Chinese wind chimes, skillfully hung on a hook above the doorway leading to the terrace, sway lazily in the barely perceptible city breeze. Above the incense sticks, exuding the warm, slightly bitter scent of vetiver, a thin stream of white smoke curls, forming patterns like the brushstrokes of an unknown Persian artist.

A thin cotton bedspread, decorated with trendy, colorful mandalas, lies spread out on the bed in the next room. The air conditioner hums softly, and from Alexa standing on the table next to brushes, stencils, and gels, cosmic new-age music flows, inviting guests to spiritual enlightenment, collective consciousness, and purification from unnecessary energetic “clutter.”

The entire setting creates the feeling of belonging to some local quasi-religious community of the Age of Aquarius devotees, where every interior detail is designed to promote harmony and inner peace.

Opposite me, with one leg tucked under herself, sits Valeria, carefully running a ruler across my forehead, marking fine lines. She is a lash and brow artist who has recently moved to the capital of a southern European country from a former Soviet republic. Having not yet secured a position in a salon, she takes clients at home. After reading good reviews on social media, I, too, decided to try her services.

Valeria has an open, pleasant face, and she trustingly shares the details of her professional path with me while occasionally dabbing my freshly shaped eyebrows with a damp wipe—they at this point, seem worthy of competing in an international contest for the most well-crafted brows in the world.

"You know, I used to be an osteopath and a massage therapist, but after years of working with the human body, I realized that the real issue is psychosomatic. The connection between our emotional state and physical health is undeniable," Valeria confidently declares, brushing a stray lock of light brown hair from her forehead.

I quickly agree with these well-known truths, but for some reason, I feel that her story will not end there. My intuition does not fail me, as Valeria continues to tell me about her special calling.

"That’s why I realized my need to become a body-oriented healer and help people release emotional blocks and reconnect with their bodies. You won’t believe how many people seek my services! They want to find the energy to fulfill their desires, boost their self-confidence, and, ultimately, find answers through channeling. I also do aroma diagnostics, read metaphorical cards, and help women rediscover their sexuality. And in my art therapy sessions, I analyze scribbles and doodles to help people uncover the causes of their struggles! Let me add you to our WhatsApp group so you can subscribe to our updates."

I try to hide my confusion, cite my workload, and dislike being in various chat groups (which is true, by the way), trying to control my facial expressions, including my eyebrows, which betray me by trying to arch in incredulous surprise.

A ridiculous thought flashes through my mind: that channeling sounds suspiciously like the name of American actor Channing Tatum, whose light-eyed smirk we had recently seen in Deadpool, while the word “metaphors” takes me away to my distant student past, into a bright university lecture hall where, as philology students, we studied stylistic devices like oxymoron, hyperbole, antithesis, and alliteration.

Suddenly, I feel a wave of unease and begin shifting in my chair, sneaking glances at my watch, as if time itself could speed up and bring relief to my sudden awkwardness.

"Do you have, um, a lot of clients?" I cautiously ask Valeria as she works on my right eyebrow. "Are many people interested in challen... chennin... channeling?" I finally managed to pronounce the trendy word, internally wondering at the bizarre twists of fate that catch us at the most unexpected moments—after all, I came for a simple beauty treatment, yet I unexpectedly received a course on how to properly hear one's soul and angels through a spiritual conduit and the Superior Mind.

"Oh yes, a lot of people are unhappy with their lives," Valeria sighs. "I get a lot of immigrants who, for example, don’t like living here and are looking for their true essence and connections to the spiritual world. Or women who want to regain their sexuality. Or people struggling with problems at work. Some want to start their own business and need consultation with the Light."

She finishes the procedure, I thank her, pay, and out of politeness, buy a brow gel from her. Rushing to the street, I continue wondering at this “enormous demand,” as she describes, for such services.

My astonishment is visible on my face, as an elegant elderly lady with a bluish-silver hairstyle looks at me suspiciously, instinctively pulling the leash of a short-legged pug, which trudges behind her.

On my way home, I suddenly remember, with perfect clarity, how in the twilight of the Soviet era, local newspapers and magazines were flooded with headlines about UFOs, Yetis, fortune-tellers, and all sorts of horoscopes—Western, Eastern, Druidic, and more. My grandfather and I, fascinated by trendy ufology, collected these kinds of articles, written in a style reminiscent of Spanish journalist Iker Jiménez1, while my father’s friend lent me a battered, dog-eared cult book on alien classification, which began with the words:

"The extraterrestrial residency of interstellar and interdimensional civilizations, subject to indirect accounting and classification."

From Soviet television screens, Alan Chumak looked out at us, energetically waving his hands, charging the water with some incredibly healing substances, curing any ailment. Families filled every available space in front of the TV with three-liter jars, their numbers growing geometrically in proportion to Chumak’s sessions—the previously charged jars were then moved to the kitchen table, where they patiently awaited their moment of glory.

Anatoly Kashpirovsky, a talented psychiatrist and simultaneously the most famous Soviet healer, became renowned for his extraordinary charisma. During his sessions, city streets emptied instantly—no one wanted to miss the unprecedented prime-time event, the chance to receive valuable treatment from the great and terrible Anatoly through their television screens. Household cats, tails tucked, scurried to hide in cupboards, desperate to avoid the fate of their owners, who performed the strangest movements in front of the TV, utterly baffling their four-legged companions.

If today, in the era of Zoom meetings and Teams conferences, remote work is now routine, then in the 80s and 90s, remote healing sessions became the most wildly successful media project of the late 20th century, for which Kashpirovsky—the first post-Soviet celebrity in the field of extrasensory perception—undoubtedly deserves the grand prize.

Appearing on screen always in a well-curated outfit—a black turtleneck with a high collar, a short reminiscent of the controversial Marlon Brando in the film about Julius Caesar—he captivated audiences not only with his piercing gaze but also with his incredibly powerful charisma. With an authoritative and serious tone, he commanded television viewers:

"Place the affected area of your body against the screen!"

It was expected that after people had fully absorbed his miraculous vibrations, their post-surgical scars would disappear, wounds would heal, and the lame would throw away their crutches and start dancing. Gaining unprecedented fame, Kashpirovsky went on extensive tours across the Soviet republics, earning astronomical fees and even speaking at a UN meeting, proposing his method for treating AIDS and radiation sickness.

Then there was Dzhuna, a mysterious healer whose name became a legend. The press wrote about her in almost poetic terms:

"With a single wave of her hand, Dzhuna could make a rose bloom. She could diagnose illnesses just by looking at a photograph. She could move objects without touching them."

And, of course, there were Pavel and Tamara Globa, the husband-and-wife astrologer duo who gained immense popularity as celebrity star-readers, promising planetary insights and cosmic wisdom to guide people’s destinies.

One might think that, with the rise of modern technology and access to reliable medical knowledge, such mystical beliefs would fade. But they didn’t disappear. They simply evolved, adapting to the digital age.

The Kashpirovskys and Chumaks of the past have now been reincarnated as social media gurus, selling their services through Instagram reels, TikTok live sessions, and subscription-based Telegram channels. Instead of television séances, they now host webinars, digital healing circles, and "energy cleansing" Zoom calls.

The market for spiritual services is thriving online. Manifestation coaches promise instant wealth. Tarot readers interpret life’s challenges through video calls. Lunar energy specialists explain why each full moon is the perfect time to start anew. Desire marathons, where participants are encouraged to write their goals a hundred times over, are available in easy installment plans.

Some of the most entrepreneurial gurus create entire personas, standing against scenic tropical backdrops while delivering speeches on the secrets of “limitless success.” They assure their followers that real happiness is about to come—they just need to enroll in the paid course before the offer expires.

Others film dramatic rituals, performing exorcisms or "channeling spirits" on camera, adding eerie sound effects before posting their clips online.

Women in revealing dresses wave copper dowsing rods, claiming to communicate with spirits, mermaids, and gnomes. Some tap on their faces, chanting affirmations like "Lamborghini is for me!" as they encourage their audiences to unlock financial success by releasing “karmic blockages”.

More polished influencers promote pseudo-psychological techniques, such as "ancestral healing"2 and "Hellinger constellations,"3 presenting them as deep scientific truths. They offer personalized consultations with archangels Gabriel and Michael—through a professional medium, of course.

People, blindly trusting these digital illusionists, pour their deepest fears and vulnerabilities into their hands, along with their wallets and credit cards. Some, who truly need professional medical or psychological care, turn to self-proclaimed energy healers instead, sometimes with tragic consequences.

Late at night, unable to resist my curiosity, I open Valeria’s website. It is a simple, free template filled with vague spiritual terminology and mystical promises. There is no mention of any formal medical education, no psychological credentials, but only an endless list of services with names like "Karmic Surgery," "Ancestral Trauma Release," and "Sexual Energy Activation."

As I scroll through the reviews, I notice a pattern. Every single comment is overflowing with exaggerated gratitude. People claim to have freed themselves from the "constant chatter of the mind" and found their "true connection to the higher self." Some even say they have transitioned to a "higher level of existence" thanks to Valeria’s guidance.

As a doctor’s daughter, I have always been skeptical of esoteric practices, especially those that exploit human desperation. I grew up in a home where every diagnosis was based on science, where treatments were grounded in medical research rather than vague spiritual claims.

Yet even the most highly educated people continue to seek answers from fortune tellers and self-proclaimed visionaries. The belief in mystical forces transcends intelligence, academic degrees, and professional success.

Kazakhstan’s 2024 scandal is a chilling reminder of how deeply these beliefs can run. Kyandyk Bishimbayev, a high-ranking government official, a Washington-educated graduate, and the son of a university rector, beat his wife to death. Instead of calling an ambulance, he frantically dialed his fortune-teller, begging her to "read the future."

Two years earlier, in Russia, a top executive at a major oil company, billionaire Alexander Subbotin, died during a so-called "anti-hangover cleansing ritual." The treatment involved toad venom and rooster blood. The shaman, known in elite circles for his "ancestral medicine," performed the ritual, but when Subbotin's health began to fail, professional medical help was called too late.

One would assume that people with access to the best education and scientific advancements would not be vulnerable to such beliefs. But as these cases show, education does not always equate to critical thinking.

Deep into the night, I keep scrolling mindlessly through Instagram and Telegram, watching as the digital mystics market their services. Their world seems boundless, like an ocean in the dark, full of whispered promises and hidden currents.

I watch, with growing unease, as thousands of people drift into this abyss—trusting illusionists with their deepest fears, their most personal hopes, and, of course, their money.

And I remember how my son, as a child, made me rewatch every single Star Wars spin-off, forcing me to sit through hours of lightsaber duels and philosophical Jedi teachings. I used to laugh about it. But now, it seems more relevant than ever.

Because critical thinking, in a way, is like a Jedi’s lightsaber. Not just a weapon, but a tool for discernment, helping us separate truth from illusion.

Just as the Jedi used their lightsabers to defend themselves against Sith deception, critical thinking protects us from false promises and seductive, yet empty, spiritual shortcuts.

It allows us to see the world as it is, without Instagram filters or augmented reality overlays.

Because, as George Lucas' universe reminds us, true power lies not in illusions but in the ability to recognize them.

Notes

1 Iker Jiménez is a Spanish journalist, writer, and broadcaster, best known for his work in the field of the mysterious and unexplained. He is the creator and host of the popular Spanish TV program Cuarto Milenio, which explores topics related to paranormal phenomena, history, science, and esoteric subjects.
2 Ancestral healing is a process that seeks to address and heal the wounds, traumas, and unresolved emotional issues passed down through generations within a family or lineage.
3 Hellinger Constellations is a therapeutic method used to explore and resolve hidden dynamics within family systems.