Zar rituals—spirit possession ceremonies found in regions like Ethiopia, Sudan, Egypt, and the Horn of Africa—have a complicated place in local societies. This article gets into the nitty-gritty of how communities actually view zar practitioners, especially the leaders (usually called sheikhas or mama zar). I’ll break down my own field experiences, add some real-world case studies, and flag what international research and local laws say. If you’ve ever wondered whether zar leaders are respected healers, social outcasts, or something in between, you’ll find that the answer isn’t simple—and why it depends a lot on where you’re looking and who you ask.
First, a quick primer: zar rituals usually involve music, dance, incense, and sometimes animal sacrifice, aiming to placate or expel spirits believed to cause illness or misfortune. The practitioners—often women—lead these ceremonies, diagnose spiritual afflictions, and organize events. The main types are:
But their status is a moving target. Sometimes they’re honored, sometimes they’re quietly tolerated, and sometimes they’re outright shunned. And, as I found out visiting zar ceremonies in Cairo and Addis Ababa, even within the same neighborhood, opinions can be wildly different.
Let me tell you about my first time attending a zar session in Old Cairo. I arrived expecting something secretive—maybe even illegal. Instead, I found a lively courtyard, neighbors dropping by with sweets, and the lead sheikha joking with a local police officer. Yet, when I asked a local imam about the ceremony, he frowned and told me, “These are old superstitions, not part of true religion.” That was the first hint that zar leaders can be both respected and quietly criticized—sometimes by the very same people.
Later, in Addis Ababa, I met Mama Aster, a well-known zar leader. She told me, “We help those whom hospitals cannot cure. But some people cross the street when they see me. They think I’m a witch.” Other participants, mostly women who felt marginalized by mainstream healthcare, saw her as their only hope. This tension—between healer and social outcast—came up again and again.
So, what shapes how local communities view zar practitioners? Here’s where things get messy.
In most Muslim-majority societies, official religious institutions (like Egypt’s Al-Azhar or Sudan’s Supreme Islamic Council) have issued fatwas against zar, labeling it bid‘a (innovation) or even shirk (polytheism). According to Janice Boddy’s ethnography of Sudanese zar, this puts practitioners in a tricky spot: tolerated by some, but often denounced from the mosque pulpit.
Yet, in practice, many local clerics quietly ignore zar if it doesn’t get too public or challenge mosque authority. I’ve seen this contradiction firsthand: police and religious leaders may privately ask zar healers for help with “unusual” cases, even as they publicly denounce them.
Zar leaders are often women, and this affects their reputation. In patriarchal settings, women with social power—especially those seen as “controlling” spirits—can be targets for suspicion or gossip. But they also command real respect, especially from other women. As Jon Abbink’s research in Ethiopia shows, zar leaders sometimes act as informal counselors or community mediators.
Class matters too. In wealthier or more urban neighborhoods, zar is more likely to be dismissed as “backward.” In rural or marginalized communities, practitioners are often valued as essential healers. This was echoed by users on the forum r/AskHistorians, where some Ethiopians described their grandmothers’ healing as “a tradition we’re secretly proud of.”
Legally, zar is rarely outright banned, but it’s often subject to local regulation or informal policing. For example, in Egypt, the Ministry of Religious Endowments has warned against public zar rituals, and police have occasionally broken up particularly large or disruptive ceremonies (Al-Monitor, 2016). In Ethiopia, zar is tolerated unless it’s linked to criminal activity. This legal ambiguity makes the social status of practitioners even more unstable—sometimes they’re respected, sometimes they’re at risk.
| Country | Recognition of Zar | Legal Framework | Responsible Authority |
|---|---|---|---|
| Egypt | Unofficial, sometimes tolerated | No formal law, but subject to religious and public order regulations | Ministry of Religious Endowments, local police |
| Ethiopia | Locally recognized, especially in rural areas | Customary law and informal community regulation | Local councils, sometimes ignored by national authorities |
| Sudan | Traditionally accepted, but controversial | No national law; local restrictions possible | Local sheikhs, religious leaders |
Here’s a story from my time in Alexandria: In 2019, a zar practitioner was arrested after a ceremony attracted over 100 people, causing traffic chaos. The police cited “disturbance of public order,” but locals protested, arguing that the healer had cured dozens of people when clinics failed. After a petition and local mediation, she was released but told not to hold public ceremonies. This type of dispute—between local support and official suspicion—is common. A similar story in Sudan, cited by academic sources, involved a zar leader acting as a mediator in tribal conflicts, respected by some, derided by others.
I once interviewed Dr. Siham El-Kholy, an anthropologist at Ain Shams University, who put it like this: “Zar leaders are both guardians of tradition and targets of modernity. Their authority is local, not official. Some families rely on them; others see them as embarrassing reminders of the past.” She explained that the same practitioner might be asked to bless a new baby one day, and be blamed for a neighbor’s misfortune the next.
So, are zar practitioners respected spiritual leaders or marginalized outcasts? The real answer: they occupy both roles at once. Their reputation depends on gender, class, religion, and local politics—sometimes shifting from respected healer to social pariah overnight. International regulations don’t apply, and even local law is inconsistent.
If you’re interested in learning more, I’d suggest starting with Janice Boddy’s classic work Wombs and Alien Spirits (University of Chicago Press) and then, if you can, actually attending a ceremony (with permission). Bring an open mind—and expect your assumptions to be challenged, as mine were.
In the end, zar practitioners are experts in ambiguity, adapting to whatever space society gives them. Whether that’s a place of honor or suspicion? That’s up to the community—and it’s always changing.