What does it mean for a society to believe
in witchcraft in the 21st Century; and not just some superstitious tic, but a
deep-seeded belief that (for those who commit and bear witness) justifies,
completely, countless assaults and murders?
The reality of living in Ghana, a country
with at least 6 witch camps in the Northern regions and uncontrolled brutality
against accused victims, is still something I find shocking. Though kept
relatively quiet, it is a truth I’ve struggled to come to terms with for the
better part of two years.
Many people, people I know and respect;
well-educated people who know more about international politics that I do;
Ghanaians I consider close friends tell me stories of witchcraft – stories they
whole-heartedly believe. At night, there are witches in the trees; witches
steal human souls and hide them in animal sacrifices; witches kill and eat
people, make their children witches through food.
Joke as they may, laughing at my
incredulous looks, it isn’t really a joke – their unforgiving, often strong
reactions to my inquiries tell me that this is a real threat for them; death by
beating, poisoning, (in one case in Accra, burning) and banishment are all seen
as necessary. It’s all so perpendicular to what I’ve come to know about Ghana,
it doesn’t seem real even now. The ease of accusation, the lack of
representation, the test and trial, the punishment – it all seems to happen so
fast.
So I started asking questions, seeking to
probe the belly of the beast, to begin to understand such a dark undercurrent
in a culture I consider myself very much a part of. I wanted to talk about the
complexities of such beliefs within a society that touts a culture of ju-ju men
(their billboards litter the highways). We all see at least one witch movie on
the long, TV-equipped trips, but do people really believe in it? I wanted to
know more. What I found created only more questions (and a sense of urgency
that something needs to change).
“If witches and magic are bad, why is a
ju-ju man different? He’s using magic to find magic, isn’t he? Isn’t he a
witch, too?” No, they told me, that’s different; plus, a ju-ju man never
lies. “Never?” Never. Well, that
would certainly explain why some women are devastated to find out they’re
witches – they strongly believe in the myths, too, in the power of the ju-ju.
It all sounded so complicated, so
contradictory – Witches can’t see each other, but a community of witches exist
that must make blood sacrifices to their Witch King; witches can only affect
and curse their own households, but a stranger can level the accusation against
a witch; different levels of witchcraft exist, but one can’t tell the
difference unless by special circumstance. All of it involves ju-ju.
“What if it’s just jealousy or hatred?
People are mean-spirited sometimes.” Oh,
they agreed, if it was a natural hatred,
the village would know the difference – the ju-ju magic would see. Yes, but
it all depends on one man, one ritual, I wanted say; sometimes
small incidences like a birth defect, or being unable to balance water on one’s
head is considered proof enough. “What if he’s wrong? What if it’s a lie or a
misunderstanding? This happened in America a long time ago; people lied.” He
isn’t wrong; there’s no lie. They exist.
In a world where witchcraft exists, there
can be no room for failure or mistaken identity; doubt throws the entire belief
into the question. It is a dangerous world to live in. In extracting the
confession of a witch, it doesn’t matter the circumstances of the answer – the
threats or steps taken to get there – it only matters the confession itself.
Sometimes there are trials, but sometimes the confession is proof enough; as my
Ghanaian friends told me, there will always be a confession if there is a witch.
No confession: no witch, no problem.
Of course, that’s not always the case. In
some children born with physical defects, the proof is obvious – no trial or
ju-ju necessary. If not banished, these children are certainly punished and
often abused. I met one such girl at the Gbeogo School for the Deaf. Born with
her tongue attached to the roof of her mouth her father, suspecting her of
being a witch, cut most of it out with a machete. In fact, her face is littered
with machete scars, cigarette burns mark her body and, until her parents died,
the school feared for her life every time she returned home.
How many other cases like hers occur? Not
to mention accidents and unexplained medical afflictions. It stands to reason
that a woman accidentally serving spoiled food is open to accusations; or if a
child visiting his aunt gets some unknown infection, she is likely without
protection – vulnerable to a pointed finger and banishment from home. It can
happen without warning and if the ju-ju proves her guilt, she could lose her
life. It’s the lucky ones who find themselves in witch camps.
Not only women and children are
accused, sometimes men are too, but it seems more likely for a man to be
proceeding over the ju-ju than at its mercy. Women, having more contact with
children and the duty to prepare food can more easily pass it along. Because of
this separation, because a father doesn’t deal in cooking (and witchcraft is
often passed through food), it is women and children that are most vulnerable.
It is the aim of Ghana to abolish witch
camps, but in communities so strongly rooted in tradition and so far removed
from the influence of Ghana’s modern government, one suspects the answer will
not be so easy.
With no government run rehabilitation centres, no safe houses
or refugee camps, local witch camps – controlled by the same mystic beliefs and
presided over by ju-ju chiefs – are the only options for safety. Removed from
their towns, many believe in the neutralising ju-ju of such sacred places and
fear leaving them because they truly believe they have bad magic. The ju-ju men
have spoken; they have no other choices in the matter.
Though the mystical aspect of this both
fascinates and infuriates me, it is the human part that makes it so hard to
accept. The stigma against witches, the belief in them is so strong, that it
cripples the most vulnerable, especially the children – many of them find no
reprieve. In this they have no option but to forfeit their right to education,
to a better life. The young and elderly, alike, experience such abuse, both
immediately (physically) and as time progresses (mentally); it must be
terrifying and heartbreaking for them. The amount of trauma they endure, the
guilt and confusion associated with actually believing in their fate (or their
denial of it), must leave them with such sadness. I am sure PTSD and depression
exist in excess in camps such as Gambaga in the North. To be forced into exile,
unable to defend oneself, and survive the way these men , women and children
have is about as brave and strong an act as one I can think of, but they
desperately need a voice. And though discretion and graceful acceptance are
necessary in the Peace Corps, these victims need desperately to not be ignored.
Not rooted in just traditional beliefs, but
religions too, it’s hard to control or stop such fervour. The relatively
shallow reach of the law, the secretive nature of such beliefs and trials make
them even harder to control and influence. In Northern regions like the Upper
East, a lack of widespread education works against a system meant to protect
its people. With only a handful of NGOs and the limited reach of government,
it’s likely the only true solution will be outside pressure on Ghana’s
seemingly lax stance on such abuses.
Watching these things happen from the
perspective of a long history in the same mistakes has been difficult for me
(and many volunteers). The need to write about it, to acknowledge it, and offer
a voice against something so quietly accepted locally has existed in me for
quite some time. Sometimes finding the balance between a misguided local belief
and one’s own heart is the hardest battle of service; it often seems
contradictory, especially when human rights are involved. After hearing of two
local stories, I decided to respectfully break my silence on the issue. As has
always been my way, I wanted to open the discussion with Americans and
Ghanaians alike.
More importantly, I’ve come to realize that
sometimes the path of quiet acceptance is the wrong one; sometimes the largest
lesson in a Peace Corps experience is coming to accept and face the truth of
the world around you – a world you come to love in all of its parts, even the
ugly and the difficult – and bring it into the light. It is the only way
forward, after all, and I have faith in Ghana.
I would like to thank Lauren Corke and
Dawn Rostad for sharing their stories with me and allowing me to use them in
this article.
