Every year, toward the end of June, witches celebrate the summer solstice as a time when the boundary between the spirit world and human world feels most porous. For many, it’s a day of making offerings, performing ritual burnings, and journeying to sacred water sites.

Given that official data tells us we are currently experiencing a crisis of traditional faith, Midsummer, as it has also come to be known, is a powerful reminder of the long legacy of spirituality and magic that dates back centuries. And this year, more people than ever may be celebrating. 

For the first time, the United Kingdom’s 2021 census showed that less than half the population identified as Christian, with “no religion” being the second most common response. The United States is following suit; the number of people who identify as Protestant has dropped dramatically over the last five years, while the number of people who say they have no religious affiliations continues to rise. This is the most secular society we have experienced in centuries, according to experts.

But despite slumping participation in organized religion, spirituality is on the rise. Data shows that within those who consider themselves non-religious—which could be closer to half the U.K. population, according to other figures—a third still practice some form of spirituality. And it’s often younger people making the leap, according to Pew Research Center survey data released in January 2024.

It’s no surprise, then, that paganism and witchcraft are experiencing a resurgence, this time firmly in the cultural mainstream. “Paganism” is often used as a catch-all term to describe beliefs that stem from pre-Abrahamic, polytheistic religious practices. Witchcraft is just one example of paganism, and refers to a set of practices and beliefs that involve harnessing natural or spiritual forces for healing, guidance, and divination.

Today, witchcraft is gaining traction among younger generations seeking meaning in ecology and ancestral knowledge. Scroll through social media, and paganism’s growing popularity—specifically witchcraft and magic—has become hard to miss. On Instagram, the hashtag #WitchesOfInstagram produces more than 10 million results; #Witchcraft has 9 million. The numbers are similar on TikTok with the hashtag #WitchTok, which reveals more than 8 million posts. 

The current resurgence builds on the mainstream momentum of the 1990s, driven in large part by witchcraft’s presence in popular culture. A 2018 Guardian article observes that the portrayal of witches in film and TV has changed significantly over time, with shows like Buffy and Charmed depicting protagonists spending less time “crouched over a cauldron or on a broom,” and instead as “young, woke, liberated, and likely to cast spells that are socially conscious rather than caustic.”

But despite the figures suggesting witchcraft and paganism are taking on new resonance, many practitioners see this moment as simply the latest wave in a centuries-old tradition.

People are typically called to magic in an attempt to reclaim power during particularly oppressive times. A surging interest in witchcraft is “always simultaneous to a downsurge in quality of life, an upsurge in right-wing persecution, and heightened scarcity,” said writer and witch Alice Tarbuck. “[Practicing] witchcraft can happen in the privacy of your own home and with very little. It can just be you, your thoughts, and your will. It is a way of feeling in control.”  

It’s no surprise, then, that the history of witchcraft and the history of resistance and activism are deeply intertwined, especially in Black, brown, and Indigenous communities. Hoodoo, for example, was maintained by African slaves in the United States whose steadfast dedication to their spiritual practice served as an act of rebellion in the face of white supremacy and enforced Christianity. 

The histories of Jamaican Obeah and Vodou, which is rooted in Haitian culture, are intrinsically linked to histories of protest. In Haiti, Vodou played a significant role in the slave rebellions that ultimately led to the country’s independence, while Nanny of the Maroons—a Jamaican revolutionary and renowned Obeah woman—led an uprising against British colonial forces in the 1700s. “Nanny of the Maroons defeated the British… using guerrilla warfare tactics, but she was also an Obeah woman,” said Emma Kathryn, a practitioner of witchcraft. “[Across the Caribbean,] there’s a history of magical practice being used as physical acts of resistance.”

The Yoruba divination system of Ifá is another spiritual practice renowned for its history of protest. This stems in part from its Òrìṣà entities, revered as protectors and warriors against violence—such as Ogun, the Òrìṣà of war and iron, who was called upon by Haitian revolutionaries during ritual ceremonies. Just as Hoodoo, Vodou, and Obeah are revered for facilitating survival over centuries, Ifá’s longevity is a powerful example of magical resistance. “The fact that we as a people have survived physically is its own magic,” said Janique Dennis-Prescott, an educator at the University of the West Indies, in an interview with The Repair Campaign. “The fact that we have Ifá in so many places where we have found ourselves. Magic.”

Many practitioners see social justice not as an add-on, but as central to witchcraft. Ysha, who shares educational content under the handle @activistwitch on Instagram and YouTube, joins many historians in arguing that the infamous witch hunts that spread through much of the world were first sparked by the transition from feudalism to capitalism. Citing Silvia Federici’s seminal book Caliban and the Witch,Ysha explained that those who resisted the new capitalist orders were often targeted and persecuted. Capitalism casts its own kind of enchantment, she said, and the witch, existing outside the system, is dangerous because she sees through the illusion.

The label of “witch” was historically applied not only to those who practiced witchcraft, but to women—and it was nearly always women—living on the margins of society. Some may have engaged in folk healing or spiritual practices, but many were targeted for being Black, poor, disruptive to social norms, or because they were perceived as incompatible with emerging capitalist ideals. Meanwhile, wealthy white men have openly practiced ceremonial or “high” magic throughout history—and even been celebrated for it.

Today, many witches recognize that ritual and magic offer a framework for repairing the relationship between humans and the environment—one grounded in reciprocity and reverence. It’s in part why so many practitioners today find themselves drawn to climate activism. 

Kathryn, for instance, describes the natural world as central to her practice. “How can we be spiritual and say we’re going to use this herb, plant, rock, or crystal in our magical work if it’s just a herb or plant or rock or crystal?” she asked. “As a witch who believes that everything is alive with spirit in the same way that I am, why would I not protect the land that is my ally in the same way I would a person?”

That sense of spiritual reciprocity informs the work of other activists, too. Daze Aghaji, an environmentalist who practices folklore rituals, links her activism to her family’s heritage in the Niger Delta. “The Earth is a goddess, she’s sacred,” she said. “Within that context, it allowed me to feel like I could be—and should be—a climate activist.” 

It’s a sentiment echoed by Ezra Aliendro, a Jewish folk witch, who sees witchcraft as inherently aligned with sustainability over extractivism and exploitation of land. “It was based on this belief that if you give something to the planet or the gods, the universe would bless you in return,” they said. “Nowadays, the system that we have means we’re constantly just taking, taking, taking, and it’s not sustainable.” 

This idea that unchecked extraction is unsustainable was at the heart of the radical, feminist collective W.I.T.C.H., short for Women’s International Terrorist Conspiracy from Hell, which  emerged in 1960s New York. Through a combination of protest, public performance, and witchcraft in public demonstrations they called “zaps,” they sought to confront capitalism as the root cause of patriarchy and reconfigure the image of a witchy woman––unruly, ugly, and uncompromising––into a symbol of defiance. “If you are a woman and dare to look within yourself, you are a witch,” read the group’s 1968 manifesto.

In one zap on Halloween of that year, W.I.T.C.H. descended on Wall Street in black robes and pointed hats to declare it the central site of women’s oppression and administer a hex on the Stock Exchange—a symbol of exploitation that continues to fuel social inequality and climate change to this day. Legend has it the market dropped 13 points in the hours that followed.

Today, a new generation of witches continues the legacy of using witchcraft as a form of intersectional politics. Support for Palestinian liberation has emerged as a rallying cry within witch communities. Witches for Palestine has run several prize draws with all funds going to Medical Aid for Palestine; witches Dema Al-Kakhan and Rachael Maddox hosted a potion party gathering for Palestine, inviting participants to “harness your magic in service to a free Palestine”; Chelsi Rosen, who runs a Baltimore-based apothecary, hosted an online coven “to use our power, our voices, and our magic to cast protection, safety, and rest over the people of Palestine.” Beyond fundraising, many witches are integrating activism into ritual. Aliendro, for instance, speaks of redirecting money spells toward mutual aid rather than personal gain.  

For many, to be a witch is to be political by definition. That’s especially true today as the erosion of women’s rights, deepening economic inequality, intensifying global conflict, and impending climate collapse continue to drive the very systems witches have for so long resisted. As far as Tarbuck is concerned, it’s not possible to practice witchcraft without paying homage to this history. “I think we inherit a social responsibility when we take up the mantle of witchcraft,” said Tarbuck. “To speak for all of the people who were persecuted, to remember and honor all the women who died, who were made voiceless and helpless by the patriarchy.” 

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