ARZIDA'S waiting room is packed. One woman sleeps badly and wants the evil spirits she believes to be the cause exorcised from her house. Another woman is afraid her husband will take a second wife and kick her and their child out of the flat where they live. A third, a 29-year-old police officer, wants to know when she will marry.
Arzida is a fortune teller – a "folbin", or "fate viewer" in Tajik – a profession that has been practised for centuries here but is now experiencing a boom, mostly because of hardening economic circumstances and anxiety about the future. But if Tajik
officials have their way, the future of fortune tellers will look bleak.
Politicians at the beginning of the year adopted legislation outlawing all forms of what they call "witchcraft", saying that it was an illegal, parasitical industry that had grown to unacceptable proportions. (In light of that, Arzida and a customer of hers, Narzida, asked to be identified only by their first names.)
Belief in spells, soothsaying and the paranormal is widespread throughout former Soviet states, where suppression of religion under communism led to a search for other forms of spirituality. This is especially true in Tajikistan, an impoverished nation of about seven million on the fringes of the old empire, wedged against the Afghan border.
A mystic, almost pagan, tradition also runs deep, though the country is primarily Sunni Muslim. Mullahs in the high Pamir Mountains, which dominate the country, are believed to have extra powers to discern the future, and they are often sought out for their powers of prophecy. A good fortune teller is considered a prize, and word circulates quickly if one is perceived to be particularly gifted.
The anti-fortune telling legislation has left many puzzled, however. Introduced at the behest of President Emomali Rakhmon, it is the latest in a series of idiosyncratic decrees, such as one that limits the size, cost and duration of private celebrations such as weddings and birthday parties.
The law's sponsors said their purpose was threefold: to eliminate a drain on the poverty-stricken population's finances, to crack down on "un-Islamic" activity and to reduce the number of people practising medicine without a licence – since the fortune tellers often also prescribe folk remedies.
Every year more than a million working-age Tajik men travel to Russia primarily for seasonal work. The money they send back is credited with keeping the country economically afloat. But often it is not enough to support the families left behind, and those women without a father, son or brother in Russia are left to fend for themselves.
The law on soothsaying, therefore, appears to a number of observers here as a striking case of misplaced concerns.
"There is not a single CAT scan in the country," said one European diplomat. "It always surprises me that the president spends his time on this. You would think that there are other priorities."
Tajikistan's moribund economy exacts both a financial and psychological toll – creating demand on both sides of the fortune telling table. Soothsaying is one of the few career opportunities open to the mostly middle-aged, husbandless women who ply this trade.
Arzida, 44, makes do with the small amounts her clients pay her and the money her husband sends from Russia. She said she had no set fee, often taking nothing at all or the equivalent of a couple of dollars. Occasionally, someone will give her as much as $50 for a particularly involved or important session. "People bring me raisins, sugar – whatever they can give," she said.
Sitting under a red and green blanket with a Tajik pattern and wearing a bright blue velvet dress, her prematurely grey hair slipping out from under a white head scarf, Arzida said she took as many clients as she was physically able to.
"I usually take 60 to 70 people a week, but it could be much more. Perhaps even 200," she said, fingering Islamic beads she uses to tell fortunes. "A lot of government officials come," she added, her tired eyes sparkling.
