In the late 1990s, I was working in Hong Kong, just before the historic 1997 handover from Britain to China. Like many Malaysians abroad, I carried with me a suitcase full of assumptions — especially about food.
After all, Hong Kong was the beating heart of Cantonese culture. If there was any place outside Malaysia that would understand our version of Chinese cuisine, surely it would be there.
One evening, friends visiting from Kuala Lumpur asked if we could order fish in belacan sauce — the kind regularly served at the old Hotel Equatorial Kuala Lumpur. The waiter looked puzzled. We tried to explain: sambal, shrimp paste, spicy, fragrant. He shook his head politely. No such dish.
It was our first gentle reminder that what we thought of as “Chinese food” was, in fact, something uniquely Malaysian.
The bigger revelation came during Chinese New Year.
We searched menus expecting to find Yee Sang — that colourful, towering platter of shredded vegetables and raw fish that signals prosperity and noisy optimism back home. Restaurant after restaurant had none. When we described the ritual of tossing the salad high into the air while shouting auspicious phrases, our Hong Kong friends stared at us in mild disbelief.
That was when it dawned on us. Yee Sang, as we knew it, was not part of Hong Kong’s Chinese New Year tradition at all.
Back home in Malaysia, Chinese New Year without Yee Sang feels incomplete.
The ritual of lo hei — the communal tossing of the salad — is practically compulsory. Colleagues gather around a round table. Chopsticks hover. The host pours plum sauce in a circular motion. Sesame seeds rain down. Oil glistens under restaurant lights.
Then comes the crescendo: everyone reaches in and tosses, higher and higher, shouting “Huat ah!” as strands of carrot and radish cascade back onto the plate — and sometimes the table.
But in Hong Kong, there was no such spectacle.
That absence was illuminating. It forced me to see Yee Sang not as a timeless Chinese inheritance, but as something shaped and elevated by Malaysian hands.
The modern version of Yee Sang was refined and popularised in post-war Malaya, particularly by chefs in Seremban who transformed a relatively simple raw fish dish into a vibrant New Year centrepiece. Each ingredient was assigned symbolic meaning — raw fish for abundance, shredded carrots for good luck, crushed peanuts for longevity, sesame seeds for flourishing business, plum sauce for sweetness in life. It became less about sustenance and more about shared hope.
Over time, Yee Sang evolved into a uniquely Malaysian ritual. It crossed dialect lines among Cantonese, Hokkien, Teochew and Hakka communities.
More importantly, it crossed ethnic boundaries. In Malaysia, it is not unusual to see Malay and Indian colleagues joining in the tossing ritual at corporate dinners or open houses. Government departments and political offices participate. Business partners of all backgrounds shout prosperity phrases with equal enthusiasm.
The act of tossing — messy, loud, exuberant — reflects something deeper about Malaysia’s multiracial fabric. It is collective. It is inclusive. It requires everyone to participate. Prosperity, symbolically at least, is something to be lifted together.
Even the raw fish at the heart of Yee Sang tells a story about Malaysian identity.
To some outsiders, the use of raw fish invites quick comparisons with Japanese sushi or sashimi. But Malaysians know that raw fish traditions are not borrowed wholesale from Japan.
In Sarawak, indigenous communities have long prepared umai — fresh raw fish cured in lime juice, mixed with onions, chillies and herbs. Umai comes in many variations, depending on the catch and the locality. It predates global sushi trends and stands as its own culinary heritage.
Seen this way, Yee Sang’s raw fish element feels less like imitation and more like convergence — a reminder that Southeast Asian food cultures have always embraced freshness, acidity and texture in their own ways.
The Malaysia that produced Yee Sang is a Malaysia comfortable with adaptation. Southern Chinese migrants brought with them the idea of eating raw fish during the New Year season. Local ingredients, trading networks and a commercial culture that prized relationships helped transform it into a performative ritual dish. The plum sauce grew sweeter, the crackers crunchier, the symbolism more elaborate.
And perhaps that is why Yee Sang feels so Malaysian. It is Chinese in origin, Southeast Asian in flavour, and Malaysian in spirit.
It carries the entrepreneurial energy of post-war Malaya, where restaurateurs creatively marketed it as a prosperity dish. It embodies the country’s relationship-driven business culture, where the higher you toss, the higher you hope to rise. It thrives in a multiracial setting where participation matters more than purity of origin.
Throughout my stint as an expatriate from Malaysia, whenever I return to Malaysia during Chinese New Year now, I see the Yee Sang platter differently.
I no longer assume it belongs to some ancient, unbroken Chinese lineage. Instead, I see it as a living example of how diaspora communities reshape tradition — how culture is not merely preserved, but reimagined.
Back in Hong Kong in the late 1990s, the absence of Yee sang felt strange, almost like something was missing from the festive table. In hindsight, it was we who were mistaken. What was missing was not Hong Kong’s tradition — it was Malaysia’s.
And that, perhaps, is the most Malaysian lesson of all. Sometimes what we think is universal is actually ours alone, born of our shared histories, our migrations, and our uniquely colourful way of tossing everything — hopes, dreams, shredded carrots and all — into the air together.
Happy New Year Malaysia. "Nian nian you yu!” (May you have abundance every year)
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