AS night descends over Miri, incense smoke drifts lazily through housing estates and temple courtyards.
At the corner of a narrow lane in Krokop, a small fire crackles in a tin barrel. Flames lick at sheets of paper shaped like banknotes, cars, and even mobile phones, all destined for the spirit world.
A family stands silently nearby. A grandmother guides her grandson’s hand as he plants a stick of incense into a pot of ash, his wide eyes following the smoke as it coils upward into the dark sky.
It is Ghost Month, the seventh month of the lunar calendar, a period when the Chinese community believes the gates of the underworld swing open and spirits walk among the living. In 2025, the season begins on August 23.
For nearly a month, families prepare offerings of food, incense, and paper effigies to honour ancestors and appease wandering souls.
The festival reaches its peak on September 6, the Hungry Ghost Festival, when temples host their largest prayers and rituals. The season then concludes on September 21, as the gates close and the spirits are sent back to the underworld.
For three weeks, Miri slows its pace. Daily routines continue, but a hush falls across certain corners of the city. Some families avoid major life events such as weddings or house moves. Business launches are delayed. At night, candles glow in front of shopfronts, and makeshift altars appear by the roadside. In the middle of this modern oil town, the ancient world quietly asserts itself.
Echoes of an ancient belief
The Hungry Ghost Festival, also known as Zhongyuan Jie, has roots stretching back more than 2,000 years. It is steeped in Taoist and Buddhist traditions, where the living express filial piety by remembering their ancestors and showing compassion for spirits with no family to tend to them.
In Miri, these beliefs have travelled across oceans with waves of Chinese migration, adapting yet surviving through generations. Walk through the old districts around Jalan Bendahara or visit the temple compounds in Krokop, and Ghost Month makes itself felt. Red candles flicker at dusk, chants echo from loudspeakers, and the smell of incense clings to the air.
For older residents, these rituals remain a cherished duty. At a Taoist temple in Morsjaya, 72-year-old Lau recalls her childhood memories of the festival.
“Every house along the street would prepare an altar,” she says. “The men folded paper money, the women cooked food, and we children were told not to whistle at night. We believed the ghosts were nearby, listening.”
Her words reveal a worldview where the unseen is never far away. For elders like her, the observance is not superstition but respect, a thread that ties the living to those who came before.
Generations apart
Among Miri’s younger generation, Ghost Month takes on a different meaning. Many see it less as a religious obligation and more as cultural identity.
Jason Lee, a 27-year-old civil engineer, admits he does not fully understand the rituals but joins in out of respect.
“My parents prepare everything – the food, the incense, the joss paper,” he says.
“I just help them set it up. For me, it’s about family. I don’t think too much about ghosts. It’s about being together.”
Adaptations are becoming common. Some families opt for eco-friendly offerings, using symbolic joss sheets instead of burning large bundles. LED candles and incense sticks replace traditional ones in certain homes, and a handful of temples now offer online prayer services where families can dedicate offerings remotely.
Purists may frown at such innovations, but others see them as evidence that tradition can evolve without losing its essence. The rituals may change shape, but the values of remembrance and respect endure.
A pause in business
The influence of Ghost Month stretches beyond temples and homes. It shapes the rhythm of business in Miri.
Property developers notice that sales often dip in this period, as buyers avoid moving into new homes. Wedding planners schedule fewer ceremonies. Even car dealerships report a quieter month.
“We know clients are hesitant,” says a local property agent. “They would rather wait until after Ghost Month to make a big purchase. It’s a cultural sensitivity we’ve learnt to respect.”
This pause is subtle but significant. In a city that thrives on commerce and modernisation, it is striking to see centuries-old traditions dictate the flow of business. For outsiders, it can be puzzling; for locals, it is simply common sense.
The stage for spirits
At certain temples in Miri, the Hungry Ghost Festival is marked with stage performances – whether Chinese opera or getai-style shows – put on not for humans but for spirits. Rows of plastic chairs are laid out, with the front seats deliberately left empty for unseen guests. The atmosphere is festive yet reverent, reminding onlookers that the celebration belongs equally to the dead and the living.
In smaller neighbourhoods, offerings may be more modest – a few oranges, bowls of rice, cups of tea, and the steady glow of incense. Yet whether grand or humble, each ritual carries the same intention: to show respect, to offer remembrance, and to maintain harmony between the worlds.
Heritage and tourism potential
Though Ghost Month is primarily a spiritual observance, it also holds cultural and tourism value. Miri, with ambitions to grow as a destination, could frame the festival as part of its living heritage.
Tourists who encounter the rituals are often captivated by the sights – paper effigies towering like sculptures, operatic performances in brightly coloured costumes, families gathered around roadside fires. Yet within the city, such practices are rarely promoted, partly because organisers want to preserve their sacred character.
Community leaders believe there is space for balance.
“We are not selling belief,” says one temple committee member. “But we can explain it, share it, and help others understand why these rituals matter. It is part of Sarawak’s story.”
The meaning behind the rituals
Behind the rituals lies a universal truth: Ghost Month is about memory. It is about keeping the bond between generations alive, ensuring the departed are not lost in the rush of modern life.
At the Krokop temple, where she guided her grandson earlier, Lau sums it up with quiet clarity.
“When we honour the spirits, we honour ourselves. Because one day, we too will be remembered this way.”
For younger Mirian Chinese, the ghosts may be symbolic, but the values remain the same – respect for family, continuity of culture, and the need for moments of reflection.
The closing of the gates
On the final night, Sept 21 this year, families across Miri will gather for closing rites. Fires will burn late into the night, carrying paper offerings into ash. As the flames die down, the gates of the underworld are believed to close once more, and the spirits return to their realm.
By the next morning, the city will return to its regular rhythm. Altars will be packed away, shopfronts swept clean, and business will resume. Yet for three weeks each year, Miri pauses. In the glow of incense and the crackle of fire, the living share their world with the unseen.
Whether one views it as religion, heritage, or custom, Ghost Month continues to shape how Miri remembers its past while navigating its future.
