Inside Hungry Ghost Festival: A Gen Z Taoist priest explains what really happens when the spirits roam

Come late August in Singapore, you might notice entire fields cordoned off with yellow tape, smoky bins billowing with burnt paper, and the occasional getai stage erupting with flashing lights and Hokkien opera. You might see someone bowing solemnly to the curbside or, just as likely, a child getting scolded for kicking over offerings, whether it is mandarin oranges, huat kueh, or joss sticks. This is the seventh lunar month – more colloquially known as Hungry Ghost month – when, according to Taoist and Buddhist belief, the gates between the worlds loosen, and the spirits from the Underworld roam free.

For the uninitiated, it can be equal parts fascinating and confounding. What’s the correct etiquette when passing a roadside altar? Why can’t you whistle after dark? Are the empty front row seats at getai performances really meant for ghosts? And what happens if you sit in one?

To help decode the season’s dos, don’ts, and deeper meanings, I turned to Lee Chee Tong, a 25-year-old Taoist priest and social work graduate from the National University of Singapore. Ordained through the Quanzhen tradition, Chee Tong chants scriptures daily, performs rituals on weekends, and explains Taoism to thousands on TikTok and Instagram – all while navigating the demands of full-time work.

“I signed up for a scripture class, not realising it was a trainee-priest course,” he shares. “Two years later, I was ordained.”

What follows is an interview that veers from metaphysics to myth-busting, folklore to philosophy – all refracted through the lens of someone bridging temple practice and the digital age.

If you’ve ever felt unsure about stepping around joss paper or wondered whether the spirits are actually watching, his answers might offer clarity, or at the very least, a reminder of what this month is really about. At its heart, Hungry Ghost Month is a ritual of remembrance and kindness to the unseen instead of fear and horror.

So, what exactly is Hungry Ghost Month?

The Hungry Ghost Festival, also known as Zhongyuan Jie in Taoist tradition, falls on the 15th day of the seventh lunar month. However, rituals take place throughout the month: incense is burned, paper offerings folded and torched, food laid out for unseen guests.

For Chee Tong, the season is more than a series of eerie taboos.

“People think it’s about fear,” he clarifies. “But really, it’s an act of hospitality, be it feeding the hungry, remembering the forgotten, or practising compassion.”

The 15th day also marks the birthday and mid-year inspection of Di Guan, the Earth Official – a Taoist deity associated with the pardoning of sins. “That’s why universal offerings and salvation rites peak then,” he explains. “It’s about easing burdens.”

Unlike Qingming Festival, which centres on ancestral remembrance, the Hungry Ghost month casts a wider net. “Beyond remembering your ancestors, you’re extending grace to any spirit that might be passing through,” he says.

Common taboos explained

For all its deeper meaning, Hungry Ghost month is still riddled with dos and don’ts – often repeated and rarely explained. Here, Chee Tong walked us through a few that we often hear about:

1. Don’t swim at night:  “Water and night time are considered yin.  and in folklore, that’s where shui gui (water ghosts) dwell. But also, night swimming is simply more dangerous. The taboo keeps people safe.”
2. Don’t whistle or sing loudly after dark:  “Sound is considered an invitation. Many cultures believe whistling at night can attract spirits. At the very least, it’s polite to keep quiet in the wee hours.”
3. Don’t hang clothes outside overnight:  “They can resemble bodies in the dark, and some believe spirits may ‘borrow’ them. From a practical standpoint, leaving wet clothes out to dry at night will leave them musty in the morning.”
4. Don’t peek under altars: “Respect the sacred space and avoid disturbing items placed beneath. Some setups reserve the under-table area and offerings for the ‘good brothers’ (euphemism for wandering spirits or ghosts). It’s a matter of etiquette, not a horror story.”
5. Don’t respond to your name if you hear it called and see no one:  “Our hun soul is linked to identity. If something mimics your voice, the advice is: stay grounded, don’t engage.”

Chee Tong is quick to point out that many of these are expressions of courtesy instead of spookiness. 

“They’re part of a larger etiquette, not unlike how we behave in a house of worship, or when someone’s mourning.”

How to be respectful

A lot of the Hungry Ghost month’s rituals take shape in plain sight – gestures of respect that play out on pavements, void decks, and public stages. Whether or not one believes in spirits, there’s value in understanding how to move through these spaces with care.

So what’s the right response when you walk past a burning bin with offerings or catch a getai performance playing out in a public space?

Chee Tong shares a few ground rules to keep in mind:

1. Avoid stepping on or kicking roadside offerings or ash piles.
2. Don’t sit in the front row at getai shows. “Those seats are ritually reserved for unseen guests,” he explains.
3. Refrain from shining lights or filming close-ups during rites, and avoid peeking under altars.
4. Don’t treat joss paper or offerings like trash.

“Simple rule?” he adds. “Give space, don’t disturb, and don’t joke at someone else’s sacred moment.”

Do these ancient traditions really matter in this day and age?

Traditions can feel fragile in a world that prizes speed and convenience. But rituals and activities related to the Hungry Ghost Festival continue to be practiced year after year, its smoke curling up from void decks and street corners, and its rites carried on in whispers and chants.

The question I have is: Do these gestures still hold weight in the lives of those who rush past them?

“In an age of loneliness, a month that ritualises remembrance, generosity, and care for strangers is medicine,” Chee Tong reflects. 

What he offers isn’t a doctrine, but a reminder that even in a fast-moving world, there’s space to pause, to care, and to practise compassion at scale, even when it seems like no one’s watching.