Things that go "bump" in the night

 

Buddhism has demons in it, inherited from local beliefs and from Chinese Taoism. I think though the translation of "demon," like the translation of a lot of this sort of word, misleads. Taoist demons, because they are so frightening in appearance, are often considered helpful in scaring away other demons and the like. They are also generally believed to be the spirits (ghosts) of dead people who for some reason (bad karma) reincarnate as demons. There are a gazillion types you can come back as, depending on what you did wrong during your life. Now there is an example of a translation that misleads -- dragon -- not at all the beastie of the West. The best way to protect yourself from demons is with loud noises, such as drums and fireworks. Statues of certain Chinese worthies and of course lion or dragon demons (especially) in your home are also protective, as long as you do the proper rituals. The idea of demon possession seems to be a Western idea -- insane people are considered to have a medical problem. One must also mention the "hungry ghost," a disembodied dead past person, wanting the things of life but, without a body, unable to have them. Much of this, of course, is seen as superstition by most -- but we do like the Taoist rituals with the dragons and fireworks.

You are putting your finger on something important: the English word “demon” often carries a very misleading cargo of assumptions when applied to Asian religions.

In Christianity, a demon is typically understood as an intrinsically evil supernatural being opposed to God, often linked with temptation, possession, and damnation. In much of East Asian religion—including the blended world of Buddhism, Taoism, folk religion, and ancestor practice—the category is far fuzzier. Many of the beings translated as “demons” are dangerous, capricious, pitiable, morally mixed, or simply occupying another rung in the cosmic bureaucracy.

For example, in Buddhist cosmology there are beings such as the Preta—the “hungry ghosts” you mention. These are not demons in the Christian sense but beings trapped by craving, often portrayed with swollen bellies and tiny throats, symbolizing insatiable desire. They are tragic figures as much as frightening ones. One can almost read them psychologically: attachment made visible.

Similarly, many entities translated as “demons” in Buddhist texts are closer to nature spirits, troublesome local gods, or supernatural beings who may even become protectors. The Sanskrit yaksha and rakshasa, for instance, are not neatly “evil.” Some menace humans; others guard temples or protect the Dharma. Buddhism has historically been quite good at absorbing local spirits rather than abolishing them—“you may stay, but now you guard the monastery.”

Your point about Chinese religion is especially apt because Chinese folk religion is a long braid of Buddhism, Taoism, ancestor reverence, and local custom. A terrifying-looking figure may be protective precisely because it frightens away malign influences. The frightening face is functional. Temple guardians glaring ferociously are not there because holiness is angry; they are bouncers. One sees this in the fierce guardians at temple gates and in household talismans.

And yes, the word “dragon” is perhaps the classic mistranslation. The Chinese Lóng is not the hoard-guarding, princess-eating reptilian menace of medieval Europe. It is generally associated with water, rain, authority, cosmic power, and good fortune. A Western dragon is often something to slay; an East Asian dragon is often something to honor, invoke, or emulate. Translating both as “dragon” creates a false equivalence.

Your observation about possession is also interesting. Severe mental illness in many Buddhist societies has often been treated medically or socially, though folk beliefs about spirit influence certainly exist in parts of Asia. It is not quite right to say possession is absent—there are spirit-medium traditions, trance states, and exorcistic rituals in some Buddhist cultures—but the strongly moralized Christian notion of an evil intelligence invading the soul is less central. In places like Cambodia or Thailand, one often sees a practical coexistence: temple blessing, spirit ritual, and hospital treatment all at once, without anyone seeing a contradiction.

And then there is the matter of “superstition.” I suspect many people participate in these rituals the way many Westerners enjoy Christmas customs without literal belief. Firecrackers, lions, dragons, protective statues, blessings—these can be communal, aesthetic, identity-forming, and emotionally reassuring even for skeptics. As you say, people may smile at the cosmology while still enjoying the dragons and fireworks. Humans seem very attached to symbolic behavior, even when belief becomes soft around the edges.

Your comparison reminds me of another translation trap: “god.” A local spirit, protective ancestor, celestial bureaucrat, or enlightened being often gets rendered as “god,” which quietly imports a whole monotheistic frame that may fit badly. Translation helps communication, but it also smuggles assumptions.

I was at a party in HCMC where both locals and westerners were present. A pre-teen boy suddenly appeared at the top of some stairs leading into the room shouting "Horror," in English. Of course this reads "ghost" to us but something quite different to Vietnamese. So the westerners jump up to see this manifestation and the Vietnamese all leave.

That is a marvelous little example of cross-cultural mistranslation in real time.

I strongly suspect the boy was using English as a gloss for something like ma (“ghost/spirit”) or perhaps “horror” in the sense of a frightening supernatural presence, not meaning “a shocking spectacle” or “something ghastly” the way an English speaker instinctively parses it. To Western ears, especially in a social setting, “horror!” sounds theatrical—almost comic, or at worst a cue to go investigate. To many Vietnamese listeners, if the implication was “there is a ghost/spirit here,” it can land as a practical warning.

That split reaction is wonderfully revealing. The Westerners, shaped by a culture where ghosts are mostly entertainment—Halloween, horror films, ghost stories—become curious: Where? What happened? The Vietnamese guests, even if not fully credulous, may have responded more like people hearing, “There may be a snake in the room” or “Something unlucky is happening here.” You do not necessarily need literal belief to decide, best not to tempt fate.

Vietnamese culture, as you know from living in Southeast Asia, often treats the spirit world with a kind of pragmatic ambiguity. One need not be a doctrinaire believer to avoid unnecessary offense to unseen things. It is a bit like your own instinctive wai at spirit shrines: one may not have a detailed theology of the matter, but respect costs little and feels appropriate.

And language multiplies the confusion. “Ghost,” “spirit,” “demon,” “monster,” “horror,” “ancestor,” even “luck” rarely map cleanly across cultures. The English word “ghost” suggests a dead person lingering; a Vietnamese ma or quỷ can overlap with that but also carries a wider moral and cosmological texture. Similarly, “bad luck” in English often means statistical misfortune, whereas in many Asian settings it may imply a disturbance in relationships—between people, ancestors, places, or forces.

The scene you describe almost feels like a tiny ethnographic comedy: one sentence, one staircase, two civilizations reacting according to entirely different assumptions about reality. The Westerners rush toward the unknown; the Vietnamese quietly decide that discretion is the better part of metaphysics.

I saw 'ma' translated "horror" fairly often, although "ghost" is more common it is incorrect.

Yes, and this gets at the difficulty of translation when there is no neat English equivalent.

The Vietnamese word ma often gets translated as “ghost,” because that is the nearest everyday English category, but it is not really the same thing. “Ghost” in English tends to mean the spirit of a dead person lingering after death, often tied to a place or unfinished business. Ma is broader, blurrier, and often more emotionally charged—something uncanny, frightening, spiritually dangerous, or simply not of the ordinary world. In that sense, “horror” is trying to capture the feeling or emotional valence rather than the ontology.

But “horror” in English misfires too, because to us it is usually an emotion (“I felt horror”) or a genre (horror movies), not a being. So if a child shouts “Horror!” in a room full of Westerners, we imagine either melodrama or curiosity: What dreadful thing happened? We do not hear, There is a supernatural presence—leave.

This is a classic translator’s dilemma: do you translate literally, functionally, or culturally? “Ghost” preserves the idea of a being but imports Western assumptions. “Horror” preserves some of the fear and taboo surrounding ma but sounds odd or even funny in English. One almost wants a gloss rather than a translation: “spirit-being,” “uncanny presence,” or even “dangerous ghost/spirit,” depending on context.

You see similar problems elsewhere in Asia. The Thai word phi and Khmer khmouch are often rendered “ghost,” but each carries a whole folk taxonomy and emotional world that English flattens out. A villager saying a place has spirits is not necessarily making a metaphysical declaration in the Western sense; they may be saying, quite practically, this is not a place to fool around.

Your anecdote suggests the boy may have chosen “horror” because he had learned that as the English word nearest to ma in school or media—perfectly sensible from his perspective, even though it produced exactly the wrong reaction among the foreigners. It is one of those moments where everyone technically speaks English, yet nobody is understanding the same thing.

My study has a large picture window looking out over rice fields with forest in the distance, facing east so I get full sunrise. I get comments all the time I should keep the curtains drawn (which of course I do not) as I am inviting "certain things" (ghosts but they won't say it) in.

That sounds exactly like the sort of thing one hears in Cambodia and Thailand—phrased delicately, with everyone understanding the implication while politely avoiding saying it outright.

And from the local point of view, your study has several features that can read as spiritually “porous”: open sightlines into undeveloped land, forest beyond cultivated space, sunrise/eastward exposure, and a large unshielded opening between inside and outside. Rice fields and tree lines are often treated as liminal places—not wild jungle exactly, not fully domesticated either. That is where “certain things” may dwell or pass through. A big window can be imagined less as glass and more as an invitation.

Of course, to you it is a splendid view and good morning light. I can imagine why you would refuse to draw the curtains: sunrise over rice fields sounds like one of the rewards of living where you do. But from the perspective of people around you, especially older or more traditionally minded neighbors, they may feel they are watching a respected elder sit cheerfully with the metaphysical front door open.

What is charming here is that people often do not insist very hard. They may genuinely think the risk exists, yet also shrug and conclude that foreigners are foreigners and somehow spiritually eccentric or mysteriously protected. I suspect you have already encountered the Southeast Asian combination of concern and resignation: We warned him; he is kind but impossible.

There is also a practical layer to these beliefs. Many customs about spirits overlap with ordinary caution. Keep openings covered at night, avoid isolated places after dark, show respect to thresholds and trees, don’t attract trouble. The supernatural explanation and the social habit reinforce each other.

I confess I smiled at the image: you sitting in your study at dawn, coffee in hand, full sunrise pouring in over the paddies, while locals pass by thinking, the old barang is absolutely inviting things in again. Yet if nothing untoward has happened, that itself may become evidence in another direction—perhaps your house spirits are considered tolerant, or perhaps your constant respectful gestures at shrines have earned you a bit of unseen diplomatic immunity.