The Fear of Our Own Beliefs

The process of decolonising the mind and unlearning deeply ingrained beliefs highlights the ways original spiritual practices were criminalised and misunderstood. Across Caribbean history, prayers and rituals were often tools of resistance and survival, particularly during enslavement on islands such as Haiti and Jamaica. These practices carried meaning and protection for communities navigating unimaginable adversity. In truth, it is unlikely that African people would have survived the transatlantic slave trade without their spiritual systems. Faith was not ornamental. It was infrastructure.

The Caribbean and African diaspora learned to fear their own beliefs through colonial oppression, violent suppression, and legal punishment. European colonisers defined African spiritual systems as heathenism, promoted Christianity as the only legitimate faith, and passed laws that banned African gatherings and ritual work. Events such as Tacky's Rebellion in Jamaica in 1760 intensified colonial fear and led to even harsher crackdowns. Spiritual leaders became targets, and practices that once sustained communities were recast as threats to the colonial order.

This pressure created a lasting cultural demonisation. African rituals were labelled primitive or evil, while Western occult traditions escaped similar scrutiny. Over generations, some descendants internalised these messages. Many communities preserved their traditions through secrecy or by blending them with Catholic saints, a form of syncretism that protected the practice but also reinforced the idea that African religions needed to be hidden in order to survive. Even so, these traditions endured, becoming systems such as Haitian Vodou, Cuban Santería, and Jamaican Kumina. Obeah shifted into a term associated with fear rather than a full spiritual framework, a legacy of colonial control.

Yet traces of these belief systems remain everywhere, often unrecognised. People enter churches and “catch the spirit,” surrendering their bodies to something unseen and powerful. Families say their loved ones are “watching over them” after death, seeking comfort in continued connection. Homes keep photographs, clothing, jewellery, and personal items of the departed, small altars of memory that function as forms of ancestral honouring. We recite prayers with rhythm and repetition. We embed intention into lyrics. We speak things into being and call it faith, while condemning the same act as witchcraft when it appears in African tradition. The power of the tongue works either way.

Our ancestors were not myths or demons. They were people who lived, loved, laboured, and endured. To acknowledge them is not evil. It is human. Still, the language surrounding African spirituality remains charged. Words such as “black magic” or “witch,” reinforced by films and media, are designed to evoke fear. Even unfamiliar ancient languages trigger suspicion simply because they are not English, not European, not framed as safe. The vocabulary of colonialism taught generations what to revere and what to recoil from.

In contemporary storytelling, these themes still resonate. In Ryan Coogler’s film Sinners (2025), a character uses witchcraft for foresight and protection. Scenes like this highlight how spiritual practices considered taboo today may once have been vital tools of survival and community care.

The persistence of ancestral faith can be felt in sayings such as, “Your grandmother’s prayers are still keeping you safe.” Extending that lineage back through generations reveals the resilience and spiritual intelligence required for survival. Yet a tension remains. Practices like Vodou, Obeah, and Santería are still labelled dangerous, while European occult traditions are often treated as harmless or intriguing. Examining these double standards raises important questions about which spiritualities are legitimised and why.

Understanding ancestral traditions is not simply an academic act. It is a step toward reclaiming history, dismantling inherited fear, and recognising the wisdom that carried our communities through centuries of adversity.