When babies were born at home …
THERE was a time when mechanics working from home charged a nominal amount to change spark plugs, filters, brake pads and engine oil. Motor spares and labour did not cost an arm and a leg as they do today.
In similar vein, costs have gone up on all products and services that touch our lives on a daily basis. The cost of basic foodstuffs, building materials, home maintenance, furniture, household appliances, all forms of transport, home and office rentals, schooling, electricity, water and medical care continue to climb steadily year on year.
One of life’s greatest occurrences – the coming of a new baby into the world – has also not escaped the ravages of inflation and corporate greed.
Today, having a baby in a private hospital can be a costly affair. According to data from medical aid schemes, the average cost of a natural birth in a private hospital is around R25 000, including two to three days spent in hospital.
If your baby is delivered by Caesarean section -–as is now fashionable – the cost jumps to between R38 000 and R44 000. If complications arise and your baby needs specialised care in a neonatal intensive care unit, add another R16 000 to the hospital bill – a day.
Yet it cost almost nothing when it was the norm for babies to be born at home. Up to the early 1960s, it was common practice in many communities for a midwife (maruttuvacci in Tamil or daee in Hindi) to deliver the baby at home.
When families comprised 10 or even more children, it would have been a major financial burden if babies had to be born in hospital.
Also, when the mother did not have any pre-existing health issues, it was not considered unsafe for babies to be delivered at home, never mind that the midwives were not professional, institutionally trained or registered.
The art of midwifery was passed down over the generations long before the creation of government health-care systems.
I grew up in Chatsworth when the area comprised banana farms. While my three siblings and I were born in hospitals, there were many midwives in the local farming community who drew deep admiration and respect for their birthing skills.
These “Bag Nurses” or “Bag Ayahs”, as they were commonly referred to, did not levy a fee for the midwifery services that they performed with a great deal of love, care and dedication. They accepted whatever was given to them – some vegetables grown around the house, a handful of rice and pulses, and on the rare occasion, a few shillings.
My dear friend Logan Naicker, 83, of Kharwastan, recalls that he, his seven brothers and two sisters, were all born at their Coedmore Farm home.
Mahatma Gandhi’s granddaughter, Sita Dhupelia (sister of Ela Gandhi), wrote in her memoirs that she was born on October 19, 1928, on her grandfather’s farm at Phoenix Settlement.
“There were no proper roads to go into the city. If it rained there was mud all over and the little bridges would be over-run by the water and it was impossible to go anywhere.
“My father had told the midwife to come a few days before I was due to be born. But I decided to make my arrival before then.
“My father had always wanted to be a doctor, so he had read everything about child-birth, and while the driver went to bring the midwife, my father did everything for my mother and when the midwife came after two hours, I was born, cleaned and my father cut the cord and made my mother comfortable and everything was clean and tidy,” she said.
Mrs Kuppamal Reddy was a popular figure among the women in rural Chatsworth, where she was actively involved in the religious and cultural affairs of the community. She also cooked at the local state-aided primary school that I attended. She gave her services as a midwife readily and was affectionately known as “doctor” by her close associates as she was also able to dispense herbal remedies.
Mrs Ellamma Govender, a resident of Silverglen, did market gardening in the vicinity of the former Odeon Cinema. She too was well known in the community as a midwife.
Mrs Pappah Naidoo, of rural Welbedacht, was indeed a fine role model for the younger generation, who quickly learnt from her the rituals associated with traditional events. In the absence of a religious learning centre, such oral transmission kept alive the culture.
Since pastoral Welbedacht was not serviced by doctors or a hospital, many an expectant mother had her baby delivered at home. The versatile Mrs Naidoo acted as midwife, nurse and doctor.
Her follow-up visits included giving the new-born its first bath on her legs, a task she executed with remarkable skill perfected by years of experience.
The midwives of Farm Chatsworth – as well as various other communities – were all recognised and revered for their work in bringing forth a new lusty generation into the world.
Unlike the clock-watching gynaecologists and obstetricians of today, they generally spent a week in the household and even did the laundry and cooking for the new mother’s family.
These good-natured, amiable women were much sought after for both pre-natal and post-natal care. They offered many a wise word and injunction to the new mother on how to take care of the newly born baby.
They also rendered muscle therapy, herbal baths and massages for both mother and child, ministered their own potions and strength-giving foods, and shared their stratagems for both inducing breast milk – and reducing it.
A defining characteristic of the community midwives was that they had real love for the children they had delivered and looked upon them with motherly eyes. They would hug and kiss them – even when quite grown up.
With growing urbanisation and westernisation, traditional midwives were cast to the side. Birthing was taken out of communities and homes, and put in hospitals.
The expectant mother’s body was not allowed to do what it needed to do naturally. Instead, home delivery was replaced by a doctor in a hospital saying: “Okay, get up on the bed. I have to be on the golf course in two hours. We gotta get this baby out.”
Now, slowly, some parents are choosing home births again instead of going to a hospital.
During the Covid pandemic that started in early 2020, some pregnant women elected to deliver their babies at home rather than in a virus-riddled hospital.
Birth must be a natural phenomenon – not a mere medical event with a happy ending. At one time, long before medical science was even thought of, birth was the great mystery. A woman’s body regenerated, giving birth to another person. Surely this is something to hold with reverence and awe.