'AITA for 'voodooing' my neighbors after they poisoned my plants and destroyed my garden?'

"AITA for 'voodooing' my neighbors after they poisoned my plants and destroyed my front garden?"

For the last 17 years, I (60F) have lived in a small tourist and fishing village at the edge of a tropical jungle in South America with a population of about 1500 people. Over the years, there have been some cultural clashes with the locals, mostly from people insisting that this blissfully single white lady needs a husband and that I must be a witch if I don't find a man.

The local men! UGH! There is more culture in yogurt. I'd rather run naked through a cactus forest. I'll stay single thank you very much. My insistence on staying single has caused rifts in the hood larger than the Grand Canyon. I mean, who even gives a fudge about my personal choices?

Apparently, this small group of irate villagers do. It's like a crazy HOA on steroids. I'm surrounded on three sides by people who have been openly hostile to my presence in the village over the years. It's not the whole village, just the people who live around me.

As a neighbor, I've helped their kids with their English homework, let them pick ripe fruit from my trees, donated what I could when two houses burned down, built three new houses after an earthquake, held regular veterinary clinics with vets visiting from the city, and hosted art workshops bringing in talent from outside the village to teach local kids new skills.

I'm quiet, don't play loud music, don't have parties, don't throw garbage in the street, and generally mind my own business. In any other environment, I'd be considered a great neighbor. I have learned the language, adapted and integrated into the culture, and do my best to be part of all the community activities.

My house and garden are my refuge. I designed and built my open-plan three-story bamboo house and landscaped the garden into a tropical jungle style that has grown lush and thick over the last 15 years. It's gorgeous. There are birds, butterflies, iguanas, possums, snakes, and countless beautiful insects dwelling in my garden.

A creative soul, I created an art studio, a little writing studio, and opened a vegan restaurant in my industrial kitchen to generate income in this tiny tourist hub where international surfers come every season (November to April) to take advantage of our incredible point break and glorious beach.

Fast forward to the end of the tourist season this year. It had been pretty good. I'd had a reasonably steady stream of clients in the restaurant including several large groups, sold some paintings, and even hosted a few paying guests in the upstairs loft. While the money was coming in, I had a number of house improvement projects planned with the annual profits.

Then, after the last tourist left and it got quiet again, I noticed a huge gap in the side garden. The neighbors had poured poison over the fence and killed an enormous hibiscus that had been growing for 15 years and had provided a tall screen so people couldn't see into my house from the street. It's gone now. Dead.

Then, a few weeks later, they took out my entire front garden in front of the fence with machetes, leaving nothing but bare dirt. A large portion of my lush gorgeous garden was gone. Left in its place was bare dirt. They turned it into a desert and thought this was funny. They were jealous. They chose violence.

The front garden was both security and privacy, preventing potential thieves from climbing the front fence and also stopping people from seeing into my house from the street. They took it all out with such glee! I was devastated. I hid in my writing studio for weeks and refused to let them see my tears of grief at the loss of more than 15 years of tending to my precious garden.

Then, I got incandescently angry. After that, I got wildly creative. I poured all that rage into creating a series of little clay figurines (about 18-20 cm high) depicting each of the neighbors who had contributed to this mindless destruction of my innocent plants.

For weeks, I sat in my art studio and observed them daily, noting what clothes they wear, how they wear their hair, what shoes they have on, and their daily activities. I designed and molded a series of ten small figures. On each completed figure, I wrote three positive words to send out into the universe, and then a positive personal wish for their futures.

"I wish you peace" and "I hope you find love" and other such messages. Then, I painted each figure, adding small embellishments to each one to make them distinctive and recognizable.

I strung these figures along the front of my house with a piece of wire, easily visible from the street. Had they not slashed my garden like Jason on Halloween, they would not have been able to see these figures. But they did, so they can.

Now, my entire neighborhood is outraged and in uproar because I have dared to express myself in art form and they all think I have voodoo magicked them with the figurines. The villagers do believe in witchcraft and magic and all my neighbors are furious that I have displayed each of them so recognizably. They also think I'm a soft target.

They've done all kinds of little nasty things over the years that I have chosen to ignore because I prefer to live in peace. This was not little. This damage to my gardens will take a decade or more to replace and repair. My lack of reaction to their digs and nastiness over so much time has led them to think I am weak and vulnerable and that they can get away with anything. They cannot.

I'm not a violent person. But yes, this is psychological warfare. I'm hijacking their belief in witchcraft like an evil Sanderson sister, since they already call me a witch anyway, and turning it on them. So... AITA for taking petty revenge on my horrible neighbors and making them think I voodooed them with art?

This is what people had to say to OP:

Emotional_Bonus_934 said:

NTA. Voodoo doesn't work unless you believe in it; their beliefs may override your positive wishes.

FLYY_GIRL said:

You started this post sh!t talking the locals, said they have no culture, but then used something apart of their culture to get back at them. NTA for defending myself but this doesn’t sound like the whole story. Sounds like straight colonizing with no respect for their culture

And Marguerite_Moonstone said:

NTA, but technically it’s Hoodoo, Voodoo is a closed practice that requires an invite and mentor. I’ve been practicing witchcraft for 3/4 years ish, and so long as they’re gonna accuse you anyway you might as well use it. The spell to send them good intentions using a poppet is actually awesome transformation magic, casted on yourself changing your fury to something positive yet delightfully petty.

I probably would’ve just cursed them so your better then me. It’s also surprisingly easy to accidentally curse yourself with fear thinking that someone actually has cursed you, so take heart that if anyone does start experiencing bad luck it’s entirely their own fault for assuming, and you’ve done that quite perfectly.

Also, the place where your hibiscus died can now be considered a kind of “graveyard dirt” which is great for banishing spells and protection wards if you want to keep some, just be sure to thank your plant for it. Probably best to dig it out regardless so that poison doesn’t spread when the rain.

OP responded:

Thanks for the support. It can get lonely out here in a hostile hood.

Two weeks later, OP shared this first update:

Sooo... After freaking out for a couple of weeks, my neighbors decided collectively to call the police and accused me of voodooing them. The police then turn up at my gate, surrounded by a howling crowd of angry Afro-Latinos wielding machetes. They're screaming that they want me arrested, they want me deported, they want me de*d. The sergeant in charge asks me to come downstairs.

In my head, I'm like sir, have you seen the lynch mob behind you? My poor dead garden has already suffered the experience of close contact with those machetes and I am not next in line for that. I am not coming downstairs.

Instead, I tell him that he and only he may enter my premises and make his way upstairs. From my open-plan balcony-style living room, I open the gate with the Flintstones-style door opener--a wire running down from the house post to the deadbolt--and invite him upstairs, asking him to firmly shut the gate behind him. He enters and closes the gate, shushing a smaller group who want to follow.

I call out that they are NOT welcome to enter my house and that to do so without permission would be trespassing, a crime that would be witnessed by the police who are present. The constable who had accompanied the sergeant had stayed downstairs to make sure no one got out of line.

The crowd stepped back and quieted down a little after the constable threatened to call in back up and arrest everyone for disorderly conduct. This is actually hilarious in a country where the police are corrupt and the law doesn't mean anything. Even so, the crowd milled quietly on the street outside my house.

Upstairs, the sergeant looked around my living room and saw the paintings on the walls, the sculptures on the tables, the work-in-progress in my corner art studio, and the books I've written on the bookshelf.

Sergeant: So, you're an artist?

I affirmed that yes, I am indeed an artist.

Sergeant: Where are the voodoo dolls they told me about?

They were hanging right behind him. I pointed them out and then we both walked over to the art display, in full sight of all the neighbors who looked up and saw us. I explained who each figure was and pointed out each neighbor that was represented: the fisherman, the builder, the laundry lady, the drug dealer with her bright pink hair...

The sergeant examined each figurine quietly for a few minutes while individuals in the crowd downstairs yelled, That's me! when he touched each one. There was a buzz of excited gossip from the angry crowd on the street as he looked at each figurine. He nodded, acknowledging that each neighbor did, in fact, recognize themselves in the statuettes.

Sergeant: These are pretty good.

Luckily for him, I had just made coffee, so I offered him a cup and he accepted. We went over to the kitchen and sat down to talk. He asked me what was really going on.

I recounted the past fifteen years of harassment and xenophobia that I had not reacted to previously and told him the most recent story about the destruction of my garden. I said that I had finally felt the need to express my rage in a creative way, rather than in the destructive ways my neighbors liked to inflict on me. I explained that, as an artist, I could best express myself in art form.

As a formality, he asked to see my ID, just to ascertain that deportation was not on the table. I showed him my ID card, proof that I am, in fact, a legal resident of this country. He nodded again.

Sergeant: You know you scared them, don't you?

Me: No more than they have ever scared me with their machetes, abuse, and violence.

I also told him that they had accused me of being a witch and flying around at night stealing children to eat. He thought that was funny and we both laughed.

Me: I mean... how many children have been reported missing?

He chuckled again. He assured me he was going to sort this out once and for all. Before he went downstairs, he gave me his personal phone number and told me to call him if there was ever any trouble in the hood. I thanked him and he left.

Downstairs, he opened the gate and faced the crowd in the street. Their low rumble of gossip grew louder and he ordered them to be silent. By this time, another squad car had quietly shown up and there were now four policemen doing crowd control on the street. The police stood as if guarding my house with their guns and batons.

Sergeant to the crowd: Art is not illegal. His voice boomed loudly for those in the back. But destroying your neighbor's property is. In fact, it's a serious crime and she has the right to have you all charged and arrested for the damage you have done. She did not do that. Instead, she made art.

So, let me tell all of you this just one time. If any of you touch a hair on this woman's head, a brick on her fence, a blade of grass in her garden, she is going to call me and I'm going to haul your sad sorry butts to jail. Is that clear?

Let me tell you, folks, this crowd's flabbers were gasted! They tried to be outraged, but the sergeant told them they were crazy and stupid and that they needed to be better neighbors. The police then wasted no time in sending them all home with a warning to mind their own business and leave me alone.

So, I finally got my wish. It's the only thing I've ever wanted for the last fifteen years; to be left in peace.

Then, two days later, she shared this second update:

Sooo... Obviously the neighbors weren't happy with the outcome after they tried to have me arrested and deported and ended up being berated and warned by the police sergeant. There were grumblings in the hood for a few days and then they sent a "mediator" (57M) to come and talk to me about removing the display.

I've known this guy, let's call him George, for years and he's someone I love and respect. He also knows about all the trouble these neighbors have caused over the years. We sat and had coffee and banana bread and shared a blunt.

We laughed and talked for a couple of hours. From the corner of my eye, I could see on the street every time one of the neighbors "casually" walked past hoping to hear something of our conversation.

In the end, I told George that I would not be removing the display because, on one hand, who walks into an art gallery and demands they take down paintings? And, on the other hand, they needed to fully comprehend that I mean business and that messing with me from this point on is not an option. He completely understood.

However... I did make the neighbors an offer. Each of them could buy their own figurine for the hefty price of $15 USD (basically the cost of materials) and thereby compensate me in part for some of the damage they have caused over the years.

This way, they would be in possession of the figurine and could do whatever they wanted with it. Obviously, they're worth more than fifteen bucks each, but the hours of therapy I got out of the art project is worth breaking even on the materials.

George: That seems fair.

Me: I will sell them on one condition: Any shenanigans from their side of the street and I will make new ones.

George knows I wrote positive words and good wishes on each figurine but has never told them. He won't. He thinks what I did was fair and they have been unreasonable for too long. After our great visit, he went to talk to the neighbors.

So far, no one has come to my gate to buy their figurine, but lets see what happens. For now, there is peace in the hood. Thanks so much to all who supported my petty little art project!