Those who have attended municipal concerts in local cultural centers near gypsy settlements—or taboras, as they are commonly called by both neighbours and residents—have likely heard a lively rendition of a song with the refrain: “Well, what can I say, well, what can I say, that’s the way people are, they want to know, they want to know, they want to know what will happen.” This song, from the Soviet film Ah, Vaudeville, Vaudeville, is not typically sung within the taboras themselves, despite the fact that singing is a beloved tradition there. Instead, Roma communities prefer romances or folk songs in both Romani and Russian—such as the popular Oh, Frost, Frost—along with other well-known melodies. However, at cultural center performances and district concerts organized by local authorities for celebrations like Maslenitsa or Settlement Day, this song is performed with consistent popularity. It is usually sung by a professional artist—often the leader of an ensemble—while Roma women take on the role of dancers, twirling in colourful skirts and tossing their black braids to the wild melody of Dunayevsky. These types of performances are popular in various regions, from Siberia to Uzbekistan.
This reflects how interethnic friendship is often understood in post-Soviet space. The song presents fortune-telling in a lighthearted, almost indulgent tone—not only as a means of earning a living for a gypsy woman with an old deck of cards but also as a reflection of humanity’s persistent desire for simple magic and the illusion of fate:
“The old cards will lie like a fan on a fringed shawl, and even the fortune-teller herself will suddenly start to believe in her noble kings.”
Performing this song in such a way is meant to promote tolerance, just as the participation of dancing Roma women at these concerts is intended to showcase exotic neighbours with friendly humour. However, this approach to interethnic harmony is far removed from the modern European principle of “all different, all equal.” Instead, it closely resembles the classical colonialist attitude toward subjugated peoples. Stereotypes—even seemingly positive ones—such as portraying a group as exceptionally talented at singing, dancing, or fortune-telling reinforce essentialist notions of human nature. The concert organizers fail to recognize that all stereotypes, including these romanticized depictions, are forms of discrimination—and, in the case of ethnic minorities, a form of racism.
And yet, this biased complacency is still preferable to outright repression. Throughout history, Roma people have been persecuted for fortune-telling, accused of witchcraft and dangerous magic for centuries. Unfortunately, even in the second quarter of the 21st century, what were once considered relics of the past are making a comeback. Highly educated lawyers now explain, in precise legal terms, how best to punish a fortune-teller: “The situation is complicated by the fact that it is very difficult to draw the line between fraud and the expression of a fortune-teller’s opinion. Therefore, it is easier to prosecute if the fortune-teller performs a certain ritual and takes money for it, but the ritual does not lead to the desired effect.”
There are even cases of successful legal action against unsuccessful fortune-telling. One fortune-teller was sentenced to 2.5 years in prison after it was proven that she had promised—but failed—to separate a client’s beloved from his wife.
Punishment for removing a curse for money was even harsher: in the Vladimir region, deceiving a pensioner resulted in an 8.5-year prison sentence—the same as for premeditated murder. Another individual, Yurchenko, was also convicted for healing after she falsely claimed to be a psychic. The Krasnodar Territory courts reported: “The fraudster admitted her guilt and that she was not a psychic.”
Of course, lying about one’s ability to separate a couple or possession of psychic powers is dishonest. But are fortune-tellers really the only ones who instill false hope in people? How does one distinguish between a fraudulent psychic—who faces years in prison—and a real psychic, who, according to Krasnodar courts, simply states their abilities without deception? After all, no psychic can heal without deceit—such claims are unscientific. Every so-called psychic healer exploits their clients’ ignorance for financial gain. Moreover, while paying for curse removal may be a waste of money, what about other paid services promising karma purification or salvation of the soul—those offered by established religions? Is that not also a form of deception? And when the Russian Orthodox Church blesses crosses adorned with the monogram of the head of state, does that truly help people survive the war? Should this not also be considered fraud—and on a far larger scale? Unlike an elderly pensioner who willingly spent thousands of rubles to lift a curse, this deception involves human lives.
Those with power can do far more than a disappointed pensioner or a jilted lover seeking revenge on a rival. Ordinary fortune-tellers may be jailed under existing laws, but Russian State Duma deputies can simply write new ones if they dislike certain paid rituals. And that is exactly what they are attempting now, introducing a bill aimed at protecting society from “unscrupulous counselors who negatively affect a person’s physical and mental health.”
Deputy Chairman of the State Duma Committee on Information Policy, Andrei Svintsov, recently attended a televised broadcast featuring a tarotologist. After listening to the fortune-teller attempt to predict his future for three months ahead, he was unconvinced. He didn’t even wait for the specified time to pass before making up his mind. “All of this is complete nonsense,” he declared. “Advertising these services should be banned. As for the other ‘specialists’—astrologers, tarot readers—we will convene a working group in the State Duma to study and discuss the issue.” However, to prove fraud in court, evidence is required. Lawyers explain that prosecution is easier if there is proof of payment for a ritual intended to steal another woman’s husband—as well as evidence that the ritual failed. Otherwise, as legal experts remind us, “It is difficult to draw the line between fraud and a fortune-teller simply expressing her opinion.”
But for the Duma, passing a new prohibitive law requires no proof at all. After all, Russian deputies are well accustomed to suppressing dissenting views.
Stefania KULAEVA,
first published on the blog of Radio Liberty