In Memory of My Mother: A Survivor's Story of Loss and Resilience

The shame of my people: A daughter’s tribute to her mother

Unspoken Truths: Breaking the Silence on Sorcery-Related Violence

A Decade of Silence: My Mother’s Story

Ten years ago, I watched my mother endure the unimaginable. She was dragged out of our home, beaten, gang-raped, and burnt alive. Her attackers weren’t strangers—they were my uncles, cousins, and even the man I once called grandfather.

Her crime? Being accused of sorcery. They claimed she had used black magic to kill my father’s seventh wife’s three-year-old son by "eating his heart".

My mother was my father’s third wife. He was a respected leader in our community, a man of wealth and status, and a polygamist with seven wives. Among his 21 children, only three of us shared the same mother. I was the youngest and only daughter, just 17 years old at the time. My two older brothers were studying overseas.

People often speak of survivors of sorcery accusation-related violence (SARV), but they forget the children left behind. I didn’t just lose my mother that day—I lost my brothers, my family, and a part of myself. It has taken me nearly a decade to find the strength to speak about that horrific day in 2014.

Our Family’s Story

My father and mother had a complicated love story. They were high school sweethearts, but because of her family’s lower social standing, my father’s family refused to accept her. They arranged his marriage to a woman from a wealthy family, but despite this, he never stopped loving my mother.

Eventually, she became pregnant with my eldest brother. My father’s family responded by arranging a second marriage for him, hoping it would end his relationship with her. It didn’t. When my eldest brother was born, my father brought my mother into his household as his third wife, paying her bride price and buying her a home.

She later gave birth to my second brother and then to me, the youngest. My father would visit us every weekend without fail, and our little family felt whole, despite the circumstances.

As my father’s business flourished, his family pushed for more marriages. He resisted for years, but in 2008, his sisters devised a cruel lie, accusing my mother of infidelity. They wanted to drive her away. My father defended her, but after that, something changed. He stopped visiting us on weekends. By 2009, he had taken a fourth wife, and by the end of that year, a fifth. By 2010, there was a sixth.

The seventh wife came in 2013, and it was her child who fell ill and tragically passed away in 2014.

The Accusations Begin

The death of the seventh wife’s son brought us all back to the village for the funeral. None of us could have predicted how our lives would change forever.

On the second day of mourning, the seventh wife came to our house and accused my mother of sorcery, blaming her for her child’s death. At first, I dismissed it as just another argument between my father’s wives. But by evening, her brothers and relatives had joined in, making the same accusations.

I began to worry. That night, my father’s family joined the chorus of accusations. I tried to call my father, but he was overseas on a business trip, and his phone kept going to voicemail. I called my brothers, but they were in China and couldn’t help. I tried reaching other siblings, but their phones were off.

I begged them to stop, but my pleas were ignored. The seventh wife’s brother slapped me as they dragged my mother out of the house. My aunts held me back, forcing me to watch as they beat her. She looked at me and smiled—a small, heartbreaking attempt to reassure me—but her torment continued.

The Horror Unfolds

Throughout the night, my mother’s screams echoed through the village. I couldn’t sleep; I cried and prayed for it to stop. By morning, my voice was gone, my phone had died, and I felt utterly helpless.

Just after dawn, my second eldest brother arrived. He had driven all night from Lae after my brother in China called him. Seeing him gave me a sliver of hope, but he was one man against an entire village.

When I saw my mother, her body was burnt, and even her tears seemed to cause her pain. She was tied to a pole, naked and broken. My brother eventually convinced them to release her. Together, we carried her to the hospital.

She held on for nine weeks. Her voice was gone, but her love remained. She made us promise to forgive her attackers, to love our family despite their betrayal. She passed away surrounded by her children.

The Aftermath

Her death shattered us. My brothers changed overnight. After the funeral, they burned down the seventh wife’s house and killed her brother—the man who had supported the accusations against our mother. They were arrested during the funeral and later sentenced to eight years in prison.

Where were the police when my mother was tortured and burned? Where was justice then?

My brothers served four years and were released in 2020. But they were no longer the same. One married and took over one of my father’s businesses overseas. The other, unable to forgive or move on, started a small business in Port Moresby and distanced himself from the family.

We were once inseparable. Now, we’re strangers.

A Mother's Legacy

I left home and have never returned. My brothers and I send money to an aunt who tends to my mother’s grave, placing fresh flowers every month.

I’m 27 now, and I don’t think I’ll ever marry. The fear of being accused by in-laws and meeting the same fate as my mother is too real.

For years, I told people my mother died of cancer. Today, I refuse to carry that lie anymore. My mother was not taken by illness; she was taken by violence and hatred.

But she was more than her tragic death. My mother was beautiful, strong, and kind. Her door was always open, and she had a cup of coffee ready for anyone who visited. She loved fiercely and was deeply loved in return.

This Mother’s Day, I honour her memory and share her story. She deserved so much more, and she will never be forgotten.

Happy Mother’s Day in heaven, Mum.