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Nazar, Doubt, and the Mind: Where Culture & Mental Health Meet

  • Apr 23
  • 4 min read

Updated: 4 days ago

The idea of nazar, or the evil eye, is one that crosses countries, religions, and generations. Whether it’s a black thread tied around a wrist, a spoonful of salt waved and thrown, an evil eye charm on a bracelet, or a “touch wood” said hurriedly after a compliment, there’s a deep cultural belief that being admired or envied can attract harm. Some see it as superstition. Others see it as truth. But what’s often overlooked is how deeply these beliefs, especially when dismissed, can impact someone’s emotional and mental well-being.



For those who believe in the evil eye, it’s not just a passing thought. It’s a lived reality. If a child falls ill, if a job falls through, if unexplained fatigue sets in, "nazar lag gayi" (it's because of an evil eye) is often the explanation. While outsiders may mock or minimize this, the individual experiencing it often carries a heavy psychological burden - one of constant hypervigilance, guilt, and fear. If something goes wrong after praise, you may blame yourself for not “protecting your energy.” If you post a photo and then things unravel, you might spiral, wondering if you attracted the wrong kind of attention. The emotional toll of living in this constant state of caution is real.


What complicates this further is how the belief in nazar is often met with ridicule, especially by those more “scientifically inclined” or disconnected from traditional ways of thinking. The moment someone says, “I think it’s nazar,” the conversation is often derailed with sarcasm or dismissal. “Oh come on, don’t be so backward,” or “You really believe that stuff?” These responses don’t just challenge a belief, they erase the emotional experience tied to it. It’s not just about whether the evil eye exists or not, it’s about what happens when someone is struggling, looking for meaning, and is repeatedly told that their lens is invalid.


Mental health is deeply intertwined with our belief systems. How we interpret events, how we cope, and how we find meaning all stem from the cultural frameworks we’re part of. For someone who believes in nazar, a lack of validation can lead to isolation. They may feel they have nowhere to turn, and their distress becomes even harder to articulate. Imagine trying to express that you feel a deep sense of unease or misfortune, and being met with laughter or condescension. The message becomes: “Your experience doesn’t count.”


This can also interfere with help-seeking behavior. If someone associates their challenges with the evil eye, they may be less likely to seek professional help, especially if they believe only rituals or spiritual interventions can fix the issue. And if they do reach out to mental health professionals and feel judged or misunderstood, it only reinforces the idea that therapy isn’t a safe space. This is why culturally sensitive care matters. A therapist doesn’t need to believe in nazar themselves, but they do need to understand that the client does, and that belief shapes their experience.


On the flip side, belief in nazar can sometimes be a way to externalize blame. Instead of feeling like a failure or accepting uncertainty, people may find comfort in saying something was due to an outside force. It softens the blow. “It’s not my fault; it was nazar.” In this way, the belief can serve as both a protective shield and a source of fear. It creates a tension: on one hand, it helps us cope with things that feel unfair or random; on the other, it can prevent us from processing or taking ownership of certain patterns. Again, the key is not to judge - but to understand.


There’s also a layer of collective behaviour that forms around this belief. Families might discourage sharing good news. People may downplay their successes to avoid attracting envy. Compliments are followed by disclaimers, and pride is cloaked in humility. While this might seem like modesty, it also stems from a deep-rooted fear: that joy, if seen or celebrated too openly, won’t last. This fear, when internalized, can chip away at one’s ability to feel safe in happiness. It becomes difficult to trust good moments, to stay present, or to feel deserving of ease.


For those who don’t believe in nazar, it’s easy to write all this off as irrational. But that approach lacks empathy. Belief systems, no matter how different from our own, shape people’s reality. And when someone says they feel like something has gone wrong because of the evil eye, they’re often expressing distress, confusion, or powerlessness. The worst thing we can do is dismiss that. Even if we don’t share the belief, we can still acknowledge the pain behind it.


What would it look like to respond with compassion instead? To say: “I hear you. That sounds really unsettling. Do you want to talk more about it?” That simple shift - from correction to connection - can make all the difference. Mental health support isn’t about challenging every belief; it’s about creating space for people to feel seen, heard, and safe. And if someone’s worldview includes nazar, we must learn to meet them there, not push them away.


In the end, nazar is just one example of how belief, culture, and mental health intersect. It reminds us that what might seem small or irrational to one person can be deeply real and emotionally significant to another. And when we make room for that complexity, we offer people not just support, but dignity.



Written by: Vedica Podar



April, 2026

 
 
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