Burn the Witch

There is a trend circulating on TikTok in which a crowd chants, “Burn the witch! Burn the witch!” A person then announces that they know a “spell” to achieve something desirable—getting rid of homework, summoning a particular kind of person or solving some everyday inconvenience—and the crowd changes its verdict: “Release the witch!”

It is intended to be funny. It is deliberately theatrical, exaggerated and absurd. Nobody taking part genuinely believes they are conducting a witch trial.

But watching children and teenagers gleefully chant “burn the witch” should still make us deeply uncomfortable.

Because those words are not harmless nonsense. They belong to a history in which accusations of witchcraft led to people being interrogated, tortured, imprisoned, ostracised and killed. They also repeat an idea that Pagan and witchcraft communities have spent generations trying to dismantle: that a witch is acceptable only when they are entertaining, attractive or useful—and disposable the moment they are not.

In Britain, that persecution was not simply the product of superstitious villagers carrying pitchforks. It was written into law. Parliament’s Witchcraft Act of 1542 made witchcraft a crime punishable by death. Although that law was briefly repealed, witchcraft was criminalised again in 1563, with further legislation passed under James I in 1604. Around 500 people are believed to have been executed for witchcraft in England alone. Accusations disproportionately targeted poor, elderly and socially vulnerable women. UK Parliament’s history of witchcraft legislation

It is important to be historically accurate. Most of those accused were not practising “witches” in the modern Pagan sense. They were ordinary people—often Christian—onto whom communities projected their fear, grief, illness, religious anxiety and suspicion. In England, those convicted were generally hanged rather than burned, while burning was more common elsewhere in Europe and sometimes followed strangulation in Scotland.

But that does not make the chant harmless. If anything, it reveals what “witch” has historically meant in the mouths of an angry crowd: a label placed upon someone considered strange, dangerous, disobedient or inconvenient—and permission to punish them for it.

The accused did not need to prove that they were witches. They had to somehow prove that they were not.

Women could be condemned for being too knowledgeable or too ignorant, too outspoken or too withdrawn, too independent or too burdensome. Poverty made people vulnerable. Age made people vulnerable. Disability, mental illness, unusual behaviour, knowledge of herbs, conflict with neighbours or simply failing to conform could all encourage suspicion. The accusation adapted itself to whoever society had already decided not to trust.

The witch hunt was never really about magic. It was about power.

That is why the words still matter now.

Modern Pagans and practising witches have worked extraordinarily hard to be understood as real people rather than Halloween decorations, fictional villains or deluded caricatures. For many, Paganism is a sincere religious or spiritual identity. For others, witchcraft is a personal practice involving nature, ritual, ancestry, divination, meditation, folklore or community. There is enormous variety within those identities, just as there is within any faith or spiritual tradition.

Progress has been slow. British witchcraft laws were not completely consigned to history as early as we might like to imagine. The 1736 Act repealed the death-penalty laws but still punished people who claimed magical powers, and it remained on the statute book until 1951. UK Parliament In 2022, Scotland’s then First Minister Nicola Sturgeon issued a formal apology to those persecuted under the Scottish Witchcraft Act, describing the historic campaign as an injustice on a colossal scale. Historic Environment Scotland

These acts of recognition matter. They acknowledge that witch trials were not quaint folklore. They were organised persecution, encouraged by law, religion, misogyny and fear.

Then TikTok turns that history into a sound.

Within seconds, children are laughing as they demand that a “witch” be burned. The witch earns a temporary reprieve by offering something the crowd wants. She is spared because she is useful—not because killing her would be wrong.

That is the part I find particularly chilling.

“Release the witch” does not challenge the mob’s authority. It confirms it. The crowd still gets to decide whether the witch deserves to live. Her safety depends entirely upon her ability to entertain them or perform something valuable.

It reflects an attitude that has followed women and marginalised people throughout history: be useful, be pleasing, be quiet, be amusing—and perhaps we will allow you to exist.

Of course, the young people copying the trend are not consciously endorsing religious persecution. They are repeating a format that the algorithm has presented as funny. That is precisely why we need to talk about it. Children learn through repetition long before they fully understand context. When violent language becomes a catchphrase, its meaning is softened. The victim becomes a costume. The mob becomes the joke.

TikTok did not invent casual cruelty, but its structure is particularly effective at stripping words from their history. A phrase is separated from its context, attached to a catchy rhythm and repeated thousands of times. Each person imitates what they have seen, often without stopping to ask where the language came from or who might hear it differently.

The algorithm does not require understanding. It requires participation.

Imagine a trend built around children chanting for the execution of a member of another living religious minority. We would immediately recognise that something had gone badly wrong. Yet “witch” is still treated as a fictional category, despite real people identifying as witches and despite Pagan traditions being practised today.

The response cannot simply be, “It’s only a joke.”

Jokes do not exist outside culture. They reveal which histories we consider serious, which people we consider real and which kinds of violence we have decided are distant enough to become entertainment. For Pagan families, for practising witches and for those who have experienced bullying because their beliefs appear unusual, hearing a group of children chant “burn the witch” may not feel distant at all.

Nor is persecution merely historical. Accusations of witchcraft continue to cause abuse and killings in parts of the world today. Even in Britain, people can face mockery, hostility or professional and familial consequences for openly discussing Paganism or witchcraft. The bonfires may be in the past here, but the instinct to demonise what we do not understand has never disappeared.

I am not suggesting that every child who participates in this trend is hateful. They are not. Many will have no idea why the phrase carries such weight. That is where adults come in.

We should be teaching children that history does not stop mattering simply because it has been turned into a meme. We should explain that the people accused during the witch trials were not cartoon villains with green skin and pointed hats. They were human beings. They were mothers, fathers, healers, labourers, neighbours and outsiders. They experienced real terror and real pain because communities decided that fear was evidence and difference was guilt.

We should also teach them that Pagans and witches exist now—not as relics from the 1500s, but as classmates, teachers, relatives and members of their communities. They are entitled to the same dignity and freedom of belief as everyone else.

The Pagan and witchcraft communities have spent decades emerging from secrecy, correcting misinformation and asking to be seen without fear or ridicule. That progress should not be dismissed as oversensitivity because an algorithm has decided that persecution makes good content.

“Burn the witch” was once a demand for violence against the vulnerable. It represented the moment a frightened community became a mob and a human being became a target.

It should not become something children chant for views.

We cannot claim to have moved beyond the witch trials while teaching another generation to laugh at their language. If we want to honour those who suffered—and respect those who practise today—we must do more than extinguish the fires.

We must stop treating the cry that lit them as a joke.