learning. Hemara suggested that “flexible line lengths and stanzas, combined with a fast tempo and simple tunes, allow for rapid transmission of complex ideas and multi-faced relationships” that “echo the practice of surprising learners so that facts can be implanted in their minds” (p. 23). Durie (1997) suggested the foetus was stimulated to hear the rhythm and become open to learning and memorising the knowledge behind the chant. Therefore, oriori and other traditional oral literacies, if introduced throughout pregnancy, could enhance memory and act to imprint knowledge in the mind of the developing child (Hemara, 2000). According to Reedy (2000), the singing of oriori served as “a kind of teaching to the grandchild of the histories of yesteryear and the lessons therein” (p. 10). Importantly, this traditional form of learning through modelling supported the transmission of culture through sound and stimulation leading to the recognition of sounds and language and the development of knowledge. But what happens if this knowledge is not already in the whānau?

Cultural and language erasure influenced whānau in all three pūrākau, with two of the whānau groups seeking cultural reclamation through tertiary study. The third whānau were using memories within the wider whānau, and while they wanted a more determined cultural pathway, when they sought a Māori midwife to support them through this pregnancy, one was not available. This situation faced many whānau with whom we worked, with most of their videos showing babies being raised in contexts where, apart from the physicality of the people and their relationships with their babies, there was little other evidence that Māori was the culture driving the sensemaking. A way of strengthening cultural knowledge from pregnancy to birth and infancy appears essential if these babies are going to be raised as Māori and effectively employ Māori cultural literacies later in life.

Tohu, a verb meaning to guide or teach, raises the role of whānau in this process of knowledge transmission even before the pēpi is born. Pere (1994) describes the important role of the young as being to listen and learn so that in the future they can pass this learning on to others. Once born, tohu was also practised using nonverbal forms of communication. This required the learner to engage in reading the facial expressions and eye contact being used to express an idea, a response, or a feeling. Haig and McCarthy (1997) describe how nonverbal communication was important as a child being raised by grandparents: “Looking and listening was one way I learnt as I would learn to interpret each expression as another way of talking” (p. 27). While there is support of this view, Paki (2007) refers to Te Ira Tangata, suggesting that while nature influences the baby’s changing expression, what can the adult understand from reading these expressions. She contends that seeking to understand:

reveals a dynamic flow of emotions, feelings, and expressions forming a pattern of associations, a movement of energies, patterns and rhythms that will begin to bring some clarity. This is where the adult begins to understand how else the child may be supported, nurtured, and guided (p. 98).

Perhaps, it is within this “dynamic flow of emotions” that the child may “affect” the behaviour of the adult so that reciprocal sensemaking through tairongo, and ako (teach and learn) can help us as adults to enhance and maintain the balance of the child’s ira tangata.

Conclusion

In this research, a broad understanding of ahurea ahureo (culture and language), including verbal and nonverbal actions, was utilised to generate and observe examples of relational sensemaking between whānau and their babies and to understand with whānau, what was going on. Whānau videos of their babies provided insights into the cultural and language forms that were being used by and with babies. These relational interactions were also relevant to future cultural and language literacies that whānau aspired to. The relationship between parents and newborns in this research invariably signalled an opportunity to improve and extend the cultural knowledge that parents and grandparents had been exposed to as well.

Tairongo, the outward expression of intuition, together with all other senses, creating cultural connections and causing multiple moments of intensity between pēpi and their whānau, was clear in the videos. The line of variation by which these connections intensify and the wider set of relations around which these moments of intensity are arrayed was also visible, thus affecting the attitudes and behaviours of whānau. Through these cultural connections and relationships, babies were beginning to make sense of their world and allow others to make sense of them.

Parents in these three pūrākau, and all others with whom we learned, were all trying to ensure that their babies could grow up strengthened by Māori knowledge as the foundation for future cultural sensemaking and personal identity. Given the ongoing harmful effects of education to traditional Māori home culture and language, many parents and whānau were having to find their own means to do this. Two scaffolds we learned about were extended whānau support and tertiary qualifications. Part of this was about having access to authentic hapū and iwi (Indigenous tribes) knowledge, to re-normalise the knowledge from te ao Māori that they had largely been deprived of. Success depended upon finding ways back to a future that is built on knowing who we are and being strong in one’s cultural identity through relational sensemaking from Te ao Māori through mātauranga Māori. When these philosophies were re-established, they believed the future for their tamariki would be strengthened. Whānau were committed to the diverse richness of their own authentic culture for informing how to communicate with babies today, and they understood that this would take them towards a more culturally sustainable future.