Santeria is a religious and magical practice that originated in the African diaspora in Latin America, particularly in Cuba. It combines elements of Roman Catholicism with traditional African animist beliefs and practices. Santeria became prevalent in Cuba during the period of the transatlantic slave trade when African slaves were brought to the New World. The African slaves were forcibly converted to Christianity by their Spanish masters, but they secretly continued to practice their traditional African religions. This led to the syncretism of African animism and Catholicism, resulting in the birth of Santeria. In Santeria, each Catholic saint is associated with an African deity and is worshipped accordingly.
On the other hand, over the last couple of decades, modern Witchcraft practices have changed and shifted. It is, after all, a vibrant and blossoming spiritual practice—the fastest growing religion in North America. As more and more people find their way to a Witchcraft path, the variety of approaches to working within a group structure has changed and shifted, too.
Who Is In Charge Some covens still have the traditional high priest and high priestess, but it is just as likely to only have one, or to have the person or people who lead the group use no titles at all. In lieu of a social life, weekends were spent hovering around the mind, body and spirit section of our nearest Waterstones, hoping that a passing witch might invite me to join her coven.
In Santeria, each Catholic saint is associated with an African deity and is worshipped accordingly. This blending of religious traditions allowed African slaves to maintain their cultural heritage while outwardly adhering to the Catholic faith. Santeria is characterized by its emphasis on ritual, divination, and magic.
‘I became convinced I was channelling powers’: my life as a teenage witch
I couldn’t afford a cauldron, but did manage to find work experience as a fortune-teller. Would I grow up to find my coven?
Sat 31 Oct 2020 13.00 CET Last modified on Sun 1 Nov 2020 11.24 CETI don’t trust anyone who didn’t have a teenage Wiccan phase. More than being gay, or British, or refusing to upgrade my iPhone, having been a teenage witch is a crucial part of my identity. I treat my dabblings in the craft like a competitive sport. Sure, you were into Charmed – but did you do your high school work experience as a fortune-teller? Did you ever travel to Croydon to attend Witchfest? Did you pay a membership fee to use a coven directory service, only to discover that none would accept ill-adjusted 14-year-olds?
While some kids embraced the late-90s witchcraft boom by hoarding Buffy The Vampire Slayer box sets, or playing light as a feather, stiff as a board at sleepovers, I was not messing around. All it took was a single viewing of seminal teen horror film The Craft for me to realise that the lifestyle portrayed – being intimidatingly mysterious, wearing pleather, having supernatural dominion over others – was very much my vibe.
I began to wonder whether people drawn to mystical realms really were charmed souls, or misfits
As an adult, I’ve realised that a teenage obsession with witchcraft is much more common among kids who grew up to be queer. It checks out. At that age, you already have a secret that you’re terrified might get you set alight – of course you identify with the maligned women of Salem. Plus witchcraft is inherently camp. Candles? Capes? Crystals? I shouldn’t have to join the dots. Factor in that witchcraft is an established gateway to boys wearing eyeliner and sure, I was interested.
Other kids might have imagined life would be perfect if only their parents hadn’t divorced, or they’d made it into the football team, or could will themselves to go up a bra size. As a heroically camp child who was obsessed with Richard Madeley, I knew that any chance of leading a happy and fulfilled school life would require serious occult intervention. I wasn’t into football, or South Park, or casual racism. It was clear that I stood more chance of communing with the spirits of the four quarters than with my actual classmates.
In lieu of a social life, weekends were spent hovering around the mind, body and spirit section of our nearest Waterstones, hoping that a passing witch might invite me to join her coven. (Unless you’ve actually visited Merry Hill shopping centre in Dudley, it’s impossible for me to impress upon you just how much that was Never Going To Happen.) My favourite book was Teen Witch by Silver Ravenwolf, largely because the cover illustration featured four girls and one boy, the precise gender ratio that teenage gay boys need to feel safe. Evenings were consumed by asking my tarot cards if I’d ever meet a Spice Girl or (this felt like a reach) have physical contact with another man. I spent a lot of time performing midnight rituals designed to make myself popular, and no time at all wondering whether the lingering scent of mugwort was stopping me getting invited to the cool parties.
I wasn’t raised in religion, so had no prior experience of the altered states that can be achieved through ritual. This was a revelation. Surrounded by flickering candles, smoking incense and crudely drawn pentagrams, my senses would heighten as I cast a magic circle with my wand. Reciting incantations in a hushed voice, I’d feel the veil between our world and the next begin to shimmer. Nine times out of 10, this rapture would be interrupted by my sister storming into my room to reclaim her nag champa incense sticks. Still, I felt sure that my ascent to a higher frequency was simply a matter of time, dedication and copious amounts of sandalwood oil. When a money spell led to me finding £10 in the street, I became convinced I was channelling powers – dangerous ones – beyond my comprehension. I was delighted.
By the time I was 15, I had to choose where to do my mandatory week of work experience. I was torn between Toni & Guy hairdressers (proximity to gay men meant that I might finally lose my virginity and/or emerge with a trendy mullet), or the nearest metaphysical supply store (I was pretty sure they’d teach me to levitate). In the end, I plumped for being bestowed unimaginable powers, but it was a close call.
Joe aged 12: ‘A money spell led to me finding £10 in the street.’ Photograph: courtesy of Joe Stone
In case you’re picturing Hogwarts, I should say that the scene of my mystical education was a cluttered shop next to a chippy in suburban Birmingham. I was already on first-name terms with the staff, who were used to answering my various questions (Is bergamot or coltsfoot better for protection spells? If I can’t afford a cauldron, is it OK to represent the goddess’s womb with a Simpsons mug? Why am I so lonely?). The owner, Jemima, was a huge advocate of urine, which she insisted could be used as a substitute for pretty much any medicine or cosmetic. On my second day, she pulled me to one side and suggested I get into the habit of washing my face in my own wee, which was apparently more potent than the animal urine she said was used in expensive face creams. When I expressed surprise that luxury brands were trafficking in pig piss, she assured me that they got away with it by labelling the ingredient as plant urine. After a moment spent watching me grapple with the ramifications, she assumed the smug expression of a prosecutor about to deliver their killer detail, and hissed: “But. Plants. Don’t. Urinate.”
The next day I listened as Jemima regaled a customer with her conspiracy theory. When they remained unconverted to the notion that bathing in urine guaranteed eternal youthfulness, she lifted her fringe and demanded to know, “How old do I look to you?” I pretended not to hear when Shola, the shop assistant, muttered, “About 79.” Shola was a non-believer, and nurtured a long-running feud with one of the mediums after he implored her to listen to her child’s psychic pronouncements. At 18, she was livid that he thought she looked old enough to have a child capable of speaking, never mind to dead people. When a pair of schoolkids burst in and screamed, “Is this a hippy shop or something?”, she didn’t look up from her copy of Take A Break before responding, “Yes, now fuck off.”
Fortunately for me, the owners were too busy contemplating their own auras to think that there might be a conflict of interest in asking me to price the assorted amethysts I’d later be buying. My other duties included cleaning the flotation tank, dusting the wands and studying Cunningham’s Encyclopedia Of Crystal, Gem & Metal Magic as if it were a GSCE set text (I hadn’t been explicitly asked to do this, but my work experience guidelines encouraged me to use my own initiative). I should have been on cloud nine, but by the end of the week I felt deflated. I hadn’t learned how to astrally project, or divine the future with runes, or even mastered working the till. At the very least I’d hoped I could leverage my week of retail experience into a Saturday job at Waitrose; but when I later had an interview for the fish counter, they seemed unimpressed by my extensive knowledge of crystal balls.
As a teenager, I felt powerless in a world I couldn’t make sense of; sometimes I still do
Perhaps the biggest disappointment was that I still hadn’t found my people. The witches I idolised were glamorous and enigmatic – like Maxine Sanders, the peroxide blond Witch Queen who ruled the sketchier parts of 1970s London. The pagans I met in real life didn’t look like people who had harnessed the unseen currents of the universe. A surprising number wore fleeces. I began to wonder whether people drawn to mystical realms really were charmed souls, or misfits who had struggled to find a place for themselves anywhere else. It was painful to consider that I might belong to the second category.
As I entered my late teens, other things started to preoccupy me, like reordering my Myspace top eight and tending to an asymmetrical haircut that required straightening every four to six hours. By the time I left school for a different sixth form, I’d reinvented myself as someone who wore distressed denim and had never accidentally referred to their form teacher as “Mum”. There was no single moment when I disavowed my pagan past, but my esoteric pursuits began to take up less space. Sabbats would pass unmarked, and I discovered a gay club that charged £8 for entry and all-you-could-drink spirits and mixers. I imagine many of history’s most promising occultists fell by the wayside in a similar manner.
While my interest in mysticism receded, it has never entirely left me. I still occasionally visit psychics, and maintain a crystal collection that could fairly be described as unnerving. As a teenager, I felt powerless in a world I couldn’t make sense of; sometimes I still do. But somewhere along the way, I lost my conviction that the solutions lay in a red candle, or a green knotted ribbon, or a five-pointed star. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it.
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While some kids embraced the late-90s witchcraft boom by hoarding Buffy The Vampire Slayer box sets, or playing light as a feather, stiff as a board at sleepovers, I was not messing around. All it took was a single viewing of seminal teen horror film The Craft for me to realise that the lifestyle portrayed – being intimidatingly mysterious, wearing pleather, having supernatural dominion over others – was very much my vibe.
Rituals are performed to honor the African deities, known as orishas, who are believed to govern different aspects of life. These rituals often involve offerings, chants, drumming, and dancing. Divination, through methods such as consulting oracle shells or reading cowrie shells, is used to communicate with the orishas and seek their guidance. Magic is an integral part of Santeria, as it is believed to harness supernatural powers for various purposes. Practitioners of Santeria may use spells, charms, and talismans to protect themselves from harm, attract love or prosperity, or seek revenge against enemies. Santeria also incorporates healing practices, with practitioners known as santeros or santeras who are believed to possess spiritual healing abilities. Despite facing persecution and marginalization throughout history, Santeria has managed to survive and thrive among Afro-Latinx communities. Today, Santeria is practiced not only in Cuba but also in other Latin American countries such as Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic, and Brazil, as well as in diaspora communities in the United States. In recent years, Santeria has gained attention and popularity beyond its traditional communities. Its syncretic nature, rich rituals, and emphasis on ancestral connections have attracted individuals from diverse backgrounds who are seeking spiritual fulfillment and a deeper connection with the divine. However, it is important to note that Santeria is often misunderstood and stigmatized, as it is commonly associated with negative stereotypes and misrepresentations. The misappropriation and commodification of Santeria practices also perpetuate cultural appropriation. It is crucial to approach Santeria with respect and understanding, recognizing its rich cultural and historical significance..
Reviews for "The Impact of Santeria: African Magic Transformations in Latin America"
1. John - 2 stars - I was really disappointed with "Santeria African Magic in Latin America." The book seemed to lack depth and failed to provide a comprehensive understanding of Santeria. The author seemed more interested in sensationalizing the rituals and ceremonies rather than providing a balanced and objective view of the religion. I was hoping for a more scholarly approach, but instead, I found myself reading a collection of anecdotes with little contextual analysis. Overall, I wouldn't recommend this book to anyone seeking a serious exploration of Santeria.
2. Sarah - 1 star - I found "Santeria African Magic in Latin America" to be misleading and culturally insensitive. The author relied heavily on stereotypes and myths surrounding Santeria, rather than delving into its roots and historical development. The book perpetuated harmful stereotypes of Santeria practitioners as superstitious and primitive, which is far from the truth. Additionally, the author seemed to exploit the religion for shock value, focusing solely on bizarre practices without providing a proper cultural and historical context. I was deeply disappointed with this book and would not recommend it to anyone seeking an accurate and respectful portrayal of Santeria.
3. Michael - 2 stars - As someone who is genuinely interested in learning about different religions and their cultural significance, I found "Santeria African Magic in Latin America" to be a disappointment. The book lacked depth and failed to explore the intricacies and complexities of Santeria. The author's writing style was disjointed and lacked clarity, making it difficult to follow the narrative. Furthermore, the book seemed to be more of a personal account of the author's experiences rather than an objective exploration of Santeria. I would advise looking for more comprehensive and well-researched books on the topic to gain a better understanding of Santeria.
4. Emily - 1 star - "Santeria African Magic in Latin America" was nothing more than a sensationalized portrayal of Santeria. The author seemed more interested in captivating the reader with shocking rituals and practices rather than providing factual information about the religion. The book lacked depth and failed to go beyond surface-level descriptions of Santeria ceremonies. I was expecting a more scholarly and objective approach, but instead, I found myself reading a poorly-researched and exploitative piece of work. I would not recommend this book to anyone looking to gain a meaningful understanding of Santeria.