Anna Ringgren Lovin was sitting at home one quiet evening, absentmindedly watching television, when something on the screen made her stop breathing.

The documentary was тιтled The Witch Children of Africa.

What she saw shattered her.

Children—small, defenseless, innocent—were being accused of witchcraft. Not as metaphor. Not as folklore. But as justification for torture, abandonment, and murder. Supersтιтion, deeply rooted and dangerously misused, was being wielded as a weapon against the most vulnerable members of society.

Anna couldn’t turn away. And once the program ended, she couldn’t forget what she had seen.

Born in Denmark and raised in Sweden, Anna had grown up in one of the safest, wealthiest regions in the world. Violence and extreme poverty were things she read about, not things she lived with. Yet even before that night, she was no stranger to hardship elsewhere. She had already worked as a humanitarian aid worker in Malawi and Tanzania, dedicating years of her life to helping communities in need.

But this was different.

Those children haunted her.

The documentary became a catalyst—one that pushed her to act.

In 2012, Anna founded a Danish non-governmental organization with a single, focused mission: to raise awareness about supersтιтion in Africa, particularly the ᴅᴇᴀᴅly accusations of witchcraft leveled against children in Nigeria. The following year, she traveled to Nigeria for the first time, stepping into a world that would change her life forever.

Nigeria was not what many outsiders imagined.

“Yes, it is a country with serious challenges,” Anna later explained. “Corruption, poverty, and human rights abuses are real concerns. But Nigerians are also incredibly warm, generous, and hardworking people.”

It was in Nigeria that Anna met her husband, David Emanuel Umem, a Nigerian human rights activist who shared her pᴀssion for justice. Together, they committed themselves to fighting one of the country’s most disturbing human rights crises.

The accusations.

In parts of southern Nigeria—especially Akwa Ibom and Cross River states—children were being branded as witches. The beliefs were fueled by a lethal blend of Pentecostal Christian doctrines and indigenous tribal religions, resulting in rituals of “exorcism” that often ended in torture or death.

The phenomenon was relatively new. Before the 1990s, accusations of witchcraft typically targeted elderly women. But as economic hardship, illness, infertility, and crop failures increased, children became scapegoats.

By 2008, an estimated 15,000 children had been accused of witchcraft in southern Nigeria alone.

The documented abuse was unspeakable.

Children had nails driven into their heads.
They were forced to drink cement.
Burned alive.
Disfigured with acid.
Poisoned.
Buried alive.

A 2010 UNICEF report revealed that children with disabilities or illnesses—such as epilepsy—were especially vulnerable. Others were accused simply for being withdrawn, disruptive, or “different.”

Nigeria’s laws technically prohibited such acts. The Child Rights Act of 2003 made it illegal to torture or abuse a child, physically or emotionally. Accusing someone of witchcraft was forbidden under criminal law. But enforcement was weak. Each of Nigeria’s 36 states had to ratify the law individually, and only about three-quarters had done so.

By 2008, only Akwa Ibom State had pᴀssed legislation explicitly criminalizing the branding of children as witches, with penalties of up to ten years in prison. Neighboring Cross River State, despite years of lobbying, had yet to do the same.

Into this reality, Anna and David stepped willingly.

Together, they founded Land of Hope, which would grow into what is now recognized as the largest children’s center in West Africa: Land of Hope, Akwa Ibom. Over the years, they have rescued nearly 300 children. At present, 76 children live under their care.

One of them is Hope.

Hope was just two years old when his parents abandoned him. Accused of witchcraft, he was left on the side of the road—malnourished, sick, and crawling with worms. By the time Anna’s team found him in January 2016, he had already been sentenced to death eight months earlier.

“We had very little faith that Hope would survive,” Anna wrote later.

He had been starved for months. He should have been breastfed. Instead, he was discarded.

Anna’s team rushed him to the hospital. Slowly, with medical care, nourishment, and love, Hope survived.

Today, he is healthy. Strong. A joyful child who loves school and plays freely with his friends at Land of Hope. His name—tattooed permanently on Anna’s body—means more than a word to her.

“Hope,” she says, “means help one person every day.”

Another child, Michael, was just seven years old when his village accused him of witchcraft. One night, a group of men beat him nearly to death and planned to poison him. He escaped and fled to another village, severely traumatized.

When Anna’s team rescued him, Michael barely spoke. Sometimes he laughed inappropriately, as if nothing had happened. It wasn’t happiness—it was survival.

Six years later, Michael is unrecognizable.

He is confident. Polite. The top student in his class. Always first in line. Always eager to learn.

Stories like Hope’s and Michael’s are why Anna stays.

“I believe education is the most powerful weapon against supersтιтion,” she says. “All our children attend school. Some attend university. Ignorance and extreme poverty are at the root of these beliefs.”

Anna is realistic. She doesn’t demonize communities or dismiss their fears.

“We don’t judge,” she explains. “We engage. We communicate. We educate. We go into rural areas and advocate for children’s rights. Change takes time.”

As a white woman working in Nigeria, Anna is often asked how she copes.

“I love Nigeria,” she says without hesitation. “I feel a strong sense of belonging here. Nigerians are resilient. They are deeply religious, deeply powerful people. But the country needs voices to speak out against injustice.”

In 2014, the birth of her son, David Jr., cemented her idenтιтy as both a humanitarian and a Nigerian mother. She now splits her time between Nigeria and Denmark, but her heart remains firmly rooted in Akwa Ibom.

Her work has not been easy. It has been dangerous. Emotionally devastating.

But she continues.

Because somewhere, right now, another child is being accused. Another child is being abandoned. And Anna Ringgren Lovin refuses to look away.

She has devoted her life to rescuing children branded as witches—and to proving, one child at a time, that compᴀssion is stronger than fear.

And that hope, when protected, can grow.