There is a scene in S. Leo Chiang’s Oscar-nominated documentary short Island in Between where two men discuss a fierce battle. One mentions a memorial for fallen soldiers on the opposite side of the strait that separates them from China. The other seems surprised something like that would exist.

“Duh! They fought us. Of course they have one, too,” the first responds. ” Their civilians fought and died, too, like our side.”

Their conversation – which plays out against footage of disused military facilities on the Taiwan-governed islands of Kinmen – is one of several vignettes in Chiang’s poetically paced film where a prosaic compassion pervades, exposing the nuanced reality behind deeply rooted rhetoric.

Islands in between

In Island in Between – released on The New York Times’ Op-Doc channel last September, a few months ahead of Taiwan’s general election – Kinmen is both a literal and figurative embodiment of that nuanced reality.

Kinmen, a group of 12 islands less than five kilometres from the Chinese city of Xiamen at their closest point and around 200 kilometres from Taiwan, was the scene of major hostilities during the Chinese Civil War in 1949 and beyond, when the Kuomintang nationalists fought the Communist Party for their control, and won.

Even now, as analysts debate the likelihood of Beijing invading Taiwan in an effort to bring what China considers a renegade province under its governance – as has frequently been the case in recent months – they often mention Kinmen in the same breath.

But for Chiang, Kinmen is more than a point on a historical map or the site of further, future conflict – it is where his father did military service in the 1960s.

It was not until 2020 that Chiang explored the islands, though. The Covid-19 pandemic had shut several borders, forcing him to accept Taiwan as his home base after spending most of his adult life in the US.

And so, with international travel off the agenda, Chiang and his parents decided to travel to Kinmen “because my father had been there, because I’ve always been kind of curious about it,” he told HKFP by video call from Taipei last Monday.

“The film came after,” he added.

What he found was a place that felt both separate from and part of Taiwan. Somewhere that does not shrink from its bloody history, but wraps it in nostalgia to sell to tourists, where hits by the late Taiwanese pop star Teresa Teng blare from a brutalist concrete speaker and portraits of Mao Zedong hang alongside those of outgoing Taiwan President Tsai Ing-wen.

See also: Decades after the end of White Terror, Taiwan still struggles to come to terms with its painful past

“If anything, it does in some ways feel like Taiwan… maybe 20 years ago,” Chiang says. “Which also makes a lot of sense because of the timeline… because they stayed under the more restrictive system longer than Taiwan island.”

While Taiwan’s repressive martial law period under Kuomintang rule officially ended in 1987, the people of Kinmen did not emerge from martial law until 1992.

“As the younger generation comes up, the identity’s changing,” Chiang says.

‘Enemy territory’

Perhaps surprisingly, prior to the pandemic, Kinmen had placed its bets not on war with China, but on arrivals from across the water. Connected to Fujian province by a 30-minute ferry ride, in 2019, some 40 per cent of Kinmen’s 2.5 million visitors were mainland Chinese.

“If you go to Kinmen now, you see this infrastructure that was clearly built during the boom times,” Chiang says, listing shopping malls, duty free stores and huge hotels. “It’s now basically deserted because this big flock of mainland tourists has not come back, or has not been able to come back.”

Shuttered during Covid, the ferry services have now resumed. But not for everyone.

“The Kinmeners who have investments, relatives in Xiamen are still allowed to go. The other side aren’t allowed, or not as freely,” Chiang says.

Without tourists from China, Chiang was unable to pursue an angle he had hoped to explore: “how the mainland Chinese tourists see this place.”

“You know, it’s like you go and visit the quote-unquote enemy territory, and you see how the same thing you grew up learning about is not that scary,” Chiang says. “I’ve always been very fascinated by that dynamic.”

It is one he is familiar with. Chiang grew up under martial law, believing that the Kuomintang would conquer China, and singing songs with lyrics such as, “Destroy Mao and kill traitors of the Chinese race!”

Then, aged 15, he moved to the US, and learned a whole new version of events, which made “that idea that this population of 20-something million can overturn [Communist Party rule]… just seem absurd.”

“The history I learned about Taiwan [before leaving], it’s very different from the history that I learned after I left Taiwan,” Chiang says. “You know what they say about ‘history is with the victors,’ it’s very much that way,” he continues, adding that was exemplified by “how huge a hole” there was between “what I knew before versus actually what is the reality.”

Chiang discusses a similar dissociation between perceived knowledge and reality in Island in Between – when he began working in China.

“The China I saw was not the sad and scary Communist wasteland that I learned about in school,” Chiang tells the viewer through a voice-over. “It was an exhilarating place, bursting with colours and possibilities.” On screen, a chorus of voices sing the same Teresa Teng song that blares every night out of Kinmen’s Cold War-era speaker wall.

For anyone who has not been to China, it is a humanising sequence.

“That’s very much the intention,” Chiang tells HKFP. “Do I agree with a lot of the policies of the [Chinese] government? No, absolutely not, but that’s not what the people are like. Sure there’s a portion, and maybe a big portion, that does support the government policy but there’s also a diversity of opinion that is not being heard outside,” he continues.

“People outside of the region do not understand the nuances of that and I do hope that’s what’s coming across in my film.”

‘Self-censorship is the worst kind of censorship’

When Chiang started worked in China, in 2005, he did so under his US passport as Beijing does not recognise Taiwan sovereignty, instead issuing Taiwan Compatriot Permits that essentially strip Taiwanese visitors of their citizenship.

Chiang explores this complexity of identity in Island in Between and in conversation with HKFP. “I would really prefer to be described as somebody that has two nationalities,” Chiang says. “The fact is I am both [Taiwanese and American] and I am also in-between.”

This in-between, though, is not a physical space, like Kinmen caught between Taiwan and China, or even Taiwan caught between China and the US.

“This is all about the, not even just about the in-betweenness of identity in terms of sort of feeling trapped by the pressures, but it’s also the grey areas between the extremes that we always hear about,” Chiang says.

“Either ‘the sky is falling, [China is] coming tomorrow,’ versus a lot of the people [in Taiwan], or in Kinmen, saying ‘it’ll never happen, it’s pure hysteria. Neither of which is true… no one really knows when and how and if – because the Chinese government, their decision making process is so opaque, there’s no way to predict it. Everything is speculation.”

Amid such conjecture, Chiang continued working in mainland China until just before the pandemic. “Most recently, I made a feature-length documentary… that was finished and released in 2019.”

It has not yet been shown in mainland China.

“It was about father-son artists, it was about ageing, it was about Alzheimer’s, it was about families, it’s about memory,” he says.

“I didn’t consider it to be a sensitive film… But of course if you talk about artists of a certain generation, you would touch on the Cultural Revolution… so the very mere mention of it put us in a censorship dilemma,” Chiang recalls.

“It’s one of those deals where they say, ‘well, we won’t accept this,’ and we would say ‘well, what would you accept?’ and they say, ‘we’re not going to tell you, you’re have to go figure it out.’ And of course we all know that self-censorship is the worst kind of censorship.”

Discussion turns to the increased pressures Hong Kong filmmakers face trying to get their work past the city’s censorship authorities, as well as a recent clampdown on the performing arts sector. Within the space of a few weeks, funding, plays and venues have been pulled.

“It’s just sad,” Chiang says. “I love Hong Kong.”

He has not visited since Beijing imposed its national security law on the city in 2020, criminalising secession, collusion with foreign forces, subversion and terrorism.

“I’ve actually been kind of avoiding it,” he says. “Not necessarily because I think something is going to happen to me… I just, I feel like it’s some little way of protesting,” he adds.

“A lot of the Taiwanese folks really… look to Hong Kong and the choices that, well, maybe not choices… things that happened to Hong Kong and what that means potentially for Taiwan if that’s the path that it goes down,” Chiang says. “Hong Kong is a cautionary tale.”

Chiang mentions in Island in Between that he is unsure when he might next visit mainland China.

“I actually haven’t really thought through it,” he tells HKFP, saying he had become more “visible” because of the Oscar nomination, which was announced on January 23.

“Interestingly enough, I have been producing for a couple of Chinese filmmakers and one film is being released where they were advised that I don’t put my name on it. So, who knows? I don’t know.”

For now, though, Chiang is forgoing the Lunar New Year break, flying from Taiwan to the US on Saturday for screenings and publicity in the run up to the 96th Academy Awards on March 11.

Of the awards ceremony, he says he is “very excited.” Anyone who doubts that should see his reaction to securing the nomination, recognition that puts him very much among – and not between – other celebrated filmmakers.

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Hongkongers Soft Liu and Soni Cheng moved to Taiwan more than two years ago when tough Covid curbs shut down the live music scene in Hong Kong. Now they’re happy to be home as they prepare to make their debut at the city’s biggest music festival, Clockenflap, where they will appear for the first time locally as Running Youth.

“We are constantly moving,” Soft said in Cantonese. “Clockenflap will be the first occasion Running Youth has ventured outside Taiwan – and back to Hong Kong – it’ll be interesting.”

See also: Hong Kong band Bad Math on making melancholy music to dance to ahead of their Clockenflap debut

Soft and Soni, perhaps better known locally as the vocalist and the guitarist for the four-piece indie band GDJYB, moved to Taipei in early 2021, part of an exodus.

By mid-2021, the city with a population of more than seven million had recorded a net outflow of close to 90,000 residents. While many booked a one-way ticket to places such as the UK and Canada, some also hoped to settle in the self-ruled island across the strait.

Soft, also a YouTuber, made a vlog which documented her and Soni’s departure. “We didn’t move to Taiwan because of work opportunities or anything, we simply decided to leave the unfamiliar place [that Hong Kong had become],” she said in the video.

Taiwan, with its vibrant indie music culture and a more mature market for independent bands, offered plenty of opportunities. Since releasing their first song, Sun will Rise Again, in August 2021, Running Youth have performed on various stages around the island, including at the iconic Megaport festival in Kaohsiung.

This year, their first album Our Adventure Begins earned them a nomination for a Golden Melody Award (GMA), one of the region’s most prestigious music accolades.

Soft and Soni benefited from the reputation they had earned in GDJYB and the experience they gained in their home city.

“We didn’t start from zero,” Soft said. “Perhaps we started from one,” Soni added.

Ahead of Running Youth’s Clockenflap debut on Sunday, Soft and Soni talked to HKFP about their journey to Taiwan, the GMA nomination, and the excitement of performing once again in front of a home crowd.

An adventure

Before moving to Taipei and starting Running Youth, Soft and Soni’s main gig was GDJYB – a four-piece indie band formed in 2012 with a rock-leaning sound that was known for its technique-driven live performances.

“GDJYB was deeply attracted to the Taiwanese indie band culture and had always wanted to explore making music in Taiwan,” Soft said. But it took the coming of Covid in 2020 to transform the thought into action.

Global cancellations of live music caused serious disruption to GDJYB, which relied heavily on local and international live performances.

At one point, Soni, the guitarist and also a session musician for hire, was practically jobless. For a brief period, Soft even tried to earn some cash as a Uber food delivery driver.

“And then we saw our Taiwanese friends posting live music shows on social media,” Soft said. “But nothing happened here. We were so jealous.”

Taiwan imposed some of the world’s strictest Covid restrictions, including tight border controls and tough quarantine rules to prevent the import of the disease. But the self-ruled island also had one of the lowest infection rates and social life was less disrupted than in mainland China and Hong Kong.

In March 2021, Soft and Soni decided to give the island a go. Their initial plan was to bring the whole of GDJYB along and commute between their home city and the island.

But by this point, drummer Heihei Ng had left the band and bassist Wing Chan decided to stay. And when Soft and Soni arrived in Taiwan, they soon realised they could not easily return to Hong Kong due to the strict travel restrictions.

For the next year, they did not leave the island and focused on making their music heard in their new surroundings. GDJYB was put on hiatus, and the duo Running Youth was formed.

Golden Melody Awards

In their first single Sun will Rise Again, Soft, who wrote the lyrics, was speaking to people temporarily afflicted by hopelessness and directionless.

“In the process of moving, we were still influenced by the story of Hong Kong,” Soft said. “Our songs then naturally recorded our feelings about what happened here, or our experiences during the transition [to Taiwan].”

For Soft, the migration process separated people not just physically but emotionally. 

“My dad called me every other day to check in with me,” she said. “But sometimes, [the people who stay] are unable to express their worries to those who’ve left. They don’t want to pressure people who are struggling to settle down.”

“For those who’ve left, they also don’t want to make the people who care about them even more worried. So sometimes they pretend to be fine,” Soft continued.

“Even if all of us are feeling sorry for each other, we find it difficult to communicate our feelings.”

Drawing on these sentiments, Soft wrote two tracks, To Those Who Stayed, and To Those Heading Away to capture the experiences of the move to Taiwan.

The tracks were featured in Running Youth’s first album, which earned them a Best Vocal Group nomination at the 34th Golden Melody Awards.

“It’s like the Grammys in the region,” Soft said. “And we were shortlisted for the award out of 24,604 applicants,” Soni added.

But the most inspiring thing to them was Taiwanese bands’ reaction to awards.

“Some of our Taiwanese friends celebrated [the fact] that they were not nominated,” Soft said. “That was a culture shock to me!”

Soft only came to understand their friends’ celebrations of “losing” when she realised the sense of self-affirmation behind it. 

“To be nominated for GMA, you need to have produced a full length album,” she said. “No matter what, that’s an embodiment of our hard work, that’s the baby for us musicians.”

“People were congratulating us, but we also saw a lot of friends drinking to celebrate their ‘failure.’ It’s not just about the nomination, they knew they had done their utmost.”

Although Running Youth did not win, they were proud to have been a part of the process. “It’s like, being qualified for the Olympics was already an achievement,” Soft said.

“We don’t know if we will ever be nominated again,” she said. “It could be a once-in-a-lifetime moment, we did treat that with the dignity it deserved.”

Return

When HKFP visited the duo in their old rehearsal room in the industrial neighbourhood of Ngau Tak Kok on Wednesday, Soft and Soni were exhausted from travelling and preparing for Sunday’s Clockenflap performance.

There will be no new songs but they will be performing their existing repertoire with a new instrumental arrangement by Soni and a full support band on stage.

“We have not yet played Running Youth’s songs to people in Hong Kong anyway,” the pair said. “This is new to us and to the audience.”

A visual backdrop – designed by Soft – will be projected onto the stage.

Despite their fatigue, the pair were excited about performing at Clockenflap. But they will head back to Taipei soon afterwards and it is uncertain how often they will return to play in their hometown.

“Other than missing our family and friends, we are adapting quite well [to life in Taipei],” Soft said.

“The present is comfortable, I have my own room – a bigger room – now… In some ways we are trying to live in the moment, to be happy and joyful.”

“I think Taiwan also changed me… it made me get rid of a lot of assumptions and expectations in life,” Soni added.

“I am more compassionate to myself and to others, and I am also living in the moment, taking one step at a time.”

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From a record store in Suzhou, to a former Taoist temple in Zhejiang province, to a dive bar called Wuhan Prison in China’s punk capital, Beijing-based post-punk duo Gong Gong Gong 工工工 have spent the last month working their way southwards across the country before arriving in Hong Kong ahead of their Clockenflap debut on Friday.

The Chinese capital, though, is more of an adoptive home for the pair. Guitarist Tom Ng sings in Cantonese, punctuating the chug-chug-chug of distorted blues-infused post-punk with a guttural drawl that oscillates between insouciant and assertive — an unmistakeable hallmark of his Hong Kong roots. Joshua Frank, born in Montreal and brought up in Beijing, matches bass melodies in lockstep.

Boundaries, for the band, are malleable. Their debut album Phantom Rhythm 幽靈節奏, named after instrumental patterns that emulate percussive elements without actual drums, was recorded in Brooklyn. The upcoming release Mongkok Duel 旺角龍虎鬥 was recorded as a split album with Taiwanese psychedelic two-piece Mong Tong in Hong Kong.

This bricolage of language and localities, expressed through nothing more – and nothing less – than a guitar and a bass, has garnered Gong Gong Gong a global following as particular as the band’s sound. “I mean, we are all of these things, but we’re actually, not really any of those things,” Josh said, referring to Gong Gong Gong’s many geographical labels as Canadian, Hong Kong, and Beijing bands. “Playing a show in Hong Kong or in mainland China or in the States or in Europe isn’t that much different for us.”

Despite widespread acclaim and international reach, smaller and more intimate settings are where the band thrives. “We’ve played big shows, like when we played in the US we played thousand-person venues, full house, no problem,” Tom told HKFP by video call on Wednesday while the pair waited for their Hong Kong flight in Beijing.

“But as performers, we would think that playing in a small venue is just more interesting for us. Playing on a big stage is kind of like playing to yourself, a little bit.”

Behind Gong Gong Gong’s approach to curating and organising gigs is an ethic typical of the independent music scene. “I mean, we like to do things ourselves,” Josh said. “There’s a reason why we haven’t done tours that are managed by a big promoter, because we’re happy with how we do it, and we can make the time to figure out the way that we like things to be done.”

The pair had just finished practicing for their Friday set when HKFP visited at President Piano Co. in Mong Kok, a legendary rehearsal studio established in 1978. “Maybe I’ll pretend to be physically bigger at Clockenflap,” Tom laughed. “It’s exactly what you’d do if you see a bear – you pretend to be bigger and scarier,” added Josh.

Homecoming

During the pandemic, the band was forced to unplug. But after Hong Kong reopened its borders and dropped its stringent Covid curbs early this year, Gong Gong Gong played a set at Soho House, riding on something of a pandemic-induced boom in the local indie scene. A mosh pit opened up to the rhythmic plodding of guitars at the Sheung Wan club, as if fans were releasing pent-up frustrations with every chord. “It was probably the most intense reaction we’ve had to our music, ever,” Josh said.

The local scene was left to its own devices during the pandemic. Without festival headliners to look towards, it seemed fitting, if not ironic, that Hong Kong would have to look within in the wake of the 2019 anti-extradition protests. And somehow it was able to thrive, if only for a few months.

The band’s relationship with city goes further back. Before Gong Gong Gong formed a little less than a decade ago, there was the Hong Kong indie scene of the 2000s — a fledgling counterculture hidden away in industrial buildings due to bureaucratic property rules and sky-high rents. “I didn’t move to Beijing until 10 years ago, so I was playing in other bands in Hong Kong. But the local audience didn’t really care about the local music scene that much,” Tom recalled. “Now it’s become such a big thing.”

Back in the mid-noughts, Tom played in another band, The Offset: Spectacles, sharing stages at gallery spaces such as Para Site with Nicole Au, who makes up one half of My Little Airport, the indie-pop duo that has become a Hong Kong pop-culture mainstay over the course of its two-decade career.

“There’s this new band I’m really curious about: Catscare,” Tom mused. He was referring to a newly formed group fronted by Nicole, with Nic of now-inactive post-hardcore legends The Lovesong on bass, and Paul McLean of Nan Yang Pai Dui, known otherwise as NYPD, on drums. “They were asking if we wanted to play a secret show in Hong Kong, but it didn’t work out, so maybe next time,” he added.

Language and borders

Ng named NYPD, which will return to the Clockenflap stage on Saturday following a tour spanning China, Taiwan, and Korea this summer, as well as noise virtuosos David Boring and experimental spoken-word duo XSGACHA 小本生燈 among Gong Gong Gong’s pantheon of Hong Kong acts.

As evident in NYPD’s brash, unadorned lyricism as well as Gong Gong Gong’s Wei Wei Wei 喂喂喂, in which Ng hammers the Cantonese colloquialism for “hey” over a riff that wouldn’t sound out of place in a spaghetti Western, language is the linchpin in the local underground scene.

While sonic elements are allowed to shine, the linguistic mystique of Cantonese in mainland China begins to wane the further south the band goes, replaced with more semantic familiarity.

“Once we get to Guangdong, you start having a lot more people who speak Cantonese – the reaction is really different, especially in Guangzhou,” said Tom. “You never really have 200 people singing along with us, so it was quite an experience.”

Hong Kong’s scene is smaller and less influential than overseas, made up of bands that struggle – or perhaps don’t bother – to take off internationally. And for some, the prospect of a northbound tour is a complex issue.

But in a way that’s reminiscent of Gong Gong Gong’s touring experience, other Hong Kong acts may not see performing in mainland China as such a different experience from touring in Taiwan or Japan. It’s a process of coming together with the punks, misfits, and outcasts in the crevices of each locale.

The challenge lies in navigating an entirely different system, Josh said. “There’s obviously some bureaucracy, and if you don’t know how things work, you need someone to show you the way a little bit. I mean, we don’t have Chinese passports, we have to stay in hotels that so-called ‘foreigners’ are allowed to be in, and deal with that kind of stuff. But at the same time, it’s actually really easy to tour in China.”

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On a winter’s night in 2021, Hong Kong band Bad Math opened to a full house wearing face masks and burdened by unspoken trauma.

It was almost two years into the pandemic. Social distancing measures had been eased to allow gigs, but an Omicron outbreak was looming. The show, called “Unnatural remedies & other forms of cures,” spoke to a time when the city needed catharsis following months of isolation and suppression.

“The feeling that there is no way out is reminiscent of our songs,” guitarist To Fok said, “so [our music] was a natural fit with the show.” On that night, Bad Math shared the stage with David Boring and An Id Signal, both more established on the local indie scene, and each band explored the show’s theme with their distinct musical styles. 

Bad Math was formed in 2018 and the band’s music is a blend of metaphorical lyrics – centred around hopelessness and a sense of being trapped – and a dancey, upbeat rhythm that exudes nonchalance. “As if the heaviness has turned into a sense of disappointment… and it’s okay, you can carry on,” drummer Dean Li said.

But that winter gig in 2021 was also a farewell show for the original lineup. Frontwoman Yuki Chan announced on stage she would be pursuing a master’s degree overseas; the audience shouted best wishes for her.

Much like the city itself, Bad Math has gone through a phase of “suspension” and is trying to move on. Now, after an almost two-year hiatus, the band is busy rehearsing with a new lineup for Clockenflap – the city’s biggest music festival – which returns to Central Harbourfront from December 1 to 3 after an off-schedule post-Covid comeback in March.

This time, the band will be joined by singer-songwriter Billie Ho – also known as Gwenji – on lead vocals. 

“It’s a valuable opportunity [to be invited by Clockenflap],” To said. “With the new line-up, we think it’s time to put out something new for everyone.”

Speaking to HKFP in Cantonese in their rehearsal space inside a large industrial building in San Po Kong – where local indie bands have gravitated due to the relatively affordable rent and tolerance for noise – three of the band’s members – To, Dean, and fellow guitarist Michael Chan – discussed the band’s past, their relationship with the city, and what playing for Bad Math means to them.

‘Incorrect’

“Some people confuse us with ‘math rock,’ but we are not,” To said as his fellow bandmates stressed the “bad” of their band name, laughing.

Unlike math rock, which is characterised by irregular beats and an odd rhythmic feel, Bad Math’s approach to music is simpler. They want to offset different elements of their instruments just a little, to piece together something not entirely “correct” in the musical sense.

“When we are writing songs, we often think if things are correctly aligned,” To said, referring to the tempo and the arrangement of instruments. “We thought… things should not always be correct, that’d be boring… so we began looking for something that was incorrect.”

“We have two guitars, a bass, a drum, a synth, and a vocal. We could, at different spots, move something ahead, something behind, and something in between,” To added.

Before Bad Math began making music together, To Fok, Dean, Yuki, and synth player To Lee were university buddies back in 2011. It was not until the guitarist To purchased his black Fender Jazzmaster in late 2017 that the group started making demos.

In Bad Math’s creative routine, guitarist To would throw out the backbone for a song as other members layered their own instruments on top. The lyrics were mostly written by To and Yuki, separately.

Bassist Hin Leung joined when the band began recording their first EP Mad Bath, released in October 2019. They followed that with full-length 2021 album Missing Narrative. But despite having several original songs in their arsenal, Bad Math had yet to play a live show.

“It was actually pretty odd for a band. Normally, a band may have played many gigs before releasing an album, but we have a different order,” To said.

In the second half of 2019, Hong Kong was embroiled in city-wide pro-democracy protests and unrest, sparked by a controversial proposed amendment to the city’s extradition arrangements.

Then, in 2020, the protests subsided as the Covid-19 pandemic emerged, putting a halt to virtually any social gatherings. That summer, Beijing imposed a sweeping national security law. Over the months that followed, numerous pro-democracy leaders and activists were detained, left the city or stepped away from politics, and Hong Kong’s once robust civil society crumbled. While authorities say the legislation has restored stability and peace to the city, it has been criticised by trade partners, the UN and NGOs.

By the time Bad Math could finally perform live in 2021, they were playing to an audience traumatised by recent events. While the band welcomed guitarist Michael to the line-up that year, members were also aware of Yuki’s plan to study abroad.

“We had the mentality back then that every show could be our last,” To said.

Neon City

On the band’s 2021 album Missing Narrative, one track was named Neon City.

The lyrics, written by Yuki, speak of losing hope in a home town, where people’s steps are watched and “newcome strangers” raise a gun.

Missing Narrative‘s album cover showed a wrinkled leaflet of a missing person. Explaining his idea, graphic designer Sunny Yuen told HKFP that the band wanted to convey a sense of loss in the city.

“We felt that common sense was lost, as was our voice and the power to narrate to an authority,” he said. “We could not even define ourselves.”

To, who wrote the lyrics for another three tracks on the album, did not specify any events that inspired him. Instead, he said the guiding thought was to “capture the emotions in the moment.”

“It’s like when you have watched some news, or seen something happen, and you have written something to seize those feelings.”

He said that while the broader environment had inevitably influenced his lyrics, he still liked to write on a more personal level, touching on private feelings. In this regard, he and Yuki were alike.

“Like the track Wall, it’s straightforward – you can’t climb over the wall, and you feel a sense of being oppressed,” he said. “But the wall could mean different things, it could be someone’s mental blocks, or the difficulties in someone’s upbringing.”

The song Farewell, the only Cantonese track in the album, shares a similar sense of intimacy beneath symbols of departure.

“I was imagining myself as someone who has to leave without saying goodbye.”

For Michael, the grim undertones of Bad Math’s lyricism were why he was drawn to the music in the first place. But that was not the only appeal.

“I was attracted to their message, and the use of beautiful metaphors,” he said. “I could sense their pessimism, but they were also a band of action… It was a fucking losing battle, but then they pressed on [in making music.]”

Michael said Bad Math’s lyrics were “really grim,” but the music was “straightforward” and “not too cringe.”

“Like how I feel about Farewell, it is a very chill song, almost a bossa nova song, but its story is sad,” he said, humming the melody. “There’s always an uneasy tension in Bad Math’s songs, but they are comforting to listen to.”

Drummer Dean, who is also the band’s sound mixer, said Bad Math had deliberately distanced the sound of their songs from the emotions evoked by the lyrics.

“We don’t want to be too obvious, that when a song is conveying sadness, then if we make sad music, that’s too aligned,” the drummer said. Instead, the music bolsters the lyrics with a weightlessness.

“The heaviness has turned into a sense of disappointment,” he said. “I think that’s the outcome.”

Dean added that the outcome was not predetermined, however, as band members did not have a clear vision before composing their own instrumental arrangements.

“We are simply following our instincts, what we feel is best for the song. Most of what I just said were my observations after our songs were made.”

Good time

After the 2021 winter gig, Bad Math pressed pause after Yuki left to study. Members were uncertain about the future, with their former vocalist’s return hanging in the air. But at the beginning of this year, with singer-songwriter Gwenji joining the line-up, Bad Math thought maybe the band could try to carry on.

The changes to the band’s line-up could be felt in the music, Dean said. “We sound a little brighter, a little sharper now. Some songs are less hopeless.”

It was the result of a different energy brought by the new vocalist, he said. But it could also be the members’ growth that was shaping their sounds.

“The original members are already in their 30s,” To said, pointing to himself and Dean.

“I have been thinking about the absurdity of our time,” he said. “[The city] has always been suppressed, but I don’t want to follow our old path in song writing. I want to come up with something different, in both our music and our message.”

The band has been working on a new song, To said, in which people are threatened by an unknown knifeman. “Someone is wielding a knife at us, but the identity of the attacker is not clear.”

When Bad Math takes to the Orbit stage at 12.45 pm next Saturday, the band will perform new songs live for the first time.

They have also begun working on the third album, but it was too early to talk about a release date, To said.

“We are not thinking too far ahead,” the guitarist said. “I just treasure every time we play together, every time we record. It’s already been a blessing to be able to make our third album.”

“I used to think that I had to achieve something whenever I went on stage,” Dean added.

“But now I am like, it doesn’t matter. As long as we are having a good time, we are enjoying the stage, it’ll be a good show.”

Additional reporting: James Lee.

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Inside a pitch-black underground drainage tunnel not far from a Hong Kong public housing estate, Countryside Volunteer Search Team (CVST) members Tai Wai-hung and Dixon Chan turned on their small flashlights and began chanting “Uncle Chan! Uncle Chan!”

The echo reverberated through the expansive tunnel as the pair carefully inspected the surroundings for any traces of the 71-year-old, who disappeared after leaving his home nearby more than a year ago. 

Their repeated calls yielded nothing but silence. There were piles of suitcases and other random objects such as a wooden table and a car tyre, but no sign of the missing man. 

Despite knowing the search was a long shot, Tai and Chan told HKFP they would keep revisiting old cases when they had time, in hopes of bringing peace to family members. Apart from such tunnel searches, they often take to the hills to look for missing hikers.

“People often ask why we do [voluntary searches]. Family members may not have the ability to climb hills or walk through dense forests, but we do,” said Tai during a search in early November. 

‘Assisting role’ 

The CVST, founded by a group of hiking enthusiasts in September 2005, is one of Hong Kong’s most active community groups helping to find people who go missing in the countryside. 

The city is famed for its signature skyscraper skyline. But 40 per cent of its area is made up of rugged and mountainous country parks, often densely vegetated.

CVST members took part in a high-profile hunt last month for a 17-year-old school student, who was found alive in a country park after being reported missing for around a week. 

At present, CVST has more than 100 registered volunteers and around 20 core members who are experienced hikers with outdoor activity qualifications. Among the founding members were outdoor activity leaders, ex-police officers and former members of the Civil Aid Service. 

According to its guidelines anyone who wants help must first report the case to police. The volunteer search team will only play an “assisting role” to official operations. 

Once the team has confirmed the missing person’s last known whereabouts were near the countryside, they try to access their internet account and search history with the help of family members, to narrow down the search area. 

Chan, one of the engineers at CVST, will trace the missing person’s mobile phone pings. 

Such “electronic footprints” are very useful to the volunteer searchers, as they can reflect the missing person’s mentality around the time of their disappearance, Chan said. 

“Are they a casual or a serious hiker? Or they don’t go hiking at all? Then why would they go hiking on that day all of a sudden? You can learn a lot about the person’s motive and personality [through the electronic records],” he said. 

Mishaps during Covid 

Hiking accidents in the city soared during the Covid-19 pandemic, with the number of requests for mountain search and rescue almost doubling from 328 in 2020 to 600 last year, according to government figures submitted to the legislature. 

The Fire Services Department recorded 125 injuries and two deaths in 2020, which rose to 282 and six, respectively, in 2021. The figures shot up further in 2022, with 329 injuries and 12 deaths. 

The growing mishaps could be due to a change in people’s hiking habits in recent years, Tai said, pointing to the increasing reliance on Google Maps and YouTube tutorials. Hikers may not be able to accurately determine the condition and level of difficulty of the route, or may venture onto unofficial paths that were not properly built. 

Dixon Chan said some content creators may promote hiking routes with amazing scenery in order to attract more views, and thus entice people without the right gear or training to tackle the hike: “In this era, people treat hiking as a tourist activity and they neglect training for such activities.”

Challenges 

CVST and other community search teams in Hong Kong are not officially recognised by the government. They can only rely on information obtained through the missing person’s family and friends, who sometimes have trouble obtaining evidence such as CCTV footage.

“There were times when we brought family members to shops and pleaded with the proprietors to give us their security footage,” Tai said. 

During the search for the secondary student in October, Cheung Yin-yu, senior station officer at the Fire Services Department, said the authorities had not collaborated with the volunteers but would release relevant information as long as it did not breach laws and regulations. She said there had been accidents involving volunteer searchers who needed to be rescued by official personnel. 

Tai told HKFP that collaboration and information-sharing between the government and community groups could speed up the search process by division of labour. The team only wanted “what was best” for the missing person, he said. 

Hiking uphill to find an individual in a vast mountain area is not only physically demanding. Tai and Chan agreed that it could be mentally taxing when the team narrowly missed the individual. 

To Tai, the most unforgettable search experience was when he was hit by a strong odour when the team discovered the body of a missing person. The odour stuck with him for days but he now relied on the memory of it to locate a missing person. 

The volunteer search team members urged hikers to leave the coordinates of their route with family and friends and only follow YouTube tutorials which had clear instructions. Do not go on hikes alone and use government-operated mobile applications such as Enjoy Hiking and  MyMapHK for location-tracking and more accurate map reading, they said. 

Asked if it was frustrating for the team to go home empty-handed at times, Tai said the team would treat it as a learning experience and reflect why it took them so many days to find the person, or see if they could narrow the search area in the next operation. 

“If you keep saying it is frustrating, then no one would go do these searches anymore,” Tai said. 

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Like much else in Hong Kong, the media landscape has changed dramatically since Beijing imposed a sweeping national security law on the city in 2020, with outlets closed and journalists put on trial.

As a result, self-censorship is increasingly inevitable, says journalism scholar Francis Lee – but that should not be seen as surrender, particularly for those who strive to maintain space for professional journalism.

Lee, a professor at the Chinese University of Hong Kong’s School of Journalism and Communication, has spoken extensively to journalists in the city about how they “manage risk” amid increasing legal and political uncertainty.

“To simply avoid risk is not risk management,” Lee told HKFP in an interview conducted in Cantonese after his findings were published in July. “To manage risk is to take risks when necessary.”

The emergent “risk culture” in the city was not limited to those in the media, he added. “Today, anyone who is still involved in the public sphere in Hong Kong will constantly assess and manage risks,” Lee said. That also applied to him. 

As a scholar specialising in journalism and social movements, Lee has played an active role in the city’s public sphere. He was an expert witness for the defence in the city’s first national security trial, when he presented research on the controversial “Liberate Hong Kong, revolution of our times” protest slogan.

The court later ruled that the phrase was capable of inciting secession, one of four crimes listed under the national security law. Since its implementation, the legislation has been criticised internationally for its broad definitions and alleged overuse, while the government maintains it has helped restore order in the city.

Unlike many public intellectuals who have chosen to keep a low profile or leave the city, Lee has stayed, and continues to study civil society and give talks on press freedom in Hong Kong. This summer, he published a Chinese-language book on how to read the news, covering topics such as media funding, political affiliation, professionalism, and disinformation. 

“When there is something you really want to do, you just have to try it. You know things may be different in Hong Kong today, and you might feel a bit worried or scared, but in the end you just have to give it a go,” Lee said.

‘Typhoon protection measures‘ 

While academia often lags behind social changes because of the time it takes for researchers to secure funding, Lee has tried to keep pace, closely following Hong Kong’s changing political landscape. He has studied the media’s role in a mass protest in 2003, the public memory of the 1989 Tiananmen crackdown, and the internet’s role in more recent movements.

“You just try to study things as they happen. Big-scale surveys and telephone interviews do cost a lot, but just going to the scene and doing interviews is affordable,” Lee said. “Sometimes, [we] need to pay for it ourselves first and consider funding applications later.”

At the height of the 2019 protests and unrest, Lee and three other scholars conducted a series of onsite surveys about participants’ motivations.

When the national security law reached the media sector – resulting in the closure of the city’s largest pro-democracy newspaper Apple Daily and independent online media outlets, Stand News and Citizen News – Lee felt he should follow the resulting changes. 

Apple Daily and Stand News stopped operations on June 24, 2021, and December 29, 2021, respectively, following police raids on their newsrooms and the arrests of editors and management staff.

In the wake of these events, Lee’s research team conducted 43 in-depth interviews with journalists and editors from 12 media outlets in the first half of 2022. Amid a rise in self-censorship – once a taboo newsroom topic that is now more openly discussed and debated – Lee also identified a strong sense of resilience. 

Journalists have developed various ways of assessing risks, such as studying the law and relevant court cases, staying alert to everyday “signals,” and evaluating situations based upon knowledge of mainland China’ s political system and how it has handled dissidents. 

Some journalists said they had made a “conscious choice” to reduce risk through minimal or “acceptable” self-censorship, Lee said. That might include carefully selecting which words to use when reporting on more sensitive topics, or incorporating soft news to show “the outlet did not confront the government all the time.”

One journalist told the research team that his outlet used the term “typhoon protection measures” to describe procedures employed when covering the anniversary of the 1989 Tiananmen crackdown. For example, when covering activists’ speeches, they would choose neutral terms to avoid being perceived as advocating on anyone’s behalf.  

For decades, Hong Kong was the only place on Chinese soil where events to honour those killed when the People’s Liberation Army dispersed protesters in Beijing on June 4, 1989, were allowed. However, the annual candlelight vigil in Causeway Bay was not permitted amid the Covid pandemic, and monuments to commemorate the victims have been removed from university campuses. This year passed without any formal observances.

“What we can see is an ongoing negotiation through which journalists try to reconcile the pressure to self-censor with their sense of professionalism,” Lee wrote in the paper published in July, arguing that this process was essential in “preventing risk management from becoming sheer risk avoidance.”

Sometimes media outlets did take risks even after assessing the pressures. One editor told the research team that their outlet had considered taking down some articles after authorities accused Stand News of sedition; during the trial opinion pieces, profiles and articles – 17 items in total – were identified as evidence of “seditious” materials.

In the end, editors of the outlet decided against removing any content. “Because they did not want to send the wrong signal and exacerbate the trend of society-wide self-censorship,” according to the research paper.  

Hanging in the balance

Hong Kong has seen a drastic decline in press freedom, according to an international index compiled by Reporters Without Borders. It dropped to 148th in 2022 from 80th in 2021 before rising eight places to 140th in 2023 – still near the bottom. 

Separately, the Hong Kong Journalists Association’s Press Freedom Index dropped to new lows last year, with journalists saying they were hesitant to criticise the central government.

While freedom of the media was low, Lee said the situation had “reached a balance” this year as there had been no new legal cases launched against media organisations or reporters. Additionally, independent media outlet The Collective was launched and existing ones, such as InMedia, remained in operation.  

“Every authoritarian country tries to reach a balance in the end. Through suppressing some voices to [what authorities see as] an acceptable level, other voices and media, which do not have great influence, can exist for a while,” Lee said. “That’s what already happened in Hong Kong.”

“But looking into the future, questions remain over whether space [for freedom] will continue to shrink. And this is something you can’t anticipate,” Lee said. “Just like whether there will be a war with Taiwan, it is subject to the nation’s policy, and the changing international landscape.”

‘Earned through actions’

In a process typical of Hong Kong families in the 1990s, Lee moved with his parents to Canada, before returning in 2003 after obtaining a PhD in political communications from Stanford University in the US.

“Things just unfolded naturally,” Lee said. That year, he witnessed around 500,000 Hongkongers rally against Article 23 – Hong Kong’s own national security law – and became interested in studying civil society, social movements and their interactions with the media. 

He did not anticipate the surge in protest movements over the 20 years that followed, as more people began to pay attention to public affairs. 

Over time, he began giving frequent interviews and sharing his findings with the press. Since 2014, he has been a regular Ming Pao contributor, and even with public debate muted, Lee speaks. 

He told local media that the city could no longer tolerate satire after a long-running political cartoon strip by Zunzi was axed by Ming Pao in May. In August, he appeared on an online radio show hosted by democrat Emily Lau, saying: “it is normal and reasonable for journalists to ask critical questions. That’s their responsibility.”

Lee said he could not turn down interview requests linked to press freedom and media development because those were his professional areas of expertise and interest. “I just can’t honestly say this is none of my business,” Lee told HKFP. 

He is frequently asked if he intends to leave Hong Kong in the near future. His answer is always the same: “never say never.” Currently some of his family have settled in the UK while some remain in Canada. 

But he still feels he “can do something“ in Hong Kong, at least for now. 

When a publisher approached him about writing a book to promote journalism to the public, Lee said yes without hesitation. While he did not see any risk in sharing his findings in a book, when it came to giving a talk at the Hong Kong Book Fair in July, Lee said he started to worry. 

“It’s an open venue and you just can’t control what questions will be thrown at you. Later, I decided to give it a try.”

The risk paid off, and the event went smoothly. 

“You can’t always completely eliminate concerns or worries. But if you don’t go ahead and do something, you won’t do anything. So you just have to try and be careful.” 

This year he has visited universities in Denmark and Japan to talk about the state of press freedom in Hong Kong. He has also taken a sabbatical, travelling between Taipei, Vancouver and Hong Kong.

At a bookstore in Taiwan’s capital, he recently shared his observations and findings on Hong Kong’s media landscape.

When prompted, he introduces himself as “a scholar supporting democratic movements.”

“But you have to be careful with your words, avoiding any chance of being mistaken as linked to Hong Kong independence, and never answering questions such as: ‘what can we do overseas [to support Hong Kong]?’” 

Ultimately, the space to speak out shifts constantly, he wrote in his book.

“When reports on certain genres and topics disappeared, we know that some space no longer exists. When a reporter published a serious piece, we saw space for journalism. Profession and liberty are things earned through actions.”

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When Niko Leung first asked to take some soil from a Hong Kong construction site in 2021, she came away empty-handed. Now, her odd-shaped studio on the edge of Sai Kung is home to several tonnes of dirt from different locations across the city. 

“This is the dirt we got from a construction site very nearby,” Niko tells HKFP, pointing to a reddish-brown mound, replete with rocks and clumps of soil, and which, she says, some local cats have taken to using as a toilet.

“It was [from] a landslide mitigation project. The site is basically a virgin site which has never been built [on] before, so the dirt is really clean, it’s not so dirty dirt. And it’s also very plastic.” 

Niko’s dirt will be transformed into clay as part of Hong Kong Soil, an initiative she co-founded with architectural designer Loky Leung in 2021 to research and reuse dirt discarded from building sites.

Were it not to become a handmade bird whistle or a pot for a scented candle, the construction waste would otherwise have ended up in a fill bank at one of Hong Kong’s landfills, waiting for an opportunity to be reused, or poured into the sea to reclaim land from the ocean. 

‘We wanted to make good clay’

Hong Kong Soil’s first project was a rammed earth bench, made possible by a grant from Design Trust. Learning about the ancient building technique from a week-long course they attended in mainland China – as well as from books – Niko and Loky compacted two tonnes of raw Sai Kung earth to create a softly curved bench, which was placed at Central Pier for three months. 

But, Niko says: “We really wanted to make good clay. We wanted to make tableware.” 

To achieve that goal, the product designer and former teacher has had to become a geologist, a chemist, a civil engineer, and a ceramicist. “It’s [very technical]. My brain is like…” Niko says, bringing her hands to either side of her head to suggest it had expanded.  

From her studio, tucked behind a gardening centre in Tai Chung Hau Village, she has conducted countless experiments, religiously noting the variables and results of each into colour-coded spreadsheets that betray a designer’s eye for exactitude. 

What she describes as a “tedious” process has paid off. “Now it’s really nice to throw,” she says. And, since speaking to HKFP, Niko’s clay has been lab tested and certified as safe to use for tableware.

Multiple steps stand between the raw soil and a supple, workable material; among them soaking, sieving, draining, and crushing. Before investing in a machine to do the latter, Niko was responsible for producing the fine powder that comes from subjecting soil to a hammermill; she crushed it by hand with a cast iron hammer. 

“Yeah, it’s a little insane to think about that. Also, in the summer it’s really hot; it’s really a workout. Yes, we grew a lot of muscle last year… and lost a lot of weight,” Niko says. 

Last October she hired an assistant, Valerie. “I’m really lucky to have her helping me because it’s been quite hard to find someone,” she says. Not only is Niko’s practice quite specialised and her studio remote, it also has no air conditioning – and not by necessity. 

Fans, high ceilings and openings on two sides of the triangle-shaped room allow the air to flow through. On the mid-May day when HKFP visited, a digital thermometer in the studio showed a temperate 26 degrees Celsius. But, Niko says, it reached 37 degrees last summer. 

“I wanted to keep it naturally ventilated somehow. Also, we wanted to use as little energy as possible,” Niko says. “I don’t really mind the heat so much. I think sometimes the more we live in a controlled air-conditioned environment, I think the more we… are not accustomed to the real environment,” she continued, adding that it was something of a “personal experiment.” 

“It’s also a little bit idealistic.” 

Local, sustainable materials

A similar instinct lies behind the Hong Kong Soil initiative; a desire to connect with and promote local materials in a tangible and sustainable way.

The idea took root during the early days of the coronavirus pandemic. “At the start of Covid… we had this period where we were very anxious. It was super stressful to get supplies… we ran out of toilet paper and masks, and then vegetables,” Niko says. 

“And I thought, because Hong Kong is so dependent on imports, when you’re so dependent on imports, you don’t have control of your supply. So, I thought, as a designer… can we find ways to use our own local materials and local clay?”

She had worked with ceramics while at design school in Eindhoven, in the Netherlands. “I wasn’t really into it back then, but the more I work with it, the more I find it really fascinating,” Niko says. “I think it’s how civilisation was shaped, in a way.”

In fact, Hong Kong has a history with ceramics – with clay quarries and brickworks once dotted across the New Territories – but the industry went the way of many others, relocating to mainland China from the late 1970s onwards. 

But while the quarries may be closed, there has been no shortage of development in recent decades, resulting in untold amounts of excavated earth ripe for recycling. 

In 2021, government figures showed that 3,646 tonnes of construction waste were sent to landfill daily. Much of that which could be of use to Niko and Hong Kong Soil is stockpiled for reclamation and site formation. But she thinks there could be other uses for it: namely, ceramics. 

The issue, Niko says, lies in convincing the powers that be to let her at it, a process that has proven challenging. In Hong Kong Soil’s early days, she wanted to get some dirt from a road expansion project just outside Sai Kung.

“We spoke to contractors, we spoke to the Development Bureau, the CEDD [Civil Engineering and Development Department], the EPD [Environmental Protection Department]. We called and we emailed and we tried to get permission to recycle,” she says. 

In the end, she contacted a company that already had permission to recycle construction and demolition materials, which helped her retrieve half a tonne. 

“But it’s already better,” she says. When it came to securing soil from another public works project – the recently opened Tseung Kwan O to Lam Tin tunnel – she was prepared. The director of the recycling company came, “he was very curious,” and Niko even took some ceramics down to the site to show the workers what could be made from what they were excavating. “And then it became a little bit easier.” 

She hopes to make tiles and tableware in the future, if she can convince the fill banks to share their store. But in the meantime she is busy. “Right now we are really trying to get our ceramic products going.” She is also occupied making more diffuser bricks for fellow Sai Kung brand BeCandle, a small-batch fragrance product factory that Hong Kong Soil has also made candle holders for. 

During the cooler months, Niko and Valerie host ceramic workshops with their Hong Kong clay, teaching how to make haniwa, earthenware figures used in funerary rituals in Japan, and bird whistles, or simply allowing people to get accustomed to working with ceramics. 

“The reason we did workshops also was to understand how people feel our clay,” Niko says. Most of those who have joined workshops have been beginners, with no experience. “But it’s fine,” she says. The response has been good and “the clay is really forgiving.”   

The sessions are paused for summer, though. Niko is not sure anyone could handle the heat.

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After leaving Hong Kong’s top court on a warm June morning, Bao Choy was overwhelmed by a mixture of jubilation and sadness. 

Embroiled in a legal battle since 2020, the veteran journalist had just won an unexpected victory when the Court of Final Appeal quashed her conviction for making false statements linked to accessing vehicle records for a documentary about the 2019 Yuen Long mob attack.

The judgement was hailed as a rare victory for press freedom, seen as increasingly under pressure in the city. However, it doesn’t mean things will simply return to normal.

“I won in the sense of social justice. Yet we’re very clear that even with the top court’s ruling, the government can do anything to change the game. It is not a long-lasting victory,” she told HKFP. 

Choy Yuk-ling, now 39, is better known as “Bao,” a nickname once given to her to describe her round face. But following her ordeal over the past three years, she has lost weight and her features have become more angular.

After her arrest in late 2020 she joined the Nieman Fellowship at Harvard University, then returned to her home city and established a new media outlet called The Collective – handling all the procedures associated with her court case along the way.

The Yuen Long mob attack on protesters and other passengers was seen as one of the key moments of the months-long unrest that shook Hong Kong in 2019, sparked by protests against a controversial amendment to the city’s extradition bill.

On July 21, 2019, over 100 rod-wielding men in white stormed Yuen Long MTR station, leaving 45 people injured – including journalists, protesters, commuters and pro-democracy lawmaker Lam Cheuk-ting. Police were criticised for their slow response to the incident, with some officers seen leaving the scene or interacting with the white-clad men.

Bao was making a documentary about the events that night for Hong Kong Connection, a programme on government-funded broadcaster RTHK. To trace the owners of vehicles pictured at the scene of the attack, and to establish who might have been involved, Bao and her team accessed vehicle records from a government website. It was this that led to her arrest.

Even after her court victory, she is unwilling to celebrate a win. “The damage has already been done,” she said. 

“The police said they followed the law [to arrest me]. But the outcome was one stone, several birds – it hit Hong Kong Connection and it hit RTHK. There was also discussion about whether the government had hoped to suppress journalists reporting 721, to which I had no answer,” Bao, referring to the attack by the date it occurred, as is common in Hong Kong. 

Dubbed “Master Bao” by supporters and hailed as an unwavering icon of Hong Kong journalists, Bao said she did not see herself as making waves. Instead, like many Hongkongers, she feels she is simply struggling against the tide of change sweeping through the city.

‘A luxury’

Five months after her arrest, Bao was convicted of “knowingly making a false statement” to access vehicle owner information for the documentary. She was fined HK$6,000 at the West Kowloon Magistrates’ Courts.

She shed tears when she walked out of the courtroom, as crowds chanted: “Journalism is not a crime!” 

The arrest and conviction of a journalist shook Hong Kong, at a time when such events were still rare. Nearly 100 journalists waited for her response outside court.

In the week following her conviction, she agonised about whether to appeal. “If I filed an appeal, I should be ready to go to the top court. That usually means a commitment of around three years, and I would have to pay a sum of seven digits for legal fees if I lose in the top court, as I would have to pay legal fees for the other side, ” Bao said. 

While her worried family advised her to be “rational” and just let the matter go since she had not been sentenced to jail, Bao felt her conviction was not just a personal matter but an attack on the entire media industry.

In Hong Kong, you must declare your reasons for wanting to obtain vehicle data on the government-run website. From a scroll-down menu, Bao clicked “other traffic and transport-related matters,” which the prosecutor argued did not include journalism.

“People in the industry would not have dared to access vehicle data with my conviction,” Bao said, adding it would have a chilling effect on everyone in the media. “If I didn’t (file an appeal), I would probably regret it. And that’s something irreparable, that cannot be undone.”

Driven by a sense of responsibility to her profession and a desire to defend press freedom, she said her “sensibility prevailed.”

When she lost her appeal in the High Court last November, her legal team immediately started to file a second appeal. 

“I’d made up my mind to appeal to the end,” Bao said, comparing her situation to the thousands of Hongkongers – including some employed in the media – who were arrested and jailed over the past few years.  

Since her conviction, Hong Kong has seen the closure of Apple Daily newspaper, Stand News and Citizen News. When Bao walked out of the High Court, the number of journalists awaiting her was reduced to around 10.

Unlike others, Bao did not have to face losing her personal freedom. “All along, what I dealt with was mainly about legal fees,” Bao said. “It is a luxury for me to resist!”

A broken egg

Veteran journalist Cheng Sze Sze had worked with Bao to produce investigative documentaries for RTHK’s Hong Kong Connection before Bao’s arrest. 

“I still remember at the beginning I dared not talk with Bao, though I knew she was going through a period of crisis. There was tons of sadness and guilt… I kept asking myself: Why was she arrested, not me? Why was she forced to leave RTHK while I could stay for two more episodes?” Cheng recalled.  

Following the arrest, RTHK immediately suspended Bao. Cheng, however, stayed for a while. From 2021, the government drastically transformed the public broadcasting service; replacing its head, transferring producers of Hong Kong Connection to other departments, deleting content, and making many senior staff quit. 

“It was heart-wrenching seeing the changes at RTHK, ” Bao said. Before she rejoined RTHK as a freelancer in 2019, she had worked at the broadcaster for over 10 years, a period when she enjoyed editorial freedom. It was like she was “sheltered under a large tree”, she told HKFP previously. 

“But later I thought to myself: it’s just like many things happening in Hong Kong; When the nest is toppled, how can the eggs remain intact? It’s a broken egg and no one can save it.” 

When she left Hong Kong in August 2021 for the one-year Nieman Fellowship at Harvard University, Bao did not expect to witness “more and more eggs broken in Hong Kong” while she was thousands of miles from home.

A year after the Beijing-imposed national security law came into effect in June 2020, the city saw a broad crackdown on civil society and media. Bao said she wept while reading news of Hong Kong, and began to self-censor when invited to give talks about the city. 

“I just couldn’t help thinking: ‘if I talk about something, would it mean I couldn’t return to Hong Kong’?” She also felt guilty about being unable to experience all the radical changes in her home city. 

‘Inner voice’

Campus life at Harvard was a different world. Bao took courses centred around social justice and reconciliation, dictatorship and populism, war and peace, leadership, and also documentaries.

In her favourite course Leadership from inside out: Self, Identity, and Freedom, students were encouraged to recognise their various identities, and how those identities influence their “inner voices.” 

Bao grew up in a low-income household in Yuen Long. She didn’t have much by way of entertainment except for going to public libraries and watching television. It was an episode of Hong Kong Connection, featuring a social worker serving ethnic minorities in Hong Kong, that sparked her dream of becoming a journalist. 

“You realised that there were powerless people in need of help. We might offer help by becoming a journalist – somehow I gained that feeling,” Bao told Initium Media in 2021.  

She joined Hong Kong Connection in 2012, seven years after starting in the television industry following her graduation from university. 

And after completing her fellowship in the US, she went back to a city in the midst of major changes.

Every small change

“When I returned to Hong Kong, I didn’t want to get a job in mainstream media any more, ” Bao said. She soon came up with the idea of establishing a small-scale media outlet to cover local news, focusing on feature stories. 

“We have to admit that Hong Kong is gradually getting worse. And it will continue to deteriorate, ” Bao said. “But it is still important to meticulously document every small change of the city. ”

“For those who are still living here, every small change affects us, right?”

Setting up a new independent media outlet in Hong Kong is considered tough and risky. “Our friends kept telling her ‘you should be mentally prepared – we’re now living in a complete different Hong Kong’,” said Fanny Kwan, Bao’s friend and also a former producer at RTHK.

“Apart from the difficulties of dealing with red lines and money, it is also very hard to hire passionate and qualified journalists as many of them have emigrated or turned to other professions, ” Fanny told HKFP. “But Bao is very persistent. You can’t change her once she has made up her mind. “

With the efforts of Bao and co-founder Lui Tsz Lok, The Collective was officially launched in February. 

Over the past four months, it has covered how former district councillors and small groups persist, the current situation of university student unions, and the arrests on the 34th anniversary of the Tiananmen crackdown, as well as stories about injured workers and their rights. 

“Currently we don’t have many limitations as to what can’t be covered – except for issues on which the court has ruled, such as the slogan ‘Liberate Hong Kong, revolution of our times’,” Bao said. 

But, Bao said, the outlet was still struggling to attract subscribers and “take root.”

An ordinary woman

Recently, veteran journalist Cheng wrote a profile of Bao for Ming Pao: “Every time when she left the court, she would scroll her phone to check if her pictures [in the news] were pretty,” Cheng wrote. “Indeed, she is just an ordinary woman. If she can defend press freedom, persist until the end, and manage her fears, why can’t we?”

Bao said: “The changes in the political situation in Hong Kong are ongoing, and it is unclear when they will come to an end. The wave is vast, and there seems to be no end in sight. It’s so big that we can’t even see the edges and where we stand in the midst of it.”

But she knew she could do is to persist as a journalist, “to document every small change of the city.”

Bao herself said she was just struggling in the tide without having a clear picture of how big the waves are.

Bao is still waiting for the government to return her fine of HK$6,000. She has considered donating the sum to an NGO.

“But my friends said I should mount and frame the cheque. That’s a better idea I think, for the sake of this memory!”

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Throughout the Covid-19 pandemic, even when humans hoping to cross Hong Kong’s border with mainland China were subject to at least 21 days of quarantine, one group was able to travel into and out of the city with relative ease: racehorses. 

Last September, the Hong Kong Jockey Club (HKJC) – which holds a government-granted monopoly over the city’s betting and horse racing industries – announced a record breaking HK$290 billion turnover for 2022-23. “In a year in which Hong Kong was hard hit by the pandemic, the Club raced on,” it said, adding that – in turn – it returned “a record HK$33.6 billion to the community.”

In part, horses under the HKJC were able to race on in the city because they were able to continue to train in mainland China – largely thanks to the Equine Disease Division, a branch of the Agriculture, Fisheries and Conservation Department (AFCD) that established bio-secure bubbles on either side of the border long before most of us were familiar with the concept. 

Equine Disease Free Zone

“The Equine Disease Division started in June 2017, and the main objective was to facilitate the movement of horses from Hong Kong to Conghua,” Patrick Lau, a senior veterinarian with AFCD who specialises in equine disease, told HKFP. 

About four hours’ drive by cross-border horse float from the city, the Hong Kong Jockey Club Conghua Racecourse was designed and built as the equestrian venue for the 2010 Asian Games in Guangzhou, in mainland China, before being transformed into a supplemental stable and training ground for Hong Kong’s race horses. 

“Now, Conghua is what is called an Equine Disease Free Zone [EDFZ],” Lau said. 

These zones are established according to guidelines from the World Organisation for Animal Health. Contrary to their name, they are not completely free from disease – “that would be impossible,” as Lau said – but are free from specified multiple diseases. 

“We have 14 equine-specific diseases that we try to keep out,” Lau said. Among the conditions are equine influenza, equine infectious anaemia, and equine viral arteritis. “Since 2017, we have kept it at zero cases of these 14 [diseases] successfully,” he added. 

There are some 1,200 race horses in Hong Kong, all of which arrive in the city from overseas to participate in the sport. After undergoing a pre-export quarantine, the horses are whisked off to an HKJC quarantine facility in Sha Tin for a further 14 days’ isolation before being allowed to move between Hong Kong and Conghua – which is where Lau comes in.

He leads a team of four permanent staff – himself and three veterinary technicians – at the Equine Disease Division, although part-time staff are hired to help with horse inspections.  

“For each of the horses that travels to Conghua northbound, I’m responsible for checking them healthwise – that they’re fit for travel, they’ve got their vaccinations up to date, and their fever cases have been cleared of all those 14 diseases,” Lau said. 

Samples are taken and tested in a clean, clinical laboratory currently located in a combination house on the grounds of the Tai Lung Veterinary Laboratory, itself perched on the edge of Fanling Golf Course. 

“We are in the process of building up our capacity and scope with our laboratory,” Lau said, adding that he was looking forward to moving into the division’s permanent home in the Animal Management and Animal Welfare Building Complex currently under construction in Kai Tak. “I think we have the top two floors, so that’s exciting as well, but at the same time it means a lot of work,” he said of the move, which is expected to happen in 2024. 

Accredited through the Australian National Association of Testing Authorities, the Equine Disease Division is currently certified to test for seven of the 14 diseases. “Previously, a lot of the diseases had to be sent out to Britain, the States, for confirmation and testing, screening even,” Lau said. “Now, we can pretty much do a lot of the testing ourselves.” 

Bubble to bubble security

After the horses have been cleared for travel, Lau issues an animal health certificate. “And same vice versa, coming back to Hong Kong,” Lau said. 

“It’s pretty much bubble to bubble,” he added. With its high biosecurity – Lau and his team are required to shower and change to enter the EDFZ – “it literally looks like Jurassic Park.” 

Occasionally, Lau said, horses are withdrawn from travel. “It would be the odd occasion that they had a fever two days ago, it wasn’t recorded – more or less it’s a human error rather than really something has happened,” he said. 

Lau has, however, been on the front line of a major equine outbreak before. 

In his office, a framed newspaper cutting with the headline “Flu injection protects cup” shows a young Lau standing next to a bay horse brandishing a syringe. “That was me in 2007,” he said, “when Australia had a big outbreak of equine influenza.”

Because of strict border controls in place to stem the import of exotic pests and diseases into Australia, that was its first horse flu outbreak. To make matters worse, the horse population had never been exposed to the virus and, not being vaccinated, were fully susceptible. At its peak, 47,000 horses were infected in New South Wales. 

Lau, who was working as a private veterinarian in Australia at the time after graduating as a doctor of veterinary medicine from the University of Melbourne in 2005, mobilised to contain and stop the spread of the virus – helping with sampling, testing, and vaccinating. “We started vaccination, for me it was a milestone,” he said. 

Within six months, the disease was eradicated. 

This experience was fundamental for Lau’s future. “That’s why I’m now… developing this biosecurity and control,” he said. 

“You can’t say it’s OK to have outbreaks, but you’re prepared for them. That’s the whole thing I’m promoting as well. Like the whole thing with Covid-19… you take the experience and hopefully you learn.” 

Lau said his team was not too badly affected by the pandemic. “We were allowed to do a bit of shift work… we were set up in isolated labs, you had your lunch in shifts… it was teamwork and we worked around the policies and we managed,” he said. 

In a number of ways, the horses – that continued to travel across the border for training and back again for racing – were less affected than many in the city. 

“But the good thing was, explaining this bubble to bubble idea, I think people got it.”

Correction 22/5/2023: An earlier version of this article incorrectly stated that the Equine Disease Division would move into its permanent home in the Animal Management and Animal Welfare Building Complex in Kai Tak in 2027, when in fact it should make the move in 2024. We regret the error.

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When Luke Ching Chin-Wai put up his own advertisement at a MTR station in March, almost every Hong Kong news outlet flocked to cover the new project by the city’s best-known MTR cleaner.

The station billboard – rare because it was initiated by an employee rather than an advertiser or management – was crowdfunded at Art Basel last year. Instead of promoting products, its message is simpler –  the correct way to dispose of them.

“Please don’t throw your unfinished drinks in rubbish bins,” says a message accompanied by a few red heart emojis. “Have you thought about us [the cleaners]? (smiley face).”

This is not Ching’s first creative labour rights campaign. The grey-haired 51-year-old cleaner, who is also an artist, a freelance columnist and a part-time university lecturer, has started various rights movements since 2007, with demands ranging from chairs for security guards and cashiers to Covid-19 subsidies for cleaners.

Ching’s projects have been frequently featured by major news outlets over the past decade and his popularity has risen again in recent years – especially after the political overhaul in the city.

In June 2020, Beijing inserted national security legislation directly into Hong Kong’s mini-constitution – bypassing the local legislature – following a year of pro-democracy protests and unrest. It criminalised subversion, secession, collusion with foreign forces and terrorist acts, which were broadly defined to include disruption to transport and other infrastructure.

After the security law was implemented, at least 58 civil society organisations – including unions, churches, media groups, and political parties – disbanded. The trend accelerated in the second half of 2021, with bastions of Hong Kong’s pro-democracy movement crumbling within months.

“There were no more rights petitions after 2020, and a lot of limits were set for unions… I guess reporters want something that shows how small changes can still be achieved in this climate – changes as small as a chair at the workplace,” the artist told HKFP.

Ching said a similar situation existed after the 2014 Umbrella Movement, when protesters occupied the streets for 79 days but failed to achieve any of their demands. Most were downcast at the outcome but Ching felt even more motivated to take his activist art to the next level.

No role within the system

Ching’s artistic journey began in the mid-90s when he enrolled in an arts programme at the Chinese University of Hong Kong (CUHK). As someone not particularly interested in academia, he liked the way an arts education allowed him to focus on his favourite topics without having to memorise theories.

After completing his Master of Arts degree at CUHK, Ching travelled to the United States in 2000 for a one-year residency at a contemporary art museum, returning to Hong Kong a year later. In those days, Hong Kong did not offer much in terms of art display space or galleries, but a rising interest in local issues caught Ching’s attention. 

“Art was usually about abstract concepts, rather than down-to-earth matters… but with the social atmosphere at the time, art changed, “ Ching said. He pointed to the mass protests against the demolition of the Star Ferry Pier in 2006 as a turning point that made him feel: “we could all run this place together.”

In 2007 he began his foray into activist art with a “chair movement,” which inspired many of his subsequent works. The idea came to him when a security guard at the Hong Kong Museum of Art told him of his exhaustion after standing all day.

Ching then wrote a comment in the museum guest book, asking the director to provide chairs for guards. “The security guards were so happy; other guards asked me to write that on their guest books as well,” Ching said with a smile. 

The artist started to invite others to sign the museum guest book, “I think a teacher brought their whole class to sign,” he said. Chairs were finally provided for the museum’s guards after a six-month campaign.

Ching himself began working as a guard in 2013, and later as a Circle K and supermarket cashier, along with other jobs often viewed as menial. His experiences in various workplaces inspired his art and also his social activism.

Ching transformed the experience of working as a security guard into an exhibition at an art space called Para Site in 2016, but the artist has also initiated several creative – and offbeat – projects. He has a collection of photos of him using fallen leaves to address a former government official about Covid-19 subsidies for outsourced transit cleaners. He also launched a competition for people to create pins to express their negative feelings about work in a subtle way.

Ching’s chair movement ended up being a huge success, as the labour authorities later formulated guidelines for employers to protect staff who need to stand for a long time. “I’d say there aren’t any retail brands in Hong Kong that would dare to not provide chairs for staff anymore,” Ching said.

The artist did not take full credit for the result. He said it was also the work of ex-lawmakers, such as Eddie Chu, who has been detained for subversion since 2021, and unions, including those that later disbanded due to safety concerns.

If there used to be several pillars supporting labour rights advocacy in the city, activist-artists like Ching may be some of the last still standing. Ching said that his role was to make certain social issues visible to the public, while it was up to lawmakers to bring those problems to the attention of the government.

“But it’s more difficult now… we do not hold any office, and we are nobody inside the system. However, as a civil citizen, I think we need to come up with some new methods,” Ching said.

“I don’t know exactly the new methods are yet. I guess we just have to use our imagination.”

During several social movements in Hong Kong, including a comparatively obscure and small-scale left-wing protest in 2011 inspired by the Occupy Wall Street movement, Ching said he saw the possibility of what community could be.

“We had free schools there, studying economic alternatives to capitalism and a market economy.”

Ching found the concepts amusing, especially when everyone knew that it was impossible for this financial hub to abandon capitalism. The 2011 Occupy Central movement “was not trying to change anything specific, but to experiment, to imagine other possibilities,” he said.

During the 2014 Umbrella Movement, he was working as a security guard at the Polytechnic University of Hong Kong. At the time, the university was relatively open, he recalled, instructing guards to stop police from entering the campus and to protect a statue of the Goddess of Democracy. The only time the artist felt awkward was when he was asked to discourage students from drawing graffiti on campus.

Fast forward to 2023 and all pro-democracy monuments have disappeared from Hong Kong universities after the implementation of the Beijing-drafted national security law. Unlike many pro-democracy Hongkongers, Ching said he did not emotionally suffer from the failure of major protest movements, as he was moved by the movements themselves regardless of the results. 

“The 2014 Occupy movement itself is a veto of the system. It… showed that we have the ability to build a better model,” he said.

The key question about any social movement, Ching added, is how to extend its spirit of community and democracy to the wider community.

“Can we, as civil citizens, take charge and set the agenda for advocacy ourselves, instead of the other way round, and let the government decide what needs to be “advocated” next?” Ching asked.

He added that everyone should take an active role in caring for others, rather than relying solely on social workers, “[O]ur identity should be fluid, so that we won’t be defined by the system, so that we could find our new way out.”

When activist art evolves 

Ching was determined to step up his game and demand structural or even revolutionary changes in the two years after the Umbrella Movement. “Before 2016, I was only working on individual cases and issues. After 2016, it became a new movement,” he said, adding that he also felt obligated to seek stronger labour rights after the 2019 protests and unrest against the extradition bill.

He kept working in low-income jobs, while also curating exhibitions and teaching university students.

Since November 2021 he has been working one day a week as a part-time contracted cleaner at Tai Wai MTR station.

The job includes wiping every gate, ticket machine and billboard in the station lobby. “[There is] no way anyone could possibly wipe them all in one day, so I do it selectively,” Ching said, grinning.

He was inspired to take the side gig when the government announced a freeze on the minimum hourly wage of HK$37.50. Outsourced MTR cleaners – who are still on minimum wage – were one of the worst-hit groups.

Throughout the past 18 months the artist has been a thorn in the MTR’s side, protesting against an cleaning incentive scheme and putting up the billboard in the station where he works.

However, buying an advertisement spot was not easy. The MTR asked Ching to make numerous modifications, including covering up the cleaners’ uniform he was wearing in the billboard.

“As a cleaner who has really been working here for a whole year, I just wanted to voice the predicament I faced through the billboard. Don’t they feel shame? They should be the one putting up that advertisement,” Ching said.

Displaying such an advertisement for two weeks costs HK$10,000, while the monthly income of an outsourced cleaner is less than HK$9,000, “I think this type of absurd logic is the norm for us outsourced MTR cleaners,” Ching added.

Still, it generates room for negotiation. “Next time, we could perhaps put up an advertisement about, say, the minimum wage,” the cleaner said.

Artist or cleaner?

A few weeks ago, Ching discovered that instead of referring to him as an artist-activist as most news outlets did, Now TV simply referred to him as “MTR cleaner.” He was exhilarated, writing on his Instagram account: “I finally earned this identity on the news: I am an MTR cleaner. Thank you!” 

However, Now TV changed his title to “artist” moments later.

Ching told HKFP he did not resent the title of “artist,” but he thought the identity of an artist should maintain its fluidity. “Whenever we call someone an artist, people will make certain assumptions. They think there’s no need for further explanation, but it’s not the case.”

Asked which title he preferred, Ching answered “cleaner, and labour researcher.”

Asked about his finances, the labour researcher replied: “I don’t have a savings habit, but the money I have earned has been enough for myself. My wife doesn’t request much from me, that’s her biggest support. Therefore, I’m quite used to this lifestyle.”

He did want a breakthough, he told HKFP. 

Ching’s weekly routine involves teaching for three days and working as a cleaner for one day. He spends the remaining time writing for the cultural section of a local newspaper, communicating with fellow workers and trade unions, and serving as a social media editor for his own page – a platform for information on the grassroots’ working conditions.

“I haven’t taken a break for a long time. Artists don’t take breaks. One of my biggest takeaways from working as a cleaner is that when the grassroots workers are off work, at least they really no longer need to think about work anymore,” Ching told HKFP.

“But of course, it’s different, because I’m doing what I’m interested in,” he added.

“I don’t know if I will continue to work like this in the future, but I’m confident that once you find your interests, they do not just disappear… On the topic of labour rights, I will always find the motivation to continue exploring.”

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It’s not the career choice for many in their twenties, but Ming Tai has amassed more than 47,000 followers on his Instagram page, where he shares stories from his work in the funeral industry.

While a lot of people might be taken aback at the prospect of working with corpses, it did not take Ming Tai, a pseudonym, long to adjust. His work, he said, is aimed at promoting the concept of dying with dignity. In recent years – during the Covid-19 pandemic – he has found himself particularly busy.

He began working in the morgue of a public hospital after applying for a transfer from his job as a porter on the wards. On his first day he was left alone when his colleague went to buy lunch.

“While I was waiting, I heard a noise coming from the fridge [refrigerated corpse containers],” he said. It sounded like someone knocking on the door. “So I went outside to wait for my colleague.”

The colleague told Ming Tai off and explained that the noise came from the cooling system.

“My colleague said: ‘Well, there are two things you could do if there are door knocking sounds, either you open the door, or you call the police.’” 

“From then on I understood that a lot of things were only my imaginary fears.”

After the 2019 extradition bill protests broke out, he left the mortuary and began working in a district councillor’s office. There were many deaths from natural causes in the area the councillor represented.

Eventually he decided to set up a company which specialised in clearing the possessions and cleaning the homes of those who have died. With the permission of their families, he shares photos of cherished possessions and final notes with his Instagram followers.

HKFP spoke to Ming Tai in Hung Hom on a cold, windy January afternoon as he was rushing back from a funeral in Happy Valley. Wearing a short-sleeved black polo shirt, the 25-year-old seemed impervious to the chill. 

He cast his mind back to January 2022, when Omicron had recently arrived and Hong Kong’s fifth and deadliest wave of Covid-19 was beginning. It would leave hospitals and mortuaries overwhelmed. 

Photos of elderly patients shivering in the open air on gurneys, bodies piled up inside hospitals, and shipping containers turned into mortuaries made international headlines.

Ming Tai was called in to help in the mortuary of a public hospital in the New Territories. In between juggling the demands of his own company and those of the hospital, he had no private life at all. 

“It was too miserable a time for Hongkongers,” Ming Tai recalled. 

“I knew of some cases where dead children had never taken off their face masks from the moment they were born to when they died.”

“The most ironic thing was that when I opened one body bag, the child still had a face mask on, even though it was pulled down.” 

At the height of the fifth wave, Hong Kong’s death rate from Covid-19 death was the highest in the developed world,  according to a Bloomberg study of Johns Hopkins University data. 

With the overwhelming number of fatalities and a shortage of manpower, families faced long delays in trying to settle the affairs of their loved ones. 

“Even though the funeral services industry is very organised, the support was insufficient,” said Ming Tai. 

Hong Kong has a very efficient system compared to much of Asia, he said.

“But why did we let it slip during the fifth wave under such conditions? There are things that are actually foreseeable: why did we handle it in such a way?”

Some families, he said, had to wait over a month to receive the necessary documents from the government.

Drawing on his experience, he had some advice for Hongkongers in the wake of the city’s epidemic.

“Treasure what you have, be true to yourself, and if there is something that you want to do, and it is not a bad thing, just do it,” said Ming Tai.

“I don’t know whether there will be another pandemic, or whether more people will die. But you should not wait until then to figure out how to live your life.”

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LATEST ON COVID-19 IN HONG KONG

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Clockenflap, Hong Kong’s signature live music and arts festival, made a triumphant return to the city in early March, selling out for the first time in its 16-year history. No sooner had the Sunday night headliners, legendary US hip hop collective the Wu Tang Clan, closed their set than the organisers gave festival goers something to smile about: Clockenflap was coming back for a second 2023 outing in December. 

Weeks later, and another announcement emerged from the Clockenflap camp: US-based global entertainment company Live Nation Entertainment had acquired a controlling interest in Clockenflap Festivals, the brand behind the three-day event and live music series Clockenflap Presents. 

Despite that majority stake – and the influence it traditionally ensures over corporate decisions – two of Clockenflap’s three co-founders, Managing Director Mike Hill and Music Director Justin Sweeting, were keen to assert their continued autonomy over operations in a video interview with HKFP on Tuesday evening. 

“We still run an independent business,” Sweeting said. “We operate independently outside of that Live Nation touring universe. Our team will continue to create and manage and produce our festivals and events like we’ve always done,” he added. 

Hill echoed his colleague, saying: “I don’t think the festivalgoers will really see any profound difference. Certainly, that’s the expectation and that’s what’s underwritten into the deal.” 

Ticketflap, an online events listing and ticketing platform that is owned by Total Ticketing and is a partner of Clockenflap’s, was not part of the acquisition. “[Ticketflap] was very much kept out of that part of the deal – that was by choice,” Hill said. “Ticketflap will continue to operate as it is and we have the rights under our deal to continue to ticket however we wish to, so, that’s what we’ll intend to do.”

When asked whether prices would rise, or festival goers would see the huge booking fees or price gouging practices of Ticketmaster – Live Nation’s ticketing platform – Hill said: “we’re not in any way required to use Ticketmaster, we have no knowledge of what their plans are for Hong Kong… we are a separate ticketing company, we work independently, I don’t know what they’re up to.” 

He declined to say how much the acquisition was worth, but said it had been some time in the making. Since launching the festival at Cyberport in 2008, expanding to the site now occupied by West Kowloon Kowloon Cultural District and then moving to its current location at Central Harbourfront, HIll said “we’ve had many suitors.” 

What was different about the Live Nation deal, Hill and Sweeting said, was timing. 

The pandemic crippled Kong Kong’s live music scene, with a ban on performances in place for more than two years. A survey conducted by the Musicians Foundation last June found that more than half of those employed in the industry had suffered from anxiety and depression in the past year, while live music venues were among those permanently shuttered.

After the festival was cancelled at the last minute in November 2019, with organisers citing “uncertainty” amid ongoing protests in Hong Kong, the coronavirus kept Clockenflap off the city’s calendar until this month. 

“From a live events perspective, it was devastating,” Sweeting said, although both he and Hill said they had remained optimistic, and kept busy. “There were a lot of things going on… but, yes, it was time to get out and do a festival again,” Hill said of the recent three-day event. 

Emerging from the pandemic, he said, “seemed an opportunity for us to really knuckle down and really do something and make a difference… by having the power of Live Nation behind us, that could only be better.”

Sweeting added: “This was the right time and the right deal precisely because we have this autonomy and precisely because we can have these assurances that we can do it the way we’ve always believed [we should] do it. And… they understand that’s the value that we bring to the table.” 

Part of that value came from retaining the existing team. “We’ve managed to keep them together,” Hill said. “It was expensive, but we did it,” he added. 

“[Live Nation] see us as a really safe pair of hands, very capable, and they simply want to help us to grow and be stronger going forwards, but also take what we’ve created in Hong Kong and take it around the region,” Hill said. 

“We will be creating events, festivals in other cities around the region. Some will be called Clockenflap, some won’t, I can’t really say anymore,” he continued. “But more importantly, we’re focused on creating new festivals here in Hong Kong… one of which might require you to sleep under a piece of nylon.”

The Live Nation acquisition should not have any impact on the Clockenflap line-up, Sweeting said. “I think Live Nation are smart enough to understand that the DNA of the festival is based on how we book it and the identity we’ve created, and so that’s not going to change.” 

The onus on booking acts from Hong Kong and across Asia would continue, too, with Hill saying: “it somehow really came together this year… You could see that in the audience, you could see that the diversity and the response was unprecedented and so obviously that’s the future of the festival… to keep that balance.”

One thing that will not be happening, though, is a return to Clockenflap’s previous location – fan favourite West Kowloon. 

“I’m going to say this now, once and for all, it is impossible for Clockenflap to go back to West Kowloon,” Hill said. “There were some design choices that were made by the architects of the West Kowloon Cultural District which basically prevented us from going back, because there just isn’t the space.”

Hill said he hoped the festival could stay in Central. “I think Hong Kong needs a space like Central for it to be what it aspires to be, which is a world-class events hub. It’s got this fantastic, spectacular harbourfront,” he said. “But there’s always a reason to dig it up and build a shopping centre, right?” 

Since Clockenflap moved to Central Harbourfront, part of the site once used by the festival was sold for HK$50.8 billion to construct three commercial towers, government facilities and a reconstruction of the Star Ferry Clock Tower.

Despite losing ground to official buildings, Hill said “we’ve always found a way to work together [with the government].” 

“In the very beginning there was a lack of understanding of what a festival of the scale that we were aspiring to, why that was important,” he said. “So we soldiered on and showed people what it means and why it’s important and now we’re very much loved by the powers that be.” 

When asked about Live Nation’s safety record – with 200 deaths and 750 injuries linked to its events – Hill said: “We’re right on the bleeding edge of this.” 

He and Clockenflap’s executive producer, Matt Jones, studied crowd science “under a gentleman called professor Keith Still,” an expert in teaching the principles and applications of crowd safety and crowd risk analysis. “I take crowd science as a particular interest,” Hill said. 

Sweeting added: “And this isn’t a recent thing. Mike and Matt went off and did these qualifications many years pre-pandemic.” 

Live Nation took “a strong interest in what expertise Mike and much of the team can bring to the wider group with that experience, and how we approach the crowd side of things,” Sweeting added. 

Hill said the challenge now was to “bring everyone else up to the same level and make sure that there are no disasters in Hong Kong or anywhere else in Asia.” But at Clockenflap, “you’re in safe hands.”

Looking ahead to December’s festival, Sweeting said “the line-up is lining up.” 

For Hill, that is when people will see what the Live Nation acquisition means for Clockenflap. 

“I think that people will judge us based on what it is that we actually do, rather than what we represent from a business ownership perspective,” he said. 

“And we’re confident – because we wouldn’t have done the deal that we did if that wasn’t the case – that we can continue to operate autonomously and do what we love doing.”

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A little known fact about San Po Kong, an area whose industrial soul is slowly being chipped away as nearby Kai Tak is redeveloped, is that it is home to a cave. Two caves, if we are being generous. 

The second exists in abstract form at Fung Tak Park, a government-owned public space on the district’s fringes that – with some imagination – recalls the 16th-century Chinese novel Journey to the West. In the story, Sun Wukong, perhaps better known as the Monkey King, made his home in a cave behind a waterfall. And in the park, a wall of water pours from an artificial rock formation, through which people walk to enter the so-called Monkey King’s Paradise. 

The other, more fully formed and immersive cave lies 17 floors above ground in an otherwise nondescript industrial block. Like the Monkey King’s cave, it is guarded by a waterfall of sorts. However, the character it houses – the “tiger daughter” – comes not from centuries-old Chinese mythology but from the imagination of Hong Kong artist Vaevae Chan. 

After years of “digging,” creating and waiting, Chan’s cave opened to the public on February 17. The interactive, walk-through art installation spans several spaces: a lifelike cave rendered dreamlike through a collection of ceramics and found objects; a space for sculpture that is otherwise almost completely void of light and texture; and a screening room where the viewer is invited to take a seat and surrender to the fantastical tale of the cave, the things within it and the tiger daughter via the medium of video.

‘Might as well go inward’

Originally a ceramic sculptor, Chan’s cave was borne of trauma – hers and Hong Kong’s. In 2018, her father died suddenly. The following year, she watched as her hometown was wracked by protests that began peacefully but often descended into violence. “Everybody kind of felt very helpless, I remember that feeling,” she tells HKFP from her San Po Kong studio, a celebration of space, colour, and objects. 

Dressed almost completely in black, apart from the print on her t-shirt and scarlet-coloured socks, Chan appears entirely at home amid the riotous assembly of items on display. Slight but certain, she is an enthralling storyteller.   

She recalls following the news throughout the city’s months-long unrest, and finding different outlets’ reports so conflicting that she did not know what to believe. “I started asking what was real,” Chan says. 

“I remember being here one day and looking around and saying to myself: ‘what is most real to me is the world that I built with my hands for myself in front of my eyes’… So, instead of finding truth in the outer world, I decided [I]… might as well go inward.” 

In a way, Chan’s cave is built of grief. Throughout the year-long process of what she calls “sculpting space,” she took her grief and packed it tightly into the cave’s walls and crevices, relieving herself ever so slightly of its burden in the process. 

“I know every angle, every corner,” Chan says. “And I spent a lot of alone time there… I talked to the cave… I named this cave Uncle Cave, and it’s like a cave who is accompanying me, like Uncle Guan,” she adds, referring to the Chinese god of war Guan Yu, the people’s deity during Hong Kong’s 2014 Umbrella Movement. 

She mentions a scene from the 79-day pro-democracy civil disobedience campaign, when a shrine to Guan Yu sprung up in the centre of Nathan Road. Although Guan Yu is, objectively speaking, “just a statue,” Chan says, it also has “an invisible existence or a collective consciousness.”

Protesters respected and guarded the Guan Yu statue in the middle of Nathan Road, until it was eventually cleared away by police. “This is the power of the invisible spirit,” Chan says, “it is humans – our thoughts, our wishes – that make the god what it is.”

She continues: “So, I believe that every object has a soul, and deserves to be treated in the way we would treat people… the spiritual value is a lot greater that the physical value.”

Guan Yu is among the 90-odd objects that line the walls of the cave. Ceramic buns that Chan has made sit next to seemingly random items from Chan’s extensive collection. “I have a lot of collectibles… I have a connection with different objects, and I believe every object has a soul,” Chan says.

“I felt like placing them in the cave around me would allow people to see them in a different aspect, a different way,” she continues.

But it took some time for her found objects to find their way to the installation. “After I completed the cave, I was like: ‘why am I doing this? What am I doing?’ I feel like the healing process got to a point where I was asking and knowing a lot about myself,” Chan says. 

It was time for the artist to look outward once again. “Interestingly, there were a couple of events that happened, things that I encountered, that led me to find out the answer,” she says, “and that has to do with Tiger Balm Mansion, with Mr Tiger.” 

Mr Tiger’s guidance

In 2018, before her father died and before the protests – before Chan even had the space that would become the cave – she went to Singapore to visit Haw Par Villa, an eclectic theme park once owned by Aw Boon Haw, the eccentric Tiger Balm magnate, also known as Mr Tiger. At the time, Mr Tiger’s former home in Hong Kong – which Chan had never visited but always wanted to – was closed to the public. Besides, its fantastical gardens had been demolished in 2004 to make way for luxury housing.

“The one in Singapore, everything remains,” Chan says. “I stayed in this beautiful, quite big garden for a whole day. I remember sleeping on this bench and sucking in all the energy… I was in awe.” 

Chan began researching “the garden, the family, the brothers, the whole story of the Tiger Balm legend,” but not everything was available online. Then, in 2019, Haw Par Mansion in Hong Kong reopened, “and luckily, I made an appointment, which was really difficult,” Chan says.

“When I got to the mansion, I was reminded of everything I had seen in Singapore,” she says, adding that she stayed so long that the staff had to ask her to leave. But before she did, she bought a book about the Tiger Balm brothers’ many gardens, which would prove pivotal in both filling the gaps in her knowledge and in her own creative process. 

She pored over its hundreds of pages, absorbing the images and information contained within, until one photograph stopped her in her tracks. “And I was like, ‘oh shit they have a cave’.” And even though Chan had never seen Mr Tiger’s cave before, it looked remarkably similar in style and construction to her own.   

“And then I looked through [the book] more, and flipped and flipped and flipped,” she says. When she got to the Aw family tree, she said: “I threw the book away. I was like, ‘shit.’ [Mr Tiger] died on the day I was born, and [in] the year my dad was born, too.” 

“My dad had just passed away. All these coincidences just added up and this discovery affirmed what I was doing and why I was doing it. I almost felt like I had a mission,” Chan says. “I was meant to build this cave.”  

Only then, Chan says, did she know what to do next. “So, I spent another year making the video, the ceramics, making the website, booking system, the four doors – that installation – and putting everything together and thought through the whole setting of the show.” 

The cave experience culminates in a very private viewing of that video, in a space that accommodates just three people. It tells the story of the tiger daughter of Haw Par Mansion who is “consumed by darkness,” but is ultimately saved by Tiger Balm and makes her way to the sea, where she finds freedom. 

‘You will be good by the sea’

Chan’s cave installation, “She Told Me to Head to the Sea,” got its name from a chance encounter with a “mysterious woman” who walked up to the artist while she was living in New York, grabbed her arm and told her: “‘You have to go to the sea!’ She was like, ‘the sea is good for you, if you’re surrounded by the sea, you will be good by the sea’.”

About a year later, Chan, who studied at Parsons School of Design in New York and started her ceramic sculpture practice there, developed eczema “from head to toe.” It was, she says, “very uncomfortable,” showing a picture of her neck and chin covered in angry red patches.  

“I was always touching a lot of chemicals, always touching a lot of dust,” Chan says. And, despite never intending to return to her hometown, “I had no choice but to move back to Hong Kong,” she says, almost whispering: “which is closer to the sea.” 

For several months, she was unable to touch ceramics, to create in the way she knew how. “It sucked, yeah, it was really upsetting and depressing, because what you love to do the most kills you, that was how I felt.” 

She expected to return to New York after she was cured of her eczema. “And then my dad passed away in 2018. And that part I never expected, because it was so sudden,” Chan says. “I couldn’t [leave] because my dad passed away and I wanted to be with my mom. And so I waited and, as soon as I waited… 2019 started… everything started. And I was still going through grief. I then started to feel fucked.” 

Chan moved out of her parents home, she began building the cave and, after several months, she moved into a village house in Sai Kung. 

“I was standing in front of the window looking out at the sea in Sai Kung, and I was like: ‘shit, maybe four-five years ago somebody told me I’d be good by the sea’,” she says. “And I’m pretty good, I don’t have eczema, I started running. It’s like when you move to Sai Kung, you start getting better.” 

Deep within the cave

“She Told Me to Head to the Sea” is both surprising and surreal, a negative space from which light and logic are absent – to excellent effect. The less known about what lies within, the better.

“I remember walking in [Fong Tak Park] and thinking it could be interesting if the extended version of that outdoor cave comes indoors, and playing with that cave – which is supposed to be underground or tunnelish – lifting it up in a high rise,” Chan says.

You enter Chan’s high-rise cave, eventually, after being presented with four doors and asked to choose your own adventure. The experience is deliberately disarming. 

“I liked the idea of having [visitors to the cave] choose [their] own door, because that is also how I felt,” Chan says. “You are opening a door that you chose, without knowing what is behind it.” 

Odds are that you will first come face to face with the waterfall. Keep trying, but not after experiencing the sight and sound of the cascade in front of you. This early reference to the water curtain that kept the mouth of the Monkey King’s cave hidden is no accident. Nothing about Chan’s cave is. Her father was born in the year of the monkey in the Chinese zodiac and, she says, “he always gave me an idea of a Monkey King.” 

Take the torch that has been left for you and let its beam lead your eyes around the cave, stopping to examine and admire the countless small black forms that occupy the space, which – once your eyes adjust – is illuminated by dimmed Edison bulbs and miniature LEDs that glint as though there are cracks where the light gets in. Strange noises wash through the cave, drawing your attention at times to the objects placed within it.

A bronze bell owned by Chan’s late father stands on a reception desk – attended, bizarrely, by a Furby – inviting you to ring it. The chime penetrates the darkness with its clarity, and guides you through to the next dreamlike chamber, where the screening awaits.

Now that the installation is open to the public, “it’s almost like the story has gone to the next chapter,” Chan says. 

“I feel like my healing journey is progressing,” Chan says. “Having the cave by myself is one thing, opening it up to people is another thing. I feel like it gives the cave another life, and it’s the process of transitioning to a different stage, I’m very happy about it and I feel like I’m truly healing, it’s definitely healing me.” 

“She Told Me to Head to the Sea” is open Saturdays to Tuesdays through April. Up to three people can visit at a time, and prior booking is necessary.

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In Ukraine, the sound of shelling has become background noise. People hear relentless explosions in the distance, but no one flinches. 

Next Friday marks the first anniversary of the Russian invasion which triggered the full-scale war. Some Hong Kong journalists, who had covered the city’s protests in 2019, have been reporting the conflict ever since.

All of them became so emotionally involved that they changed study plans and flights to stay longer in Ukraine, willing to undergo the tough times along with its people.

‘They want victory, not only peace’

Kaoru Ng was among the first to go. When a massive Russian military presence was spotted along the Ukraine border and rumours of invasion intensified in February last year, he decided to take off for Kyiv and see for himself what was happening. 

The bleak prophesies came true, and Kaoru became a war correspondent. “My plan was to stay in Kyiv for a month, but I ended up staying in Ukraine for nine months.” 

Kaoru started his journalism career as a photojournalist in 2019, visiting protest sites to capture Hongkongers’ anger. The following year, Beijing imposed the national security law. The city’s largest pro-democracy paper Apple Daily, which once employed Kaoru as a freelance journalist, shut down in 2021 after its editors were arrested. 

In light of the shrinking space for freedom of expression, Kaoru, like tens of thousands of other Hongkongers, chose to leave. He has not been back to the city for over a year. 

But the days in Ukraine reminded him of his home city. “When Ukrainians are helping out each other so selflessly, it reminds me of Hongkongers in 2019. I mean, isn’t this Hong Kong’s core value? When you see others suffering, you want to help.”

The suffering of Ukrainians was all too visible, with the UN verifying a total of 7,155 civilian deaths as of February 5. Kaoru described the scenes he saw as “heartbreaking” – homes reduced to rubble, eyes out of their sockets, bodies unburied. But he emphasised that “Ukrainians want to win, not only to make peace. They don’t like the word ‘peace’. Peace implies a ceasefire, but that doesn’t mean that they will get their territories back. They don’t want to compromise on this.”

Speaking about the Ukrainians he talked to, including some living in the east who had supported Russia during its 2014 incursions, Kaoru said: “They understand so well the consequences without political autonomy. During the Soviet Union period, Russia had been oppressing Ukrainians. It’s just that they used famine as a weapon. That’s why they want a true victory.”

Kaoru said the conflict was often framed in the context of international relations, such as the European Union’s support and the issue of grain exports. “I really want to focus on covering the stories of ordinary Ukrainians, how they live their lives and how they think about the war.” 

A mirror for Hong Kong

One scene which stuck in his mind was a six-year-old girl tending to her family’s cows near Bakhmut, while missiles flew right over her head.

“These 20 cows are all we have. Where can we go?” the girl said. For Kaoru, a Hongkonger who had left the city, the girl’s answer left a bitter taste. 

“Ukrainian history made me reflect on Hong Kong’s democracy movement, which has temporarily stopped, or failed, I don’t know. But I think it’s also important to think about what to do after you gain power. Ukrainians did not discuss it.”

Kaoru described Ukraine, after 2014, as a country steadily moving towards democracy. “But you have such a country [Russia] next to you. What choice do you have?”

He compared the Russia-Ukraine stalemate to the China-Taiwan relationship, “It’s a war between totalitarianism and freedom.”

Asked why he had never come back to Hong Kong, Kaoru paused before answering: “You know some people who had protested in Paris and London [to support Hong Kong’s pro-democracy movement] were arrested when they came back to Hong Kong. Some went to the mainland and were detained by security officials. I don’t know where the red lines are. I won’t go back to Hong Kong if there is nothing urgent.”

‘I adopted a cat’

Every morning, Alex Chan Tsz-yuk wakes to the sound of shelling in the east of Bakhmut – and the mewing of a stray cat.

The 27-year-old freelance photojournalist, with tanned skin and countless little scars on his hands, started his career covering the 2019 mass protests. When the Ukraine war broke out, he volunteered to go to the frontline. 

At first he stayed at a hostel in Bakhmut, a city shattered by Russian shellfire with water and electricity supplies unstable. One blackout lasted two days and Alex was told to leave. “The hostel staff felt sorry, they didn’t want to charge us without providing proper services.”

Alex was standing marooned on the street with all his baggage when a Ukrainian and a French journalist bumped into him and suggested he walk one hour to the east with them, where they knew some houses had been abandoned. That’s where Alex met his cat.

One month later, he had to head to the city of Dnipro because of work. The cat went with him and he decided to adopt her. His Ukrainian friends named the animal Javelina in tribute to the anti-tank missile provided by the US. 

‘You’re on your own’

When Russia was pouring in fresh waves of troops to try to break Ukraine’s grip on Luhansk, Alex teamed up with Kaoru to go there. A bridge connecting Ukrainian troops and the frontlines was under Russian surveillance but they risked crossing it a few times to get a closer look at the battlefield. 

One day, their party was hit by suspected howitzer fire.

Their fixer, Mykola, was wounded in his right arm and Alex and Kaoru rushed him to hospital. A doctor said he would take at least a year to recover from nerve damage, meaning the fixer could not support his family including his three-year-old daughter.

Alex posted video of the attack recorded by a camera on his forehead to social media and sought donations for the family. Some expressed sympathy, while others – mostly experienced foreign journalists – bombarded Alex’s mailbox with criticism of his alleged recklessness and tardy response to the family’s needs. 

“But I don’t have a big company’s financial support,” Alex said. “Mykola still has a three-year-old daughter at home. Kaoru and I already gave all we could, but it’s still not enough. So what could I do?”

“You have to understand that I’m a freelance photographer. That means you’re on your own. If I don’t go to the frontlines, how can I get paid?”

“It’s not only about the money, but to get good pictures, sometimes it is crucial to get close enough.”

Hong Kong Baptist University, where Alex is studying journalism, does not allow students to take a gap year except for medical reasons. Alex has been away for nearly one year covering the war and is currently back in Hong Kong to catch up on his studies. When he graduates this summer, he says he will return to Ukraine. 

‘What are you doing here?’

Like Kaoru and Alex, Laurel Chor has spent months in Ukraine. But her experience is slightly different, because she’s always “the only woman in the room.” Sometimes, generals come and shake everyone’s hand except hers.

Since the start of the war, Ukraine has banned men of military age from leaving the country, while many of the women and children have fled to neighbouring countries. As a result, the country has a much higher concentration of men than usual.

Sometimes, people question what Laurel is doing there. The questions are well-intentioned, “but sometimes they were overprotective. I appreciate people looking out for me in war. But on the other hand, you know, they might underestimate my ability to work under stress.”

She said that war and war journalism are “in general… a male-dominated world.” But Laurel believes that makes it all the more important to tell the stories of women caught up in the conflict, who are often overlooked. She met a single mother from Dnipro, who helps evacuate citizens from the frontlines. Laurel decided to include her in a feature-length documentary, – alongside a Ukrainian journalist and a local firefighter – to show the war from the inside.  

An experienced journalist who has worked for The New York Times, The Washington Post and a number of other prestigious outlets, Laurel is collaborating with filmmaker Arman Dzidzovic, a Bosnian refugee who grew up in New York. They are using their earnings from freelancing to fund the documentary project.

In fact, Laurel wears many hats – she also writes, podcasts and takes photographs. After graduating from Georgetown University with a Bachelor of Science in International Health and Development, returned to Hong Kong and embarked on a career in journalism. Her coverage of the 2019 protests in Hong Kong was internationally recognised, earning her – among other awards – an Emmy nomination.

Laurel fell in love with reporting, especially in Ukraine. At first, she planned to stay for around 10 days, “but we ended up staying six weeks.” She grinned, “I think ever since I’ve fallen in love with Ukraine and I’ve become really committed to the stories here.” 

 “My agenda – in quotation marks – is, you know, reporting on the oppressed, speaking truth to power and holding power accountable,” Laurel added.

She said she saw video as a medium that could reach a wider audience with greater impact. “The [Hong Kong] protesters were inspired by Winter on Fire, the documentary about the Maidan Revolution in Ukraine,” she says.

Laurel describes her Hong Kong story as very typical: “My grandparents fled China during the civil war to Hong Kong, which at the time was a British colony, my parents and my sister were born in a British colony. Then we emigrated to Canada, like many Hongkongers. And then we came back to Hong Kong.”

“We all know what it’s like to have our lives affected by things beyond our control in a way that affects where we live, and where we’re born, and everything about our lives. I think Hong Kong people know very well how regular people are subjected to historical and political forces beyond our control.”

Behind the headlines

Anson Sham, 26, is a freelance filmmaker who graduated from the Hong Kong Baptist University’s Film Concentration course. When the war broke out, he was glued to the live news for hours. “I don’t know why. I felt so attached. I want to do something.”

He soon bought a one-way ticket and arrived at the Poland-Ukraine border with a backpack in March last year. Without a press card, he identified himself as “a traveller with camera” and started filming the lives of Ukrainian refugees, especially the children. “I know that for many people, weapons are interesting. But I’m interested in people. The news footage would tell you about farewells at the train station. But they won’t show many little moments that happen in the corner. I’d like to do stories that are not in the spotlight.”

Aiming to present the war from a unique angle, he talked to as many Ukrainian refugees as possible. At first, the interviews reminded him of the exodus from Hong Kong. “We have shared emotions. Both are forced displacements, a physically and mentally stranded situation. You can’t reach the place you want to go, and you don’t know what the future looks like. It’s a dire situation.”

But later, he found the two incidents incomparable, “the context and pattern are totally different. I prefer not to link them up.”  

In Anson’s ongoing documentary project about millions of Ukrainian refugees searching for new homes, he chose to feature children as the protagonists. “Adults were too good at articulating their feelings. They have a lot to talk about. They always comment on the situation, politics and history. But I’m not here to narrate something. I just want to express feelings.” 

Once, he asked a child who was clutching a toy a simple question: “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” the child said. “I was waiting for a bus near my home. Then I took the bus to come here. And I have to wait for the bus again, so I’m waiting here. I play with the toy because I have nothing to do.”

The answer, said Anson, was typical of everyone forced from their homes. “Adults are like children. We are all disoriented, even homeless.”

“But what I believe is, no matter what will happen in the future, these memories are engraved on your heart.”

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It has been more than four years since Hong Kong trans activist Henry Edward Tse began an uphill legal battle to get the government to recognise him as a man.

In early January this year, he donned a smart navy blue suit, paired with a carefully-chosen blue-and-pink tie, for his appearance at the Court of Final Appeal.

Standing outside court for a photo call, Tse’s necktie matched the white, blue and pink striped flag – one that represents the transgender community – he carried. He also displayed a printed prop of a Hong Kong identity card bearing his Chinese and English name, with the gender marker “F,” for female, circled in red like a homework mistake.

Tse, a transgender man, has long been fighting to change the gender marker on his ID card from female, his assigned sex at birth, to male, his acquired gender. In 2017, his initial application to do so was rejected, with the Commissioner of Registration citing failure to undergo full sex reassignment surgery as required by the city’s legislation.

Tse, along with two other transgender men who faced the same issue, lodged a judicial review arguing that the surgical requirement was unconstitutional and violated their right to privacy. It was heard in 2018, but dismissed a year later.

Despite having subsequent bids quashed by lower courts, the activists fought all the way to the top of the judicial ladder, hoping the final review hearing on January 4 would grant them the right to fully, finally be themselves.

On Monday, that right was granted, when a five-judge panel ruled that the government policy infringed on their constitutional right to privacy.

Gender dysphoria

Tse, who is now 31, first experienced gender dysphoria as a young child. The condition, sometimes called gender incongruence, occurs when the gender identity of a person does not align with the gender they were assigned at birth. Tse’s situation worsened when puberty hit, especially in what he described as a “homophobic environment” at the religious all-girls secondary school he attended.

“From the very first day, we were told that we need to ‘be a lady’ and be elegant,” Tse told HKFP. Having always sported short hair, he said he was picked on by some teachers who assumed he was a tomboy and thus a bad student.

Tse said he encountered homophobia while playing on the school’s basketball team, adding that it was experiences such as this that sparked in him the desire to effect change.

After completing the public exam in Form Five, Tse left for the UK. Later, as he was preparing to enter university, he realised he didn’t want to be seen as a woman anymore.

“No matter what I did – binding [my chest] or adjusting my mannerisms – [it] all felt inadequate,” he said. He started hormone treatment in 2012 and underwent top surgery to remove his breasts the following year.

Tse said his gender dysphoria largely stemmed from his physicality, so after the mastectomy he did not feel the need for a more invasive procedure to remove his uterus and ovaries. He also successfully changed the gender marker on his British passport to male and had no problem living and working as a male during his time in the UK.

But the situation was completely different when Tse returned to Hong Kong, where he was still labelled as female on his ID card.

“In Hong Kong, we are required by law to carry our ID card with us every day. The police can request to check your ID anytime. You basically need your ID card for everything. So when it plays such an important role in your daily life, the mismatch [of the gender marker] becomes a huge problem,” he said.

Tse describes a feeling of panic that overwhelms him whenever he has to show his card, because he cannot anticipate the reaction.

“I also feel like my privacy has been intruded on… because it exposed my history of being transgender,” he said. Every time he presents his ID card, he is forced to “come out” again.

The activist also feels embarrassed and humiliated when bank tellers use a female honorific to address him. “When they call out ‘Miss XXX,’ people would then look at you, puzzling why you are a ‘miss’.”

Chosen family

Tse kept his journey through gender dysphoria, mental suffering and the challenges of being recognised in society largely from his family. They were “very conservative” and considered gender non-conforming behaviour in general to be problematic, he said.   

“My dad had asked if he needed to bring me to a doctor [when I was younger]. Up to the moment I told him I would be lodging a lawsuit, he still thought it was problematic… He thought the whole thing was bad behaviour,” Tse said.

But Tse was able to find his chosen family – a term commonly used among the LGBTQ+ community to describe ties with others that offer greater acceptance. He connected with other trans men in Hong Kong, and in 2020 founded an NGO called Transgender Equality Hong Kong (TEHK) .

TEHK deputy director Dominic Wong has always supported Tse and helped him with rights advocacy. Wong said he thought of Tse not only as his boss but also as his mentor.

Wong, a 19-year-old transgender man, works mostly remotely for TEHK while pursuing his studies in the US. He sat down with HKFP when he returned to Hong Kong last year and described a trans journey with both similarities and differences to Tse’s.

Wong was born in Hong Kong but spent much of his childhood in the mainland Chinese city of Guangzhou. He later spent one year studying at a Hong Kong secondary school before travelling to the US to continue his education.

The teen said he experienced early symptoms of gender dysphoria as young as two or three years old, such as feeling that he should be urinating standing up, but did not have the words to articulate his discomfort at the time.

Wong also went to an all-girls high school, but in the US. His learning environment was a stark contrast to Tse’s.

‘Progressive, accepting space‘

After he transitioned, he was accepted at school and succeeded in getting the school to redraft its handbook to be more gender-inclusive. He and his schoolmates also fought for more gender-neutral bathrooms on campus.

Wong’s parents were also more accepting, although his “very typical Chinese father” was not like “US liberal parents hugging kids and crying ‘I accept you’,” he said. However, Wong describes being touched by his father’s small actions.

The day after he came out to his father, he had to fly back to the US so his father ordered him a taxi to the airport.

“The taxi driver was asking who is this cab for, and then he just said ‘my son’.”

“And that’s the moment when I realised that he fully accepted me. It’s so under the water, nothing emotional, but it just flows like that.”

Wong stressed he was “incredibly privileged in many ways,” including having the resources for his medical needs and the opportunity to fulfil them abroad, as well as having understanding and accepting parents.

Despite not being based in Hong Kong, Wong hopes to help those less privileged in the city.

From invisible to visible

For Tse, challenging government policy in court was more than about fighting for justice and rights. It was also about making transgender people more visible in Hong Kong.

The activist devoted months to a multimedia advocacy project called Transmen in Hong Kong: Visibility vs Invisibility, hoping to shine a light on the underrepresented community.

The landmark judgement delivered on Monday should help matters. Addressing reporters outside the Court of Final Appeal all those years after launching the first legal challenge, Tse called the judges’ decision “delayed justice.”

He thanked his lawyers and all those who have supported him along his journey, “especially the lads and the volunteers who have helped in the Transmen in Hong Kong project. Without them, [this] historic moment… would not have happened.”

But, Tse’s work is not done yet. He vowed to keep pushing for trans equality.

“I believe that one day, we shall succeed and welcome the rainbow with open arms.”

Correction 13/2/2023: An earlier version of this article misstated that Dominic Wong was born in Guangzhou, in mainland China, when he was actually born in Hong Kong. We regret the error.

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Multi-talented singer-songwriter-producer Cehryl is set to appear at next month’s sold-out Clockenflap Festival. The Hong Kong-born singer holds a unique place in the local music scene with her dreamy, reflective, genre-bending beats. She moved back home in 2019 after studying music and performing in the US. Following the recent release of her album Time Machine, HKFP reshares our 2021 interview with Cehryl about performing in the Covid era, and whether Hong Kong is still a hospitable place for young creatives.

Your tours were halted due to Covid – how does it feel to be performing again? Do you find the audience are even more hungry to finally see live music?

It feels like… the smiling-face-with-a-tear emoji. I’m incredibly lucky to be playing again, especially alongside Hong Kong artists that I really admire. I prefer playing festivals to solo shows; there’s less attention. I started playing again in June and have definitely noticed a renewed sense of passion for live music. The support for local acts is particularly strong (and I love it).

Tell us about the full band you’ll have on Saturday and how this differs from your more intimate gigs?

This Saturday’s performance will mark the first time I play in a full band setting in Hong Kong. I had a band In Los Angeles with some of my closest and talented friends Eric Derwallis and Alex Szotak. This Saturday I’ll be playing with—also very talented and also close friends of mine—Akira Mimasu and Matt Lui from neo-soul band RIDDEM. The full band setup will definitely add some… oomf to my otherwise soft live performance. Excited to be playing more shows as a band!

Your Clockenflap profile describes your music as jazz, R&B, folk and pop. The genre of your tracks is certainly hard to pin down – how would you describe it, and what kind of music has most inspired your sound?

I would agree that I’m highly influenced by these four genres. On the four walls of every room I’ve stayed in, I’ve taped up pictures of Chet Baker, Amy Winehouse, Bill Evans, Frank Ocean, Stevie Wonder, Adrienne Lenker, Nina Simone, Nick Drake, Beach House, The Velvet Underground. I’ve tried to emulate, in some way, every artist I’ve loved at some point in my life. I wouldn’t know how to describe my own music since I think I have songs that sound more folky and songs that sound more R&B; I think most music nowadays is hard to describe conclusively, but since that makes for a bad answer, I’ll casually say indie pop/R&B for now.

You’re a singer, songwriter, your own producer and you studied music production in Boston. How are you pulling this all off and which of these roles sparks the most joy?

I’m a control freak, so being able to do everything (not very well, but enough to have a final audio file) sparks joy. I’ve listened to a lot of singer-songwriters growing up, so the two roles are inseparable to me. Arranging and producing takes place in another part of my brain, but they’re so closely tied to songwriting that they’re also inseparable to me.

I’d like to expand that mindset though; I want to learn from and collaborate with other people. I’m not fixated on the idea of being some sort of DIY person all the time; it just so happens that it’s in my personality to try to figure things out myself.

In terms of your creativity and audience, how is Hong Kong comparing to your time in the US? Where do you hope to end up?

Culturally, in terms of the role of music and art in society, Hong Kong is very different to the US. It’s very clear from the way artists present themselves and from their lifestyles. When I was in LA, I was constantly surrounded by artists, so it definitely motivated me to keep working on my art. I’m definitely a little less motivated here in terms of discipline and productivity, but I also feel more free creatively because the music scene isn’t as saturated/overpopulated as it is over there. I feel less pressure to present myself in a certain way on the Internet, for example. I’m not sure where I hope to end up though. I have a love/hate relationship with every place.

Artistic freedom and expression in Hong Kong is undergoing a hammering at the moment – are you concerned about your creative space, or the industry as a whole?

I’ve wondered: am I exempt if my art doesn’t contain explicit political commentary? Can individual artistic freedom exist if collective freedom of expression doesn’t exist? Lately, I’ve had trouble finding the/a line between personal and political. 

Your photography b-roll Instagram (@cehryl404) offers almost-voyeuristic, sometimes humourous or sad slices of Hong Kong street life. Is this a place you’re finding inspiration for your music?

Being in Hong Kong definitely inspires me creatively. I’m not quite sure how my songwriting connects with the photos I take… Sometimes, I see photography as an opportunity for me to take time off music. As we all know, doing something you love 24/7 can kill the fire. I don’t see a direct link, but I’m sure my interests in filmmaking and photography and music all come from the same place. 

Are there any other fields or formats that feed into your writing?

I’d like to say that I’m an avid reader, but in all honesty I’m more of a book hoarder. Reading and watching films fuel my writing and expands the way I sense/feel the world/my world.

What are you listening to at the moment?

Lots of Broadcast, lots of Nick Drake. Phillip Glass too and Ryuichi Sakamoto.

Aside from the string of gigs this summer, what’s next for you?

Just finished making the soundtrack for this Hong Kong illustrator/painter Kazy Chan’s exhibition. Currently, I’m working on two documentaries as sound designer/mixer and writer.

Really excited and happy to be working on films! It’s the path I want to take next.

Time Machine is available to buy and download on Bandcamp.

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For the second year in a row, a Hong Kong documentary has been nominated for Best Documentary Feature at Taiwan’s upcoming Golden Horse Awards. And just like last year’s Revolution of Our Times, Blue Island has never been publicly screened on home soil.

Blue Island‘s director Chan Tze-woon did not bother to submit his 97-minute film to Hong Kong’s Film Censorship Authority, whose approval is necessary for any public screenings in the city.

Under a law passed in October last year, film censors must evaluate whether a screening would be “contrary” to the interests of national security. The chief secretary was also empowered to revoke approvals on national security grounds.

“My box office won’t be particularly big anyway. Not many cinemas will be willing to screen my film, so why would I adjust my own creation in order to pander to film censorship?” the 35-year-old filmmaker asked. Over the past year, censors have requested changes to films, such as the removal of scenes or subtitles, to allow them to be screened in Hong Kong. Directors have rarely complied.

Thus, in securing his creative freedom, Chan also doomed Blue Island to have zero distribution in the city. He told HKFP he hoped viewers would be willing to seek out “films that truly, truly reflect this era of Hong Kong.”

Young protesters, historic times

Blue Island is not a typical documentary. Chan adopted reenactments as his main storytelling method, weaving some footage of the 2019 protests in, too.

The movie replicates three traumatic events in real people’s pasts that were linked to turning points in Hong Kong’s history. In one, a man is jailed for 18 months for sedition after criticising the British colonial government during the 1967 riots. In another, a couple risk their lives to swim from Shenzhen to Hong Kong to escape China’s Cultural Revolution. The third sees a Hong Kong student representative witness the 1989 Tiananmen crackdown in Beijing.

Young participants in the 2019 pro-democracy protests and unrest were invited to relive these historical moments. “None of them are professional actors, so their acting was very poor,” Chan said.

But the filmmaker said what they had faced in 2019 added another dimension to the events of the past. “Stories of the 1967 riots are represented by a young person who faces charges of rioting today… and a localist young man acts as a supporter of what we call ‘democratic unification’,” Chan said, referring to someone who supported Hong Kong’s Handover to China who hoped that the city would become democratic.

“These actors are not just acting: they are expressing their own selves,” Chan added.

Trust the audience

Chan’s directing constantly reminds his audience that Blue Island is not meant to be a perfectly accurate replication of the past. The film often cuts to behind-the-scene footage of reenactment scenes.

In one, the man who escaped the Cultural Revolution refutes Chan’s depiction of the event. “People back then weren’t like this,” the viewers are told.

However, Chan said his film reflects how the current generation of Hongkongers view the city’s history, as well as their own experiences of 2019.

“In 30 years, how will we continue to face what happened in 2019? ” Chan asked. “What kind of person do I want to be, or want to avoid becoming?”

Compared with his previous work, Chan said his latest documentary places “a lot more trust” in the audience, as he is no longer trying to convey a particular message or emotion and viewers are free to form their own understanding of the film.

“My biggest happiness was that… Hongkongers in fact can have a lot of discussions after watching the movie,” Chan said. “It does not matter if they criticise it, praise it or question the historical views in the film, or the form [in which they are presented].”

An independent path

With Blue Island, Chan had two goals: to retain creative freedom, and to make enough money to make the movie a reality.

Chan said he and the film’s producer explored a number of ways to raise funds, including pitching their project at 14 international meetings.

“Some directors said… Hong Kong filmmakers should copy our counterparts in Iran and raise funds overseas while continuing to create within the territory, even with strong political pressure and zero local distribution,” Chan added.

Filmmakers in Southeast Asia could also be their teachers, Chan said. Although their film industries are less developed than Hong Kong’s, they have been using foreign film festivals to accumulate resources and connect with international producers.

In the past, Chan said, one investor in Hong Kong could be enough to fund an entire movie. “[But] if you choose the indie path… the process would be much longer,” he said.

“It might take few years or more, but it is not impossible.”

‘Blue Island’

When making the documentary, Chan realised that everyone in it had deliberated on what “Hong Kong” meant to them, or what would most benefit the city.

“Hongkongers have never had the chance to determine our own fate,” he said. “We imagined what would be good for Hong Kong, but it would never be achievable.”

“It was one of the reasons why this film was named Blue Island.”

While the colour blue is linked to depression and sadness, it also represents calmness and serenity.

Chan said someone had challenged him, saying that Blue Island felt too calm and distant as a documentary to relate to what happened in Hong Kong in 2019.

But the director said “being calm doesn’t mean you don’t love this place.” Chan said he had learnt that from a mother of an American friend.

“Still waters run deep,” she told the independent filmmaker.

Correction 21.11: A previous version of this article incorrectly stated that a character from the movie escaped the Cultural Revolution by swimming from Hong Kong to Shenzhen, when in fact he fled from Shenzhen to Hong Kong. Additionally, director Chan Tze-woon’s name was misspelled. it should be Tze-woon not Tse-woon. We regret the errors.

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Claudia Chanhoi is used to being censored. After all, she makes Instagram-unfriendly art. 

Her social media pages are peppered with breasts, bums, penises and vaginas, sometimes euphemistically presented, sometimes explicitly so, but always in a highly stylised aesthetic that favours bold colours and bolder lines. 

Suggestive subject matter is a Chanhoi signature, regardless of whether she is delving into the disposable nature of contemporary dating or discussing whether we can disassociate body parts from sexual content, and it frequently brings her into censors’ line of fire. 

“My work used to be censored and taken down from social media a lot because I often feature genitals in my art,” Chanhoi told HKFP. “Even though I feel it’s far from explicit… my work still got censored,” she continued, adding that it left her feeling “confused” and “a little bit attacked as a creative.” 

“Why is my art shameful or offensive to others, while we see sexualised images of women pretty much everywhere?”

Rather than bend to the puritanical will of Behance, Facebook and Instagram, Chanhoi doubled down. “This is why I have been constantly doing lots of work with genitals or work about sexualisation, because to me, it was a bit like a protest,” she said. 

Her frank approach to sex and sexual organs is also rooted in rebellion. “I grew up in a very conservative environment, because I was born Catholic and I also went to Catholic school,” Chanhoi said. “I feel like the fact that I am so interested in talking about [sexuality] is just because I couldn’t.”

Born in Hong Kong, Chanhoi’s career as an artist took off while she was at art school in Britain. “Everything came from my university projects,” she said, which were largely focused on the sexual objectification of women. 

At the same time, she was learning about her area of study outside of the institution. “I feel like I was constantly seen as a foreign object in the UK,” she said, adding that she has always felt safer in Hong Kong. “People would cat call me and I would get a lot of comments on the way I look… and also being an Asian woman was… I wouldn’t say a scary thing but I always felt like it was quite a dangerous body to be in.” 

London, Chanhoi said, has progressed since then. Her conservative hometown, however, has not. 

“I feel like the world has changed a lot… in Hong Kong, we are still, let’s say, 10 years behind.” 

Chanhoi has worked with Swedish sex toy brand Lelo, which surveyed Hongkongers’ attitudes to sex and extras in 2021 and found that 52 per cent of respondents were not open to using sex toys, saying they believed them to be perverted or were afraid of how their partner may react. Despite believing Hong Kong to be buttoned up, Chanhoi said she was “still quite surprised” to discover how many people held that opinion. 

“In 2022… we see sexualised images all the time but when it comes to exploring our sexuality we’re just so, I don’t know, scared of it or ashamed of it,” Chanhoi said. “Like it’s taboo to talk about it – which it shouldn’t be – because we see ‘sex sells’ everywhere. I just don’t understand where that perspective comes from.”

“We’re not supposed to be born with shame.” Chanhoi said she believed it was learned behaviour, perhaps from being told not to talk about our genitals as children or being encouraged to address sexual organs by alternative names. “But then you begin to learn that there’s something wrong with them, they must be something bad,” she said. “This is how we learn that… some of our body parts can be shameful.”

Chanhoi explores and subverts this sense of shame in her work, which puts genitals front and centre, always in a playful way. In one diptych pinned to the top of her Instagram page, a cartoonish clitoris appears alongside a pair of testes, a pubic area complete with pubic hair, an Adam’s apple and hairy legs. In the caption, she asks: “Can we start (de)sexualising [body parts] and look at them without shame and disgust?”

Although allowed to remain on Instagram, the images were recently removed from Adobe’s portfolio-style platform Behance. 

“They just said something like, nudity is not allowed,” Chanhoi said, her detached tone revealing how familiar she is with this response. “You know, obviously… But there’s no nudity. This is what my art is all about, right, playing around with [that] idea.”

“I am used to being censored so I like to add a little something to see if that will be censored.” 

On a more serious note, though, Chanhoi said she believed something was amiss in the way we see – or rather do not see – our sexual organs portrayed in the media. “We can’t really separate sexualisation and body parts. Because we associate them with something like porn, but it is not always like that,” she said. 

“Lots of Instagrammers post pictures of them being super sexy and super sexualised, but once a genital is featured, it becomes like, ‘oh my god, that’s so unacceptable we should take it down or remove it’,” Chanhoi continued. “It’s just really interesting that one tiny little genital could change so much when we pretty much see soft porn everywhere in the media, or TV shows.” 

After four years overseas, Chanhoi returned to Hong Kong – a city which, at least at first, was slow to catch on to her provocative style. “I felt, at the time, people would not be happy with my work, especially in a place like Hong Kong,” she said. 

But “that completely changed because of Apple Daily,” she said. In 2019, the pro-democracy tabloid – which has since been forced to shutter after top executives were arrested under Hong Kong’s national security law and its newsroom was raided by police – interviewed her. 

That interview “changed the game completely,” Chanhoi said. “Their audience was huge, crazily huge. I mean, to be honest, I was not really an Apple Daily reader, but it was so sad to see it shut down like that.” 

Overnight, Chanhoi said she started being approached by Hong Kong-based clients, and found herself with new, Hong Kong-based followers. 

Chanhoi left her job as a brand design manager earlier this year to dedicate herself to her art full-time. Still, she said, she often hears that her work is “a bit too much” or brands will ask her to “not include the genitals,” while saying “we still want you to draw something about sexuality.” 

Most often, the clients expressing such hesitations were those in Hong Kong, Chanhoi said, adding that most of her commissions came from overseas. 

“It’s just a little bit more conservative here when it comes to sexuality and body parts.” 

“In Hong Kong, being an artist can be quite difficult,” she said, adding that she did not see Beijing’s plan to position the city as a cultural hub helping emerging artists such as herself. “Not personally and not professionally,” she answered when asked whether the opening of M+ and other planned museums might have a trickle-down effect on the local art ecosystem.

Regardless, Chanhoi is keeping busy. She will be speaking on genitals and taboos at the TEDxTinHauWomen event next month and has recently completed a “really fun” project for a UK-based client on the theme of sex and Christmas. “Cute, sexy illustrations… like a reindeer with a gag,” she said. 

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Most Hongkongers can’t wait to crank up the air-conditioning when they get home, and savour the blissful coolness of a shopping mall during the city’s sweltering summers. But a 72-year-old retired civil servant is making it his mission in life to spread an unpopular message: it’s time to switch off. 

Lam Chiu-ying, director of the Hong Kong Observatory from 2003 to 2009, would never think of forcing someone to turn off the aircon despite his social media posts promoting USB-charged electric fans as an alternative. Nonetheless, many commenters mock his attempts to cut down on AC use whenever he speaks up about the dangers of climate change. 

The former weatherman is often dubbed the “no air-conditioning icon.”

“I have not switched on the air-conditioner [for myself] for something like 10 years,” said Lam, though he confessed that he sometimes made an exception when his granddaughter visited.

Some see Lam’s position as out-of-touch and extreme, with people on online forums branding him an eco-terrorist, and others telling him to visit one of the city’s many infamous subdivided flats before speaking out. 

With Hong Kong suffering the hottest July on record last month, they questioned whether he really cared about tenants enduring such cramped and sweaty conditions. 

Lam first visited subdivided flats some two or three years ago when he was working with an NGO, the Hong Kong Young Women’s Christian Association, on a project intended to reduce electricity use so that tenants could save on bills.

“I’m a meteorologist, that’s why I was thinking of ways [to make a room cooler] linked to airflow. During the process, I learned about the situation at the grassroots level,” said Lam. “More and more, I think they are the biggest victims of climate change: that is why I want more people to pay attention to their situation.”

“Many people have air-conditioners in their homes, but [residents of subdivided flats] do not really want to use electricity. At the very least, I wanted to find ways to use less electricity even when the air-conditioning is switched on, or to help them use less air-conditioning.”  

Lam visited two subdivided flats during an interview with HKFP on a sticky summer’s day in August, his backpack full of USB-charging fans and clutching a bag with a cooling mat. Dressed in an off-white shirt and dark trousers, sweat did not seem to bother him at all at all.

“It’s not dirty, it is just a natural defence by your body, so I cannot understand why people equate sweat with being unhygienic,” Lam said later, adding that he can go for days without washing his shirts. 

Retired driver Wong Kwok-chong was sweating, however, after welcoming Lam into his home, one of the many cramped flats in Sham Shui Po. 

The 68-year-old, who lives on his own with personal items stacked around the simple, small flat, said he often turns on the air-conditioner and the fan at the same time. Once the room is cool enough, he turns off the fan. At midnight, Wong switches off the AC and turns the fan on once again.

According to the Electrical and Mechanical Services Department, using a fan at all times to help the air conditioner reach its set temperature will actually use less energy, Lam said.

The former Observatory director is promoting the use of USB-charged fans as an alternative to air-conditioning, even drawing a graphic suggesting how utilising three fans in a room can create better airflow.

But not everyone buys his argument.

Mr and Mrs Chan, a couple in their 90s, live in another subdivided flat in Sham Shui Po with their 67-year-old daughter, who came from mainland China to take care of them. 

When Lam and HKFP arrived at their flat that same August afternoon, the couple had been blasting the air-conditioning all day. But the room was still stuffy, and the 90-year-old Mrs Chan complained about the heat.

The only big window in their flat is kept closed to stop rodents and insects crawling in, and she said they had no choice but to keep the air-conditioning on continuously in summer. 

With the window facing a patio, there is no natural light.

Lam pulled a USB-charged fan from his backpack and tried to show the couple where to position it to make the temperature a bit more tolerable. 

Mrs Chan said she already owned a big electric fan. Her husband said they had no use for the small fan because they had the air-conditioner.

Lam was unfazed by the couple’s rejection. “Never mind, let’s say you are doing a good deed by giving it to someone else,” he said. 

Saving the planet is understandably not the couple’s priority. Their current subdivided accommodation costs them over HK$5,000 in monthly rent and bills and the Chans dream of getting a government-subsidised flat. Their application for public rental housing is one among 242,600, while the average waiting time for applicants is more than six years.  

“[People] using air-conditioners and creating carbon dioxide – that is the big picture issue,” Lam said after the two visits. 

“We also have to deal with the smaller picture, where it is intolerable for grassroots residents to live in such hot weather conditions. Turning on the air-conditioning to solve their problems is what needs to be done, it is inevitable.”

A firm believer in climate justice, Lam said it was for “people in the middle-class or above” to take action. 

“I don’t agree with the argument where people think ‘No matter what individuals do, it will not beat the actions of a big shopping mall’,” he said. “Asking every individual to do something does not mean that we will not ask [big corporations] to take action.”

“There is a saying in Chinese: do not fail to do good, no matter how petty the deed.”

Many people of Lam’s age are happy just to enjoy their retirement. Yet his personal initiative to help save the planet is only just getting going. 

“We live on Earth together with other people, and we should always have the welfare of other people in our heart,” he said. 

“I am a meteorologist, I know very well the science behind the whole thing. I could understand how the future will look like, and I know too much, [so] that I simply could not close my eyes and pretend not to see.”

Not only do air-conditioners use more electricity than fans, they can release harmful chemicals into the environment that contribute to global heating.

“So long as there is a one percent possibility of surviving, we should try. I could not imagine the human race stopping doing anything because, ‘Oh the chance of survival is only 10 percent’. Even if it is one in 10, or one in 100, or one in 1,000, we would still try all that we could to save ourselves and to save other people.”

“It is not in human nature to give up when we see the end coming.”

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Wong Wai-man, better known as Ah Man, used to carry a pile of union application forms in his backpack wherever he went. After the historic steel workers’ strike in 2007, the 66-year-old bar bender – with a full white beard to rival Albus Dumbledore’s from the Harry Potter series – founded a union and spent much of his time travelling between construction sites persuading others to join him.

“Not to brag, but when it comes to recruiting members, I’m an expert,” he told HKFP with a proud smile. The Bar Bending Industry Workers Solidarity Union had nearly a thousand members in its heyday.

However, it has less than a hundred now.

Although retired, Ah Man still teaches bar bending part time while overseeing the union. However, he said he no longer recruits like he used to. “After all, there are a lot of uncertainties under the political climate in Hong Kong these days,” he said.

“I don’t think I should ask people to join when I don’t know what lies ahead either.”

The Bar Bending Industry Workers Solidarity Union was a sub-union of the pro-democracy Hong Kong Confederation of Trade Unions (HKCTU), a large labour rights group that provided financial support, union secretaries and connections to its 78 sub-unions.

However, the 31-year-old HKCTU was one of dozens of civil society organisations that disbanded in 2021, after its chairperson Carol Ng was among the 47 democrats charged with “conspiracy to commit subversion” over an unofficial legislative primary held in July 2020.

The previous month, Beijing had inserted national security legislation directly into Hong Kong’s mini-constitution – bypassing the local legislature – following a year of pro-democracy protests and unrest. It criminalised subversion, secession, collusion with foreign forces and terrorist acts.

The move gave police sweeping new powers, alarming democrats, civil society groups and trade partners, as such laws have been used broadly to silence and punish dissidents in China. However, the authorities say it has restored stability and peace to the city.

According to prosecution documents released in the 47 democrats’ national security case, “unions” were one of the battlegrounds created by the pro-democracy parties. Ng has been accused of advocating a general strike during the 2019 protests and unrest.

Ah Man, a seasoned labour rights activist, said he thought that Hong Kong was unlikely to host another strike in the near future, since any labour rights movement could pose legal risks to its participants. As an example, he mentioned a warning received by the HKCTU about Covid-19 public gathering limits when it set up a promotional booth on Labour Day last year.

For Chan Fo-tai, though, there were still many injustices to fight in the construction industry, especially for women workers.

The former executive member of the Bar Bending Industry Workers Solidarity Union, who is widely known as the first female bar fixer in Hong Kong, said that she was denied many opportunities solely because of her sex.

“I spent a few years searching for a stable bar fixing job, but no one was willing to hire me just because I’m a woman,” Chan said.

Bar bending is an integral part of building development in Hong Kong, with benders responsible for creating rebars, the steel skeleton of structures used in concrete construction. However, the work is project based and most bar benders are employed as day labourers, meaning that they are not entitled to paid holidays, severance or other benefits that come with salaried roles.

Chan said that she was “pessimistic” that these benefits would be extended to day labourers any time soon. “The [bar benders’] union is in an awkward position. There’s not much they can do.”

Ah Man, too, said he did not intend to put forward more demands under this sensitive atmosphere. “The top priority of the union now is to stabilise itself,” he said.

The time when one can strike

Ah Man’s first encounter with the labour rights movement came in the 1980s, before he became a bar bender, when a strike broke out in the textile factory he was working in.

“The Hong Kong Federation of Trade Unions was actually doing a good job at the time,” he said, referring to the largest pro-establishment union in Hong Kong. “They even set up a temporary cafeteria for the workers near the factory.”

Ah Man said that striking was easier back then, as people were not afraid to act when their wellbeing was in danger.

His second moment of workers’ rights enlightenment occurred in the mid-1990s, when a worker was injured on a construction site Ah Man was overseeing. Exhausted because the subcontractor had denied his request for a second supervisor to share his work, Ah Man had turned away after dividing steel bars into heavy piles, when he heard a loud bang. Someone had put their steel bundle into an unfinished holder that had collapsed and broken another labourer’s leg.

“That is the biggest regret in my life,” Ah Man said. He still chokes up when talking about the accident. “I have always been left-leaning, but that accident made me want to work for labour rights even more.”

The following decade, Ah Man found his opportunity.

After the SARS outbreak in 2003, the city’s economy suffered and bar benders’ daily wages plunged from around HK$1,200 to HK$800, according to Ah Man and the labour rights outlet WKnews. By 2007, the economy had largely recovered, however, subcontractors tried to increase the working hours of bar benders from eight and a half hours per day to eight and 45 minutes, even though the daily wage had only risen by HK$30 to HK$50.

“One of the bar fixers was furious after seeing the notice [about the rise in working hours]. In just a few days, we decided to start a strike,” Ah Man said.

The bar benders’ demands included returning their working hours to eight hours per day – the standard for bar fixers before Hong Kong’s handover from Britain to China – and raising their daily wage to HK$950.

Ah Man was elected to be one of seven workers’ representatives tasked with negotiating with the subcontractors and the developers. The strike lasted for 36 days until September 12, 2007, when the employers’ representatives agreed to pay HK$860 for an eight-hour work day.

While some called the result a pyrrhic victory because of the enormous political and financial pressures placed on the strikers, Ah Man said his most important takeaway from the action was the need to set up a communication mechanism between the workers and the employers.

“During the negotiation, [the employers] told us they wouldn’t listen to a ‘nobody.’ That’s why I started the Bar Bending Industry Workers Solidarity Union – so that we wouldn’t be a nobody anymore,” Ah Man told HKFP.

He claimed that the strike and the union successfully opened a window for both sides to discuss welfare, at least in the first few years.

In 2010, the Bar Bending Industry Workers Solidarity Union successfully reached an agreement with the commerce union to allow construction workers to take an additional 15-minute break when the very hot weather warning is in force. It has long fought for better compensation claims after work-related injuries.

However, the union lost resources, members, staff and a venue after the HKCTU disbanded. Additionally, employers stopped inviting it to discussions. As a result, Ah Man said, construction firms have disregarded agreements and regulations.

“Have you ever seen the accident statistics outside construction sites?” Ah Man asked. He said that many of the displayed statistics have been manipulated, as the developers have a higher chance of winning a bid when their accident numbers are low.

Ah Man told HKFP that many workers would settle compensation claims with their employers in private. ” I once knew a bar fixer who did not report his head injury at work, and he died in his sleep at home the next day. It is extremely difficult to claim for compensation in such cases.”

There were 18 fatal accidents and 2,532 industrial accidents in the construction industry in 2020, amounting to 26.1 injuries per a thousand construction workers, according to a document released by the Legislative Council’s panel on manpower.

Additionally, Ah Man said he has learned of construction sites where the very-hot-weather agreement has not been implemented. “We tried to do something about it, but no bar fixer is willing to come forward as they are afraid that their employers might settle a score later,” he said. “So we’ve got defendants, but no plaintiff.”

Chan, however, told HKFP that she was willing to step into the spotlight and play the role of “plaintiff” because she “had nothing to lose” as one of few women in the industry.

‘Women can’t handle the work’

Chan was raised in a bar fixing family. Her father ran a subcontracting business. Now 48, Chan first visited building sites as a child, and saw for herself the poor working conditions that bar benders endured.

“The bar benders didn’t have safety shoes, gloves, or helmets on. I recall once trying to assist with the work, and ended up crying over my scarred palms,” she said.

Because of these experiences, she did not immediately follow in her father’s footsteps. But then in 2007, Chan was living right next to the bar fixers’ strike. She befriended some of the senior bar benders, who told her that employers then had to provide helmets and safety belts.

“I thought it was no longer that bad, and the salary was higher than in other industries,” Chan said. She decided to enter the bar fixing industry, becoming one of Hong Kong’s first female bar benders.

However, finding permanent employment in the industry was challenging for Chan. She had an unstable income for nearly five years while working as a substitute for other bar benders.

“I’ve heard so many unsupportive things in the past: ‘women cannot handle the work’, ‘girls should stay at home’… But I’m stubborn. I’m a woman but so what? I could be on par with men as well,” Chan said.

She applied for a bar-fixing course, but heard nothing for almost a year. “The bar-fixing school claimed that they would typically call back in a month, but I waited and waited,” Chan said.

“After nearly a year, I phoned them to ask if they had neglected my application because of my gender. I told them I would file a complaint to the Equal Opportunities Commission.”

A day later, the college admitted her. Chan became a professional bar fixer in 2012.

Despite there being times when Chan was offered just over half the salary of her male counterparts, Chan has persevered. She has won industry awards, and, as a result of her repeated endeavours to address gender discrimination in the construction sector in the press, the issue of pay inequality has been largely resolved.

But there are still many issues that need addressing, she said.

For example, Chan’s employer of seven years did not pay severance or long service benefits when it fired her a month ago.

According to the Employment Ordinance, if an employee is in continuous employment – that is, employed by the same employer for four or more consecutive weeks for at least 18 hours each week – they are entitled to benefits such as holidays and severance.

However, the firm utilised a loophole in the ordinance to pay Chan’s salary using the names of different companies over the years.

Chan was furious. “Don’t day labourers deserve to get these benefits?” she asked. But demanding change and stricter regulations was challenging in Hong Kong today, Chan said, with Covid-related limits on public gatherings and other new rules.

“My husband asked me to back down as well. He told me ‘you’ve already achieved enough, now it’s someone else’s job’,” she said.

Fighting on

Both Chan and Ah Man said they believed they should continue their labour rights advocacy despite the recent political shift. Chan, who has been mocked by some colleagues for being popular in the press, explained she just wanted the best for her fellow bar benders.

“I’ll probably retire in my 50s… but even if I do not get the chance to enjoy such improvements, I’ve fought back. At least the next generation could enjoy them,” Chan, who has enjoyed the improvements made by bar fixers in her father’s generation, said.

As someone who has witnessed the ups and downs of Hong Kong’s labour rights history, Ah Man also told HKFP that he would continue to fight for the future.

“We need to adapt to the circumstances, instead of keep thinking how good it was in the past… we just have to do what we can at the moment, and prepare for a chance to come,” he said.

“We may not be able to fight for anything today, but maybe we can tomorrow,” the veteran unionist said, stroking his full white beard.

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Raymond Yeung’s announcement that he would plead guilty to a charges of illegal assembly was not made in court, but on Facebook. He faces the possibility of a five-year jail term when he enters that same plea in front of a magistrate on Monday.

“I have an advantage over other protest prisoners – I can make customised books for myself to read in prison,” Yeung told HKFP with a smirk.

Yeung is the founder of Hillway Culture, a publisher known for publishing protest-related books in Hong Kong. He is also known as the “teacher who was shot in the eye.”

The former Liberal Studies teacher at a prestigious girls’ school was left partially blind after being struck by an alleged police projectile during a protest in 2019. A photo of him with blood pouring from his eye went viral, and he became renowned as a victim of alleged police brutality. Yeung lost his teaching position soon after.

With the unexpected media attention, Yeung was touted as a potential candidate in the democrats’ unofficial primary election for the postponed Legislative Council race in 2020. In the same year, he was among those who won a legal challenge against the police relating to the use of officer identification at protests.

“The name ‘Raymond Yeung’ was sold back then,” he said, reflecting on his past. “I felt like I was playing a role that the Hong Kong people needed, who I really was didn’t really matter.”

After the mass arrests of democrats involved in the primaries and the disbanding of countless pro-democracy civil organisations, Yeung returned to work for Hillway Culture, dealing with something he felt more familiar with than elections and politics – books.

“We noticed a great demand for books in Hong Kong in 2019 – particularly works on social and political topics – so we started to expand. In 2020, even as other publishers became more cautious about releasing books as the national security law was introduced, I continued to do more in the publishing sector,” Yeung said.

The company was founded in 2016 with the intention of publishing Liberal Studies materials. However, the supposedly harmless textbooks publisher has become what Yeung describes as a “dangerous” publishing company, making political novels, picture books and biographies that no printing factories dare to print.

“We haven’t done anything more than what we did in the past, we just haven’t done anything less,” Yeung said with a smile of resignation.

Red lines and ‘seditious’ publications

Since the Beijing-imposed national security law was implemented in June 2020, red lines have been drawn around the publishing industry. In July last year, national security police arrested five members of a pro-democracy speech therapists’ union for conspiracy to publish “seditious” children’s books about sheep.

The sedition law, a legacy of the British colonial government, was unused for over half a century until its revival in the aftermath of the 2019 extradition bill protests and unrest. It outlaws incitement to violence, to disaffection and to other offences against the administration while the national security law, enacted in June 2020, criminalises subversion, secession, collusion with foreign powers, and terrorist acts.

“When the security law was announced, the industry was quite alarmed because they believed that, once the law was passed, any publications with political themes and all parties engaged in making them would be prohibited. It’s extremely terrifying,” Yeung said.

At the time the legislation passed, Hillway Culture was planning to publish a protest-themed book called To Freedom: A Year of Hong Kong Protests, which collected the stories of 50 people involved in the protests, including a district councillor, a first aider, a reporter and a protest lawyer.

However, they were unable to get the book printed in the traditional way.

“Not a single printing company was willing to take our order. That was a hard blow for us. I thought to myself: ‘Have we reached the stage where we simply cannot operate?'” he said.

The printers were concerned that the book may be viewed as illegal under the security law, Yeung said, or that their business might suffer as a result of printing it. “At least for us, the red line often comes from the self-censorship of the printers instead of the actual legal risk, as we have received no warning from the police so far,” he said.

But it was Yeung’s first foray into publishing, and he was unable to accept the possibility that it was going to be a flop. He came up with a creative – and unusual – way to produce the book: splitting the printing process into small parts and contracting out those parts to different printing companies, so if printing the book put them at fault legally, at least the blame would be dispersed.

“Some seniors at the printers said it was like we were printing ‘prohibited books.’ One told us that prohibited books used to be erotica or violent publications, instead of political books,” Yeung said. “Who would have thought we would be doing this again in 2020.”

Hillway Culture was able to fulfil the pre-orders and distribute copies to readers, but the experience made Yeung think more about Hillway Culture’s future. It needed to be more independent, and one way of doing that was to purchase its own printing equipment.

Yeung chuckled when he told HKFP that the cost of printing their own books was about HK$50 for each copy, which “simply doesn’t make any economic sense.” However, he said, Hillway Culture has always been prepared for the worst.

Yeung said, as far as he knows, Hillway Culture is the only publisher to have invested ten of thousands of Hong Kong dollars on printing equipment. However, he foresaw that finding printing factories to print political books would become more difficult, especially as Hillway Culture is considered as a “high-risk” publisher, a result of being turned down by the government-supported Hong Kong Book Fair, and having to cancel its own independent book fair.

‘High-risk’ book fair

Yeung, who organised of the Hongkongers’ Book Fair, choked up when announcing the abrupt cancellation of the independent book fair. At the eleventh hour, the venue owner claimed safety concerns and an alleged lease violation.

The idea of the event came to Yeung after at least three publishers, including Hillway Culture, were denied permission to take part in the official Hong Kong Book Fair held in July. The independent book fair was viewed by many as an attempt to take on the government-backed fair, even though the two events did not clash on the calendar.

Yeung asserts that Hillway Culture’s involvement may have been among the venue owner’s concerns. Its name was mentioned during their negotiations.

“The Hongkongers’ Book Fair is not a political activity, even though it comes from a political decision made by the Hong Kong Book Fair,” Yeung told the press during a press conference. “We have put so much effort into the Hongkongers’ Book Fair… we really want this to work.”

After it was cancelled, the fair went online. Sales went much better than expected, Yeung told HKFP, and the profits exceeded the losses incurred by the axed event.

A week later, Yeung accompanied HKFP to the Hong Kong Book Fair, only this time he went as a reader instead of a participating publisher. “I thought I could be chill and just walk around as an ordinary reader, but I can’t. I can’t forget that they shut the door on me,” Yeung said, looking at the unfamiliar exhibition hall.

“It feels strange now, like some parts of me are gone. My presence here was forcefully erased,” he continued.

Yet, Yeung insisted that Hillway Culture is not alone. He said he had imagined the worst case scenario, and even though the situation in Hong Kong now is worse than expected, he is still optimistic. “Even though there may be invisible political pressure, I still feel that many people are willing to support our work despite the current suppression.”

Counting down

During the interview, Yeung appeared calm, logical and teacher-like. He graduated from the esteemed University of Hong Kong and was earning a stable and satisfying income working as a high school teacher.

However, the ex-educator is now counting down the days to his sentencing, and said he would not be too shocked if additional charges were later brought against him.

Yeung said that when he was rearrested in April, he assumed it was because of Hillway Culture.

“The police came to my home at 5 a.m. or 6 a.m. ringing my doorbell. When I saw the police through my CCTV, I thought to myself ‘which incident is this related to?’… Would it be our news reports that might be deemed as seditious? Would it be our publications? I kept thinking about this as I was walking to my door. What offence would it be?” Yeung said.

“When I opened the door, I realised it was over an illegal assembly dating back to 2019, and I felt relieved,” he said with a calm tone. “I’ve always been mentally prepared.”

Yeung explained that staying in the publishing sector gives his a purpose in life and the strength to avoid feeling hopeless and depressed. The positive feelings outweighed the negative feelings brought on by some of the things he has experienced.

“Finding a profession that I enjoy, am skilled at, can give me satisfaction and is also congruent with social ideals and what many others think is rare. I don’t see why I should be depressed about switching careers,” Yeung said with a smile.

A few days before his sentencing, which could be months or even years in jail, the workaholic smiled again when talking about his plans should he have to spend time in prison. “I’m going to try working in prison too, maybe I can still do the work through letters.” The hope is that Hillway Culture will continue.

“I don’t know what will happen when I finish serving my time in jail, but I hope Hillway Culture will still be here and will continue our work. We failed to hold the Hongkongers’ Book Fair, but we’ve learnt so much through these experiences. Next time, we’ll do it better, and safer,” he said, maintaining his calm, and perhaps with a logical “irrationality.”

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Two groups of people took position on opposite sides of East Point Road, one of the busiest streets in Causeway Bay. Above them, a giant TV screen outside the SOGO shopping complex played commercials and a promotional clip for the 25th anniversary of Hong Kong’s Handover.

One group which assembled last Saturday, outside an MTR exit, was made up of three uniformed police officers. They set up a camcorder on a tripod, pointed directly at the two women and two men on the other side of the street. 

Under the eye of law enforcement and their camera, some passers-by chose to watch the four from afar. Others accepted the publication they were handing out – the 58th issue of Disobedience, a regular publication from one of Hong Kong’s last active pro-democracy groups, the League of Social Democrats (LSD).

The latest edition consisted of a mere four pages printed in black and white. The LSD’s street booth was also low-key – there were no flags or donation boxes, and a banner was left furled and hidden under the table. 

But a black-clad woman in front of the booth, a microphone in one hand and a copy of Disobedience in the other, was unfazed by the police presence. Chan Po-ying, the current leader of the LSD, kept her voice calm.

With the recent issue, the 66-year-old told HKFP she wanted to publicise developments in the city’s human rights situation and civil society, as Hong Kong headed towards its 25th Handover anniversary on July 1.

“We don’t want there to be only one narrative in society, singing praise and papering over the cracks,” she said.

Last protesters of Hong Kong

For years since 2003, street protests were a staple part of the Handover anniversary. The busy Causeway Bay street was a stage for various political parties and civil groups to make their voices heard. 

But almost 60 civil society groups have folded since Beijing’s sweeping national security legislation came into force in June 2020. Among them was the Civil Human Rights Front, once a main organiser of the traditional July 1 march.

Many prominent pro-democracy figures, including a founding member of the LSD and Chan’s husband “Long Hair” Leung Kwok-hung, became entangled in the city’s new red lines and ended up behind bars.

Two years after the law came into force, the LSD is the only pro-democracy group that still rallies on the street. Its members are seen by many as the “last protesters” in Hong Kong.

Even they had to refrain from protesting on July 1 this year, when Chinese leader Xi Jinping visited the city. Some members were summoned by national security police for a meeting three days before the anniversary, while on Wednesday, the homes of several LSD members were reportedly searched.

“The situation is difficult, [I] cannot give more details,” Chan told reporters. It was the first time for the LSD not to hold any protest on the Handover anniversary.

Incalculable risks

Founded in 2006, the LSD has long been seen as a relatively radical branch of Hong Kong’s pro-democracy camp. Members were not shy of using force, such as throwing objects at government officials and engaging in physical clashes with police or security guards.

HKFP met Chan and Avery Ng, who headed the LSD between 2016 and 2020, at the group’s office two days before it set up its street booth.

The group’s headquarters is located in an industrial building in Cheung Sha Wan. There is no shortage of loudhailers or protest banners, but books dominate the space.

After LSD founding member Leung lost his status as a legislator in 2016, the group had to find space for the hundreds of books he had accumulated in his Legislative Council office.

But Leung had little time to enjoy his collection. “Now he’s inside [prison]; its a pity,” Ng said.

Ng, dressed in a black T-shirt and dark shorts, told HKFP that while the group might appear “very radical” or even “very excited” on screen, its every action was planned ahead. 

“We… all calculated clearly how much [risks] we could bear, and where to draw the line,” the 45-year-old said.

But Ng admitted that drawing the line has become more difficult. People could be charged with sedition or even with national security offences merely for chanting slogans. 

They might even be penalised for setting up street booths. A court recently fined Chan and three other members between HK$800 and 1,200 each for collecting donations without prior approval from authorities.

As legal risks became harder to assess, Chan and Ng said their main consideration was no longer about potential consequences, but what they believe in. 

Chan said one of the LSD’s core ideas was civil disobedience. “We very much value our basic rights of expression and assembly,” she said. ”Whenever the government cracks down on these fundamental rights, we will resist.”

This belief, said Chan and Ng, was part of the group’s DNA. 

Challenges

But in order to survive in the current political atmosphere, Chan said the LSD had to adjust its activist strategy.

“The LSD is not all about ramming forward,” she said. But even with a toned-down approach, core principles can be preserved. 

“Even with a very small, mild action, such as going out on June 4th… to be in everyone’s sight, this to some extent is indeed a form of resistance,” Chan added.

Going forward, Ng said the LSD – and civil society as a whole – will have to get used to the new legal boundaries. “In some sense, you are risking it all to go around blindly, and you will get caught when you are unlucky,” he added. 

Apart from potential legal consequences of their actions on the street, the LSD faces a series of other challenges. Manpower and cash are in short supply, with none of the donations that used to flow in during large-scale demonstrations. The LSD must also work harder to publicise its ideas since there are fewer media outlets to cover their actions.

According to Chan, their resources are only enough to last until the end of this year. 

“Obviously current conditions are increasingly difficult. Therefore we have to think about how to survive,” Ng said.

For comrades behind bars

Maintaining an active street presence and keeping the LSD alive is not just a personal mission for Chan and Ng – it is something they do for their comrades behind bars.

Chan still vividly remembers the words of Figo Chan – a member of the LSD and the former convenor of the now-defunct Civil Human Rights Front – before he went to jail. “When I come out, please don’t lose the organisation already!”

She hopes members and friends will still be able to gather under the LSD’s roof once they finish their jail terms.

Leung Kwok-hung and Jimmy Sham, former members of the LSD’s administrative committee, are in custody awaiting trial on national security offences, along with other prominent pro-democracy figures, for their participation in an opposition primary in July 2020. Figo Chan and Leung are also serving time in prison for protest-related cases.

Ng said that when they are finally released, it will be comforting for them to learn that people are still standing their ground. “In fact, right now… if you stand your ground and don’t back off, you are already nailing it.”

Ng completed his own sentence of 14.5 months less than two months ago. He said he was able to stay positive and use the time to read and write. “To some extent, you could say I took a rest.”

However, Ng said he knew that people facing a much lengthier sentence would think differently. 

“Being in there long enough, they would know it is useless to think much [about the outside world],” Ng said. “All these thoughts are irrelevant to you.”

“You would still have to queue for your meals, and you would still need to go to bed when the lights go off at 10 o’clock sharp.”

Those facing a long sentence, or without a release date, are living in the moment to try to keep their spirits up, Ng said. “At the very least, if their friends, family, sons and daughters are all right, that will be good enough already.”

Comrades in arms

Leung Kwok-hung is one detainee facing an uncertain future. The case against him and 46 other democrats is still awaiting trial, even though they were first detained in February last year. A majority of the 47 have been denied bail.

Leung has also been sentenced to 22 months over a separate protest case. To make it easier to support him, he and Chan decided to register as a married couple after he was first arrested by national security police in January 2021 and briefly released on bail.

For years, the pair had been “comrades in arms,” which according to Chan meant “more than friends and more than lovers.” They had not married earlier because they saw matrimony as a prop for the status quo and private ownership, as well as oppressive to women.

“If he wasn’t facing imprisonment, we would not think about marriage,” Chan said. 

For most of Chan’s life, she was happy to play a supporting role. Yet in July last year, she had no choice but to take over the leadership of the LSD and bear all the attendant responsibilities and risks because other prominent figures in the party were either in prison or about to be.

If Chan ends up in jail as well, it will be much harder for the two to see each other. But all Leung said when Chan went to visit him and asked his opinion was that she should “take care.” 

A vessel only

Although the LSD keeps striving to make its voice heard, members know they are not making much of a difference.

Under the current curbs on public gatherings, a maximum of four people can gather on the street holding protest slogans and chanting. “Therefore in a practical sense, it is not too meaningful,” Ng said.

After all, Ng said, the LSD and Hongkongers as a whole are in a very passive position because power is not in their hands. Nevertheless, he is not concerned the party could be the last remaining voice of protest in the city.

“Everyone has to remember: any organisation or political party, just like what Long Hair always said in the past, is nothing but a vessel… holding together people with common ideas,” he said.

Both Chan and Ng believe that individuals, as well as other civil groups, will always find a way to join forces and express their views, even when faced with the new social norms and pressures. 

Whenever the distribution of resources is unjust, there will be social conflicts, and whenever there is a conflict, there will be opposition voices, Chan told HKFP.

Ng said currently the LSD is holding on as much as it can, “hoping that we won’t immediately die from suffocation when they start to strangle you…” 

“So we keep on wheezing and squeezing in one or two more breaths while we can.”

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As Hong Kong prepares for the 25th anniversary of the Handover, officials have painted a peaceful and prosperous picture of the city – a great comeback following a tumultuous few years, which began with the 2019 protests and unrest, followed by the Covid-19 pandemic. For Ronny Tong, who is about to begin his second term as an executive councillor, the outlook for the city – and for a more democratic form of governance – looks promising.

“[Over] the next 25 years – provided the issue of sovereignty is accepted in Hong Kong and the nation is no longer under threat – I see no reason why Hong Kong cannot revisit the issue of political reform,” Tong told HKFP.

Tong qualified as a barrister in Hong Kong in 1975 and entered politics in the post-colonial era as a pro-democracy lawmaker in 2004. In 2015, he founded centrist think tank and political group Path of Democracy, before becoming a member of the Executive Council, a top-tier team of government advisers, in 2017.

“[A]fter 2019, people say the pendulum has swung a little bit to the extreme. And I think that is understandable. I would hope to see the pendulum swing back a little bit towards the middle, in the next, say, five to 10 years,” he said. 

The idea of political reform in Hong Kong emerged from promises of greater democracy in the form of universal suffrage for the chief executive and legislative elections, as stated in the Basic Law.

The last time Hong Kong debated political reform was in 2014, when the pro-democracy camp called for a “civic nomination” in the 2017 chief executive race, meaning all eligible voters would have the right to nominate a candidate. On August 31 that year, Beijing announced that only individuals approved by a nominating committee would be allowed to run.

The decision was not well received by Hongkongers, sparking the 79-day Umbrella Movement, in which people peacefully occupied major thoroughfares, demanding what they called “genuine universal suffrage.” 

Tong said the problem with previous attempts to push through political reform was that people had the wrong mindset. 

“[T]he issue underlying the difficulties of political reform is that some people had no respect or regard for the fact that Hong Kong is under the sovereignty of China as a nation. In other words, some people advocated political reform, wanting to make Hong Kong an independent territory. And that is contrary to the return of sovereignty of Hong Kong to China,” he said.  

‘New crop of leaders’

According to Tong, “a new crop of leaders” from the pan-democrats who respect and accept Chinese sovereignty of Hong Kong was needed to “take political reform one step further.” Otherwise, he said, any political reform would be “meaningless.” 

When asked whether that was realistic as authorities have essentially cracked down on the opposition, Tong said the crackdown only targeted lawbreakers, especially those who posed a threat to national security.

In March 2021, Beijing passed legislation to overhaul Hong Kong’s electoral system, ensuring “patriots” govern the city. The move reduced democratic representation in the legislature, tightened control of elections and introduced a pro-Beijing vetting panel to select candidates.

Around the time of the overhaul, 47 pro-democracy activists were charged with conspiracy to commit subversion for taking part in a primary election in July 2020.

“If you accept the One Country, Two Systems and you are not posing a threat to national security, why you should be arrested simply because you’re advocating political reform? I can’t see that happening,” Tong said.

“And there is no factual basis to suggest that that would be the case.”

In June 2020, Beijing inserted national security legislation directly into Hong Kong’s mini-constitution – bypassing the local legislature – following a year of pro-democracy protests and unrest. It criminalised subversion, secession, collusion with foreign forces and terrorist acts, which were broadly defined to include disruption to transport and other infrastructure.

Hong Kong’s incoming Chief Executive John Lee has already said that political reform would not be a priority for his administration. Tong – who will serve as an advisor to Lee – said that was not the “wrong approach.”

“Because of the pandemic, [Lee] had very little time to form a government. Because of 2019, Hong Kong is in a recovery mode. And so what he sees to be the top priority is to get Hong Kong back to even keel so that we could restart our economic activities and try to mend the rift in the community by concentrating on economic development. I don’t see that as being a wrong approach. I see that as a realistic approach,” he said. 

Exactly when discussions about political reform could be revived, Tong said, depended on how quickly Hong Kong people were able to recover from the difficulties of 2019.

Protests erupted in June 2019 over a controversial amendment to the city’s extradition bill, which was later axed. Demonstrations escalated into sometimes violent displays of dissent against police behaviour, amid calls for democracy and anger over Beijing’s encroachment.

Article 23

While Lee has set political reform aside, enacting Article 23 is expected to be among his top priorities. The incoming leader said as much during his election campaign, calling the passing of the local security legislation a “constitutional duty.” 

Article 23 of the city’s Basic Law – which is different from the Beijing-imposed national security law – stipulates that the Hong Kong government shall enact its own laws to prohibit acts of treason, secession, sedition or subversion against the central government. 

An attempt to enact Article 23 in 2003 failed after more than half a million people took to the streets to protest peacefully, with the pro-democracy camp voicing concerns over its overarching power and potential damage to freedoms. One of the key organisers behind the march was Article 23 Concern Group, formed by Tong and other pan-democrats.

Ever since authorities were forced to shelve it almost 20 years ago, reviving the bill has been central for successive chief executives, although none have moved to relaunch the contentious legislation. 

‘Less controversial’

When asked if Lee’s supposed plan to reintroduce Article 23 is contrary with his goal of mending the rift in society, Tong questioned why that would be the case. 

“Why should it be a reason [to enlarge] any divide within the community? People need to understand that national security is a very important issue, particularly after 2019,” he said. 

He added “the more controversial issue” had already been taken care of by the national security law. In contrast, the scope of Article 23 would be “relatively less controversial.” 

“What we’re talking about is treason. I don’t see any reason why that should be a controversial issue. Treason is something… every country is most concerned about,” Tong said.

“We then have national secrets, [which] could be controversial. But I think if [they are] properly dealt with, people would understand that national secrets [are] necessary to preserve national security.”

With proper consultation, Tong said he believed that the public would be willing to discuss such difficult and sensitive issues “reasonably.”

Still a ‘democrat’

In 2017, before he was first appointed an executive councillor, Tong told HKFP that he still considered himself a pan-democrat, despite leaving the pro-democracy Civic Party in 2015. Tong co-founded the group in 2006 with others, including fellow barristers Alan Leong, Audrey Eu and Margaret Ng.

Five years later, Tong struck a similar tone.

“I’m still a Democrat at heart, in a sense that I believe that ultimately, democratisation of Hong Kong, would do Hong Kong good, but not at the expense of national security,” Tong said.

“[W]hat is [the point] of having democracy if the whole system is being dismantled, and Hong Kong becomes a very unstable, and even a violent place?”

Tong said the 2019 protests and unrest were a “setback” for the democracy movement, dragging Hong Kong back to the starting point. He again stressed the need for a new batch of opposition leaders to achieve a “realistic level” where political reform can be reconsidered.

Tong added having only one non-establishment figure in the current legislature was not satisfactory. He said he hopes, when the dust settles, to see more diverse voices going into politics and contributing towards the success of Hong Kong.

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For 66 straight weeks from September 2020 to last December, Ko Lap barely left his flat.

Every week, the artist delivered a new painting – each inspired by an original piece of writing – to Ming Pao’s Sunday supplement, along with the article, poem or short story that it emerged from.

Unlike most illustrations in print media nowadays, Ko’s pieces were all created with water paints instead of computer graphics. “If I am to make any changes, basically I have to paint it all over again,” he said.

To make room to paint, he had to get rid of two wardrobes and almost all of his clothes. He needed an entire wall to hang his canvases.

“Clothes were the easiest to throw away,” Ko said, as they carried little meaning to him, unlike books. That left Ko’s tiny flat barely furnished, with only his bed, a chair, a book shelf, a small cupboard that doubles as his table, and a shelf for his computer and TV.

Ko would usually spend Monday to Wednesday in communication with the writers and contemplating ideas for painting ideas. 

In the remaining three days before Sunday, he would sleep for only a few hours and work tirelessly to finish each artwork – with the help of a constant stream of music, coffee and other caffeinated drinks.

Ko, who uses a pseudonym, said the process of painting was very painful, but not because of the above reasons. The worst part, he said, is that it requires him to dive into the depths of his mind and face what people usually choose to avoid: “your own flaws, weaknesses, and dark side.”

“The difficulty is that you really need to dive into an ocean of trauma,” Ko said, “you will be horrified as you know it will be painful, but there is no other way.”

The painter said it was the only way for others to see his sincerity and resonate with his artworks.

Stand fast

Ko was in the middle of hosting a 21-day exhibition of his paintings for Sunday Mingpao at a gallery in Sham Shui Po when he met HKFP, and he said he had been almost sleepless preparing for the exhibition, as well as a number of media interviews.

But no matter how many times Ko has talked about his creations with reporters, he told HKFP that he would never get used to being interviewed. Ko said he was a very introverted person, and he would not usually speak when in a big group or with strangers.

During his interview, Ko often looked at the far side of the room while speaking, and only made eye contact when asking questions.

He even finds his paintings “embarrassing.” “Because you are basically naked in others’ eyes. You have to peel yourself back for people to watch,” he said, as his work expressed his deepest thoughts or emotions.

“But there’s no other way, I know I have to finish my job,” the painter said. “I need to make changes to myself to make things better.”

Ko was a graphic designer for most of his career. Then, in 2020, the artist’s life took a sharp turn. He quit his job and dedicated all his time and energy to this project.

He said he realised painting was his way of making his voice heard and “doing something.”

When painting, Ko first layers the canvas with plaster to allow the colours to flow freely through the rough surface. At this point in the creative process, Ko said he has no control over his work, and it felt like he was seeking divine advice.

Fate is one of Ko’s main inspirations. “In this current era, [people] share a sense of powerlessness… one’s own strength cannot make much of a difference,” Ko said. “A lot of the time you can do nothing but give it your best try.”

The artist recalled an ancient tale he once heard, about a saint who, when asked what quality made him saintly, pointed at a young attendant who was serving tea politely and meticulously. “This here is a saint, because he was doing his best in his role,” the saint answered.

“We don’t need heroes. What we need is to stand fast and do the best that we can,” Ko said.

Because the Sham Shui Po gallery was not large enough to house all 64 paintings, Ko arranged a private space on the highest level of an old tenement building in Prince Edward so that his writer friends could see his work – that was where he met HKFP.

Despite not being open to the public, the artist still paid great attention to detail in its decoration. 

A curtain of semi-translucent vertical banners bearing memorable sentences from the 64 writings that inspired his paintings separated the room in which his paintings hang. There was also a hand-carved revolving lamp to add to the atmosphere of the place – which took the painter days to make.

Connections

Ko’s position, he said, was that of a middleman between the 64 writers he collaborated with and Hongkongers who needed the company of their literature.

Every week during the months-long project, Ko reached out to a different author and invited them to write about the city. “Hope the theme is related to Hong Kong,” was all he told the writers.

To his astonishment, it seemed to him that everyone had a tacit understanding of what to write about. Ko said the collaborations made him feel like Hongkongers had become more connected with each other in recent years because of the social atmosphere. 

“Trauma became our mutual identity,” Ko said, adding that it was why his project went smoothly. In May, a book of his paintings and their accompanying writings was published. “Many people are supporting us, a lot of bookstores wrote commentaries to recommend our new book as well,” he said.

The connections between Ko’s paintings and the writers’ literary works go beneath the surface. Ko said he intentionally avoided simply illustrating whatever the author was writing about, because he felt it would not have added an extra layer of meaning.

Instead, Ko would spend a few days going back and forth with the writer to grasp the hidden message they wanted to convey, then respond with his artworks. “It was like chatting with a friend,” Ko said.

While explaining his creative process, he stood up and pointed at one of his paintings on the wall. The work, titled “Mobius ring,” depicts a forest with blood veins as “trees” and a human heart lying in the middle of a pond at the centre. The scene is dominated by a sharp crimson tone, in which a white circular swing park and few human and animal figures stand out. 

It was his response to a piece written by Wong Pik-wai, one of the rising names in Hong Kong’s literature scene, that Ko highly appreciated. 

Wong wrote about the redevelopment of Kwun Tong, but through their conversations, Ko learned that the sense of loss at the centre of her story actually stemmed from a childhood experience. Wong was unable to visit a playground when she was a girl and the feeling has since stuck in her mind. 

“You have to speak with her heart to heart, only then you will understand that she was not really talking about the redevelopment itself,” Ko said. “So I deliberately drew a playground for her.”

Ko said he hoped when Wong saw this painting, she would see what was deeply buried in her heart, and the conversation they had could act as a form of healing for both creators.

Power of tenderness

Although human emotions are a major component of Ko’s artwork, the humans depicted in his painting are always very small. These figures are also faceless, their emotions expressed only through their body language.

Ko said he was largely inspired by the late German dancer and choreographer Pina Bausch, who he said was great at turning everyday gestures into artistic expressions. Ko said his job as painter was also to feel the emotions behind people’s body movements.

When Ko invited Ricky Yeung, a heavyweight of the local art scene, to write the preface for his new book, Yeung also noticed the unique perspective in Ko’s work and his presentation of human characters.

“Ko Lap seemed to want to prevent the audience from entering the scene, and instead ‘calmly’ observe the world,” Yeung wrote, adding that viewers of Ko’s paintings would feel like angels gazing at all living beings while standing on top of a skyscraper.

Ko said he loved Yeung’s description and it was his intention for his work to not carry any extreme emotions. “I hope [my work] is gentle. I believe in the power of tenderness, which brings hope and love,” Ko said.

“If [I] drew some sensational stuff, all I did was tell you a message,” Ko added.

Instead, the painter said his aspiration was not to tell readers anything, but help them to see their own trauma. 

“When you bravely face the painful reality, you can feel that you are healed somehow,” he said.

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Fallen leaves are often dismissed as trash on the busy streets of Hong Kong, but local artist Teresa Chan has brought them back to life with her exquisite designs that invite viewers to see trees as key witnesses to historical events in the city.

From the contour of Hong Kong’s symbolic Lion Rock peak to the profile of Cantopop icon Leslie Cheung, Chan delicately cuts from crispy leaves to create images that she saw as reminiscent of Hong Kong, and the Wan Chai neighbourhood in particular.

Titled “When Trees Cry in the City,” Chan’s exhibition at the Hong Kong Arts Centre explores the emotional connection between Hongkongers and roadside urban trees, which she describes as “living together with us for a long time to witness what is happening in the city.”

The nine-day exhibition also includes a map for touring trees in Wan Chai, a commercial district that has a “rich heritage manifesting the collective memories of Hong Kong.”

“People come and go while the trees stay,” Chan wrote in her exhibition summary.

On a leaf from an Indian almond tree, Chan carved out a human heart to mark the death of a student who was killed in a bomb attack in Wan Chai in October 1967, when the city saw large-scale riots against the British colonial government.

Another piece of art features a battleship cut-out from a traveller’s palm leaf to remember the historic Fenwick Pier in Wan Chai, which welcomed as many as 50,000 US Navy sailors a year in its heyday. The six-decade old building, which evokes Hong Kong’s colonial past, is being demolished. The site will be handed over to the Kong Wan Fire Station.

Chan, a Wan Chai resident who studied ecology and anthropology, only began experimenting with using leaves as an art medium last year, after coming across impressive works on social media by artists based in Japan, Spain and South East Asia. She said the “low cost” of using fallen leaves as an art medium made it easier for her to take the first step towards branching out into the art world.

Most of Chan’s work is dedicated to her beloved neighbourhood, which has lived through a number of historical developments in Hong Kong. It was also the scene of several violent confrontations between police and protesters during the 2019 anti-extradition bill unrest.

Wan Chai’s hustle and bustle may leave people with little time to appreciate its vibrancy, the artist said, but she discovered a completely different side of the hectic commercial heart when she took late night strolls in the neighbourhood.

“At night, you would only see trees swaying in the breeze. At that moment, I realised there were creatures bearing witness through thick and thin,” she said.

The perishable nature of leaves has put a time limit on Chan’s work, which she estimated would decompose in several years, despite being encased. She also has no plans to retain the art pieces mounted, saying she would hand them out to visitors on the last day of the exhibition on Sunday.

But the artist hopes that the ephemeral art form could play a part in keeping the stories about her neighbourhood and the city alive for generations to come.

“I think storytelling from one generation to another is similar to a decayed leaf becoming part of the soil,” she said.

Since the exhibition launched last Sunday, Chan has met more than 300 visitors, many of whom had worked or lived in Wan Chai. Among them was Waiwah Yee, a Hongkonger who emigrated to the US in the 1960s and has been staying in the city with her husband since late 2020 owing to the travel restrictions amid the Covid-19 pandemic.

Staring at Chan’s work about the 1967 riots, the New York-based Hongkonger said it reminded her of why her family decided to leave Hong Kong during the tumultuous years.

“My mom [who was already in the US] asked whether we were coming or not, and my father said maybe we should as well,” she recalled.

Listening to stories from visitors like Yee and interacting with the crowd was why the leaf sculptor said community art was “essential” in Hong Kong, as the city kicked off its art week with the prestigious Art Basel 2022 showcasing works from 130 local and international galleries, as well as the Asian-art focused cornerstone Art Central 2022.

The major art fairs happening a little over a kilometre from the Arts Centre would present a very different atmosphere compared to Chan’s small-scale exhibition, the emerging artist said. Some people may feel “nervous” as they stepped into the vast event halls at the Hong Kong Convention and Exhibition Centre, she said, adding the shows may manifest a certain degree of “elitism.”

Chan said her collection may be “too informative” and lacked the “wow factor” the art industry looks for in a whitewall gallery. Her primary goal, however, was not to meet “industry expectations,” but to allow visitors from diverse backgrounds to absorb the message of her exhibition and pass it on to their family and friends.

“After getting to know the art industry, I could sense that this is not what they see in an exhibition,” Chan said. “I can’t really grasp what the ecosystem is like. I could only say there should be a hundred products to cater a hundred customers.”

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For most people, winning is the goal when joining a competition. But for Lezlie Chan, the reason for taking part in a beauty pageant was that she had “nothing to lose.”

Chan, a 24-year-old plus-size model, recently made her first television appearance on ViuTV’s Extra Beauty, a beauty contest for women with a Body Mass Index of 25 or above that premiered in Hong Kong in April. Despite making it through to the last 12 contestants, she said she was originally hesitant to join.

“Hong Kong people are usually judgy and they are usually not encouraging. But I [thought] I should make the first step… there’s nothing to lose,” Chan told HKFP.

The show was described as “challenging beauty standards and “out of the box” by The Standard, as it is uncommon to see a programme centred around plus-size people in Hong Kong, where the entertainment and media industries are dominated by slim figures.

Draped in a bright pink fur coat, Chan sang an original song for her debut performance on Extra Beauty. Her confidence was widely praised, but it was a long-time coming. Growing up as a plus-size child was tough, even traumatic at times, she said.

“There [was] a lot of bullying… mostly traumatic. Some of [the bullies] usually called me ‘hippo.’ This sort of nickname made me feel so sad. At some point I agreed with them. I wanted to be part of them. I agreed and just let them call me ‘hippo,’ and I just called myself this name as well.”

It got to the point where Chan said she did not want to go to school because she felt alone. She was always the last person to be picked for group projects. “No one wanted me to be in the group.”

‘A new image’

To “build up a new image” after Chan graduated from secondary school, she lost around 45 kilograms. She said she wanted to be “pretty” and for her life to be “easier.”

But just as she thought she could begin a new chapter of life, bullying came back to haunt her, this time online. People behind a screen discussed her face, her body and her private life. It tore her down.

“Even [though] I lost almost 100 pounds, they didn’t like it. And they still called me ugly.” Chan realised she was not losing weight for the right reasons. “I wasn’t doing it for myself, or for my health. I was doing it because… I cared how people think of me.”

She felt lost and depressed, until a photographer friend reached out about a modelling opportunity for a plus-size swimwear brand in 2021.

Despite still healing from the trauma inflicted by online bullying, Chan took a leap of faith and said yes to the job. It paid off.

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A post shared by Lezlie Chan (@_lezliechan_)

And although she received negative feedback and hateful comments when she shared her swimwear looks on social media, she has learned to look away.

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A post shared by Lezlie Chan (@leslielez)

Chan’s taste of success in modelling boosted her confidence to be more visible. Accepting more modelling jobs and participating in a reality TV show were her way of advocating for body positivity, as well as inching towards her dream of being a singer-dancer.

The body positivity movement has been gaining traction in recent years in Western countries such as the US, where brands work with more plus-size models and offer a wider range of clothing sizes. There are prominent plus-size artists, such as singer-rapper Lizzo and singer Adele, and celebrities speak out about embracing different body shapes.

Body positivity in Hong Kong

However, Hong Kong is slow to catch up. There is only one plus-size modelling agency in the city and very few size-inclusive fashion boutiques. And artists, especially women, in the entertainment industry are still subject to calls to lose weight.

When asked whether the industry is ready to be more size inclusive, Sonia Wong, an expert on gender studies and pop culture, gave a blunt response: “not really.”

Wong, who has been friends with Chan for a long time, said plus-size artists are rarely taken seriously in Hong Kong. She mentioned late comedian Lydia Shum, better known as “Fei-fei”, which translates to “fat-fat” in English, as well as plus-size actress Chan Ka-kai from broadcaster TVB, as examples.

“There’s always that comedic [association] – they have nothing to do with beauty. They have nothing to do with style. And there’s always that moral judgement of them having to work harder, their body being problematic, or they would [be] disqualified of being a socially acceptable woman,” Wong said.

The entertainment industry is harsh not only to plus-size women, but to all women, whose appearance and body shape are often more heavily scrutinised than their male counterparts, Wong said.

“A male star, they are someone to be worshipped. But for a female star, they are something to be desired… The hierarchy is different – the power dynamic between the male star and the fans, and the female star and the fans. So they are someone to be consumed, rather than someone to be worshipped,” Wong said.

First one, not the only one

This frustration is shared by Chan, who feels like there is only one acceptable standard for beauty in society.

“In mainstream media, it seems like girls who are [outside] of the standard don’t exist. Even if they do, their existence is considered not normal, or not beautiful,” said Chan, adding that plus-size girls can be glamorous and sexy.

However, the fashion and entertainment industries must play a role in changing public perceptions.

“Just look at how difficult it is for plus-size models and artists to [borrow] clothes – it reflects that Hong Kong lacks the representation. I became the first one, but I don’t want to be the only one. I want to change the culture of the industry. I want people to see women or models with different body shapes.”

Chan said designer clothes loaned to her often came from overseas as the samples in Hong Kong were usually only available in small or extra-small sizes.

Visibility matters

“I think my presence is to show there are people with different body shapes and they can present themselves to the world in ways they are comfortable with – and that’s beautiful,” Chan said.

When asked whether the body positivity movement would be fleeting, Wong said, “If I say I’m not worried, I will be lying.”

The academic noted that companies promoting body inclusivity could simply be cashing in on the trend. But she said she still banked on the positive impact of representation, even if it was “token.”

“If [companies] are doing it in for the visibility and for the recognition, that means that whatever cause [they] are trying to pay lip service to, must strike [them] as being important enough… So I think it testifies to how much we have progressed, instead of how much [the companies] are contributing to the cause.”

For Chan, that visibility also means a genuine reflection of how plus-size women look. She tries to illustrate her beauty as honestly as possible, by requesting photographers not to overly retouch her photos or remove stretch marks and cellulite.

When asked about her favourite part of her body, Chan smiles. “Everything.”

Beautiful in our own way

Chan’s transformation was like that of a caterpillar becoming a butterfly – slowly but surely – and it attracted applause from friends and family.

“She [was] everything that she is not now. It was like she was trying not to take up that much space, to put it literally,” said Wong, who has known Chan since the model was 18 years old. “I am very proud of her.”

Wong said Chan is “very brave, very fierce,” adding she had a “very big and strong heart” to withstand all the bullying along the way.

Chan said her family was supportive of her work and had become more educated about body positivity.

Alongside her modelling career, the artist spends time creating music. While being touched up for her photoshoot on the day of the HKFP interview, she hummed a verse of a recent song she wrote about the trauma and depression she has experienced, “I Just Can’t”:

I just wanna give up myself everyday in the morning
Better let me go and there’ll be no shit (to say)
I just can’t I just can’t I just can’t stand today
Leave me alone at the door and I’ll be walking away -
You may think Imma cray bitch always brings up bad energy 
I’m always mad at myself don’t even bother 
I just can’t I just cant I just can’t handle my mind
When the sun goes down I try my best to stay high

“My music is my upbringing, or speaking my mind,” Chan said. And while she was confident about promoting body positivity, she said it took more courage to open up about her innermost feelings through her songs.

But whether showcasing looks on the runway or performing on stage, Chan hopes to let others know: “We are beautiful in our own way.”

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“You think you’re so great because you’re rich?”, “How much do you pay? …working 24 hours, but don’t even have holidays.”

A video of a foreign domestic worker sarcastically reprimanding Hong Kong employers gained traction last month. But Contrinx, the Indonesian YouTuber who won’t reveal her name for safety reasons – doesn’t normally jeer as she did in the viral clip and she isn’t new to the issue.

She has been acting as a counsellor for migrant workers for 10 years and, in 2018, started writing blogs and posting videos to promote their rights. 

During Hong Kong’s worst Covid outbreak, some workers were thrown out of their employers’ homes when they became infected. “She had already gone to hospital and took medicine, but you still decided to fire her. Where’s your conscience?” Contrinx asked of the bosses concerned.

Wiping away tears, she told HKFP: “I feel sad… why don’t you [employers] treat us fairly?”

Muted community

Contrinx handles cases of sexual harassment, financial exploitation and even discrimination. She even spends her weekend holidays listening to complaints and talks to domestic workers by phone on weeknights in urgent cases.

For Contrinx, the Immigration Department’s visa approval system is unfair: “If the government received a complaint from the employer, they would deny our visa application. They just listen to one side. At least give us a chance to defend ourselves.”

Work performance, after all, is subjective. While some employers complain that their employees are not working hard enough, no one appears to review whether the workload is reasonable. 

In order to retain a visa, workers are forced to obey their bosses. Contrinx described Hong Kong’s 400,000 foreign domestic workers as “muted, routinely silenced.” She rarely advises victims to report to police or go to court, since it is impossible to garner evidence and win a lawsuit.

“If we record something, it may violate the privacy law… If you ask the victim to recall and recall the experience again, it would damage her too,” she said, acknowledging feelings of frustration and powerlessness. 

Video that changed everything

Contrinx was pondering what could be done to raise awareness and address the root of the employer-employee difficulty. In 2018, she started writing online blogs and posting videos every early morning while her boss was still asleep. Through social media and word of mouth, she became famous among the domestic helper community. Still, Contrinx felt unsatisfied. 

That was until she posted a video on YouTube on 18 March, scolding employers in fluent Cantonese.

“You think I’m not tired? I still help you when I’m tired.”, “We’re also humans. We’re not robots.” “You think you’re so great because you’re rich?”

One of Contrinx’s former employers saw it online and called her immediately, “Are you OK? Is everything all right?” She laughed and reassured him that she was fine with her current boss: “I made this video for other domestic workers. And I say it in Cantonese because I want to communicate with the local employers too.” 

Her advocacy also attracted contempt and ridicule. Hateful comments were left on her social media accounts. Facebook and YouTube received a number of complaints about her account, and banned her from commenting for a period.

But Contrinx was not deterred. “I’m so happy that I made it – I got your attention,” she said with a broad smile. She’s since made more videos explaining how difficult it is to be a domestic worker, especially during the pandemic. Her Facebook page now has 34,000 followers.

“Finally, they can hear our voice.” 

Double standards

Since the pandemic began, Hong Kong police have been issuing penalty tickets to workers who gather in groups of more than two, or without adequate distance between each group. The HK$5,000 fixed penalty is higher than the minimum monthly wage of HK$4,630. More tickets have been issued since the fifth wave began.

Even worse, some bosses ban their employees from leaving the apartment and pay extra to compensate. “They don’t allow us to go out, to avoid the virus, but they have parties at home, inviting friends to come,” said Contrinx, condemning the double standard. 

“Because you’re higher than me? We’re lower than you? Because of social status, you think you can treat us unfairly?” she asked.

Contrinx also spoke of the basic need for rest: “We’re here. Helping a lot, so that you can have a date, meet a friend every day. And we can only do that once a week. Or at least, if you don’t want us to go out, we need a place to rest. Many migrant workers don’t have their own room.”

She also questioned how police never crack down on employers’ private gatherings, which also violate Covid rules banning gatherings of more than two households on private premises. 

Migrant workers are not virus carriers

In February, a domestic worker from the Philippines was forced to live on the streets after she tested positive for Covid-19, and later resigned. She showed the Immigration Department a video to prove that she is forced to sleep on the floor next to a shoe cabinet, but the authorities still refused her a new visa.

The case sparked an outcry, though Contrinx said many workers have been fired when they become infected with Covid-19. “The employers just don’t admit it. They can make up excuses like bad working performance.”

Thoughts of the helplessness of her fellow workers reduced her to tears. “Do you know your domestic worker doesn’t want to get infected too? She already went to hospital and took medicine, but you still decide to fire her. Where’s your conscience?”

Employers are struggling too

Contrinx emphasised that “not all employers are bad people” and she has met many kind ones. When she first came to Hong Kong, she only spoke English and Bahasa Indonesian. At the time, her employers, who were an old couple, let her watch Asia TV and explained the meanings of Cantonese words so that she could pick up the language. Within a month, she could speak eloquently and communicate with local people like shopkeepers.

She is grateful to the old couple for giving her a chance to learn the language, “the bridge to link people.” She makes use of her linguistic talents in her videos, explaining the same point in Cantonese, English and Indonesian to ensure all parties can understand.

She also sympathises with the financial pressures which employers face. “I know they’re not having a good time. The living expenses are high in Hong Kong. They have to pay the bills, the tax, and our salaries.”

“It’s OK. Money doesn’t mean everything. We’re staying here and helping. Sometimes, it is not about how much you pay. HK$4,630 is not much. If you respect us and treat us nicely, we’ll help you.”

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Observant Hongkongers might have noticed subtle shifts in the city’s natural rhythms recently. The insects have awakened, the ocean has shed bioluminescent “blue tears” along the shoreline, and the trees have begun to bloom.

None of these phenomena have escaped the attention of artist and writer Maoshan Connie, who is nothing if not observant. 

“Did you see the clouds yesterday?” she asks, sitting in the shadow of a big banyan tree in a quiet corner in Sheung Wan.

Dramatic, grayscale waves had formed above parts of Kowloon and the New Territories, although only those who looked away from their screens would have been rewarded with the view.

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“It was a type of cloud called Asperitas,” Connie explains, a “new” and rather rare formation that was only added to the World Meteorological Organization’s International Cloud Atlas in 2017.

‘People don’t even see the trees’

Since 2015, Connie has been encouraging Hongkongers to look up and look around through a campaign called Dear Tree, which invites people to write a letter to their favourite tree for her to draw. 

“What inspired me was this news from Melbourne, in Australia, where they gave every single tree a number and email address,” Connie explains. The idea was that local residents could let the city council know if a tree was damaged or needed attending to. “In the end, they got thousands of love letters.” 

Connie liked the idea, “but I thought that if I did it in Hong Kong absolutely nobody would write because, you know, Hong Kong is Hong Kong – people don’t even see the trees.”

However, with a little encouragement from her friends, she set up a Dear Tree Facebook page. To her surprise, letters began rolling in, and while much has changed in the seven years since she became a “postman,” the letters keep coming. 

“We really welcome people to write a simple letter to a tree… it doesn’t have to be long – and I will draw the tree,” Connie says.  

“A lot of people think that I write and I draw but that’s not true. We receive letters.” Recently, two came from Tai Po. She had drawn an illustrated map of the district “and that’s how they knew [about] me or my page,” she says.

“You know, every district has its own identity or character. And Tai Po people really love their district.”

Hong Kong stories

Born in Hong Kong, Connie lived “a little bit everywhere” before returning to the city some 15 years ago. Although now a full-time writer and illustrator, her first “real job” was in architectural conservation, all the while freelancing as an illustrator on the side. Her role involved a lot of research, “Hong Kong history and stuff like that,” during which she became aware of gaps in her knowledge. 

“I started drawing maps because I realised that although I studied high school in Hong Kong, we never studied Hong Kong history,” she says. Unlike topographic maps or those from Google, Connie’s contain local historical anecdotes. “The good thing about Hong Kong is it does not have a very long history. But how it was built and all those early Hong Kong stories, I really love them.”

The maps Connie draws also show animals enjoying the city and, of course, plenty of trees. 

“I think a lot of people, they don’t realise that trees are part of our lives… because Hong Kong people are just so busy with money and everything, especially before 2019,” Connie says, explaining that part of her hope with Dear Tree was to raise awareness of the city’s greenery. 

But there was more to it.

“The whole ‘under concept’ was to make people know that they also have a say in urban planning,” she says. “But now it’s like: of course you have no say in urban planning, or anything.”

In the early days, the Dear Tree community was able to effect real change. “There were people who saw that the authorities were going to cut [down] trees and they didn’t know where to seek help, and they just randomly asked for help from us,” Connie says. “So the least we could do was share it, write about it, draw it, and raise publicity.” 

Connie talks of “a few incidents that were quite special.” In one instance, a 50-year-old tree on Peng Chau was saved from the axe. 

However, “after what happened in 2019, I think a lot of people lost faith that they could change the city,” Connie says, adding, “I think it affects me a bit too… it’s something that we haven’t fully processed.”

“I guess we just have to keep trying. Small changes are good, still.” 

Community spirit

Community plays an important role in Dear Tree – and in Connie’s life. She spends a lot of her time at Mount Zero, an independent bookshop nestled at the end of a side alley in Sheung Wan. It is one of her favourite places to sit and draw, she says, and close to the tree she would write her love letter to. 

Located in a corner of Blake Garden, a quiet neighbourhood park, Connie’s beloved banyan matures not upwards but across. “If you look at photos from the 1970s, this tree was very small,” she says. “The reason it is tilted, that it grows horizontally, is probably because of a typhoon. It collapsed, but nobody cleared it and it kept on growing. I thought this was such a nice story.” 

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A post shared by Maoshan Connie 貓珊 (@maoshanconnie)

It’s a story that resonates with Dear Tree, too. “I think for advocacy, it is very important for people to have a sense of hope that they can make a change.” 

“If people just value their own immediate, small area, it’s still good in times of difficulty. And at least you can facilitate more discussion, even across political values.”

Recently, Connie shared images of a row of golden trumpet trees’ triumphant, sunflower-yellow blooms on social media. “A lot of people wrote to me and thanked me… They said they were so happy they went to see the tree,” she says. “And I felt like, for once, this was a happy share.” 

“I feel like it’s so special because in the past maybe everyone just went to Japan to see sakura, or maybe without Covid people wouldn’t stop to look at these things, but it’s because of Covid and it’s because people look at their surroundings more, that they go and see trees in Hong Kong.”

Connie keeps searching for the beauty in her surroundings.

“There are a lot of pretty things in Hong Kong, and surprisingly so many people don’t look around,” she says. “But now they can start to look.” And with any luck, they might find a tree that inspires them to write a letter. 

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An American lawyer who was deported from Hong Kong after serving time in prison for assaulting a police officer in 2019 has said he intends to challenge his conviction up until the Court of Final Appeal. He has maintained his innocence and said the prosecution was politically motivated.

Speaking from his sibling’s home in Washington DC, Samuel Bickett, a former compliance lawyer, shared with HKFP how he was deported and his plans moving forward.

Bickett, who moved to Hong Kong in 2013 and last worked at the Bank of America, was convicted in June 2021 of assaulting a police officer then jailed. His trial and conviction attracted international media attention.

The confrontation between Bickett and Senior Constable Yu Shu-sang, part of which was recorded on video, occurred in Causeway Bay MTR station on December 7, 2019, towards the end of the protests and unrest that rocked Hong Kong that year.

At the time, public anger towards the police was high, and the city’s 30,000 police officers were allowed to carry retractable batons during off-duty hours to protect them. 

Bickett told HKFP that he believed his conviction should not stand, because the crime of assaulting a police officer is premised on the fact that the offender knew of their police identity. In the video, Yu can be heard denying he was a police officer before saying “yes.”

The officer later admitted in court that, before Bickett intervened, a minor had jumped turnstiles at the station. Bickett said Yu then falsely accused the minor of sexual assault in an attempt to get the people’s attention whilst Yu grabbed the minor and beat him with a baton. This prompted Bickett to intervene and try and grab Yu’s baton.

In the video, Bickett can be seen stepping on Yu as he tries to take the baton.

That the minor did not commit an arrestable offence and Yu’s false accusation undermined the legality of his right to exercise his police powers to use force or to detain a person, Bickett said.

Bickett was found guilty of assault in June 2021 and sentenced to four and a half months in prison. He served six weeks before being released pending appeal. After losing the appeal, Bickett returned to jail for six further weeks.

He was immediately deported from the city following release and says he was barred from returning to Hong Kong. He expects to reunite with his partner and their pet dog shortly, he told HKFP.

He was placed on a flight by immigration officials, who handed his passport to airline staffers and instructed that they retain it until he reached the US, Bickett said – an act he believed they had no authority to carry out.

In Hong Kong, between court appearances and visits to report to the police, Bickett remained highly vocal on social media and launched a personal newsletter. He said he believed he was able to do so in large part because he was a foreigner: “My bravery was, I guess, also buttressed by the fact that I have certain privileges that a lot of Hongkongers would not have.”

That he was not arrested for displaying a sign calling for the release of political figures detained on national security charges revealed “how utterly political and lawless these national security arrests” were, he said.

Prison time

On his time spent behind bars, Bickett said the “food was decent” and prison guards were “generally mild.”

He said he observed no general discrimination against political prisoners. “There seems to be a pretty good consensus that these people should not be in prison,” he said.

Bickett also experienced a lockdown within prison, which he said was put in place after some detainees tested positive for Covid-19. Those within the same workgroup would be left under lockdown for 10 days, apart from being allowed out every two days to shower. This caused “great suffering,” Bickett said. Visits were suspended at the time and prisoners were not allowed to see their lawyers during lockdown, including Bickett.

This prevented him from making progress with his lawyers about bringing the case to the Court of Final Appeal, but discussions will resume now that he is out of the city.

To avoid being locked down, Bickett claimed detainees would hide their positive test results. “If you tested positive, then you go find yesterday’s test and you replace it,” he said, describing the situation as disastrous.

Settling down back in the US, Bickett said he would continue to write about his experience and publish a newsletter for subscribers on Hong Kong’s legal issues.

“I’d really like to land somewhere where I can focus full time on continuing to do some of this work for Hong Kong, and China’s human rights,” he said. He said he plans on creating a record of his time in Hong Kong by writing a book, speaking to the press and to the US government.

He hoped that “exiles from the city” like himself could one day return and “see it accomplishing goals we’ve all been hoping for many years,” he said. Meanwhile, “this is my life now, so that’s what I’m going to do,” he said.

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Twenty-one years ago, Vicktoriia Tkachuk’s parents opened a Ukrainian restaurant in Hong Kong’s Central district. They called it Ivan The Kozak. 

Kozak, or cossacks, are “a group of people who don’t belong to the government, like free warriors,” Tkachuk said. “They fight for what they think needs to be fought for.” 

On February 24, Russian troops invaded Ukraine. Fierce fighting has taken place across the country since, including in the capital Kyiv, where Tkachuk’s family is from. Her grandparents are still there. 

The 30-year-old, who is the manager of her parents’ eatery, called the invasion led by Russian President Vladimir Putin a “stupid move.” Last Tuesday, she printed “stop the war” posters featuring the Ukrainian flag, and gathered the restaurant’s employees for a photo in protest against the conflict. 

The posters now adorn the entrance to the eatery. Next to a sign bearing the restaurant’s name, a customer has placed a handwritten sticky note that reads: “God Bless Ukrain[e]”.

Since the invasion, some Hongkongers have even left stacks of cash, asking Tkachuk to donate it to Ukraine. 

“Why did you hit me?”

Like many Ukrainians, Tkachuk is furious. 

“Our points of view are different. It’s okay. Maybe [Ukraine and Russia] didn’t get along well in 2014. But now, it’s like, why do you hit me?!” she said. 

“A lot of Russians are against war, they don’t even want conflict. But if they came out, they would just get thrown in jail.” 

Talks between delegations from Ukraine and Russia are yet to yield fruit. According to the Pentagon, the Russian government has not shown any interest in a “deconfliction mechanism”. Last Sunday, Putin made another threat, saying that continued resistance would put Ukrainian statehood into question.

“Of course, I wish I was there. But then again, how much help would I be of?” Tkachuk said.

She learned of the conflict after being woken by a phone call early on February 24. On the other end of the line, with a quiver in her voice, Tkachuk’s mother said: “We have war.”

“Alcohol, many tears, many phone calls…” is how Tkachuk described the days that followed. And it was not just her. Tkachuk said Ivan The Kozak’s other employees were like “zombies” too. 

Soviet memories

Before 1991, Ukraine was a part of the Soviet Union. In the immediate years after the collapse of the Union of Social Soviet Republics, Ukraine’s economy saw hyperinflation and high poverty rates. 

As a child, Tkachuk didn’t have diapers – her mother used napkins instead. Traumatic stories of life under Soviet rule – of collectivisation, extreme poverty, the Chernobyl disaster – were passed down to Tkachuk from her mother.  

So they left Ukraine, settling down in Hong Kong. Far from home, her mother struggled with depression and panic attacks, but was able to find some comfort when she met Russians living in the city. The shared language made her mother feel comfortable, Tkachuk said, since she did not speak Mandarin or Cantonese when she arrived in the city.

It was from her mother that Tkachuk learned to speak Russian, and she admits that she’s more fluent in it than Ukrainian.

Identity politics

The relationship between Ukraine and Russia stretches back centuries, and years of cultural and historical exchanges within Ukraine have created a nation that is ethnically and linguistically diverse. Ethnic Russians make up the largest minority group in Ukraine, and Russian is commonly spoken across the region, though in no small part because of Russification efforts during the imperial and Soviet eras. 

But the relationship has grown fraught. Ukrainian electoral politics have been framed as a contest between pro-Russian and pro-Western candidates, and expressed desires to join NATO and the European Union have culminated in tense identity politics. Divergent memories of history have added to the conflict. 

Much of this culminated in the 2014 Maidan revolution that ousted pro-Russian Ukrainian president Viktor Yanukovich, and, only a month later, the Russian annexation of Crimea. 

When Tkachuk was little and people asked her nationality, she would say “Russian” without much thought. 

“You’re Ukrainian!” her mum would angrily correct. After Russia annexed Crimea, her mother began speaking to her in Ukrainian instead of Russian.

The Russia-Ukraine war has also revealed people’s views, or in the eyes of some Ukrainians, their humanity. Tkachuk said that she had stopped working with a long-time supplier after the owner openly declared his support for Putin. 

“Everyone’s saying, ‘oh we don’t know about all this government stuff.’ But no, you know when a bully is a bully,” Tkachuk said.  

Hongkongers show support

When Tkachuk’s mother first arrived in Hong Kong, her nursing certification was not recognised, so she waited tables at a Russian restaurant. After it closed, she decided to open a Ukrainian restaurant with her Chinese husband, naming it Ivan after him. 

The restaurant is adorned with a collection of cultural and religious knick-knacks, paired with wooden coffered ceilings and Tiffany lamps to create a uniquely eastern European environment. 

However, online dining guide OpenRice lists Ivan The Kozak as offering Russian cuisine. Tkachuk has asked the platform to change its categorisation to Ukrainian or even eastern European, but to no avail.

“It’s alright. Once they arrive at our front door they’d know we do Ukrainian,” Tkachuk said. The blue-and-yellow Ukraine flags, posters and slogans that plaster the entrance leave diners with little doubt over which cuisine they will be eating.

In 2014, Tkachuk’s mother printed a message in the menu saying that Russia was the only one responsible for the invasion and annexation of Crimea. According to Tkachuk, some Russian guests left their tables after reading the menu. 

In 2019, the first page of the menu was replaced with slogans of solidarity with Hong Kongers. 

“It’s quite stressful. Hong Kong quiets a bit, and then Ukraine has problems; and then Ukraine quiets a little bit, and then Hong Kong has problems,” she said, sighing. 

Tkachuk appeared calm when speaking to HKFP, but said that whenever she closes her eyes, she sees her Ukrainian sisters and brothers suffering, and is not able to hold back her tears.

One thing that has provided her comfort is her small, sapphire-hued parrot, Hercules. It snuggled into her cupped palm as Tkachuk spoke to HKFP. Occasionally, it hopped onto her head and softly mussed her hair with its beak.

“Hong Kongers love Ukrainian food,” Tkachuk said, adding that “the most popular dish here is Chicken Kiev.” Ivan The Kozak has managed to keep running without financial difficulties despite the city’s strict social distancing measures, which include a ban on dining in restaurants after 6 p.m. 

And after Russia invaded Ukraine, Hong Kongers flocked to the restaurant to show their support. Some left “Stand with Ukraine” memos, some shared how heartbroken they felt about the news, and some even placed stacks of cash on their table, asking the money to be donated to support Ukrainians. 

Tkachuk’s brother donated the money to the armed forces right away, unsure of how long Ukraine would last.

The restaurant has expressed its gratitude on Facebook, writing “Dear Hongkongers! Thank you for your support! We see and feel it.”

“It’s been really busy these days. A week ago [before the invasion], we only had six to seven tables a day because offices have been closed and people have been working from home,” Tkachuk said. 

She knew people had come for Ukraine.

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