CONGO: While superstition is engrained in Africa, children now account for most allegations of witchcraft and families are forcing them on to the streets, writes Edmund Sanders in Kinshasa
Naomi Ewowo had just lost her parents when her family branded her a witch. She was five.
After her mother and father died unexpectedly, less than a month apart, Naomi's care fell to relatives who struggled to cope with the tragedy. They sought counsel from a neighbourhood "prophet", who warned that a sorcerer was hiding in their midst. Soon all eyes turned on the family's youngest, most-vulnerable member.
"They blamed me for killing my parents," said Naomi, now 10, swinging her short legs under the seat of a chair.
The girl was cast out by relatives and lived on the streets until she moved to a rescue centre three months ago. "They say I ate my father. But I didn't. I'm not a witch."
On a continent where belief in black magic and evil spirits is common, witch hunts are nothing new, usually targeting older, unmarried women.
But in the Democratic Republic of Congo, there's a new twist to this ancient inquisition. Children now account for the majority of allegations involving witchcraft and sorcery, making it the number one cause of homelessness among youths.
Of the estimated 25,000 children living on the streets of the capital, Kinshasa, more than 60 per cent have been thrown out of their homes by relatives accusing them of witchcraft, say child welfare advocates.
The practice is so rampant that Congo's new constitution, adopted in December, includes a provision outlawing allegations of sorcery against children.
A rise in religious fundamentalism, revival churches and self-proclaimed prophets is one cause. More than 2,000 churches in Kinshasa offer "deliverance" services to ward off evil spirits in children, according to the group Human Rights Watch.
"Some prophets who run these churches have gained celebrity-like status, drawing in hundreds of worshippers in lucrative Sunday services because of their famed 'success' in child-exorcism ceremonies," the group said in an April report.
But chronic poverty is the real culprit, say some experts. Decades of dictatorship, instability and war have unravelled the nation's social fabric, tearing apart traditional family and tribal support systems. It's no coincidence that the majority of accused children come from poor, broken homes. Most are orphans or have lost one or both parents through divorce or abandonment.
When relatives are unable or unwilling to cope with an additional mouth to feed, they may look for ways to get rid of the child, says Charlotte Wamu, a counsellor at Solidarity Action for Distressed Children, a group that assists street children.
In Africa, kicking out a family member, even a distant relative, is considered shameful, but allegations of witchcraft provide a convenient and hard-to-disprove justification.
"It's always the stepmother who finds witchcraft in the stepchild, not in her own," Wamu said. "The sorcerer is your dead brother's child, never yours." Naomi, the only child of her father's second marriage, said his family never accepted her or her mother.
When Naomi's parents died in 2001, relatives took her from one prophet to another, searching for a way to cast out her "evil spirits". Sometimes the exorcism consisted of a quick prayer; other times, it was more involved.
One preacher locked Naomi in a room for three days without food or water. "I wanted to try to sneak some water, but I thought that would only make my problems worse," she said.
She was probably right. Child-exorcism ceremonies can include brutal treatment, such as beatings, burnings and the use of saltwater, orally and anally, to "purge" the children, says the group Save the Children.
One self-described prophet in Kinshasa, Pakoki Keni Emmanuel Suliman, began an exorcism interview with a robust prayer and ended it with a sales pitch for black-market diamonds, which he kept inside his wallet. He runs his Promised Temple church from his home.
Pakoki said he never accepts money, though relatives are required to buy white sheets, at $18 (€14) apiece, which are waved and draped around the children during the exorcism.
The forced confessions leave many children confused and guilt-ridden.
"They start to believe they've done something wrong or that they really are witches," says Evariste Kalumuna, head of the rescue centre that took Naomi off the streets. Kalumuna said that when he disciplines the children, they sometimes threaten him with their "powers".
"They say: 'Look out. I'm a witch. I'll hurt you'," he said.
Naomi's eight half-siblings share two cramped rooms in an eastern Kinshasa slum. "We're convinced she's a witch," said Rachel Nazombo (25), Naomi's eldest half-sister. The siblings say the death of their father and Naomi's mother is proof of witchcraft. Even in a country where life-expectancy has dropped to 42 years because of disease and poverty, premature death is often difficult to accept.
After her family threw her out, Naomi survived on the streets by selling what little clothing she had. Later she sold charcoal and resorted to thievery .
Wamu, her counsellor at the centre, began visiting the family to discuss reunification. Relatives stiffened when they saw Naomi and Wamu. Some refused to look at the girl. Wamu recently returned for her fifth visit, this time without Naomi. "The family should live together," Wamu pleaded.
"We want to help her find a better life, but first she must cast out the bad spirits," Naomi's older half-brother responded. Before accepting Naomi, the family wanted several preachers to verify that she was not a witch.
Wamu discouraged the idea, knowing that eventually they would find a prophet who claimed to see evil spirits. Instead, she emphasised the family's obligations to the girl.
"We know it's our responsibility," said Flory Nazombo (23), the eldest male in the family. "She's our sister. We can't abandon her."
He promised that someone in the family would visit Naomi to discuss bringing her home.
Three weeks later, no one from Naomi's family had visited her. The brother had not called.
And Wamu was making plans for a sixth visit.