When the Gods Take to the Streets

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For five days, Johor Bahru’s Chingay ritual turns prayer, percussion and carefully managed chaos into a spectacular farewell to the Chinese New Year. Celebrated in Johor Bahru for well over a century, Chingay is one of Malaysia’s oldest continuing traditions.

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The warning came from an elderly man beside me in Johor Bahru’s Old Temple. The crowd was tightening, the air was disappearing, and five deities were about to be carried through a doorway already blocked by hundreds of worshippers.

“It can become dangerous here,” he said kindly. “It’s better for you to move out.”

It was excellent advice. I thanked him – and stayed.

Around me, palms pressed together in prayer while cameras rose above heads on sticks. Men in colour-coded T-shirts shouted instructions. Somewhere beyond the forest of arms, sedan chairs began to move. A roar travelled through the temple, followed by the chants “Heng-ah!” and “Huat-ah!”- calls for luck and prosperity. Then the gods came out.

This was the Chingay I had come to see: not simply Johor Bahru’s famous Night Parade, but a five-day religious ritual in which the city’s Chinese communities escort five deities on their annual journey through the streets. It is noisy, crowded, joyful and deeply devotional – and it provides very little personal space for a photographer.

 

A New Year Reluctant to End

In much of Malaysia, Chinese New Year concludes on the fifteenth day of the first lunar month with Chap Goh Meh. Johor Bahru, however, is not quite ready to stop celebrating. Here, the season ends only after Chingay, held from the night of the eighteenth day until the twenty-second day of the first lunar month.

I first heard about the ritual from a young Malaysian woman with an infectious enthusiasm for her country’s cultural traditions. Soon afterwards, my husband and I arrived in Johor Bahru – affectionately known as JB – a large city pressed against Malaysia’s border with Singapore.

Chingay has been celebrated here for well over a century. In 2017, its procession was estimated to have attracted more than 500,000 people, yet it remained largely unknown to foreign visitors. This made us conspicuous. Local journalists descended on us with such enthusiasm that, for a few minutes, we appeared to be one of the festival attractions.

The ritual begins with the Lighting Ceremony. Officials open the festivities amid traditional performances, fireworks and firecrackers whose combined effect suggests that a machine gun and a rocket launcher have been invited to celebrate together.

Then the rain begins.

The audience retreats under cover, leaving rows of empty seats glistening in the downpour. Onstage, the performers continue with admirable determination. Chingay has officially started; apparently, the weather has not been consulted.

 

Preparing the Way for the Gods

On the second day, devotees cleanse the route the deities will follow through the city. Dressed in red, they walk roughly ten kilometres, sprinkling the streets with water steeped in raw rice, salt and tea leaves, using sprigs of pomelo or lemon tree.

Gongs, cymbals and drums announce their progress. The participants occasionally discover that a photographer’s lens is also an excellent target for ritual water. The smiles are broad, but the purpose is serious: the cleansing and the percussion are intended to drive away evil spirits and prepare the streets for the divine visitors.

Local people told me that the ceremony is often followed by rain – a more thorough washing than any procession could provide. Mystic intervention or tropical weather pattern? Chingay leaves room for both interpretations.

 

Dressing the deities

Once the road is ready, attention returns to the Johor Bahru Old Chinese Temple. Squeezed between modern buildings, it is one of the city’s oldest structures and the spiritual home of five deities associated with its principal Chinese dialect groups: Zhao Da Yuan Shuai with the Hainanese, Hua Guang Da Di with the Cantonese, Gan Tian Da Di with the Hakka, Hong Xian Da Di with the Hokkien and Yuan Tian Shang Di with the Teochew.

Leaders and designated specialists from the five communities – all men – prepare the figures for their journey. They wrap them in red cloth, arrange elaborate crowns and decorate them with the same concentration a parent might bring to dressing a child for the most important family occasion of the year. The divine sedan chairs are filled with gold and silver joss paper, and the figures are fastened securely into place.

The precautions are practical. During the journey, most of the chairs will be rocked vigorously from side to side. Keeping a deity cheerful is important; keeping a deity from falling out is also advisable.

As the work proceeds, the small temple fills beyond what seems physically possible. Hundreds of hands reach towards the figures in homage. I begin in an ideal position to photograph the preparations, but the crowd has other plans. Within minutes I am pushed aside, and a narrow space behind a column becomes my island of safety.

The scene looks chaotic, yet it is not uncontrolled. Group leaders use commanding voices and emphatic gestures to hold the crowd back, clear a passage and bring the deities safely from their places. Above the movement, the same cries rise again: “Heng-ah!” “Huat-ah!” Good luck. Prosperity.

 

 

The deities’ first coming out

The following day, the deities leave the Old Temple for Xing Gong, a temporary shrine large enough to receive the crowds. Their first emergence is one of the most anticipated moments of Chingay, and the temple is crammed hours in advance.

Devotees wear shirts in the colours of their respective communities. Worshippers strain for a glimpse. Photographers strain for a photograph. Even some of the sedan bearers carry GoPros on poles; divine processions, like the rest of modern life, are now documented from every possible angle.

This is when the elderly man advises me to leave. The atmosphere is electrified, the doorway narrow and the sedan chairs heavy. I want to photograph the moment from inside, captivated by the energy of the ritual, so I remain – alert, wedged against the crowd and increasingly aware that documentary photography is not always practised at a dignified distance.

A change passes through the room before I can see its cause. Cameras are poised. Hands come together. Voices rise. The first sedan begins to advance.

Carrying a deity is an honour, and everyone wants to be close. For a moment, the scene resembles the storming of a small, incense-filled Bastille. The bearers surge towards the doorway while worshippers press forward to touch the chairs and receive good fortune. I doubt that the sedans can possibly fit through. Somehow, through strength, coordination and a considerable volume of shouting, they do.

Outside, the procession moves forward – then, without warning, one of the sedan chairs begins to rock violently from side to side. A roar rises from the crowd. Worshippers surge towards it, reaching over shoulders and between bodies for the chance to touch the chair and claim a share of its good fortune. Lit joss sticks are raised above the crush of people as the chants grow louder: “Heng-ah! Huat-ah! Ong-ah!” – calls for luck, prosperity and auspicious fortune.

The bearers swing and sway beneath the weight of the sedan. According to local belief, the deity’s spiritual power sets the chair in motion; for a few extraordinary moments, it appears to come alive. Each new burst of rocking sends another wave of excitement through the crowd. The movement is also said to keep the deity in good spirits – and it certainly has the same effect on everyone nearby.

Yuan Tian Shang Di, the principal and most revered deity, is the exception. His chair is carried last and, as a mark of the highest respect, is not subjected to the same vigorous rocking.

Lion and dragon dancers accompany the procession, along with musicians and giant, wide-headed figures. At Xing Gong, each deity is received with prayer, cheering and celebration. Offerings include fruit, cakes, wine and entire roasted pigs. Married couples without children may present dolls while asking the gods for a baby. The hope placed in these offerings is palpable.

 

A city becomes a procession

The next day is the famous Night Parade.

The Night Parade is Chingay’s most visible event, but by now I understand that it is only one chapter of a longer ritual. Hours before the deities leave Xing Gong, crowds gather around the shrine. Dragon dancers wait beside giant dolls. Confetti is prepared. The city seems to be holding its breath – although not, thankfully, in the same literal way as the packed temple.

One by one, the deities emerge beneath showers of paper and prayer. They are carried through Johor Bahru to bless the city with peace and prosperity, followed by a procession that is bright, loud and gloriously excessive: lion and dragon dances, enormous flags, illuminated floats, smoke, music and fantastical creatures looming above the spectators.

The route covers around ten kilometres and takes roughly seven hours. What stays with me is not only its scale, but the stamina of the people carrying it forward. Sedan bearers support heavy chairs; dancers perform beneath elaborate costumes; musicians keep the rhythm moving; volunteers maintain order. Their enthusiasm does not appear to diminish, even when mine begins to require food and a place to sit.

The big-headed dolls weave along the route, distributing sweets and goodwill. Families line the streets. Whenever a sedan passes, hands fold in prayer. From time to time, a chair rocks and the crowd erupts once more, as though luck itself has been shaken loose and scattered among them.

Long after midnight, Johor Bahru remains awake. Children peer between adults; older spectators stay in place, unwilling to miss the end. At last, the music recedes, and the lights move farther down the road. The city grows quieter, although after several days of drums and firecrackers, quiet has become a relative concept.

 

Home Again

On the fifth day, the deities return to the Old Temple. Their homecoming draws another immense crowd, but its meaning is different. The annual circuit has been completed. The streets have been cleansed, the city blessed, offerings made and hopes entrusted to the gods.

The five figures are carried back inside, and the temple closes around them once more. Only then can Johor Bahru’s Chinese communities say that the New Year celebrations are truly over.

After five days of devotion, confetti, rain, percussion and divinely inspired traffic, the gods are home – and, finally, the city can sleep.