Gion Matsuri: How a Plague Ritual Became Japan’s Largest Festival

Six-story parade floats towering above the streets. Centuries-old costumes swirling in the heat. The scent of incense and street food wafting up from crowded night markets. Every July, Japan’s former imperial capital of Kyoto transforms into a living time capsule during Gion Matsuri, one of the oldest and most spectacular festivals in the world.

What began in the ninth century as a solemn Shinto purification ritual to ward off plague has evolved into a dazzling month-long celebration of tradition, resilience and community pride. And with a worldwide pandemic in recent years, the festival has recently reexplored its original meaning.

Believed to have begun around A.D. 869, Gion Matsuri started as a way to appease the gods and deities—one of many core beliefs in Shintoism, Japan’s oldest religion that practices ritual worship of nature and ancestral spirits. 

In the ninth century, Kyoto and its surrounding regions were devastated by epidemics and natural disasters—including floods, plagues and a fire that burned down the imperial palace—all of which claimed the lives of both aristocrats and commoners. According to historian Mark Teeuwen, a professor of Japanese studies at the University of Oslo, relief came only after imperial messengers brought offerings to deities of Gion, an area just east of the city's Kamo River. The “sickness disappeared instantaneously,” he writes in “Kyoto’s Gion Festival: A Social History.”

By the 10th century, the ritual had evolved into an annual event, held to purify the city and protect its people. Over time, the festival transformed—shaped by the cultural and political tides of each era. Local merchant guilds and other artisan communities began to sponsor the elaborate floats and processions, infusing the celebration with music, performances and pageantry. Though public interest waned at times—especially during periods of war and modernization—Gion Matsuri experienced a major revival in the post-World War II era, buoyed by a boom in tourism and media attention.

Today, the festival continues to honor its medieval roots with rituals that echo its original purpose: pay homage to local deities and protect against disease and calamity. 

One of the central traditions involves transporting sacred portable shrines, or “mikoshi,” from the Yasaka Shrine in Gion across the Kamo River to a temporary shrine site. The towering, lavishly decorated floats "carry effigies of deities, representing different districts of Kyoto," write researchers from Kyushu University. "The construction and decoration of these floats are considered sacred tasks, involving intricate craftsmanship passed down through generations."

As the procession crosses the river into the city—effectively bringing the deities closer to the people—Shinto priests use its waters to ritually purify the mikoshi. On the final day of the celebrations, the shrines are ceremoniously returned to Yasaka Shrine, completing a centuries-old cycle of reverence and renewal.

Another important ritual centers on the “chigo,” young sacred children selected each year to pray for the event’s success at the Yasaka Shrine. Among them, one boy is chosen for a particularly symbolic role: to ride atop the towering Naginata Boko float during the parade. Using a sword, he performs a rope-cutting ritual signaling the start of the procession, symbolically allowing interaction between the gods and humans to begin. As a divine vessel, he must not let his feet touch the ground throughout the festival, underscoring his purity.

The Naginata Boko float leads the Yamaboko Junko, the grand procession of shrines that takes place twice during the month-long festival. The procession floats generally fall into two categories, writes Catherine Pawasarat, author of The Gion Festival: Exploring Its Mysteries. The massive “hoko” can weigh up to 12 tons and rise several stories high, pulled through the streets by teams of festival volunteers. The more modestly sized “yama” floats, though smaller in scale, are no less ornate. Each float is a rolling tableau, representing a mix of gods, deities and historical or religious figures—including characters from Chinese legends and Buddhist lore—reflecting the wide cultural influences that have shaped Gion Matsuri over the centuries.

In the days leading up to each main procession—held about a week apart—the city comes alive during festive nights called “Yoiyama." Downtown Kyoto transforms into a vibrant street party, overflowing with food stalls, lantern-lit pathways and the sounds of traditional music. Locals and visitors alike stroll the streets in colorful “yukata” (summer kimono), sipping cold drinks, snacking on grilled delicacies and collecting “omamori” (protective charms) sold by neighborhood float teams. Festivalgoers can also admire the massive, intricately crafted Yamaboko floats up close, beautifully illuminated and stationed throughout the city.

The month-long celebration concludes with a solemn purification ritual near Yasaka Shrine, bringing the festival full circle to its spiritual origins. There, participants who helped organize the festival and guide the floats pass through a large “chinowa”—a sacred ring woven from reeds—while receiving blessings from a Shinto priest. The ring, located at the Eki-jinja or “plague shrine,” represents purification and elimination of disease—since, according to legend, the reeds helped prevent the plague that once devastated the area. Afterward, members of the public are invited to do the same, symbolically cleansing themselves of misfortune and impurity.

While Gion Matsuri was originally created to purify the land and protect its people, some researchers note that the festival has grown increasingly commercialized over time. Its rising popularity and influx of tourism have boosted revenue for Kyoto’s economy, supporting vendors, artisans and local businesses—and in turn benefiting the city’s residents. 

Yet the festival’s deeper purpose occasionally resurfaces in unexpected ways. During the COVID-19 pandemic, festival organizers were forced to cancel large gatherings and scale back key rituals. The result, writes Mark Teeuwen, was a return to the festival’s spiritual roots: “Stripped of its elements of show and display, the 2020 festival reverted to its original essence as a ‘shinji’—an event that addresses the gods, rather than an audience of human onlookers.”