By Alex Low
There’s no quiet way to eat yee sang. The dish announces itself in motion and sound. Chopsticks clash, voices rise, and hands reach in unison as shredded vegetables, raw fish, and sauce are tossed skywards. “Lo hei!” everyone shouts, invoking prosperity with each fling. This isn’t a meal meant for solitude. To eat yee sang alone would be “madness,” as food historian Ahmad Najib Ariffin — or Nadge — puts it.
Yee sang isn’t merely a dish but a ritual: a collective act, a performance of togetherness. While raw fish dishes are common across East and Southeast Asia, yee sang is something else entirely. “It’s not just a recipe,” Nadge says. “There’s a whole culture to it. There’s a method to the madness.” That culture took shape in Malaysia and Singapore, not China, even though some of its earliest ideas came from there.
Culture And History
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According to Chinese mythology, the goddess Nuwa created humankind on the seventh day of the Lunar New Year. That day, known as Renri, or the “birthday of humanity,” carries deep symbolic weight. In Malaysia and Singapore, yee sang was traditionally eaten from the seventh day onwards, not before. Belief alone doesn’t explain its form; practicality does.
In the pre-war and immediate post-war years, families prepared lavish meals for the early days of Chinese New Year. By the seventh day, leftovers remained: vegetables slightly past their prime, extra fish bought in anticipation of guests. “You cut away what’s bad, chop what’s good, and mix it,” Nadge explains. Lime, a natural sanitiser used in regional raw fish dishes like Sarawak’s umai, made the fish safe to eat. The result was a chopped, shared dish born from thrift, symbolism, and circumstance.
Rise Of The Toss
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Originally a modest family affair, yee sang grew more elaborate in the 1950s as post-war recovery brought economic confidence. Restaurants began offering it, and what was once intimate became performative. By 1964, the first fully advertised yee sang appeared in Singapore, which was still part of Malaysia at the time. Competing origin stories persist, including claims from Seremban, but Nadge is clear that yee sang as we know it coalesced in the Malaysia–Singapore context.
Part of its success lies in language. Yee sang relies heavily on homonyms: fish (yu) symbolising abundance, sweetness signalling auspicious beginnings. These meanings resonate strongly in Cantonese, Teochew, and Mandarin, dialect groups that coexist in significant numbers in Malaysia and Singapore. In areas where other dialects dominate, the symbolism simply doesn’t land the same way. “Culture alone isn’t enough,” Nadge notes. “There has to be an environment peaceful enough to allow it to evolve.”
In neighbouring countries, political turmoil disrupted traditions. Malaysia, by contrast, allowed space for crossover. Anecdotally, in 1952, leaders of the newly formed Alliance Party are said to have celebrated an election victory during Chinese New Year with yee sang. The dish was halal-friendly, vegetable-forward, and communal. Malays recognised its familiarity in kerabu, their own chopped salad tradition. Yee sang became an edible expression of Malaysia’s social contract, with different cultures meeting at one table.
Spreading Across Borders
Today, it’s travelling. Hong Kong restaurants serve it, crediting Malaysian and Singaporean roots. In the United States, Chinese restaurants have begun offering yee sang. As Malaysians migrate, the ritual follows. With that spread comes tension: five-star hotels turn yee sang into towering spectacles, and commercialisation risks overshadowing memory. “The danger,” Nadge warns, “is losing cultural authenticity.” He hopes it never becomes a franchised formula stripped of individuality and story.
Without its history — the seventh day, the leftovers, the shared hands and voices — yee sang is just raw fish and vegetables. With it, it becomes something rarer: a tradition that only makes sense when people come together. So next Lunar New Year, approach the table like an athlete ready for a game. Know the rhythm, ready your chopsticks, and toss with gusto. The stakes may be symbolic, but the fun and shared laughter are very real.
