THE MOTHER THEY WANT TO BLAME

FASD, the Unseen Weeks of Pregnancy, and the Difference Between Responsibility and Scapegoating

An Addendum to I DID NOT COME INTO HUMAN FORM TO DISAPPEAR FROM IT — Sovereignty in the Belly of the Beast**

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There is something rather extraordinary about watching a conversation concerning institutional accountability turn into an examination of a mother's reproductive history.

But that is precisely what has happened since I published my account of the Wai 3060 Remand Priority Inquiry.

Among the many responses, some people have decided that the most important question is not what happened to my son while he was in Crown custody.

Not why a neurologically disabled young man was subjected to prolonged solitary confinement.

Not why appropriate disability-informed support was so difficult to obtain.

But how he came to have Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder in the first place.

And, more specifically, what I must have done wrong as his mother.

So I want to address that.

Not because I owe strangers an explanation of every intimate detail of my life.

Not because I require their forgiveness.

And certainly not because I intend to submit my motherhood for judgment in a Facebook comments section.

But because there is a great deal of ignorance surrounding FASD, and that ignorance has consequences for the people living with it.

THE WEEKS BEFORE I KNEW

I did not knowingly consume alcohol while pregnant with Akira.

Any alcohol exposure occurred during the earliest stages of pregnancy, before I knew I was carrying him.

I want people to understand the significance of that distinction.

Pregnancy does not announce itself at conception.

Many women do not realise they are pregnant until several weeks have passed. During that time, they may continue living as they ordinarily would, unaware that a pregnancy has begun.

And those early weeks matter.

Alcohol can affect fetal development before a woman even knows she is pregnant.

There is no known safe amount of alcohol during pregnancy, no known safe time to drink, and no type of alcoholic beverage that has been established as safe.

This is not simply my opinion.

It is established public health guidance.

Health New Zealand | Te Whatu Ora provides information about FASD, prenatal alcohol exposure, and the importance of avoiding alcohol during pregnancy.

Health New Zealand — Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder

https://www.healthnz.govt.nz/health-topics/pregnancy-maternity/having-a-healthy-pregnancy/alcohol-drugs-smoking-during-pregnancy/fetal-alcohol-spectrum-disorder

The United States Centers for Disease Control and Prevention also explains that alcohol can affect a developing baby at any stage of pregnancy, including before pregnancy is recognised.

CDC — About Alcohol Use During Pregnancy

https://www.cdc.gov/alcohol-pregnancy/about/index.html

And there is another important distinction.

Not every pregnancy involving alcohol exposure results in FASD. The effects vary, and it is not possible to determine from the amount of alcohol alone exactly how an individual child will be affected.

That is why prevention guidance is so clear.

But knowledge available to us today is not necessarily knowledge a woman possessed decades ago.

I cannot return to those earliest weeks of my pregnancy and equip my younger self with information I did not then understand.

I can only tell you what happened, what I subsequently learned, and what it has meant for my son's life.

UNDERSTANDING AKIRA

I came to understand the nature and complexity of Akira's disability much later, including through the involvement and neuropsychological assessment of Professor Valerie McGinn.

FASD is a lifelong neurodevelopmental disability associated with prenatal alcohol exposure.

It can affect memory, learning, reasoning, impulse control, emotional regulation, executive functioning and the ability to anticipate consequences.

These difficulties are not always visible.

A person may appear articulate, physically capable and socially confident while struggling profoundly with the cognitive processes required to navigate ordinary life.

And when those difficulties are misunderstood, the consequences can be devastating.

A young person may be labelled defiant when they cannot process instructions.

They may be punished for behaviour arising from neurological impairment.

They may be expected to understand consequences they cannot reliably anticipate.

And when they enter the criminal justice system, those vulnerabilities can become even more dangerous.

Akira has lived with FASD and ADHD throughout his life.

I have lived alongside him, trying to understand his needs, advocate for him and navigate systems that have too often failed to recognise the nature of his disabilities.

I have watched the consequences unfold in ways that no mother would ever wish upon her child.

And I have carried that knowledge for years.

THE WEIGHT A MOTHER CARRIES

There seems to be an assumption among some people that telling a mother her child has FASD will somehow deliver a devastating revelation.

As though she has never considered the circumstances of her pregnancy.

As though she has never questioned herself.

As though she has never grieved.

As though she has spent decades blissfully unaware of the consequences that have unfolded in her child's life.

I can assure you, that is not my experience.

I have had to confront realities far more difficult than anything a stranger can type beneath a Facebook post.

I have had to watch my son struggle.

I have had to advocate for him when he could not adequately advocate for himself.

I have had to witness the consequences of his disabilities colliding with systems that were neither equipped nor sufficiently willing to accommodate them.

And I have had to live with the knowledge that love alone cannot undo neurological injury.

That is a difficult truth.

But it is a truth I have lived with.

I do not need strangers to manufacture shame on my behalf.

Nor do I need to perform my grief publicly to satisfy their expectations of what a remorseful mother should look like.

I do not outsource my grief.

And I do not require an audience to validate the responsibilities I have carried.

WHEN RESPONSIBILITY BECOMES SCAPEGOATING

There is an important distinction that has been repeatedly overlooked in the public discussion.

The circumstances that contributed to Akira developing FASD and the treatment he subsequently received in Crown custody are two different matters.

One does not erase the other.

When Akira entered the criminal justice system at eighteen years old, he was a young Māori man living with recognised neurodevelopmental disabilities.

He was also a human being.

His disabilities did not diminish his dignity.

They did not extinguish his rights.

And they did not relieve the Crown of its responsibility to provide appropriate care while he was in its custody.

Yet he experienced prolonged solitary confinement, repeated episodes of self-harm and profound distress.

These were among the experiences I brought before the Waitangi Tribunal.

I did not stand there to ask the Tribunal to decide whether I had been a perfect mother.

I stood there to give evidence about the treatment of a vulnerable young person within the criminal justice system and the consequences for him and our whānau.

The question before us was not whether a mother could be blamed for her child's disability.

It was whether the Crown's legislation, policies and practices adequately protected the rights and wellbeing of people held on remand, particularly Māori and those living with disabilities.

That distinction matters.

Because once we allow a person's circumstances of birth to become a justification for their subsequent mistreatment, we have abandoned the very principle of human rights.

A disability is not a punishment.

It is not a moral verdict.

And it is not a licence for institutional neglect.

THE CONVENIENCE OF BLAMING WOMEN

There is also something worth examining about how readily these discussions turn toward mothers.

When a child is born with a disability, people want to know what the mother did.

When that child grows into an adult who struggles, people want to know why the mother didn't do more.

When that adult encounters the criminal justice system, people want to know why the mother failed to prevent it.

And when the mother speaks publicly about institutional harm, some people respond by putting her on trial instead.

It is a remarkably convenient arrangement.

Because while everyone is busy examining the mother, the institution escapes scrutiny.

But accountability does not work that way.

A mother's responsibilities do not extinguish the responsibilities of the State.

Individual actions and institutional obligations can both be examined.

One does not cancel out the other.

And the existence of FASD should lead us toward a better understanding of disability, prevention, appropriate support and humane treatment.

Not toward the convenient conclusion that someone deserves whatever happens to them because of the circumstances in which they were born.

WHAT WE CAN CHANGE

I cannot return to those earliest weeks of pregnancy and change what I did not know.

I cannot rewrite the beginning of Akira's life.

But we can change how we respond to people living with FASD.

We can improve public understanding.

We can ensure that women receive accurate, compassionate information about prenatal alcohol exposure without turning prevention into an exercise in humiliation.

We can recognise neurodevelopmental disabilities earlier.

We can provide appropriate support for children, adults and whānau.

We can stop confusing neurological impairment with deliberate defiance.

And we can demand that institutions entrusted with the care of vulnerable people meet their responsibilities.

The Crown can change its policies.

It can change its practices.

It can recognise disability before punishment.

It can provide care instead of isolation.

And it can stop treating vulnerable human beings as though their suffering is an acceptable consequence of someone else's history.

I cannot rewrite the beginning of my son's life.

But the Crown is responsible for what it writes into the lives of people in its custody.

That is why I stood before the Waitangi Tribunal.

Not to seek absolution.

Not to deny responsibility.

And not to invite strangers to pass judgment on my motherhood.

But because my son's humanity did not begin and end with his diagnosis.

Because his whakapapa, his disabilities, his struggles and his suffering do not make him disposable.

Because he is more than the circumstances of his conception.

More than his encounters with the criminal justice system.

More than the assumptions people make about him.

He is a living, breathing, flesh-and-blood human being.

He is my son.

And his rights matter.

If we are serious about accountability, then let us examine all of it.

Not just the parts that make it easy to blame a mother.

Let us examine the evidence.

Let us examine the institutions.

Let us examine the obligations that remain, regardless of how a person came into this world.

And above all, let us remember the human being at the centre of it.

THE CIRCUMSTANCES OF A PERSON'S BIRTH MUST NEVER BECOME AN EXCUSE FOR THEIR MISTREATMENT.

Let the evidence breathe.