Zoe Morana Liao

The Taiwanese Dijizhu & Transactional Spirituality

            I flick the lighter and that first coil of smoke goes up. Our makeshift table is a low bench laden with bento boxes, cups, snacks in crinkled plastic. A small white cloud whooshes over my head, circling once, before hitting the ground to condense into a short white figure barely higher than my knees. Another figure, identical in form but dark in color, has lingered near my skirts since I began to set the table. The dijizhus have come for their monthly meal. 

            The Taiwanese dijizhu is a local land spirit responsible for the prosperity of a piece of land and those who live on it. They come in pairs, one yin and one yang for balance of the land, and are commonly worshipped for tsaichi, energy of abundance. Dijizhus are spirits of deceased children, hence their adorable lack of height and traditionally low table. Their myth originates from a time of starvation when many children didn’t make it to adolescence, resulting in many young burials on the family land. 

            So dijizhus are child ghosts who keep the land. Introduced to the myth, many first-time listeners remark, “Isn’t that child labor?” Yet the dijizhu is no ordinary child ghost. Hungry, wandering ghosts are a more popular myth in East Asia; referred to as haoxiongdi 好兄弟, or “good brother” in Chinese, they overrun city streets during the seventh month (“Ghost Month” 鬼月) of the Lunar New Year and their ravenous appetite must be appeased with offerings. A xiaugui (小鬼, hungry child ghost, neg. connotation) may even be fed in exchange for labor–though this is generally disapproved of, favors can be extracted from these hungry ghosts. Yet if both types of spirits are able to bring benefit to humans, what distinguishes a dijizhu from a hungry ghost? 

            A dijizhu is noted for is its role in the spirit government–the ghost has purpose; it is not to be appeased or bribed, but a spirit to build a working relationship with. 

            The “spirit government” of Taiwanese folklore is hierarchical as traditional Chinese society. A tudigong 土地公 is a local land deity responsible for a town or city, much like a spirit mayor, whereas dijizhus keep land the size of one house or property. Tudigongs appear in the form of older men dressed in traditional Chinese garb–the female equivalent or wife being tudipo 土地婆. (Tudi means land and gong means lord, literally meaning “lord of the land.”) Unlike our buried children, the tudigong is someone who has done a great service to their community in life, and is awarded this role in death. In the spirit hierarchy, ghosts are ruled by Dizangpusa 地藏菩 薩, the Bodhisattva of the dead, who keeps them in check and may train the ghosts as spirit apprentices to help them reincarnate or gain a spirit purpose. Our tudigongs answer to central gods like the Jade Emperor, and sometimes help assign spirits to the role of dijizhu. 

            So a notable difference is that a hungry ghost is stagnant, trapped, and never satisfied. It is lost and has no self-purpose. Meanwhile, a spirit with a career like dijizhu keeps energy flowing. It is not meant to be bribed or appeased, but to be given respect for the valuable role it plays.

            This role may be forgotten when the spirit is not treated with proper courtesy. If you treat a dijizhu like a child or regular ghost, it can become a more mischievous spirit, neglecting its responsibilities. When not worshipped at all, the dijizhu may fall dormant or befriend spirits like hungry ghosts because it has no role to keep its energy in flow. If this occurs, we usually report the issue to Dizangpusa, god of the dead, who can help us rebalance our dynamic. A tudigong has cared for the community since they were alive, so they tend not to forget their role–as opposed to a child who was buried so young to become a landkeeper. After an issue with a dijizhu is repaired, we must acknowledge it was caused by a lack of good respect practices and begin to create one that maintains a healthy spirit-human ecosystem. 

            Dijizhus are only worshipped during the day, because at night the yin energy is stronger and likely to attract hungry ghosts. The haoxiongdi cannot provide blessings yet continuously demand food once they’ve had a taste–so don’t worship too close to sunset. 

            My typical offering is two chicken bento boxes, one for each of the dijizhus, with drinks and incense. You fall into a rhythm with your dijizhus based on regularity of offerings–some people worship only on important dates such as festivals or when moving in; some worship every month. Deviating from the pattern by skipping an offering is considered rude. While some give additional offerings for a celebratory occurrence like a major windfall, note that dijizhus come to expect meals based on how often you provide them. If you are unable to worship at a certain time when they expect it, let the dijizhus know politely so they do not feel forgotten or unacknowledged.

            As child spirits, dijizhus may want sweets. Never let them feast solely on sweets, as this may be interpreted as treating them like hungry child ghosts. Give them a proper meal and lay the extra offerings on the side. When we worship and the dijizhu dines, we re-affirm our roles in our relationship. Formality must be maintained so we each remember our responsibilities. 

            Your dijizhu behaves differently based on the area you live in. In an apartment building, you have the same dijizhus as your neighbors above and below you, since the dijizhu is tied to the land and not any particular floor of your relatively new apartment complex. In the city, you can expect your dijizhu to operate by regular rules. 

            But in the mountains, away from society and city streets thick with temple smoke, the spirit government is decentralized. There may be dijizhus that are not assigned through the spirit government; your dijizhus may be local mountain and nature spirits, who operate by different customs. Taiwanese aboriginals worship mountain spirits with cigarette smoke–you light a cigarette as incense and let the smoke waft through the air. Pork and rice wine are common offerings. 

            When considering worship, Chinese culture tends to focus strongly on money–dijizhus are not just worshipped by inhabitants of a home, but also business owners in their offices. Yet our landkeepers don’t just influence our finances; they have the ability to keep away negative energies, people, and unsavory spirits like the hungry ghost. They protect our land and ensure our metaphorical crops are watered, maintaining an ecosystem for all: spirit, human, animal, plant, and the land itself.

            Dijizhu is often translated as “spirit landlord” but I find that term to be inaccurate. Our landkeepers do not demand offerings in return for tsaichi the way a modern landlord charges you to live on their property. Worship is not transactional. As a part of our ecosystem, the dijizhu is not to be bribed or appeased. Offering is a respectful acknowledgement to our roles–we honor the part they play as spirit keepers and show our gratitude, demonstrating a willingness to work together for our collective wellbeing. We do not buy abundance. 

            Sadly, many spirit worship practices are carried out with such a transactional mindset in our money-focused society. Our landkeepers were buried on this land, creating deep roots to all things alive and dead in this community. Dijizhus inherently want our shared land to do well–this is their land, and they keep its harmony. But one being cannot harmonize on its own. People worship as if they were trading food for blessings–when respect is a currency that cannot be quantified. We cannot buy a blessing with incense and spirit money the way we’d buy our groceries with cash at the supermarket. 

            With this concept of quantifiable transaction, worshippers think physically larger offerings must bring greater blessings. Without learning the names and roles of each deity and spirit we are worshipping, many are taught to simply burn incense and send a generic prayer to as many gods as possible, thinking this maximizes the amount of good fortune they receive. Some Taiwanese pay temple workers to baibai 拜拜 (worship) in their place. (While this can be due to filial piety and ensuring ancestors are doing well in the afterlife, many also do it to “avoid trouble” or simply because they believe it heavily impacts their finances. The ritual passes without much reflective thought from the person intending to receive the blessing.) Without taking the time and consideration to honor our gods and spirits, worship has become automated. 

            This transactional ideology reduces the spirit-human ecosystem to a surface-level relationship lacking the precious lifeblood of gratitude. Offerings are to show appreciation for what our dijizhus do, not to pay or bribe them. We thrive with our land when we act from a perspective of ecosystem, not impersonal exchange. The dijizhu is not a dispenser of money, but a spirit landkeeper whose wellbeing directly correlates to our own–there is no simply paying off our land or our gods.

Words from the Author:

“The Taiwanese dijizhu is a spirit my family has worked closely with in the several years we’ve been living in Taipei. Though it is widely worshipped, many worshippers have lost a personal connection with the dijizhu, and see it only as a distant figure that determines their income. In a deeply superstitious culture, there is so much potential for people to build intimate relationships with their land, regaining power and a sense of community in the process: I hope this article can provide international readers with a compelling picture of the dijizhu and inspire a deeper connection to their land.

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