HK Affairs

The term “the empire on which the sun never sets” is not merely rhetorical; it is a historical fact. At its peak in the early 20th century, the British Empire governed approximately 24% of the world’s land area and accounted for about 23% of the global population, making it the largest empire in human history. The operation of the empire was quite straightforward: it integrated people scattered across the globe into a single political system through a set of legal identities. The history of British identity for Hongkongers is a microcosm of how the colonial power gradually withdrew its responsibilities as the empire receded.

Before the emergence of modern nationality systems, there was no concept of “nationality” as we understand it today within the empire. From the 19th century to the early 20th century, the basic legal status was that of a British subject, centered on loyalty to the Crown rather than residence or immigration rights. The post-war British Nationality Act of 1948 institutionalized this imperial subject relationship, creating Citizens of the United Kingdom and Colonies (CUKC). Within this framework, Hongkongers and British residents were nominally part of the same nationality; at least at the outset, there was no deliberate distinction between the rights of “home” and “colonial” subjects.

The real turning point occurred in the 1960s. With an increase in immigration from colonies and the Commonwealth, domestic political pressure in the UK surged. The government did not outright deny imperial nationality but chose to gradually sever the link between “nationality” and “right of abode” through immigration law. The Commonwealth Immigrants Act of 1962 was the first to impose work and entry restrictions on Commonwealth and colonial citizens; the Commonwealth Immigrants Act of 1968 further established birth or blood ties to the UK as substantive thresholds; finally, the Immigration Act of 1971 formally introduced the concept of right of abode, restricting it to a very small number of individuals with “close ties to the UK.”

These three pieces of legislation collectively achieved a critical severance. While the identity of CUKC still existed, it no longer came with the right to settle in the UK for the majority of colonial residents. Hongkongers did not suddenly lose their right of abode on a specific day; rather, they were gradually excluded at three key junctures: 1962, 1968, and 1971.

The British Nationality Act of 1981 provided a systematic summary of this reality. It was not a repair but a rewrite, formally ending CUKC and establishing a tiered nationality structure, the core principle of which was to concentrate the right of abode within the narrowest category of British citizens. The six types of British nationality recognized under British law thereafter were gradually organized and supplemented within this framework, including the later-established British National (Overseas) (BN(O)) specifically for Hongkongers.

Under this system, the most complete identity is that of a British citizen, which generally comes with the right of abode. The other five types are historical remnants or transitional identities, including British Overseas Territories Citizen (BOTC), British Overseas Citizen (BOC), British subject, British National (Overseas) (BN(O)), and British protected person. All six belong to the British nationality system, but there are significant differences in rights; most of the latter do not automatically confer the right of abode.

The British Nationality Act of 1981 established British Dependent Territories Citizen (BDTC) as a new status for colonial residents. Subsequently, BDTC was renamed British Overseas Territories Citizen (BOTC) in line with the political and legal terminology adjustment as colonies were referred to as “overseas territories.” Today, BOTC primarily consists of residents from overseas territories still under British sovereignty, such as Gibraltar, Bermuda, the Cayman Islands, and the British Virgin Islands. After 2002, the UK allowed most BOTCs to also become British citizens, so many overseas territory residents today effectively hold the right of abode.

British Overseas Citizen (BOC) represents a “residual status” in the decolonization process. These individuals were often originally CUKC but, after 1981, neither belonged to the UK nor any overseas territory, such as certain East African Asian communities. Legally, they still hold British nationality, but in practice, they have no place to settle. As for British subject and British protected person, only a very small number remain today, mostly remnants of early imperial arrangements, with almost no new additions, resembling historical traces that have not been fully cleared from the legal framework.

The transition of Hongkongers’ identity falls precisely within this tiered system. After 1981, Hong Kong residents automatically became BDTC from their original CUKC status. With the arrangements for the transfer of sovereignty confirmed, the UK established a specific export applicable only to Hong Kong: BN(O), or British National (Overseas). Through registration, eligible Hong Kong BDTCs could obtain BN(O) status. The two could coexist before 1997; however, with the transfer of sovereignty, the BDTC status linked to Hong Kong was terminated in 1997, while those who had registered retained their BN(O) status. Some individuals who might have become stateless were converted to BOC to avoid a legal vacuum.

Beyond this main narrative, the UK also made a one-time limited exception. The British Nationality (Hong Kong) Act of 1990 established a so-called right of abode scheme, capped at 50,000 individuals, including their spouses and minor children, affecting approximately 220,000 people in total. This was not a universal arrangement but a highly selective political solution. The selected individuals primarily came from the government, disciplined forces, professional sectors, and those deemed to hold “key positions,” aimed at stabilizing the administrative and economic systems before 1997. In these families, the first generation directly obtained British citizenship, and their spouses and minor children could register together; subsequent generations born later depended on whether their parents’ status could be inherited; otherwise, they would still need to follow normal residency, settlement, and naturalization procedures.

For the vast majority of Hongkongers, the real turning point came in 2021. The introduction of the BN(O) visa clarified the system for the first time: BN(O) is no longer merely “passport holders without residency rights” but a pathway to gradually obtain permanent residency and British citizenship through a period of residence and compliance with the law. This is not a return of old imperial rights but a clear, accumulative, and achievable transition pathway under a modern immigration system.

When viewed together, the logic is remarkably consistent. The UK first incorporated people through imperial nationality, then gradually withdrew the right of abode through immigration law; by the British Nationality Act of 1981, the tiered outcome was solidified; for Hong Kong, it transitioned first through BDTC and then BN(O), with the right of abode scheme serving as an exception only in very limited circumstances; it was not until 2021 that the BN(O) visa provided a systematic pathway for a portion of individuals to regain residency rights and citizenship. This is not an emotional story but a calm and clear institutional history.

Sitting down for dim sum and rinsing bowls before ordering is almost a reflex for Hongkongers. However, the question is straightforward: Are the utensils served to customers clean before they arrive at the table? If the answer requires customers to intervene, is this a cultural practice or a concession to basic standards?

From a scientific perspective, the hot water in tea houses typically reaches only 60 to 70 degrees Celsius, far below the temperature required for effective disinfection. At best, it removes surface stains but has little effect on bacteria. The action provides psychological comfort rather than genuine hygiene assurance.

The issue lies not on the table but in the kitchen. The safety of utensils is determined by the washing, disinfection, and storage processes, not by the final rinse performed by customers. When the assumption that ‘customers will wash their own utensils’ becomes the norm, restaurants are naturally incentivized to cut corners in their back-end processes: disinfection times can be shortened, and standards can be lowered, because the final sense of security has been outsourced to the diners.

The result is a lowering of overall standards. Ironically, those who insist that ‘clean utensils are the restaurant’s responsibility’ are the ones who suffer the most. Their refusal to rinse is not due to laziness but based on a reasonable premise: they are paying for food and drink, not to act as cleaners. Yet in a system that tacitly assumes customers will self-rescue, this insistence becomes a risk.

In fact, if one discovers that the utensils are unclean, the correct response is not to quietly rinse them but to demand an immediate replacement from the staff, escalate the issue to a manager if necessary, or even file a complaint with health authorities or relevant departments. Only by returning the issue to the institutional level and demanding that restaurants fulfill their responsibilities can standards be corrected. Otherwise, every instance of ‘let it go’ self-remedy only endorses negligence.

Thus, a responsibility that should be borne by professional institutions has quietly shifted to individual choice. This is neither mutual assistance nor virtue, but a misallocation of responsibility. In other cities, utensils must be ready for immediate use upon serving, and customers should not have to intervene; efficiency issues should be resolved through equipment and processes, not by assuming customers will fill the gaps.

When a habit that has little practical effect is taken for granted by the entire industry, it ceases to be a culture and becomes a bad habit.

The initial proposal of the system sparked intense social reactions.

Within three months of the announcement, multiple cities witnessed protests and conflicts. The core demand of the protesters was straightforward: any arrangement requiring citizens to relinquish political rights should not be packaged as a voluntary option. Some demonstrations escalated into riots, leading to multiple parliamentary suspensions and a surge in constitutional court applications for judicial review of the law’s constitutionality.

The government did not retract the proposal.

Six months later, the constitutional amendment was passed. The language of the provisions was brief and neutral, avoiding any value judgments, and merely establishing institutional definitions and boundaries.

The term ‘productive population’ refers to citizens who continue to participate in the labor market, bear economic risks, and fully exercise their political rights.

The term ‘stable population’ refers to citizens who voluntarily exit the labor market, accept basic living guarantees, and voluntarily refrain from participating in political decision-making.

The provisions also clearly stated that individuals could freely switch between the two identities.

Any citizen may voluntarily become a stable population;

Any stable population may also choose to return at any time to become a productive population;

Any choice shall not constitute a penalty or punishment.

The final clause, which sparked the most controversy, stated:

This system is a concrete practice of democratic centralism, ensuring the stability and continuity of political decision-making.

After the constitutional amendment was passed, protests gradually subsided. The reasons were not officially recorded.

In the second year of implementation, Zhao Mingxiu entered the identity transition explanation department.

From the outset, his responsibilities did not include review or discretion. He did not judge who was suitable to become a stable population nor assess who should return. His sole task was to read the terms in full before the identity transition occurred and confirm the other party’s understanding.

Understanding does not equate to agreement.

Therefore, there were no tests, no scores, and no psychological evaluations in the process. Only one fixed question was asked.

‘Do you understand that this is your own choice?’

If the applicant answered ‘yes’, the process would continue.

For seven years, Zhao Mingxiu read the same set of words over ten thousand times.

‘Upon becoming a stable population, you will receive a basic housing unit.’

‘The housing is for use only, not transferable, and does not count as personal assets.’

‘You will receive a fixed living allowance sufficient to cover daily meals, public transport, and basic entertainment.’

‘You will have complete medical coverage without additional premiums.’

‘You will receive an annual allowance for clothing and durable goods updates.’

At this point, most people would nod in agreement.

He would then continue.

‘At the same time, you will no longer be classified as part of the productive population.’

‘You will not participate in elections, be elected, engage in referendums, or any policy consultations.’

‘You may still choose to return at any time to become a productive population.’

Almost every time, someone would pause here.

‘What happens after I return?’ the applicant would ask.

Zhao Mingxiu would switch screens and read another set of terms.

‘Once you return, your identity as a stable population will terminate immediately.’

‘The basic housing usage rights will end within thirty days.’

‘The living allowance will cease.’

‘You will be reintegrated into the labor market and general social security regulations.’

Some would ask more specific questions.

‘Do I have to find a new job?’

‘What if I can’t find one?’

‘How does healthcare work?’

He would answer each question in a neutral tone, without emphasis.

‘You will need to regularly submit job search records.’

‘If you do not meet the minimum job search requirements, social assistance may be suspended.’

‘Healthcare will revert to the general insurance system, and you will need to bear some costs during unemployment.’

These explanations were not warnings, merely procedures.

Applicants would typically fall silent for a moment.

‘So returning does not mean going back to my original life?’ someone would ask.

‘No,’ Zhao Mingxiu replied, ‘it means starting to compete again.’

Most people would nod, indicating their understanding, and then choose to become part of the stable population.

In the early stages of the system’s operation, some individuals did indeed return. The proportion was low, but sufficient to form a sample. Data indicated that among those who chose to return, over 70% reapplied to become stable population within three months. The most frequently cited reasons in the comments were: uncertainty, fatigue, and high costs.

By the sixth year, the return rate stabilized at below 1%.

This was not due to difficulty. All return processes could be completed online, requiring no justification or review. It was simply that most individuals chose to close the page after reading the terms.

The proportion of stable population continued to rise.

The proportion of productive population declined.

The social conflict index decreased.

Economic fluctuations became more stable.

Voter turnout increased.

Policy documents described this phenomenon as a mature stage of democratic centralism. The population participating in politics decreased, but the risk and responsibility represented by each vote simultaneously increased.

In the seventh year, the administrative unit issued a brief announcement.

In light of the fact that the system has been fully understood by society, the identity transition explanation process will be fully online, with no on-site personnel for explanations.

The announcement did not provide a reason.

Internal data showed that the reading completion rate for the transition terms was nearing 100%. Most users could accurately recite the content without prompting.

When Zhao Mingxiu received the notification, he was not surprised.

His position was not marked for elimination but rather as ‘completion of phase tasks.’

The system displayed new options for him.

You currently belong to the productive population.

You may continue to participate in labor and political decision-making.

Or voluntarily transition to stable population.

The interface was identical to the one he had shown to others for many years.

That day, he sat alone in the explanation room for the last time. The standard terms still displayed on the wall. These sentences no longer needed to be read aloud. The entire society could recite them.

The next day, he logged into the system.

The online transition interface had no explanations, only two options left.

Become a stable population

Or

Remain a productive population

He clicked on ‘return explanation.’

The screen displayed:

You have not yet transitioned, no need to return.

He returned to the main screen and chose ‘Become a stable population.’

The system did not require him to confirm understanding again, nor did it ask him to reread the terms.

The screen displayed only one line of text.

Transition complete.

The new address and benefit effective date were updated immediately. The political rights status was displayed as ‘not activated.’

He closed the system and left the building.

The streets were quiet. Election campaigns were still ongoing, but there was no longer a need to explain to everyone.

Democracy still existed.

It had simply become a professional activity.

And Zhao Mingxiu, like most people, chose not to participate after fully understanding all of this.

In 2025, the weather in Hong Kong can no longer be described as merely “abnormal.” A more accurate characterization is that extremes are becoming the norm, and the city has yet to fully adapt.

Throughout the year, Hong Kong issued warnings for 12 tropical cyclones, breaking the record for the highest number ever recorded. This is not simply a matter of increased winds; rather, the storm paths are veering closer to the coast with greater intensity. Notably, two instances required the issuance of the No. 10 hurricane signal, arriving swiftly and departing just as quickly, leaving society with increasingly limited time to respond.

The issue of rainfall mirrors this trend. The year saw five black rainstorm warnings, a figure that is already rare, but more crucially, the distribution of these events has changed. Black rain is no longer characterized by prolonged downpours but rather by intense bursts of rainfall over short periods, which even a normally functioning drainage system struggles to handle. This “flash rainfall” is particularly detrimental to roads, slopes, and older districts.

However, the real danger in 2025 lies not in the wetness but in the abrupt transitions between wet and dry conditions. Between torrential rains and typhoons, there are prolonged periods of unusual dryness, with relative humidity remaining persistently low and insufficient rainfall. Forests, weeds, and slopes gradually dry out, silently accumulating fire risks.

The severe fire in Tai Po ultimately claimed over 160 lives. While the source of the fire is still under investigation, the meteorological conditions are not irrelevant. Extended dryness, low humidity, and winds that fuel flames made the situation uncontrollable. Weather may not be the cause, but it determined the scale of the disaster. When extreme dryness meets densely populated communities, the most vulnerable often bear the brunt of the consequences.

In terms of temperature, 2025 continues a multi-year trend. The number of hot days is above average, with insufficient cooling at night, making “hot nights” the norm. This is not merely a matter of discomfort; it adds pressure to electricity loads, public health, and living costs. High temperatures also provide energy for convective weather, making heavy rains and thunderstorms more likely, creating a cycle of interconnected risks.

Another subtle change is the disappearance of seasonal awareness. Spring and autumn are shortening, and weather shifts occur rapidly, forcing urban management and citizens to chase after the weather. Planning still follows an outdated rhythm, while reality has already changed its tempo.

Looking back at 2025, nearly every significant indicator is setting new records. This is not a coincidence but a trend. As record-breaking events become more frequent, what lags behind is often not nature, but human psychological preparedness.

Weather will not wait for us to adapt. 2025 is merely a step ahead of the future.

Decades ago, the MTR Corporation in Hong Kong vigorously promoted the slogan: “Stand on the right, walk on the left, for the benefit of others and oneself.” This was an era focused on efficiency and order, and the message was simple yet powerful, achieving considerable success. Even today, many Hong Kong residents instinctively stand on the right side of escalators, leaving the left side for those in a hurry. This has become not merely a habit but an internalized public ethic.

Widening the perspective, this practice is not unique to Hong Kong. Japan, the UK, and several European cities have developed an unspoken agreement to “stand on one side, walk on the other.” Interestingly, Japan presents a contrast: in eastern cities like Tokyo and Osaka, people typically stand on the left and walk on the right, while in the Osaka and Kyoto areas, the opposite is true. London’s Underground has long displayed signs instructing passengers to “Stand on the right.” On the surface, this appears to be a globally accepted urban order, each city adjusting its own practices.

However, the problem is that this order may not be effective.

A widely cited turning point originated in London. In 2015, Transport for London (TfL) conducted a formal field test at Holborn station, a busy interchange between the Piccadilly Line and Central Line, particularly crowded during peak hours. TfL temporarily suspended the practice of “standing on the right, walking on the left” on one of the long escalators, instead instructing passengers to stand on both sides, with staff present to guide them.

The results were quite clear: the number of people passing through the escalator increased by about 30% per minute, the queue at the escalator entrance noticeably shortened, and platform congestion improved. TfL’s conclusion was straightforward—allowing passengers to stand on both sides in high-traffic environments is more efficient than leaving one side for walking. This was not a theoretical deduction but rather data from actual testing.

The reasoning is not difficult to understand. The number of people willing to walk on escalators is always a minority. Observations from various cities indicate that those who actually “walk” typically account for only 10% to 20% of passengers; the vast majority prefer to stand. The result is that one side, where people are standing, forms a long queue, while the walking side often remains empty, utilizing only half of the escalator’s designed capacity. During peak hours, this forces crowds to accumulate at the escalator entrance, exacerbating congestion on the pathways and platforms.

This reflection has also emerged in Japan in recent years. Railway operators in Tokyo, including Tokyo Metro and JR East, have begun to downplay or even remove instructions to “walk/stand” at some busy stations, instead encouraging passengers not to walk on escalators. In Osaka, there have been public calls to stop walking on escalators citing safety concerns.

Safety is another long-ignored cost. Escalators are not designed for walking; the height of the steps, speed, and synchronization with the handrail require a higher level of stability in one’s stride. Accident analyses in both the UK and Japan show that falls are more likely to occur on the walking side, particularly involving luggage, rushing, or looking down at mobile phones. When accidents happen, the escalator often needs to be shut down, affecting the entire flow of people rather than just a few seconds for individual passengers.

There is also a less obvious but equally real issue: wear and tear on machinery. The engineering assumption for escalators is that weight is evenly distributed across the steps. Long-term concentrated standing on one side leads to uneven stress on the steps, chains, and drive systems, accelerating wear and increasing maintenance frequency. What is purportedly convenient for a few actually raises the operational costs for the entire system.

If we genuinely consider efficiency and safety, the answer is clear: during busy periods, passengers should stand on both sides to ensure every step is fully utilized. Further, if passengers could alternate sides—standing one step left, one step right—this would increase stability and improve psychological comfort. This represents a rational use of limited space.

The issue is not whether the original promotion was well-intentioned, but whether we are willing to acknowledge that a once-successful practice may not always be correct. Cities change, traffic patterns evolve, and public order should be adjusted based on empirical evidence rather than maintained by memory and sentiment. The practice of standing on the right and walking on the left had its historical context; however, in today’s densely populated cities, it may have shifted from “benefiting others and oneself” to “harming both.”

A truly mature public culture does not rigidly adhere to habits but understands when it is necessary to let them go.

Many people are unaware that Hong Kong’s current birth certificates do not legally require infants to have a surname. The certificate contains only a ‘Name’ field, and there is no legal stipulation that this name must include a surname. In theory, a child could have only a given name without any family surname.

However, the reality is not so straightforward. Although the system does not explicitly state that a surname is mandatory, it implicitly assumes the existence of a surname, which is most often understood to be the father’s. As a result, some birth certificates display full names, with surnames and given names clearly delineated, while others contain only a given name without a clearly presented surname. Both scenarios are legally valid, yet they create confusion in practice: How should forms be filled out? How should passports be processed? How will overseas institutions interpret this?

This confusion is not coincidental; it reflects an institutional ambiguity. While the legal text deliberately downplays the importance of surnames, it nonetheless perpetuates traditional familial norms, implicitly endorsing the patrilineal path as the standard. The father’s surname becomes an unexamined option, while the mother’s surname or other choices often require justification and face social pressure. Although the law does not prohibit alternative surnames, it shifts the burden of deviating from the paternal surname onto families to navigate.

The issue is not whether one can forgo the father’s surname, but rather why the father’s surname is still treated as the default. As long as this assumption exists, choices will never be equitable.

Reform is not difficult. It simply requires the elimination of any default preference and mandates that parents jointly declare the surname, clearly informing society that a surname is an option, not an unwritten rule. A birth certificate should not be a source of confusion, nor should it surreptitiously endorse a particular family order.

True equality does not allow for exceptions; it eliminates the need for exceptions altogether.

In Hong Kong, the first thing buyers are often reminded of is not the duration of their mortgage, but rather the stack of “original contracts”. Lawyers solemnly advise clients to keep these documents safe, as losing them can lead to a complicated recovery process, making resale or refinancing difficult. Over time, the property title becomes not just a legal document but a family heirloom that must be carefully preserved.

In contrast, many Hong Kongers find it hard to believe that in the UK, after a transaction is completed, the lawyer typically hands over a thin printed document, just a few pages listing the property address, owner’s name, and basic rights information. There is no real “original” document, as anyone can purchase a copy of the land registry for just a few pounds. The pages in hand serve merely as a convenient record rather than the foundation of property ownership.

This stark contrast leads many Hong Kongers to mistakenly believe that the UK has no property titles. However, strictly speaking, the UK does have titles; it simply no longer requires a stack of documents to prove ownership. The real difference lies not in the quantity of documents but in the system itself.

Hong Kong employs a document registration system. The government is responsible for registering documents related to land, primarily determining the priority of registered documents without guaranteeing ownership itself. The validity of ownership depends on a complete and unblemished chain of documents. Thus, with each transaction, lawyers must meticulously trace back through earlier documents related to land grants, transfers, and mortgages to ensure there are no gaps or contradictions.

The consequences of this system are quite tangible in Hong Kong’s property market. Properties lacking complete original contracts, known as “no-title properties” or “copy-title properties”, do exist and are not merely theoretical issues. Banks tend to be more cautious when approving mortgages for these properties, sometimes even refusing to lend, which compresses the buyer pool to cash buyers and significantly reduces liquidity. As a result, these properties often require price discounts compared to similar units in the same area with complete contracts, with the extent of the discount varying by situation, but the impact is real.

Consequently, a uniquely local arrangement has emerged in Hong Kong: even if an owner has sufficient funds to pay the full price of a property upfront, they often deliberately take out a small mortgage just to have the bank safeguard the entire set of original contracts. The bank’s role is not merely to lend money but rather functions more like a systematic safe deposit box. This practice itself underscores the weight of documents within the system.

The UK, along with most developed economies today, operates under a property registration system. The state establishes legally binding land registries that clearly record who the owner is and the scope of their rights. Once registration is completed, the law directly acknowledges the registered result. Old documents may still exist but are primarily supplementary; even if individual old documents are not available, they typically do not undermine the registered ownership status.

It is important to note that not all land in the UK is fully registered; a small number of properties still belong to unregistered titles that rely on historical deeds to prove ownership. However, these cases are now rare, and the design of the system includes a crucial distinction: when selling or mortgaging, unregistered titles are usually legally required to complete registration first. In other words, document issues are absorbed and resolved during the transaction process rather than lingering in the market, becoming a common price-dampening label.

Globally, there are not many places that still rely heavily on document registration systems, and they are mostly concentrated in developing countries. India is often cited as an example, where many regions only register transaction documents rather than providing state guarantees for ownership, leading to widespread land disputes and a backlog of court cases. Similar situations exist in Pakistan and Bangladesh; in Africa, parts of Nigeria still experience a coexistence of documents, local customary law, and administrative approvals, resulting in insufficient clarity of ownership and frequent disputes. These areas continue to rely on document systems not due to their rigor but because of heavy historical burdens and high transformation costs.

In contrast, countries like the UK, Australia, Canada, and New Zealand completed their transition in the 20th century, with the state assuming responsibility for confirming ownership, significantly reducing transaction risks and costs. Documents still exist, but they are no longer the critical burden on owners.

Thus, the real question worth asking is not “why can property ownership information in the UK be obtained for just a few pounds,” but rather “why does Hong Kong still require that stack of original contracts?” The answer is not mysterious. Hong Kong is not without reform directions and has already legislated for a property registration system; the challenge lies in how to address the vast historical ownership issues and who will bear the risks during the transition process. The task is monumental, and lacking immediate political returns, the system has remained in a prolonged transitional state.

The weight of property titles often represents not security but rather a burden left by history.

When a society reaches the point where only six great-grandchildren remain for every hundred people after four generations, the issue is no longer merely low fertility rates; rather, it indicates a collapse in population structure. South Korea is currently in this state. However, what should truly alarm Hong Kong residents is not how extreme South Korea’s situation is, but rather that Hong Kong’s fertility rate has actually reached the same level as South Korea’s, with remarkably similar underlying causes.

The problems in South Korea are not particularly mysterious. It is not that young people suddenly dislike having children, nor is it a collective collapse of values; rather, the system has turned childbirth into a high-risk endeavor. For women, having a child often means a disruption in their careers. Long working hours, a culture of overtime, and promotions predicated on full-time commitment make it nearly impossible to balance parenting with professional development. Once a woman becomes a mother, her income, future prospects, and retirement security may suffer long-term losses. This is not a temporary inconvenience but a downhill path predetermined by the system.

The costs of education and child-rearing further amplify these risks. South Korea’s intense competition for educational advancement, with limited spots in prestigious schools and high returns on investment, has led to a tutoring arms race. Parents, even when aware that overall societal efficiency may not improve, dare not withdraw from this competition, as the cost of doing so would fall squarely on their children. In such an environment, having one child is already a struggle, while having a second is akin to voluntarily diluting resources. Low birth rates are not a moral choice but rather the result of rational calculations.

The rapid decline of marriage exacerbates the situation. In South Korea, childbirth is heavily dependent on marriage; as the younger generation becomes wary of the economic and gender risks associated with marriage, fertility naturally plummets. Coupled with the population inertia left by decades of official anti-natalist policies, even recent government subsidies have struggled to reverse the overall trend.

All of this is not unfamiliar to Hong Kong. Today, Hong Kong’s fertility rate is nearly as low as South Korea’s, and in many critical aspects, Hong Kong is even at a greater disadvantage.

First, the career penalties are equally present. Hong Kong’s long working hours, fast pace, and fierce competition are extremely unfriendly to caregiving responsibilities. While there is talk of family-friendly policies, sustainable flexible work arrangements and childcare support are severely limited. For many women, having children similarly means a decline in income, uncertain futures, and even marginalization in the job market. The system has not made room for parenting, leaving individuals with no choice but to retreat.

The pressures of housing and education serve as amplifiers in Hong Kong. Persistently high property prices and rents have turned living space itself into a scarce resource, inherently diminishing the desire to raise children. In terms of education, although there are no extreme cases of overnight tutoring like in South Korea, the system of prestigious schools, disparities between district schools, extracurricular activities, and a culture of not falling behind at the starting line compel families to invest significant amounts of money and time. While having one child may be manageable, having two quickly becomes a risk management issue.

Marriage and childbirth in Hong Kong are also highly intertwined. When marriage entails long-term financial commitments, housing pressures, and a decline in quality of life, and the system fails to share the risks of child-rearing, young people naturally choose to delay or even forgo marriage and children. This is not a denial of family values but a rational response to an uncertain future.

The fundamental issue is that, whether in South Korea or Hong Kong, child-rearing is almost entirely viewed as a private responsibility. Childcare, caregiving, education, and housing are primarily borne by families themselves, with the government’s role largely limited to sporadic subsidies rather than structural reform. The result is that each family must bear all the risks alone, and under such a system, having fewer or no children becomes the safest choice.

South Korea is not an exception but rather a magnifying glass. It reveals that when the system long ignores the real costs of childbirth, population does not merely decline gradually; it can suddenly collapse at a certain point. Once the critical threshold is breached, school closures, community aging, and youth outflow will create a self-reinforcing vicious cycle.

Today, Hong Kong stands at the same fertility rate level as South Korea, yet it still tends to attribute the problem to individual choices or values. This is the real danger. Population issues are never emotional but are the result of systemic factors. If we do not address working hours, housing, childcare, and career penalties head-on, South Korea’s present may very well be a rehearsal for Hong Kong’s future.

In both the UK and Hong Kong, tap water is available, yet the cultural practices surrounding its consumption differ significantly. While Britons drink directly from the tap, Hongkongers are taught from a young age to boil water for safety. Many Hongkongers who move to the UK initially continue to boil their water, but over time, they often begin to waver: their British counterparts drink tap water without issue, and they themselves consume it regularly when dining out. The issue lies not in the water itself, but in the underlying systems.

The UK’s water supply system is designed with the assumption that water is safe to drink immediately. Water companies must consistently meet stringent microbiological and chemical standards, with clear protocols for sampling, monitoring, and accountability. Chlorine is used to suppress bacteria rather than for excessive disinfection, aiming for safety rather than merely providing a sense of reassurance. The risk is managed at the system level, rather than being left to individual users.

In contrast, Hong Kong’s system operates on an opposite logic. Although the treatment level at water plants is high, the system assumes that once water enters a building, residents will boil it again. This assumption allows for risks to persist in the later stages. Issues such as aging buildings, mixed materials in internal pipes, and varying retention times in rooftop or underground tanks lead to inconsistent management quality. These problems are not addressed by the system but are instead left to households to mitigate with an electric kettle.

Thus, boiling water in Hong Kong is not necessarily due to unsafe source water, but rather because the system places the ultimate responsibility on residents. While boiling can kill bacteria, it does not eliminate metals or chemicals. Over time, through experience and public education, the act of boiling has been simplified to a universal answer, becoming an instinctive response.

However, this instinct is contradicted daily—especially in restaurants. In the UK, whether at a café, pub, or formal restaurant, when one requests tap water, what is served is cold water directly from the tap, unboiled and untreated. This practice is common among both Britons and Hongkongers living in the UK. Few question whether the water has been boiled, as in public settings, people implicitly trust the system to manage the risks.

This reality is both harsh and honest. If one can accept drinking tap water in restaurants or in environments controlled by third parties, it becomes difficult to rationally maintain the belief that ‘boiling water at home is essential for safety.’ The restaurant’s plumbing may not be newer than one’s own, nor is the distance the water travels necessarily shorter; the only difference lies in psychological positioning—whether one trusts the system.

Ultimately, the decision to boil water is no longer merely a health issue but a matter of trust. The UK has institutionalized risk, while Hong Kong has personalized it. When daily behaviors consistently affirm the trustworthiness of a particular system, habits will inevitably change; if they do not, what remains is merely emotional inertia.

The system determines not only whether water can be consumed directly but also whether individuals are willing to set aside their electric kettles.

On December 21, 2025, the winter solstice will occur at 23:03 in Hong Kong and at 15:03 (GMT) in the United Kingdom. Despite the different local times due to time zones, the significance of this astronomical moment remains the same: the longest night and the shortest day in the Northern Hemisphere mark a pivotal turning point.

The winter solstice is not a festive concept but a precise astronomical moment. When the sun reaches the Tropic of Capricorn, the Northern Hemisphere is tilted furthest away from the sun, resulting in the lowest solar altitude at noon and the shortest daylight hours. The Latin term ‘solstice’ literally means ‘sun standing still,’ as during these days, the sun’s position at sunrise and sunset hardly shifts southward, as if it momentarily pauses before beginning its journey back north.

This phenomenon recurs in nearly all civilizations for a simple reason. In an era devoid of electricity, heating, and global logistics, the length of daylight directly affected survival. Shorter days meant harsher cold and faster depletion of food supplies; however, after the winter solstice, even a few extra seconds of sunlight each day signify that the worst has passed. Light begins to return.

Astronomically, the winter solstice is the shortest day of the year, but this does not mean that sunrise will immediately occur earlier. In fact, the latest sunrises typically happen one to two weeks after the solstice. This is due to the so-called Equation of Time: our clocks assume a uniform solar movement, but the Earth’s elliptical orbit and axial tilt cause the sun’s actual position in the sky to fluctuate. Consequently, while the total daylight hours begin to increase, the mornings continue to be delayed.

As for temperatures, the logic is different. On average, January is the coldest month in both Hong Kong and the UK. This is not an astronomical issue but a physical one. The land and oceans possess significant heat capacity and inertia; even with increasing sunlight after the winter solstice, the surface continues to release previously accumulated heat, resulting in a net energy deficit. It takes time for the absorbed solar energy to consistently exceed the heat loss before temperatures truly begin to rise, which naturally lags behind changes in daylight by several weeks.

This is precisely what makes the winter solstice so worth contemplating. It reminds us that turning points often manifest at a structural level before they are felt. When you sense the cold deepening, the direction has already reversed; when the world seems stagnant, light is already on its way back.

‘The winter solstice has arrived; is spring far behind?’ This is not a poetic phrase but a calm judgment. The night will not be longer than today. True spring requires time, but the worst conditions for sunlight have already become a thing of the past.