MARYAM ABBASI

It is mid-April 2025, a hot and humid evening in the suburbs of Khodar, Oman. We sit in a garden enclosed by tall cement walls covered with expensive, multicoloured marble stones. A large metal door opens into a spacious courtyard where people are slowly gathering for the Shaykh ritual—a ceremony performed to communicate with, negotiate, and sometimes expel jinn believed to possess the human body.

The atmosphere is lively even before the ritual begins. Children run across the yard, laughing and playing, while women in colourful hijabs sit together at the far end—some engaged in animated conversations, others quietly observing, and a few scrolling through their phones. Men move in and out of the central space, preparing drums and arranging the fire. Near the entrance, a small fire crackles, set up to warm the instruments. Several dafs—large round drums—are placed about a meter away from the flames, their skins softening in the heat to produce a deeper, more resonant sound. The courtyard fills with overlapping noises: the chatters of visitors, the laughers of children, and occasionally echoing sound of a drum hit for testing.

In Oman, belief in jinn—supernatural beings capable of influencing or possessing humans—remains deeply embedded in everyday life. Jinn are thought to live in liminal and hidden spaces: old and ruined houses, graveyards, wells, or dark corners. Certain sites, such as the old town of Nizwa or the walls of Bahla, are also believed to be created by jinn. People try to avoid such places to protect themselves. Carrying amulets, reciting divine names, or burning incense are common protective measures, yet possession is still considered possible. Afflicted individuals may suffer from physical pain, mental distress, or behavioural changes; others report receiving strange dreams in which unfamiliar beings reveal themselves.

Jinn are not similar in character. They may be Muslim, bringing blessings (barakah) and guidance, or they may be unbelievers (kafir), who cause suffering, pain, and temptation away from the path of Islam. Because symptoms vary, proper identification requires a spiritual process of healing in which the afflicted person learns, through the guidance of a healer, about the jinn and the way to interact with them.

At the center of these practices stands the muʿallim, a spiritual healer whose Qur’anic knowledge grants him authority to recognize and deal with jinn. A healing session often begins with recitations from the Qur’an, especially Surah al-Jinn and Surah al-Rahman:

قُلْ أُوحِىَ إِلَىَّ أَنَّهُ ٱسْتَمَعَ نَفَرٌۭ مِّنَ ٱلْجِنِّ فَقَالُوٓا۟ إِنَّا سَمِعْنَا قُرْءَانًا عَجَبًۭا

Say, O Prophet: “It has been revealed to me that a group of jinn listened and said to their fellow jinn, ‘Indeed, we have heard a wondrous recitation…’” (Surah al-Jinn, 1)

After reciting Quran, the muʿallim burns incense—often kundur (frankincense)—to determine whether the person is possessed. If possession is present, the healer identifies the type of jinn through their reactions. During the ritual, the afflicted person may shake, cry out, or collapse. These bodily responses are interpreted as signs of the jinn’s resistance. The muʿallim then questions the jinn about its identity and its reasons for entering the person’s body.

Motivations vary sometimes the jinn claims to have been unintentionally harmed—for example, by hot water being poured where it lived—and seeks compensation. Other times, it declares love for the person. If the intruder is an unbelieving jinni, an animal is sacrificed to prevent possible problems. In such cases, the afflicted person must buy an animal, usually a chicken, give it to the muʿallim for scarification, and then discard it in the desert. The jinn consumes the offering and leaves the body.

Shaykhs, however, occupy a different position. Although technically part of the jinn classification, people rarely use the word “jinn” when speaking of them. Instead, they call them shaykh, as if setting them apart. Shaykhs are welcomed rather than expelled, seen as trustworthy guides who bring barakah. Communication with a shaykh involves negotiation instead of confrontation. In such cases, the muʿallim himself may enter a trance, his voice and demeanor shifting as his guiding shaykh speaks through him.

When a shaykh reveals itself within a patient, dialogue begins. The muʿallim asks questions such as:

“Why did you enter this body?”
“What do you want from this person?”

The answers vary. A shaykh may confess love for the host, or it may demand objects—rings, bamboo sticks, dresses, or even a celebration. Sometimes, the shaykh explains its presence as an inheritance passed down through family ties. These requests are honoured and offered during a public ritual organized by the muʿallim, usually financed by the afflicted individual.

By 9 p.m., the garden has transformed into a ceremonial space. The air is thick with frankincense and rosewater, Mixed with the smells of fresh coffee and sweets. Drums beat against the walls as singers raise their voices in hymns praising God and the Prophet Muhammad. The songs, rhythmic and insistent, are meant to draw out Shaykhs which exist in the body of participants and sometimes to encourage them to dance.

The atmosphere builds in intensity. As participants clap to the rhythm, assistants weave through the crowd, steadying those overcome by possession. Incense drifts under their noses, and Qur’anic verses are recited to bring them back to themselves. The sounds fill the air, the drums’ steady pulse, voices singing, women’s cries, children laughing, and the crowd cheering. Men rise to dance, some rocking back and forth, others waving their hands in the air. The crowd watches intently—some filming on their phones, others immersed in the rhythm. Children glance at the movements, then return to their games; for them, the weekly ritual is a familiar spectacle woven into the rhythms of life.

Next to me, a woman begins to sway. Her eyes are half-closed as she presses her hands to her head, trying to pull her hijab across her face. A man carrying a bamboo stick approaches, places a hand gently on her shoulder, and recites Qur’anic verses. Her body shakes uncontrollably, and she collapses onto the ground, trembling as the ritual continues around her. The community does not break its rhythm—voices, clapping, and drumming carry on, holding space for the unfolding negotiation between human and non-human.

In contemporary Oman, this ritual is more than a healing practice. It is a communal performance, a moment in which the boundaries between the visible and invisible are publicly negotiated. Through incense, rhythm, sacred words, and collective presence, spirits are acknowledged, bargained with, or dismissed.

For those who gather, the ritual is not only about healing the afflicted but also about reaffirming a shared cosmology—an understanding of the unseen world and its deep entanglement with daily life.