Spirit healing with the Shamans of Kyrgyzstan

Russian Orthodox churches and small, silver-domed mosques may dominate the skyline in Kyrgyz towns, but the country’s religious heart goes far further back in time. Long before Christ and Muhammad walked the earth, Central Asia’s shamans served as intermediaries between the physical and spiritual worlds, connecting the people to the heavens. 

Shamanists believe that spirits, both good and evil, exist and play important roles within individual lives and wider society. The shaman can communicate with spirits, learning from them and, through gifts or threats, encourage them to change their behaviour. It is for these reasons that the shaman holds a respected position within the community: he (or she) can find solutions to problems plaguing the community, foretell the future, and rid people of the sicknesses caused by the presence of malevolent spirits. 

The deity invoked by shamanists in Central Asia is Tengri – Lord of the Eternal Blue Sky. Tengri and his consort, the mother-earth spirit Eje, together provide everything that a man requires. It is a man’s responsibility to live in harmony with his surroundings, respecting both the earth and the heavens that gave him birth and now sustain him. When his world is thrown off-balance, either through spirit interference or his own misdemeanours, a man must ask the shaman to intercede on his behalf and put his life back on track. 

It is likely Tengriism has been in existence as long as Central Asia has been populated. It evolved in Siberia and Mongolia, which even today is called Munkh Khukh Tengriin Oron (Land of the Eternal Blue Sky) in Mongolian. However, it was not until the arrival of the region’s most infamous son, Genghis Khan, in the twelfth century that shamanist ritual became institutionalized and spread across the Mongol Empire. Tengriism reached as far as Bulgaria in Eastern Europe, where the Danube Bulgars named a local mountain Tangra in his honor. The mountain kept this name as late as the 15^th century. 

Tengriism was no stranger to attack, having fended off revolts and attempts at conversion from the Scythians and Dagestani Huns, as well as Christian and Muslim groups. The greatest threat to its survival, however, was not religious but a political one: communism. 

It is estimated that almost half Kyrgyzstan’s population died or were killed following the country’s take-over by the Soviet Union. Many more people fled over the eastern border to China, or south in to Tajikistan and Afghanistan, taking their traditions with them. Those who did stay were forcefully urbanised, educated according to the Russian model, and began to lose touch with their nomadic heritage. Atheism, basic state health care and the local communist party supplanted what had gone before.  

Tengriism may have gone underground for 70 years, but it certainly did not die. The two decades since independence have seen a public revival not only of the Kyrgyz language, traditional epics and sports, but also of shamanist faith and healing. Leaving the modern capital, Bishkek, behind me, I traveled 17 hours by car deep into the mountains of southern Kyrgyzstan.

A shaman must be in touch with nature and so, although its possible to live in a city, most are found in villages, covered by the shadows of 7000m plus peaks that stretch out to touch the heavens. Almajaan lives on the jailoo (summer pasture) above one such village, surrounded by the wild flowers and herbs that help her in her healing. Like many others, Almajaan did not decide to become a shaman healer: she was called. Pains in her limbs, fatigue, and violent dreams first caused her to seek out spiritual guidance over 40 years ago. Although the afflictions have never entirely gone, she has learned to control the spirits that cause them and to use her skills to help others.

Shaman healers do not advertise, and they do not charge for their services. People seek out a healer based on personal reputation, and give what they can towards their keep if they must stay with the healer for a prolonged period. Aigul, a girl of 14, has been with Almajaan for two weeks. A problem in her joints has led to muscle wastage in her legs and she is having trouble walking. It is both painful and frustrating, not to mention socially debilitating.

Almajaan begins each day with a walk. She climbs from the valley up into the mountains, looking for plants she needs. It is the only time she spends completely alone. By the time she returns to her yurt (felt tent), Aigul is up and waiting for her first of the day’s massages. She lies on the carpeted floor as the healer bends over her body, holds her hands a few inches above the skin, and lets the spirits guide the movement of her fingers. From time to time Aigul winces but Almajaan seems oblivious: she is completely focused on the task in hand. After an hour, Almajaan stops suddenly, straightens and walks outside. The session is complete. 

In the time she has spent with Almajaan, Aigul has gone from virtual paralysis to being able to walk a few steps unaided. She is growing noticeably stronger and, although Almajaan is unsure how long it will take, she is confident Aigul will walk again. The spirits have told her so and the treatment is having the desired effect.

Playing Doctors and Nurses

My brother is the doctor in the family. The thought of me doing anything more than applying plasters and handing around paracetamol would probably make him laugh - I go green at the sight of blood and, if it is my own blood, have been known to pass out entirely. Needs must, however, and as the person with the First Aid certificate and the largest First Aid kit, I have been designated team doctor.

Caring for our trekkers is a relatively straightforward affair: they can communicate their symptoms and know the advantages (and limitations) of living on a diet of Immodium and electrolyte solution. They keep themselves relatively clean and drink plenty of water. My greatest challenge, therefore, was with the seven porters and guide.

One tiny, spartanly equipped medical clinic covers the whole of the Wakahn Corridor. The nearest hospital is at least two days drive away in Faizabad. Maternal mortality is the highest in the world, life expectancy at birth is just 44 years, and most people have never set eyes on a qualified doctor. Anyone who carries a bag of davai (medicine), therefore, is not only an extreme curiosity but also up there with the gods.

The first two sets of symptoms presented to me on the trip were, not surprisingly, upset stomachs and headaches. These resulted almost certainly from a) drinking dirty water and b) getting dehydrated. It was rather a catch 22 situation but I felt the latter to be more pressing, particularly given that even in the villages the water tends to come straight from the river. Having heard on the grape vine the miracles of davai, the porters in question were keen to simply pop a pill and wait for the effects. They seemed rather disappointed when I explained they needed to increase their water intake by a couple of litres a day. It was only when I offered a couple of paracetamol along with the water that they cheered up.

Of more concern to me were the infected cuts. Nobody had explained to these men the link between dirt and infections, so simple cuts and grazes quickly turn in to abscesses. Not only is this painful but here, where there are no antibiotics, it can be life-threatening.

I started by making each porter clean his own cut thoroughly with boiled water and then antiseptic, and became increasingly fierce as they cleaned around the wound but avoided the bit that actually hurt. In one case I actually got out the latex gloves and cleaned the wound myself as unless the dirt was removed it wasn't going to get any better.

Once cleaned I applied Savlon spray or a topical antibiotic cream to the wound. The non-comprehension of the importance of cleanliness was reinforced when one porter went to use his finger, black with dirt, to rub in the cream. I explained as best I could why this was a bad idea, but I think the lesson will take a while to learn.

To keep the newly clean cuts clean, I dug out giant plasters and surgical tape. They're both fantastic inventions. The porters could also show their plasters off proudly - proof they had indeed seen the doctor. Where appropriate I made sure that each man had sufficient sterile wipes and replacement plasters for the days to come. There was no point undoing the good work they'd done so far. In one case where the wound had already swollen nastily - the one in fact I'd cleaned myself - I dug out a course of broad spectrum antibiotics and explained in a hotch-potch of languages how often he needed to take them. Had we been in reach of a proper hospital it'd probably have been better to lance the wound, give him an injection of antibiotics and stick him on a drip for a few days, but there are no such luxuries here. You can only use what you have to hand.

Sometimes I become infuriated when I travel. The lack of access to basic healthcare and education always chafe most of all. It costs next to nothing to teach people basic things to help them keep healthy: boil dirty water before drinking it; wash your hands after you've been to the toilet; clean any cuts and keep them clean and dry if you want them to heal. It's not rocket science but if no one ever tells you whey you get an upset stomach, a headache or a skin infection, you can't prevent it happening next time. In parts of the world where the doctors don't reach, prevention is undoubtedly your best chance of survival.