Chapter Seventeen · The Hungry Ghost Festival 中元

Buddhist temple — Metta awareness
Praise-hall altar light — a temple in the golden hour. Photo: Pixabay (royalty-free).

The Seventh Month as it’s Really Lived — 中元節 in Singapore & Malaysia

Eric holding a cup of tea, relaxed

Every August the void decks smell of incense and the getai stages go up. Underneath the smoke and the taboos is a festival with deep Buddhist, Confucian and Taoist roots — and a surprisingly kind-hearted core. Here is what 中元节 actually is, and what it means to live it here at home.

What it is today — common practices & folklore in SG & MY

The basic picture. Zhong Yuan Jie (中元节) takes place on the seventh month of the lunar calendar, with the main day on the 15th. In Singapore the festival is observed throughout the whole seventh lunar month, which usually falls around August [5][6]. During this period, many Chinese worship their ancestors and make offerings to wandering souls [5]. In Malaysia too the whole month is the "ghost month," with the peak day on the 15th of the lunar month [12].

Opening the gates (开鬼门). The folk story is that on the first day of the month the gates of hell are opened, releasing spirits to roam the earth among the living to look for food [5][6]. Spirits are believed to be "hungry" because they have no descendants to make offerings for them [6]. It's also believed that one's own ancestors may return during the month to check on the living [6].

Joss paper and hell money (烧冥纸). Believers burn joss sticks, candles, paper money (known as kim zua), and paper effigies of material goods — houses, cars, servants, computers and phones — to send to the dead [5][6][8]. Paper money and items are believed to have value in the afterlife [8]. In Singapore, neighbours often gather to burn offerings together in big stainless-steel containers provided by the Town Council [6], and the National Environment Agency (NEA) requires that joss paper be burned only in designated areas, not in common corridors, staircases or lift lobbies — and to burn smaller amounts "based on sincerity" to cut down smoke [14].

The 大士爷 / Master of the Great Earth. For large burnings by clan associations, a paper effigy of 大士爷 (Da Shi Ye) is used; it carries a small image of Kuan Yin on its forehead, as it is commonly believed to be an incarnation of Kuan Yin [5]. In Penang this is taken much further: every year Bukit Mertajam (大山脚) builds a towering effigy of the Great Earth Master — now about 28 feet six inches tall and still growing each year — that is worshipped for about 15 days and then burned on the evening of the 17th day of the lunar month in a solemn "return of the golden body" ceremony [27]. The 大士爷 is also called 面燃大士, 普度公 or 普度爷, and is connected in folk belief to the bodhisattva Ksitigarbha (地藏王菩萨), who watches over the underworld [27].

Food offerings (祭品). Food is laid out for ancestors at home altars and temples, and offerings for wandering spirits are placed along roadsides and other transitory points [6]. In Singapore's neighbourhood Zhong Yuan celebrations, mass offerings typically include rice, oil, canned food, fruit and poles of sugarcane, which are later distributed to participants in buckets [5]. Feasts placed on tables along streets and at temples are a hallmark of the festival in Penang too [12].

Getai (歌台) — the song stage. Getai are open-air performances set up on temporary stages in residential estates. The front row of seats is always left empty — that's where the spirits are said to sit — and sitting there is considered bad luck [6][8]. Getai used to feature traditional Chinese opera and puppet shows in dialects such as Hokkien; today they have evolved to include Mandarin, English and even Korean pop songs [6]. In Malaysia and Singapore alike, getai declined as street opera faded and modern concert-style shows took over [8].

盂兰胜会 and 抢孤. Temples and clan associations hold collective ritual festivals called fa hui (法会) or sheng hui (胜会) [9]. In parts of Malaysia, crowds take part in 抢孤 ("snatching for the lonely souls") — scrambling for offerings and lucky items after they are blessed, a practice folk belief holds brings good luck; the general practice of scrambling offerings is tied to the festival across Southeast Asia [8][unverified for Malaysia's local form].

Charity and fundraising. This is one of the least-known but most important features. In Singapore, neighbourhood Zhong Yuan dinners include auctions of "auspicious objects" — from religious items to wujin (charcoal wrapped in gold paper, "black gold"), incense burners, rice barrels and daji (lucky tangerines) — and the proceeds fund the next year's celebrations plus donations to temples and charities [5]. In Penang the tradition is even more formalised: the world's only 中元联合会 (Zhong Yuan Federation) was set up in 1973 to unite neighbourhood celebrations and channel surplus funds to schools; it now has over 600 member neighbourhoods and temples and has raised more than RM50 million for Chinese primary schools and the community [27].

Temples' month of prayer. Modern Buddhist temples treat the whole month as a time of dharma assemblies — chanting the Earth Store Sutra (地藏经), repentance services and the Yoga Flaming Mouth ceremony (瑜伽焰口), ending with a transfer of merit to parents, ancestors and the departed [10]. Temples may also let believers sponsor food batches that are distributed to the needy [6].

Folk taboos. Out of respect (or fear) of the spirits, various taboos circulate: don't touch offerings left by the road or step on incense paper; avoid getting married, moving house or buying a car; don't wear red (spirits are drawn to it); don't swim, especially at night (fear of "water ghosts"); don't hang clothes outside at night; avoid walls; don't whistle or go out after dark [5][6][12]. These vary from family to family and many are regional.

Alison smiling warmly, short dark hair, cream top

— Alison's thoughts

The first thing I want you to notice is how *ordinary* all of this is. The burners the Town Council wheels out, the aunties coordinating the food buckets, the getai announcer warming up the crowd — this isn't a horror movie, it's a neighbourhood project. My block does it every year: same kerosene smell, same few families who take charge, same plastic chairs. It always struck me as less 'spooky month' and more 'the whole street agrees never to forget its dead.' Now, the taboos — the not swimming, not wearing red, don't hang clothes — I grew up on them too. Keep them if they make you mindful, but don't let them be the whole story, because the real story is a lot warmer.

The actual rationale — the deeper “why”

The folk narrative is all about ghosts roaming free. But the festival's real, documented rationale is more interesting — and more compassionate. It is really a meeting of three traditions.

The Buddhist rationale: Ullambana (盂兰盆) and filial compassion. The name "Yulanpen" (盂兰盆) is a transliteration of the Sanskrit Ullambana, meaning "hanging upside down" or "deliverance from suffering" [5][7]. The founding story is the Yulanpen Sutra (《佛说盂兰盆经》). The Buddha's disciple Mahāmaudgalyāyana (目犍连, "Mu Lian") gained supernatural powers and searched for his deceased parents, finding his mother reborn as a hungry ghost (preta) where even a bowl of rice turned to burning coals in her mouth [5][7]. The Buddha told him that one person's power alone could not save her; he should offer food and offerings to the monastic community (僧团/sangha) on the 15th day of the seventh month — the last day of the rainy-season retreat (vassa) — so the combined merit of the sangha could be transferred to release her [7][10]. The mother was freed, and the Buddha taught that all who wish to honour filial piety could do the same for their parents of this life and past seven lives [7][15]. This is the origin of offering to the sangha (供僧) and of merit transfer (回向) — a distinctly Buddhist practice built on generosity and compassion, not fear of ghosts [10]. The Yulanpen Sutra is a Mahayana sutra centred on filial piety, traditionally translated into Chinese by Dharmarakṣa around 265–311 CE [7].

The Confucian rationale: filial piety (孝道). Before Buddhism arrived, the deeper Chinese root of the festival was the ancient "autumn tasting" (秋尝) — offering the newly harvested grain and fruit to one's ancestors each autumn, an expression of filial piety and gratitude that Confucian thinkers treated as a cornerstone of ethics [15]. Early Buddhism actually clashed with this ancestor-focused Confucian culture; the festival formed when Buddhism fused its own story of filial rescue (Mu Lian) with the existing Chinese custom of ancestor worship [9][15].

The Taoist rationale: 中元地官赦罪. Taoism contributed the name "中元." Taoists believe three officials (三官大帝) govern fate: the Heavenly Official who grants blessings on 上元 (15th of the 1st month), the Earth Official (地官) who pardons sins on 中元 (15th of the 7th month), and the Water Official who eases disasters on 下元 [5][11][15]. On Zhong Yuan, the Earth Official descends to record good and evil deeds and pardon sins; this day is also the Earth Official's birthday [5]. Taoists therefore hold rites to relieve suffering spirits, and families pray for their ancestors' sins to be pardoned [11][15].

Buddhist rationale vs. the "ghosts roaming" narrative. The canonical Buddhist teaching is about offering, merit and compassion for the departed — not about appeasing dangerous roaming spirits. Scholars note that while the Buddhist scriptures supply the core values of the festival, the visible rites (burning joss paper, feeding wandering ghosts, appeasing spirits) are a mixture of Taoist practice and folk tradition [9]. So when you see paper money burned on a roadside at night, that is folk/Taoist custom; when a temple chants the Earth Store Sutra and transfers merit, that is Buddhist practice. Both are valid in their own context, but they are not the same thing.

Alison meditating in lotus pose with eyes closed, incense smoke rising beside her

— Alison's thoughts

This is the section that changed how I see the month. The Buddha's own story isn't about appeasing ghosts — it's about a monk who tries everything alone and learns that some things can only be healed *together*. That's the heart of 盂兰盆: nobody saves anybody by themselves. And when your grandmother's generation burns paper while the temple chants the Earth Store Sutra, they're speaking two dialects of the same language — care for the ones who came before us. The Taoist 地官赦罪 bit is the third dialect. Three traditions, one instinct: we owe the dead our remembrance, and remembrance is a form of love.

Incense and joss
Incense and joss — Photo: Pixabay (royalty-free).

History — origins and evolution

From India to China. The festival originated in Indian Buddhism with the Ullambana story [9][7]. The Yulanpen Sutra was translated into Chinese in the 3rd–4th century CE, and by the Northern/Southern dynasties the "Yulanpen festival" was being observed in temples [7][15]. The first recorded imperial observance was Emperor Wu of Liang (梁武帝), who in 538 CE (大同四年) held a Yulanpen offering (盂兰盆斋) at Tong Tai Temple; thereafter he had basins of offerings sent to every temple on the 15th of the seventh month, and the practice spread from the royal family to common people [10][13][15]. This is the date most scholars cite for the festival becoming popular in China [13].

Merging with Taoist 中元 and folk 鬼节. During the Northern/Southern dynasties, Taoism also claimed the 15th of the seventh month as the day of the Earth Official's pardon (中元地官赦罪) [11][15]. Over the Tang and Song dynasties the Buddhist Yulanpen festival, the Taoist Zhongyuan day and folk ancestor worship converged into one festival. By the Song dynasty, the name "中元节" overtook "盂兰盆节" as the common name, and the festival moved from the imperial court into the streets — people bought paper clothes and money in markets, and watched "Mu Lian Rescues His Mother" operas [15]. Through the Ming and Qing it became an increasingly secular, community affair [15].

How it reached Singapore and Malaysia. The festival travelled to Southeast Asia with Chinese migrants [11]. In Singapore, it appears to have been celebrated since the British arrived, being mentioned in newspapers as early as 1873; in the 1880s–90s it was also known as Sembayang Hantu ("praying to ghosts") [5]. The early celebrations were organised mainly by dialect and clan associations, which saw the festival as a way to bond migrant communities from the same hometowns and to make offerings on behalf of those without families — important for lonely sojourners in a new land [9]. Clan associations historically served a collective, sometimes relief-like social function in the migrant community [9]. In Penang, the 大士爷 celebration at Bukit Mertajam has a history of nearly 140 years [27], and anthropologist Jean DeBernardi studied Penang's Hungry Ghost Festival as a convergence of religion and politics in the Chinese community [9].

Colonial-era tensions. Under British colonial rule, the use of public space was contested: after the Municipal Ordinance of 1887, the authorities could remove obstructions on verandahs and five-foot ways, clashing with the Chinese community's street observances and contributing to the "Verandah Riot" [9].

Evolution to today. After independence and especially from the 1960s, Singapore's urban redevelopment moved people from kampungs into HDB estates, and the festival moved with them — into HDB car parks and open spaces [9]. Getai, which began as amusement-park song shows around the 1940s and hit a heyday in the 1950s, became fused with the festival; in 2017 alone, Singapore's newspapers recorded 307 festival events, of which 284 were getai, more than half in HDB estates [9]. Modern paper offerings now include iPhones and computers, and getai has attracted younger performers and audiences [6]. During the 2020 COVID-19 pandemic, getai went online via livestreams on Facebook and YouTube — keeping the festival alive when live shows were cancelled [9][34][35].

Government regulation. As early as the colonial era and continuing today, authorities have regulated burning for noise, safety and hygiene [9][14]. Today the NEA designates burning areas and urges responsible, smaller, more sincere burning and clearing of offerings [14]. This has shaped how the festival is practiced in a modern city-state.

Alison writing in a notebook with a pen

— Alison's thoughts

History has a way of grounding you. The festival didn't fall from the sky fully spooky — it came from India with Buddhism, got its name from Taoism, fused with Confucian autumn harvest offerings, crossed the sea with migrants, and adapted to HDB car parks. To me that's deeply Singaporean and Malaysian: we are all migrants' children who brought our ancestors in our luggage. The getai evolving from opera to Mandopop to livestreams during COVID — that's the same story as everything else here: traditions don't die, they just learn new technology.

Benefits of understanding and practising

Psychological — remembering ancestors and processing grief. Rituals of ancestor remembrance give families a structured way to hold grief and keep a lasting connection with the departed. Scholarship on cultural mourning rituals finds that honouring ancestors "fosters continuity, identity, and a lasting connection across generations," and that participating in shared remembrance affirms belonging with both the deceased and the living [33]. The festival gives the bereaved a yearly, communal space to remember — rather than a grief that must "resolve itself in polite time" [33][unverified].

Social — community bonding and charity. The festival's collective meals, getai and charity drives knit neighbours and clan members together [9][27]. In migrant history it reinforced solidarity among people far from home [9]. Today, the auction-and-donation tradition quietly funds charities and schools — Penang's 中元联合会 alone has raised over RM50 million for education [27]. Collective rituals strengthen community cohesion through solidarity and mutual support [33].

Moral — filial piety (孝道). At its core the festival is a yearly reminder to honour parents and ancestors — a value Confucianism, Taoism and Chinese Buddhism all affirm [15][32]. Caring for and remembering one's ancestors is a deep expression of gratitude.

Buddhist — merit, compassion and impermanence. For Buddhists, the festival is a chance to practice generosity (供僧), to transfer merit (回向) to the departed, and to cultivate compassion for all beings — not only one's own family but also "the hungry ghosts," those without anyone to remember them [7][10]. Chanting the Earth Store Sutra and reflecting on the departed naturally prompts reflection on impermanence (无常), a core Buddhist theme. Understanding the why behind the practice lets a person keep the kind heart of the festival while letting go of fear.

Alison holding a cup of tea, relaxed and content

— Alison's thoughts

Here's the part nobody tells you at the getai: the month quietly funds schools and charities — Penang's 中元联合会 alone has raised over RM50 million for education. In Singapore the auctions pay for next year's celebrations and donations. So the 'scary month' has been doing quiet community welfare for generations. And for the grieving, the rituals give something money can't buy: a yearly, communal room to remember. Grief doesn't have a polite expiry date, and this tradition never pretended it did.

Folklore vs Facts

Alison with palms pressed together in a respectful greeting, warm smile

— Alison's thoughts

Call me a Buddhist of the middle way, but I find the folklore-vs-facts split liberating rather than threatening. You don't have to believe the gates of hell literally open to keep the gift of the month. You don't have to fear water ghosts to be careful near water. The facts give us the *why*; the folklore gives the month its colour. Both can exist, as long as the fear doesn't crowd out the kindness.

Temple incense
Temple incense — Photo: Pixabay (royalty-free).

Alison's thoughts

I grew up in a HDB block where every August the void deck smelled of incense and my grandmother would lay out fruit for 阿公 before the getai started. I was scared of the month as a kid — the aunties made it feel like we were tiptoeing around something. Now I see it differently. The joss smoke, the empty front row, the burning 大士爷 — it's all the same tender instinct underneath: we refuse to let the people we loved be forgotten. The charity auctions, the temple chanting for those with no one left — that's the part I actually love. You don't have to believe a single ghost story to keep the heart of it: to remember, to give, and to be a little kinder to the ones nobody remembers. 孝道 isn't about fear. It's about love with a long memory.

Sources

— End of Reflection · Metta 慈悲