Witchcraft, Identity, and the Work of Reclamation
Culture is the material and immaterial outcome of our immersion and rootedness in the landscape, of our ongoing dialogue with each other and the region and ecology around us. Culture stands at the intersection of ancestral identity—that which makes us a particular folk–- and the historical, local conditions emerging from the phenomenology of the land—that which teaches us our ways. Everything that we do, from the songs we sing and the stories we tell, to the way we plow our fields and cure our illnesses, is the outcome of this ongoing dialogue between the folk that we are and the landscape that we get to call our home.
Anthropologists would tell you that culture is taught in the process of socialisation, that it is acquired by social immersion and exchange. While that is certainly true, and can be witnessed in the rich, dynamic processes of enculturation that we all undergo by participating in social life no matter where we wind up in the world, the lived realities of culture and folk wisdom appear to dwell much deeper, beyond the anthropos. Where a researcher sees a collection of stories and traditions shared by a group of people, a folk practitioner sees an ancestral manual for tending to the land, the spirits, and the community.
The mystery of culture and folklore is that over generations, it settles into our very bones and courses through our veins, even when we can’t quite put our finger on it. We remain “of the folk” and “of the land” forever, just like a stone you would find in your local forest remains of that particular place no matter where it travels—it forever carries the geological features of the rock from which it chipped, and it is changed by all the conditions that it encounters since. Over the years of working with folks of the diaspora, teaching about my ancestral culture to those who long to reconnect with their roots, I witnessed countless examples of folks whose cultural connection appeared to be severed, yet whose instinctive, heartfelt longing for and intuitive understanding of ancestral traditions appeared to be untouched by that severance; merely in need of a gentle, humble re-remembering in order to tap into this wealth of ancestral belonging.
What we need is a reframing of what it means to belong in a folk sense; what it means to be culturally immersed. Culture is complicated because its outward expressions are observed through measurable human-made means, such as language, stereotypes, art, cooking, identities, shared historical struggles, or political beliefs. What is harder to account for is that which is silently inherited and expressed through us in covert ways, such as ancestral talents, traumas, health conditions, the way we digest food, our tastes in art, the skills we naturally possess, the things we instinctively fear, and the way we collectively dream. Many of these factors stem directly from our rootedness in a particular landscape over generations, rather than human-made factors. It is only when we choose to become sensitive to both the outward and the covert (and land based) aspects of culture within and around us, that we begin to see ourselves as part of a particular folk, as individual and collective repositories of culture and folklore, with each step of the way etched into our very being. Yes, when we learn to observe each other as living, breathing libraries of the histories of our families and our regions, we become humbled by the very scope of this discovery and its implications.
In the west, people are often taught a romanticised version of their ancestral culture “back home”— it is sold to them as a “purer”, “better” version of what they glimpsed directly from their family, combined with cultural stereotypes dictated by an “outsider gaze”. In such conditions, diaspora culture is often discarded by its very members as illegitimate, inauthentic, less than. As a result, many set off on a quest to learn about their genetic roots and the ancient, pagan beliefs of their ancestors, rejecting the priceless remnants of authentic folk wisdom that survived and were passed down to them in the process of migration. This spawns problematic rhetorics about cultural purity, seeking to sterilize culture of its authentic lived reality, and ultimately erasing it in the process.
Others are grieving how little they were taught by their grandma, angry and powerless at the fact that their immediate forebears were so eager to integrate into the new place, actively refusing to pass down the language and customs that they brought from back home. Only later do some folks come to understand that this evolution of ancestral culture that they are the very outcome of—the diasporic experience—is an authentic expression of what their ancestors had to do to ensure the survival of the next generation, and the survival of the core of their cultural identity. That it is, in fact, something to be proud of, preserved and celebrated, not hidden away or underestimated. Just like the aforementioned stone that forever bears the geological characteristics of the rock that it chipped off of, so are we forever of our people no matter where we wind up. The conditions around us may change, the way we express ourselves culturally will certainly evolve to accommodate where we are, but that doesn’t strip us of who we are. The narrow, man-made parameters for what qualifies as a particular type of cultural expression should not dictate our ancestral belonging. When we understand this simple fact, it hopefully restores our sense of cultural pride and identity in its current, locally evolved variant, without the need for performative claiming of cultural expressions that belong far away, outside of our present, lived contexts.
This brings us back to the point made at the very beginning of this essay: Everything that we do—from the songs we sing and the stories we tell, to the way we plow our fields and cure our illnesses, is the outcome of an ongoing dialogue between the folk that we are and the landscape that we get to call our home. Our cultural identity emerges at the intersection of our ancestral origins and the land where we currently reside—this is what makes us who we are, and it often escapes neat categorisation. When we seek this cultural reclamation of tradition and identity, it is wise to remember that such identity is always formed in a collective context, never self-appointed by the individual. And that, more often than not, there isn’t a neat old-sounding word for it that would magically legitimize our identity. When we push too hard to categorise ourselves, we risk not only losing our lived, authentic experience that roots us in our family and local community, but we also risk appropriating that which isn’t for us to be claimed.
This is especially often observed in the context of folk magic practices and local traditions, where an individual would claim a traditional community title to self-appoint themselves as a particular kind of practitioner, such as a szeptucha (whisperer), or a member of a particular local community or minority, such as a ślązak (Silesian) or góral (highlander of the Tatras). Such free self-appointing of cultural titles based on either genetic test results, or personal fancy, is a sign of cultural disrespect and bastardization of both the memory of one’s own ancestors, as well as the very peoples who are the living representatives and bearers of said traditional titles and identities today. The locals of particular regions and communities know this and continue to have deep respect for it to this day. A folk practitioner of Podlasie would never claim the title of szeptucha, unless she received her teachings from one, and rightfully inherited that title. An inhabitant of Silesia would never call themselves a ślązak, even if they know the language, unless their ancestors come from that autochthonic minority, or were accepted as one of them by the minority itself. Cultural identity cannot be borrowed and declared solely based on genes or fancy, it is bestowed by our ancestors, by our communities, and by the land where we dwell. It is sought and preserved through humble openness and dedication. And, ultimately, it is mutable and forever evolving, best kept open, and not reliant on claiming fancy titles. Therefore, for all seekers interested in restoring their connection with their ancestral roots and cultivating the old lore and traditions, be it for purely cultural reasons or as part of one’s folk magic practice, it is wise to ask oneself:
Who am I in the community and family context here and now, and what is my role in preserving my family’s and community’s unique stories and traditions?
Would my elderly family members recognize and agree with the cultural identity that I am claiming, and what does that say about their lived experience of ancestral cultural traditions?
How can I decenter myself from my experience of ancestral cultural traditions, and become a keeper of authentic cultural memory for my descendants?
How much do I know about the history and lived experiences of my ancestors—the region that they lived in, the struggles that they faced, the fears that they had, the work they did, the foods they ate and the songs they sang?
Who can teach me about the traditions of my ancestors in ways that are free from romanticisation and appropriation?
At the end of the day, culture is like the air we breathe. The same way that the folks of the diaspora may sometimes underestimate their cultural experience, those of us “back home” also often don’t notice the culture that we live in, unless we make it a conscious effort and a life-long quest to witness and preserve it. It is so deeply integrated into what we do and who we are, it doesn’t come naturally to be constantly aware of its presence and how it shapes us – just as we don’t consciously think of every breath we take at all times. Ironically, we all become more acutely aware of our culture when we begin to cultivate and preserve it with a curious heart, or when we see it reflected in the eyes of our neighbor—observing the things that stand out to them as culturally unique to us and the land where we live, the things that catch their attention in the food we cook, the way we pray, the art we make, the way we speak or express ourselves, and vice versa. In the same way, folks of any given culture and the folks of said culture’s diaspora can learn so much from each other about what it means to be us, what makes us who we are, and what ultimately connects us in our shared love for our ancestral traditions. Working with the folks of Polish and Slavic diaspora has taught me more than I can express about my culture and how precious it is, and it is my hope to see more diaspora voices presenting their culture and traditions with pride in the future. Just as you are keen to learn about the culture of your ancestors “back home”, so are the folks “back home” keen to learn about your unique cultural expressions—never forget that. Humble appreciation and mutual openness can truly aid us on our shared quest for cultivating and preserving that which we hold so dear, in ways that stay true to our shared forebears—with dedication to becoming good ancestors and with the well-being of our descendants in mind.
