In 2016, I brought my daughter to visit the Cavite Provincial Jail in the Philippines. We hadn’t thought too much about it. We just brought some unwanted clothes and things for the people inside. I thought it might also be a way to show my daughter how choices can shape lives, but none of us were really prepared for what we saw.
​
I was told there were around 1,200 people inside. Many were accused of crimes such as drug use, bribery, rape, or assault. Yet many had not received a final sentence. Without money for a lawyer, cases stalled, sometimes for years. In overcrowded conditions, those without support slept on the floor, or stacked together in tiny spaces. A corner with a window felt like a luxury.

Still, people tried to live. They cooked, cut hair, played games, painted nails—trying to build a kind of family inside. When we gave out the clothes, some laughed and tried them on, fooling around with one another. In the open areas, many looked almost cheerful.

But not everywhere. I passed a narrow gate marked with a sign: Isolation cell. At least seven people pressed against the bars, standing or sitting in the dark, looking at me with no expression. I was warned not to get too close.

There was an older woman sitting by herself, with an oxygen mask, jailed for drug use. She didn’t speak. She just sat silently, staring into space. Two years later, I learned she had died in jail. Her name was Maria.

Elsewhere, a woman imprisoned for bribery laughed and talked with her husband, children, and friends who came to visit her. For a moment, it felt almost like home.

I wasn’t allowed to speak directly with anyone. My daughter and I simply followed the guide, moving from space to space, absorbing fragments of lives behind bars—joy, despair, resilience, and hopelessness.

All the photos were taken on my phone—the only permission I was given.

Ramadan is a month of reflection, heightened spirituality, and community for Muslims around the world.

Observed as the ninth month of the Islamic lunar calendar, Ramadan commemorates the first revelation of the Quran to the Prophet Muhammad, according to Islamic belief. It is one of the Five Pillars of Islam and lasts 29 or 30 days, depending on the sighting of the crescent moon.

During the month, most adult Muslims fast from dawn to sunset, abstaining from food and drink. Exemptions apply to those who are ill, pregnant, breastfeeding, diabetic, or travelling. Children are not required to fast until puberty, though some begin earlier in preparation. Fasting is accompanied by increased prayer, acts of charity, and reflection. Many Muslims begin the day with a pre-dawn meal known as _suhoor_, and gather with family and friends at sunset for _iftar_, the meal that breaks the fast.

In Hong Kong, the Muslim population numbers around 300,000 and includes communities from South Asia, Southeast Asia, Africa, the Middle East, and China. According to Chief Imam and Mufti Muhammad Arshad, around 12,000 Muslim families are locally rooted, descended from early South Asian Muslim immigrants who married local Chinese women and raised their children as Muslims.

There are currently six principal mosques in Hong Kong used for daily prayers. A seventh, the Sheung Shui Mosque in the New Territories, is under construction.

After a month of fasting, prayer, and reflection, Ramadan has come to a close. Today marks Eid al-Fitr, the festival celebrating the breaking of the fast—one of the most important religious holidays for Muslims worldwide.
On 15 June 2018, Muslims in Hong Kong gathered from as early as 7:30 a.m. at Victoria Park for Eid prayers. Others attended services held at mosques across the city.
This was my first time witnessing the celebration. In some ways, it felt similar to Chinese New Year—a time of reunion, renewal, and shared joy.
After leaving the park, I walked to Ammar Mosque, also known as the Wan Chai Mosque. According to Kasim Ma, worshippers there included local Hong Kong Muslims as well as Indonesians, Filipinos, Pakistanis, and Malaysians. To accommodate the large turnout, dim sum was served as a communal breakfast following prayers.

A few years after I was born, the shanty home my grandparents built with their bare hands was burned down. It happened not long after the government failed to reclaim the land. We were later allocated a public housing flat in Yuen Long.

For the next seven years, my mother, my brother, my sister, and I shared a 350-square-foot unit. Space was tight, but life felt open. Doors were rarely closed. Neighbours looked out for one another. The bonds we formed there felt closer to brotherhood than anything I have experienced in the private building I live in today, where doors stay shut and security guards stand watch. I still don’t know who lives next door.

Today, around 750,000 families — nearly two million people — live in public rental housing in Hong Kong. Over decades, these estates have changed in architecture, rhythm, and culture. But they remain one of the city’s most shared experiences: a collective story shaped by proximity, necessity, and care.

I didn’t grow up in the “twin-tower” style of public housing. Still, when I see children playing in the corridors, I recognise something familiar. It brings me back to my own childhood — playing marbles in the hallways, flying kites made from plastic bags during typhoons, lighting small fires with melted candles, setting off firecrackers during festivals. These were small freedoms, shaped by limited space but expanded by shared ground.
​
Those corridors were not just passages between flats. They were places where life happened, where childhood unfolded, and where a sense of belonging quietly took root.

Uncle Fu (富叔), the owner of Chan’s Store (陳記士多), passed away four years ago. Four months ago, Gil PoPo (嬌婆), the last resident of Fan Lau Tsuen (分流村), also died.
On weekends now, their children take turns coming back to the village — not to live, but to tend to the dogs, to cook sausage-and-egg noodles, toast, and sell drinks to passing hikers. These small acts keep the place breathing, if only briefly.
Fan Lau Tsuen was once home to nearly 200 people. Today, it survives through memory, routine, and care passed down rather than carried forward. One can’t help but wonder whether this generation will be the last — keeping the village alive just long enough to say goodbye.
陳記士多的店主富叔於四年前離世。四個月前，分流村最後一位居民嬌婆亦辭世。如今，只剩他們的子女在週末輪流回來——不是居住，而是探望村裡的狗，為行山人士煮一碗腸蛋麵、烘多士，賣幾瓶飲料。這些看似微小的日常，成了村落尚存的呼吸。
​分流村曾有近二百人居住。今天，它依靠記憶、習慣，以及被延續而非承接的照顧而存在。或許，這一代人，正是這個村落最後的一口氣。

Kim Shin Lane is a narrow passage running between two long rows of buildings. Tangled cables, antennas, awnings, and hanging laundry crowd the space above, forming a rare urban landscape that stands in quiet contrast to the newly developed high-rises surrounding it.
Most of these buildings were constructed in the 1950s, during the intense post-war rebuilding period. Today, many are beyond repair. Yet despite their deteriorating condition, the lane is far from lifeless. When I was there, it was full of movement and presence — people passing through, windows open, signs of everyday living layered into the architecture.
What feels most uncertain is the future. Under current regulations, the Urban Redevelopment Authority is required to compensate each owner based on the value of a seven-year-old flat. With around 1,000 units, Kim Shin Lane represents an estimated redevelopment cost of three to four billion Hong Kong dollars. The scale alone makes renewal feel endlessly deferred.
Between decay and redevelopment, the lane exists in suspension. The question is no longer just whether the project will ever move forward — but what will happen to those who continue to live beneath it, waiting.

Most of these buildings were constructed in the 1950s, when a surge of refugees created an urgent demand for housing in Hong Kong. Architects at the time were forced to work within tight regulations and severe practical constraints, balancing speed, cost, and necessity.
​The rounded corners found on many of these buildings were not a stylistic choice, but the result of political, economic, and spatial compromises. Because these corners were originally open, owners and developers were not required to pay a land premium on them. Over time, as the housing shortage persisted, policymakers chose to tolerate the gradual enclosure of these balconies, allowing living space to expand beyond what had once been permitted.

In a city driven by speed and constant movement, it is easy to pass through spaces without truly seeing them. Moments slip by unnoticed, and histories quietly fade from view.
This blog pauses to look more closely — at what remains, what is overlooked, and the stories embedded in the spaces around us.