Colonial powers often treated animist worldviews as “backward” relics to be stamped out. Sacred groves were cleared for cash crops, traditional ceremonies outlawed, and local languages—carriers of myth and ritual—pushed to the brink. Missionary zeal operated like a bulldozer, leveling ancestral shrines in one fell swoop and substituting parish gatherings for forest rituals. Schools run by mission boards taught children to view spirits as superstitions, creating generations who drifted away from older beliefs.

Globalization arrived as a double-edged sword. On one hand, global markets and tourism turned totems and ritual objects into souvenirs, commodifying spiritual symbols. A carved mask sold for Instagram likes might lose its original power in the process. On the other hand, digital tools and transnational networks have given younger generations a chance to rekindle old practices. A TikTok video showcasing a rainmaking rite can reach thousands overnight, helping to stitch scattered communities back together.

Missionary activity, in its hardest line, promoted conversion campaigns that labeled animist traditions as “sinful,” leading to the demolition of holy trees or bodies of water once deemed sacred. Yet in many regions a resilient syncretism took root: ancestral rites now mesh with Christian festivals, giving birth to colorful hybrids. Think of celebrations where church processions pause at ancient spirit altars—an intriguing dance of old and new.

Today’s heightened awareness around climate change has breathed new life into animist perspectives. Indigenous leaders draw strength from the belief that rivers, mountains, and forests possess spirits worthy of rights—echoing legal victories like the Whanganui River’s personhood status in New Zealand. From COP28 discussions to grassroots reforestation drives, animism’s call for respect toward nature feels more relevant than ever, proving that what was nearly forgotten can spring back stronger than a weed.