In 2026, I finally returned to the streets of my hometown, Batu Pahat, to photograph the Nine Emperor Gods Festival processions once again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I spent two nights documenting the celebrations. But it was the procession organised by Dou Mu Gong on the ninth night of the ninth lunar month that left the deepest impression on me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The scale was extraordinary.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Around 80 decorated floats and more than 40 participating groups filled the streets. Thousands upon thousands of people gathered along the roads, joining the procession or standing on the sidelines to witness it. With an estimated crowd exceeding 10,000, it was one of the largest, if not the largest, Nine Emperor Gods processions I had ever witnessed in Batu Pahat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The streets were alive with movement, colour, devotion and anticipation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Yet, beyond the spectacle, what interested me most were the people.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When I photographed these processions more than a decade ago, many of the participants were elderly devotees. Today, the scene has changed considerably. Younger generations are increasingly involved, some taking on the role of spirit mediums during the procession.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Metal spikes and ritual implements pierce their hands, backs and other parts of their bodies. Through these acts of physical endurance, they fulfil vows and express their devotion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Walking for kilometres under such conditions demands extraordinary stamina and determination. Their bodies endure pain and exhaustion, yet they continue moving forward, seemingly engaged in a deeply personal dialogue with the faith that sustains them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As a photographer, I do not seek to explain or judge their beliefs. I am drawn instead to the human expressions within these rituals\u2014the concentration in their eyes, the tension in their faces, the weight carried by their bodies, and the emotions that emerge when faith becomes a physical experience.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Behind every ritual is a person.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Behind every expression is a story that may never be fully understood by those watching from the roadside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This is what keeps me returning to cultural and religious events with my camera. Beyond the colours, costumes and spectacle, there are human lives shaped by traditions that continue to evolve across generations.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It had been many years since I last properly immersed myself in street photography, particularly during the Nine Emperor Gods processions in Batu Pahat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
After photographing another night procession earlier in the festival, I returned on the ninth night to document the grand procession organised by Dou Mu Gong.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I began photographing at around seven in the evening, positioning myself along a stretch of road less than a kilometre long.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The procession was so immense that, even after two hours, it had not yet passed halfway through the route.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I continued walking, standing, observing and waiting for moments to unfold. The streets remained crowded, the procession kept moving, and there were still countless scenes waiting to be photographed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But my body was struggling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Having been unwell for some time, the prolonged standing and walking gradually took their toll. By a little after nine, the pain in my muscles and nerves had become unbearable. I knew I could no longer continue photographing effectively.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So I packed my cameras and left before the procession was over.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Later, I saw photographs by other photographers who had stayed until the end. They had captured many remarkable moments that I had missed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For a brief moment, I could have wondered what else I might have photographed had I stayed longer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But I felt neither regret nor disappointment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I knew why I had left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My body had reached its limit. Even if I had forced myself to remain there, I might not have had the strength or clarity to make the photographs I wanted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sometimes, knowing why we have missed something is enough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There is no need to punish ourselves for what we could not do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Photography has taught me to observe the world closely, but it has also taught me something about life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We often measure an experience by what we have managed to capture, accomplish or complete. We look at what others have seen, what we have missed, and what might have happened if we had stayed a little longer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Yet not every unfinished journey is a failure. Not every missed moment needs to become a regret.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There are circumstances beyond our control. Our bodies have limits. Time moves forward. Opportunities appear and disappear, sometimes without waiting for us to be ready.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
What matters is not whether we have witnessed everything, but whether we have understood our own circumstances and made peace with the choices available to us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That night, I did not photograph the entire procession.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There were frames I never captured, faces I never saw, and moments that passed without my camera being there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And that is all right.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The photographs I brought home are only fragments of a much larger event. They do not tell the whole story of the procession, nor do they claim to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They are simply what I was able to see, experience and preserve that night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Perhaps this is true of life as well.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We cannot be present for everything. We cannot hold on to every moment or follow every road to its end.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sometimes, we must recognise when it is time to stop, accept what we have missed, and continue with whatever remains.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\nLife is like photography. Not every moment can be captured, and not every journey needs to reach its end for us to find meaning in it.<\/em><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n
Sometimes, knowing why we had to leave is enough.<\/p>\n\n\n