In a small room in Penang, northwest Malaysia, Muhammad Fitri Abill Aqbal, 26, represents a new generation of spiritual healers. On TikTok, he has over 263,000 followers, and videos of his exorcism sessions have garnered nearly 5 million likes.

Fitri notes that the demand for "spiritual intervention" has surged in recent years. "Five years ago, I saw only a few people daily. But for the past three years, that number has increased to over 10 cases each day," Fitri said. His clients include not only Muslims but also people of Indian descent who believe they are afflicted by dark magic. He is currently awaiting licensing to practice under Act 775, which regulates Islamic medicine.

Abdul Manaf Jusoh (left), president of the Darussalam Islamic Alternative Treatment Center in Bangi, performs a ritual for a patient. Photo: Nieke

Fitri's rise is not an isolated case. In Malaysia, the "faith healing" economy thrives alongside the modern healthcare system. While the country's healthcare market is projected to exceed 22 billion USD by 2030, traditional healers and religious practitioners continue to fill spiritual gaps that Western medicine cannot address.

With 19 million TikTok users, accounting for over half of Malaysia's population, the platform has become fertile ground for spiritual services. Malaysia's Ministry of Health records over 14,000 registered Ruqyah practitioners, a method of Islamic spiritual healing. On social media, Ruqyah dominates due to its convenience, overshadowing more traditional, quieter forms of practice.

However, this trend faces strong opposition. Adam Aznan, 37, who runs a counseling center in Kuala Lumpur, calls the online videos of screaming and writhing "entertainment gimmicks" rather than genuine treatment. "Viewers see the screaming and think supernatural forces are being subdued. But it's staged," Adam said.

Abdul Manaf Jusoh, President of the Darussalam Islamic Alternative Treatment Center, also warns of risks from self-proclaimed healers. He asserts that Islam does not endorse "exorcism" via phone screens. "We see scenes of patients being slapped, objects burned, and dancing. That's theatrics and harmful to the public," Manaf expressed.

The Malaysian government is closely monitoring the abuse of religious authority for profit, requiring practitioners to adhere to a code of ethical conduct.

Confiscated items displayed at Darussalam: The center exhibits these items to highlight the risks of occult activities and their impact on mental and spiritual health. Photo: Nikkei Asia

Away from the bustle of TikTok, traditional healing methods remain a refuge for cases where modern medicine reaches its limits. At an unmarked house in Selayang town, Mr. Tan, a 70-year-old Taoist medium, has been receiving clients since 7 am for five decades. People come to him with vague symptoms: dizziness, unexplained pain, or persistent anxiety.

A 65-year-old woman undergoing cancer chemotherapy shared, "I still take all my hospital medication. But I come here to calm the fear in my heart."

At the Sri Raja Mariamman Hindu temple on the outskirts of Sentul, priest Senthil Kumar, 44, often reassures devotees with tali, a blessed colored string tied around the wrist. "Sometimes there's nothing dramatic. They just feel uneasy and want to find balance," he said.

Despite debates over methods – online or in-person – both sides agree on one principle: spirituality does not replace medicine. "Doctors heal the body, we heal the mind. When both work together, people find peace," said Abdul Rahman Nawas, head of the Darussyifa organization.

Psychology experts explain that viewers feeling better simply by watching videos is a manifestation of the placebo effect. "When viewers' belief is strong enough, the brain automatically activates healing mechanisms, releasing pain-relieving and relaxing hormones like endorphins, even without actual medical intervention. In this case, the ritual on the phone screen acts as a 'sedative' to soothe their anxieties," a psychology expert noted.

Bao Nhien (According to Nikkei Asia)