Whether feared or revered, the unseen world—spirits, demons, saints, and omens—has always been part of the Yaghnobi landscape. It lives not just in mountains and ruins, but in language itself. The way people speak of the sacred and the dangerous tells us how they understand the world. And in Yaghnobi, these expressions are part folklore, part warning, part memory.
This article explores how traditional Yaghnobi vocabulary and storytelling preserve a complex spiritual worldview—rooted in pre-Islamic, Zoroastrian, Islamic, and folk layers.
One of the clearest examples of spiritual belief in the Yaghnobi language is the story and phrase “Дев хӯрчазани додаст” — “The demon gave the widow food.” This saying comes directly from one of the preserved folktales in the Khromov texts, and has become a cultural proverb. But its significance runs deeper.
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Дев (dev) – A term used for a demon or supernatural creature. Likely of Persian origin, this figure in Yaghnobi tradition often appears at night, near ruins, or in isolated places.
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The dev is not always purely evil. In the tale, it shows unexpected mercy. This moral ambiguity reflects Central Asian spiritual thinking, where the boundaries between good and bad spirits are not always clear.
The dev may take offerings. It may demand silence. It may help — and then vanish. To name it is to invoke it. And often, Yaghnobis don’t use the word directly unless they must.
From the story “The Noble Master” (Хоҷаи Бӯзургвор), we find a more revered figure — a local holy man or spiritual teacher, called хоҷа (khoja).
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This term appears frequently in Sufi oral tradition across Central Asia.
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The khoja guides, teaches, and humbles the proud — often without punishment.
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He is the moral opposite of the dev, but equally powerful in language.
In daily speech, people may refer to a man of faith as a хоҷа, even if he is not a scholar. This word carries spiritual weight — and people may soften their voice when saying it.
The Khromov grammar texts and syntax materials show evidence of indirect expressions—especially in stories dealing with fear or misfortune. This aligns with a wider tradition in Iranian and Turkic folklore where certain beings are not named outright.
Examples from syntax:
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Passive or impersonal constructions like “they say,” “it happened,” “it is told” (in Yaghnobi, often with past tense evidential markers) serve to distance the speaker from the tale.
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This protects both speaker and listener from bad luck — or spiritual attention.
In bilingualism and dialect files, you can find references to specific locations treated with caution or reverence:
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Old ruined mosques said to be haunted
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Mountain passes where prayers are whispered
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Burial mounds never disturbed
These places may not always be named in formal maps — but their names in local dialect reflect spiritual significance. Terms like:
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хонаи вайрон – ruined house (often avoided at night)
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қабристон – graveyard
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ҷойи пок – a “clean” or sacred space
Naming these places marks them as separate — as places where the normal rules of speech and behavior don’t apply.
Yaghnobi stories often include spontaneous blessings or oaths:
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Ба номи Худо – In God’s name
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Ҳақ бошад – May it be true
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Омин – Amen / may it be so
From the saintly stories, especially “The Noble Master”, you can trace how language reinforces belief:
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Oaths are spoken aloud to bind truth.
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Blessings are whispered to protect or guide.
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Even silence, when a name is left unsaid, becomes a form of sacred speech.
Every culture has its ghosts, demons, and saints. But in Yaghnobi, you can still hear them in the grammar. You can see them in a story that doesn’t name its villain. You can feel them in a proverb said at dusk.
And as long as the language lives, so do they.