Reporter: Belle Yip Hiu Shuen, Suan Yeon, Swara Sanket Kamble, Justin Tai Ka Fai, Myo Min Htin
As the 15th National Games draw large crowds to Kai Tak Sports Park, the event is not only boosting Hong Kong’s sports development but also driving visitor spending, benefiting nearby businesses and the city’s growing sports economy.
Reporters: Christine Ge, Della Qing, Isa He
While over 80 per cent of Hong Kong’s restaurants rely on pre-made dim sum, veteran chef Yeung Ying Fai stands firm, dedicating nearly four decades to preserving the handmade craftsmanship and passing it on to the next generation.
In a Guangzhou bar, a modern cocktail twist on the “villain-hitting” ritual is helping young people beat back bad energy.
By Flavia Zhou
Feeling overwhelmed by her work and believing a colleague is pestering her, economic consultant Li Keke, went to the Lotus Lounge bar in Guangzhou to get rid of her bad energy by hitting villains.
“Hitting the villain”, or da siu yan in Cantonese, is a traditional Southern Chinese ritual, commonly found in Hong Kong and Guangdong. Usually carried out under bridges, roadsides, and mountainsides, people will pay CNY¥45-455 (US$6.40-$64.00) to a professional, often an elderly woman, to hit a paper bearing the name of the ‘villains’ with a slipper, chanting to drive away bad luck.
But for Li and her friends, they practised the traditional folk ritual by going to the Lotus Lounge bar in Guangzhou and ordering a drink called “Villain Hitting Cocktail.”
“My five friends and were really stressed at work. ‘Villains’ surrounded us. We saw a ‘hitting-a-villain’ video on Xiaohongshu, a Chinese social media platform. We decided to go there in August to let out some of our unpleasant feelings,” she recalls.
The bar is often so busy that a customer who wants to order a “Villain Hitting Cocktail” needs to reserve a seat a week in advance.
After ordering the CNY¥138 (about US$19.36) drink, the waiter brought out a wooden box that contained a glass of cocktail and a plastic female slipper inside.
“The ritual involves a paper slip bearing the name of the ‘villain” and a slipper. The waiter strikers the paper with the slipper, chanting a spell to banish bad energy. Finally, the paper will be burned,” the 25-year-old financial worker recalls, adding that customers can also opt for smacking the ‘villains’ on their own.
Li feels that bad energy is driven away after beating the villain.
“The colleague no longer disturbs my work after I beat the villain at the bar,” she says.
“Hitting the villain wasn’t just about bringing good luck and driving away bad luck; it was the perfect stress release. The drink made it twice as affective, and the feeling lasted days. It’s my new go-to when things go wrong,” she adds.
Liang Jingxi, a musicology major, agrees that she feels happier after performing the ritual at the bar.
“My ‘villain’ is one of my group mates. She did nothing in our group project. And it made our group get a bad grade in that class. I don’t want to work with such people in other group projects,” the 19-year-old student studying at Nangfang University says.
Gao Sheng, one of the operators of the Lotus Lounge Bar, says that the idea of having the “Villain Hitting Cocktail” is to promote traditional folk ritual.
“We developed this cocktail in 2024 by ourselves. I’m from Guangdong. My colleague and I are passionate about promoting traditional Chinese culture. This was our original intention when making this cocktail. We wanted to preserve this tradition by combining the drink and the custom. The drink is made with saffron and ginger, ingredients traditionally used to replenish one’s energy after the ritual,” he says.
“This cocktail is popular among young people. Usually their ‘villains’ are a toxic ex, a difficult boss, or an annoying colleague,” he adds.
Gao adds that videos about the cocktail have received over 1 million likes after being posted on TikTok and Xiaohongshu by customers in April 2025.
“I believe hitting the villain is not just about getting rid of the villains around you, but also about getting rid of the villains in your heart that make you weak,” he says.
His business partner, Li Tong, says it is important to carry forward traditional customs.
“We want to pass down folk rituals in an interesting way by combining them with cocktails. When developing the drinks menu, I want to put traditional customs into our drinks list. Besides the ‘Villain Hitting Cocktail,’ there are also many other cocktails related to festivals or folk customs, such as the ‘Dragon Boat Race’ cocktail with zongzi (sticky rice dumplings) flavour, and the ‘Wedding Cake’ cocktail with fresh red bean paste that has been slowly cooked,” she says.
Edited by Myo Min Htin
Sub-edited by Yilie Lo
Cross-straits residents believe peace and friendly discourse are the best way forward to avoid conflict.
By Isa He in Tokyo and Xiamen
Born in Taiwan and raised in Mainland China, Raco Cao* is caught in between, as tension grows in the cross-straits relations.
“My home might be bombed. My flat might be flattened. Now, I have a home in Taiwan and another in Xiamen. But if a war breaks out, I will be homeless,” the university student studying in Xiamen, says.
“If I return to Taiwan, I must join the conscription. Soldiers must follow orders. I do not have any choice. Or else I could be sentenced up to five years in prison, and may also be restricted from leaving the country, wanted for arrest, and have a criminal record,” Cao says.
“In case of war, I won’t do anything heroic. I might be the first to run away from the battlefield or move to another country, because I’m not a brave person,” the 21-year-old student adds.
His family shares his worries and concerns. “An uncle has warned me to move to another country to avoid being conscripted in Taiwan, as my family thinks survival matters more than politics,” Cao says.
“My family is just being very pessimistic, and I agree. It means I cannot stay in Taichung, my birthplace, or in Xiamen, where I grew up. That means I have nowhere to go,” he says with a wry smile.
Cao believes that engaging in sincere dialogue and candid exchange is the way out. “Many in Taiwan are sceptical about China. But what the media presents is often a one-sided picture. After living in Xiamen, I think people here are actually very kind. If there were more opportunities for exchange, fear would subside,” he says.
Citing Kinmen as an example, Cao believes it is the key point for people from both sides to learn and get to know each other.
“Under the mini-three link policy, Kinmen has become a contact point of communication. Now, it’s just a half-hour boat ride from Kinmen to Xiamen. Once people visit each other and interact, they realize we are not so different. What we really need is not political ideology, but to live well in peace,” he says.
In 2001, Taiwan introduced the mini-three links policy, which allowed direct trade, transport, and postal connections between Taiwan’s offshore islets of Matsu and Kinmen and the mainland cities of Xiamen, Quanzhou, and Fuzhou. It resumed in early 2023 after both sides lifted Covid-19 restrictions, allowing Taiwanese residents, their mainland spouses and children, and mainland Chinese students studying in Taiwan to use ferry services.
Cao’s close friend, Lin Su*, a Mainland Chinese, shares his fear and worries.
“I surely feel worried if my friend has to join the army. He is not physically fit, and war is cruel. I fear that something terrible might happen to him,” the 20-year-old Xiamen native says.
She admits that if a war were to break out, she would hope Cao could stay away from fighting.
“I’d try to persuade him not to participate or even persuade him to take the Mainland side—after all, that’s where he’s lived most of his life,” she says.
Growing up in Xiamen, Lin says that most locals treat the talk of war as distant and unrealistic.
“People discuss it, but no one really thinks it will happen. My family sometimes talks about it, but we don’t stock up on food or anything. It feels like something that exists only in the news,” she says.
Lin also finds online discussion about Taiwan is quite far from the truth from her own experience.
“On social media platforms, people are calling for war, but in reality, most people are calm. The internet only amplifies the loudest voices,” she says.
At Xiamen University, Lin is currently enrolled in a course offered by the Graduate Institute for Taiwan Studies, one of the few tertiary institutions that offers such kinds of programme in Mainland China.
“We have classes on Taiwan’s politics, culture, and daily life. My course is about Taiwan’s social life—it covers politics, history, and even food. There are also several professors from Taiwan teaching in this programme,” the Year Three student says.
“Most of my classmates had little knowledge of Taiwan’s politics or history before taking this course. But after attending the lectures and discussions, they have become more aware of the complexity of cross-strait relations and differences between life in Taiwan and what they used to think of the island. Some even want to visit Taiwan so that they can have more exchanges with young people there,” Lin adds.
She believes this proximity—both geographical and academic—makes Xiamen a unique bridge between the two sides. “Because we’re so close, we can study and understand Taiwan better. It’s much easier to do real research in Fujian than any other province in China,” she says.
“I just hope there won’t be a war. Peace is the best—and maybe one day I hope I can finally visit Taiwan as a tourist,” she says.
On the other side of the strait, Wang Ling*, who was born in Kinmen and grew up with memories of war, also shared their call for peace.
“War brings no winners. It only means casualties on both sides. I hope leaders show care for the lives of ordinary people so that tragedy will not be repeated. Whether in Kinmen or Xiamen, no one wants to hear the sound of artillery again,” Wang, a tour guide who also runs a business that curates exhibitions and conducts projects to preserve Kinmen’s heritage and history, says.
Born in 1985, Wang recalls that houses, ancestral halls, and even temples were once occupied for military use in Kinmen.
“The troops did not have barracks, so they slept at villagers’ homes. Ancestral halls and temples were turned into offices and logistics rooms. Some altars were removed to make space,” she says, adding that no compensation was offered to residents affected by those arrangements.
Wang says stories of artillery have been shared for generations in families. After 1949, Kinmen became a heavily militarized area. In 1958, during the Second Taiwan Strait Crisis, known locally as the “823 Artillery Bombardment”, the People’s Liberation Army of China fired nearly half a million shells over 44 days, and occasional shelling continued until 1979. Martial law was not lifted until 1992.
“But a lot of Kinmen people now think conflict will not happen again, because more than two decades of direct links with Xiamen have made the two sides understand each other more,” she says.
“The economy here depends on tourism. If there were fighting, the tourism industry would suffer badly. That is something no one wants to see,” she adds.
Wang believes people from both sides want mutual understanding rather than confrontation. “Distance once made the other side seem so distant. Now, people can meet and trade. Communication is the key to avoiding conflict,” she says.
*Names changed at interviewees’ request
(Photo courtesy of Lin Su*)
Edited by Myo Min Htin
Sub-edited by Daniel Paek
University students find GenAI useful for getting better grades and efficiency but not for learning.
By Justin Tai
University student Lau Tsz Ho used to spend hours or even days struggling to solve difficult science questions from classes. He might not find the answers in the end, but he still tried hard.
Now, he just feeds the questions he cannot solve to Generative Artificial Intelligence, better known as GenAI, and gets instant answers with a smart device in his hand.
University student Lau Tsz Ho uses GenAI to tackle science problems on his laptop
“GenAI is not just a tool. It’s my lifesaver. A messiah,” the science major student says.
“If AI disappeared tomorrow, I’d probably be kicked out of my university. Without it, my grades would fall, and I wouldn’t be able to work out answers for my study on my own,” the Year 2 student says.
Students like Lau emphasise that they use GenAI in accordance with the course outlines provided by their universities for research and learning support. However, they admit they find that despite following these guidelines, they have doubts about whether they are truly learning or just prompting their way through GenAI.
“I feel like I’m not using my brain anymore. I feel dumber the more I rely on AI for schoolwork,” he shares.
“I basically just dump questions to GenAI and hope for the best. Whether it’s about solving complex equations, writing lab reports, or preparing PowerPoint presentations,” he says.
“Sometimes I don’t even know what the machine is talking about, but it sounds smart, so I go with it,” he adds.
Yet, his grade cards show a different story. “I used to get Bs and Cs. Now, I’m seeing As and A-minuses, even though I’m not actually learning anything,” he says.
According to a 2025 survey done by the UK-based Higher Education Policy Institute, 88 percent of students in the UK had used GenAI tools for their assessments, from explaining complex concepts to brainstorming research ideas.
In Hong Kong, universities are responding to this shift cautiously. All eight public universities now offer access to an array of GenAI tools designed to support student learning, from writing assistants to coding tools. These tools are integrated under each institution’s ethical guidelines, which emphasise transparency, academic integrity, and responsible use.
Another university student, Liu Sai Ho was sceptical about the use of GenAI at first, but his view changed after GenAI helped him score A- for an assignment.
“I was hesitant at first. GenAI gives you answers so fast that I don’t need to process anything in my head. I was scared of losing my ability to think critically,” the architecture major student says.
Liu has integrated GenAI into his study after taking a digital literacy course which taught students how to use AI responsibly.
“For my essay on the middle class and poverty in China, I used GenAI to scout sources and analyse the assigned article. It gave me ideas and helped me highlight key points. I ended up earning A- for that assignment,” he says.
“I feel guilty sometimes, however. I do half of the thinking, and AI does the rest. But it still feels like my learning is coming entirely from the machine. My creative thinking has definitely weakened,” he says.
Like Lau, Liu is drawn to using AI for better grades and efficiency.
“Doing coursework ourselves surely helps hone our skills, but GenAI boosts my efficiency so much. I can now finish a paper in less than an hour. It used to take me a whole day. Sometimes its ideas are even better than mine. It’s hard to turn the clock back,” the Year 2 student says.
“It saves time and my grades have improved. But I wonder if I’m trading away my ability to think for convenience. That’s what makes me feel stupid, even when I’m doing well in terms of my grades,” he adds.
Chu Ka Hai, a postgraduate student researching artificial intelligence, believes GenAI makes him do less thinking, despite his rich knowledge about technology.
“I used to struggle a lot with long essays. So I turned to AI to help me check grammar and develop my ideas. After that, I couldn’t resist using it anymore,” Chu shares.
“I can’t write grammatically correct paragraphs in English without GenAI now. I tried once doing it on my own, and my draft was full of grammar slips and awkward phrasing. It’s easier to let AI sort it out for me. But that means I’m not really learning English, processing information and forming the structure of a piece of writing myself,” he explains.
Despite the convenience, Chu is aware of the potential risks of the overreliance on GenAI.
“Although I enjoy everything GenAI offers, I worry that we’ll stop using our brains to think and learn. It could be dangerous for humankind and society if people aren’t aware of what’s happening or why, and just keep being fed information by AI,” he adds.
Dr. Kecheng Fang from The Chinese University of Hong Kong says university courses and curriculum need to be redesigned and reimagined. (Photo courtesy of Kecheng, Fang)
Professor Fang Kecheng of the School of Journalism and Communication at The Chinese University of Hong Kong, who researches the role of technologies such as AI in shaping the media landscape, warns heavy reliance on GenAI might disconnect students from the vital experience of learning and intellectual growth.
“Learning should be difficult, and even painful. No pain, no gain. If students avoid this pain by relying on AI, they might lose their interest in any learning and future development opportunities,” he says.
Fang stresses that a university degree is not just about completing assignments or passing exams.
“It should show a student knows how to learn, has been part of a learning community, and can critically reflect on their lives and society,” he says.
With many students feeling their education lacks meaning in today’s AI-driven world, Fang believes it is high time for universities to rethink their educational approach, rediscover humanity by nurturing human creativity, amplify human values, and preserve human spirits.
“Courses need redesigning and curriculums should be reimagined. Students should learn how to work with AI, how to assess AI’s output, and find their uniqueness that cannot be replaced by AI,” he urges.
Edited by Kieon Paek
Sub-edited by Myo Min Htin
Young people who turn to dating apps for love hunt still feel lonely, while the dating platforms capitalize this loneliness.
By Suan Yeon
University student Sei Suguro receives 300 likes on dating app Bumble a day, but she still feels lonely.
“I use the dating app when I feel lonely or bored. I have only really liked one person whom I found via dating apps despite having been using them for three years. We met up in real life but we lost touch,” the 23-year-old student says.
“I feel great when a lot of people like my profile. But my self-esteem hits low when these people don’t want to see me again after meeting me in person once. Despite all these likes for my profile in the cyberworld, I still feel lonely,” the Japanese student says.
The pharmacy major student, who wants to find a boyfriend using dating apps, says most people on dating apps are not serious about fostering relationships.
“I don’t trust people from dating apps. At this point, I am not even hoping for a serious relationship anymore,” the Japanese student adds.
Graduate student Ariel Migliorini, who has been on the apps for 5 years, has already met hundreds of people. Sometimes the experienced user goes on dates almost every day with different strangers. But none of them has successfully developed into a serious relationship.
“I have many dates. In Brazil, people use dating apps for one night stands. It is easier to find people in Brazil because people are more open-minded and direct with their intentions than in Hong Kong,” he says.
“The reality is that finding people from the apps is more convenient especially if I am craving some sort of immediate affection. Everyone wants to be loved and everyone wants to fall in love,” the Brazilian student adds.
The 22-year-old student is now taking a break from the apps, but has not deleted them. He has downloaded four different kinds of dating apps such as Tinder and Bumble in the last five years.
A 2025 market report from Statista, an online platform specialising in data gathering and visualisation, points out that the number of dating app users in China reached 82.8 million in 2024. The report adds that in Hong Kong, the number of app users is projected to reach nearly 500,000 by 2029, with the majority aged between 18 and 34.
A 2024 Forbes Health Survey of 1,000 Americans found that more than three-quarters of Gen Z respondents felt burnt out using dating apps such as Tinder, Bumble, and Hinge. According to the survey, respondents of all ages could not find a good connection with someone. They spend an average of an hour on these apps every day.
A UK cohort study of 1,632 young adults, published in the Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences, discovered 12% of them had used dating apps. Meanwhile, the group reported a significantly higher sense of loneliness than non-dating app users.
Adjunct Associate Professor Lik Sam Chan of the School of Journalism and Communication at the Chinese University of Hong Kong points out that this cycle of hope and disappointment is embedded in the design and business model of the dating app platforms.
“We really need to represent ourselves nicely when we are on the apps… pick the best pictures and come up with the best opening lines. This sets a gap between the curated online persona and real-life interaction. The discrepancy makes us feel bad about ourselves. If we lack emotional connection from our everyday lives, we feel lonely, and we look for something online,” Chan says.
The academic specialising in researching digital media highlights that the core of the issue lies within marketing promises that do not match reality.
“Countless dating apps, hookup apps, or marriage platforms’ marketing slogans promise unlimited possibilities, but it doesn’t mean that the choices are within our leagues,” he says.
“It’s a straightforward capitalization of loneliness. Their business models thrive because of our loneliness and desire for connection, as they want to attract as many users as possible,” he adds.
He suggests that platforms need to avoid a one-size-fits-all approach.
“It’s like you’re walking into a buffet and realize at one point that there are too many options and you ask yourself ‘what do I actually want?’. Because the utopia these apps create with theoretically unlimited options leads to discrepancy. They should have more specific features for specific audiences,” he says.
Edited by Yilie Lo
Sub-edited by Alexia Leung
Once the agricultural command center for Japan’s puppet state, a Changchun building now educates 3000 students, transforming a site of exploitation into a place of educating and reflection.
By Jennifer Liu Wenqi
A building which Japanese once used to control Northeast China has now become a garden of knowledge for students.
This 37,000-square-meter building in central Changchun used to be the Agriculture Ministry of Manchukuo. It is now the campus of the High School attached to Northeast Normal University for 3,000 students.
The Japanese had successfully detached Manchuria from the rest of China, creating the puppet state of Manchukuo under the deposed Qing emperor Pu Yi from 1932 to 1945.
Assistant principal of the school, Pan Zhen, finds it meaningful to work in a place with such a history.
“Once a site of a Japanese puppet state where decisions were made to exploit the people in Northeast China. Now it is a campus for grooming young minds,” Zhen says.
The Japanese Kwantung Army built this building in 1936. In 1948, it was taken over by Northeastern University and later became the High School Attached to Northeast Normal University in 1958.
“The Japanese left behind a very sturdy building with a strong foundation,” Pan says, adding that the original two-storey structure was expanded into a five-storey teaching building in 1994 due to an increase in student number.
“The first and second floors were preserved in their own original shape featuring Japanese architectural style,” he says.
A native of Northeast China, Pan finds it painful to revisit this period of Chinese history.
“It hurts me to remember how my hometown was invaded. As a teacher, I hope students learn from history,work hard to find a good job and serve the country when they grow up,” he says.
Pan thinks the heritage building is a silent history teacher for all teaching staff and students.
Pan says the older generation finds it painful to recall terrible experiences during the Japanese occupation, but it is important to teach the young generation to learn from history.
“History teachers at the school tell students what happened at the school building at different times such as the Japanese occupation and World War II,” Pan says, adding that many students have a different feeling for the school after learning more about what happened in the past.
Li Zirui, a student of the school, says he finds it disturbing after learning the history of the school building.
“Learning that the Japanese authorities made decisions that caused massive deathsand the exploitation of people in Northeast China in history class, I feel quite disturbed. It’s strange to think the place where we study was once used to control and exploit people here,” he says.
Another student Zhang Shijia shares, he feels different when walking around the campus after learning the history of the building.
“Now when I walk through the hallways, I feel grateful that I can study in this school. I am lucky that I was born after the war. Thanks to efforts made by generations after the war, we can now live in peace. I am very grateful for this,” he says.
Li Minghao, a researcher at the Jilin Academy of Social Sciences, points out the building was the office of the Ministry of Agriculture which sourced crops grown in China and shipped them to Japan.
“This building was where the Japanese authorities announced policies that exploited the people in Northeast China. It was a symbol of oppression,” he says.
Tom Li, a graduate now studying in Singapore, recalls a myth about hearing the walking sound of Japanese army boots in the school corridor on the first floor at night.
“When I was a student of the school, I felt scared when I left school late, though I knew it was a myth and I actually did not hear anything,” he says.
The 21-year-old student thinks the heritage building is a solid proof of a painful chapter in history, and it is meaningful to turn it into a site of education.
“Remembering history doesn’t mean we should hate Japanese people today. We should learn from the tragedy of war – ordinary people always suffer the most in conflict zones,” he says.ing cards with other elderly.
Edited by Yilie Lo
Sub-edited by Alexia Leung
Authorities are cracking down on storm-chasing after Typhoon Ragasa left a family hospitalized and others arrested for endangering children during extreme weather.
By Swara Sanket Kamble
Police have stepped up law enforcement to curb storm-watching after three members of a family of four were swept by waves into the rough sea and were hospitalized in intensive care on September 23rd when Super Typhoon Ragasa hit Hong Kong.
The mother, 38, and her five-year-old son were storm-watching when they were swept into the sea by powerful waves. The father, 40, failed in his rescue attempt and also drowned.
A passing boatman rescued them.
The family, including their nine-year-old daughter, went to Ka Yip Street in Chai Wan to watch the waves of the tropical cyclone Ragasa, while the No. 8 Signal was hoisted.
The Hong Kong Police Force received a report from a passerby at around 3:25 p.m. The Fire Services Department dispatched three fire trucks, three fire boats, and three ambulances to the scene.
Firefighters performed CPR on the son after bringing him to the shore first. The parents were then moved onto a rescue boat to receive first aid.
The three were then taken to Eastern Hospital to receive medical aid while the mother and son were unconscious.
As of September 25th, the mother and son were in a stable condition, while the father was treated and discharged.
A total of four were arrested for child neglect, and another was arrested for trespassing on a closed-off beach when Typhoon Ragasa hit Hong Kong.
Police also arrested two South Asian women for allegedly endangering an eight-year-old boy by bringing him storm chasing during the super typhoon while the highest signal, No. 10, was in effect, on the evening of September 25th
The two women took selfies with the boy at the Ap Lei Chau waterfront when a large wave swept all three of them off their feet. No serious injuries were sustained.
In another incident, police arrested a 46-year-old man and a 33-year-old foreign domestic helper on suspicion of child neglect, after the pair brought two children – aged four and six – to watch the waves during Super Typhoon Ragasa on September 24th.
Speaking on a RTHK programme on September 25, Secretary for Security Chris Tang Ping-keung stated that the police would investigate whether taking children to watch waves during a typhoon constituted neglect.
Tang also described the incident in which the mother and son fell into the sea as “unfortunate”.
“There are no laws criminalising chasing the wind and waves yet, but if you go to a place – for example, a beach that the government has declared as closed, there will be penalties for entering,” he said.
Responding to questions by lawmakers during a Legislative Council meeting on October 8, Tang stated that under the Offences against the Person Ordinance, law enforcement could prosecute persons who brought children to wave-watching spots, as it invoked the offence of “neglect by those in charge of a child or young person”.
“This offence carries a maximum penalty of 10 years’ imprisonment, which has a high deterrent effect,” he said.
He described the act of storm-chasing during typhoons as “selfish and reckless”.
“Such highly irresponsible behaviours not only endanger the safety of themselves and their children, but also place rescue personnel in extremely dangerous situations when accidents occur,” Tang said.
Regarding manpower deployed to rescue wave-watches during typhoons. The secretary for security stated that the government deployed 1,311 personnel for 81 incidents between January 1, 2023, and August 31, 2025, involving drowning accidents and mountain rescues during extreme weather conditions.
Tang explained that it is not simple to introduce legislation regarding storm-chasing, as there are various considerations. The government will have to review existing legislation related to this issue.
However, the security chief said the government will not fine anyone for rescue operation costs.
This is to prevent the unnecessary loss of life from people choosing not to call for help to avoid being fined, Tang said. “It is the officers’ duty to save lives,” he added.
He urged members of the public to exercise self-discipline, consider the well-being of their families and rescue personnel, and avoid putting themselves in dangerous situations.
According to the Hong Kong Hospital Authority, 59 males and 42 females have been injured during Typhoon Ragasa and received medical treatment at the Accident and Emergency department of public hospitals.
Hong Kong narrowly avoided the worst of the super-storm, as Ragasa skirted around the city at a distance of over 100 km away.
Ragasa marked the second time in Hong Kong history that two No. 10 Typhoon signals were issued in the same year – the first was in 1964, according to the Hong Kong Observatory.
It also broke records as the most distant typhoon to trigger the No.10 Signal. It was approximately 130 km away from the city when the highest signal was issued.
As of November 13, 2025, a total of 13 typhoons have hit Hong Kong so far, with three alone in September, according to the Hong Kong Observatory.
The Observatory issued the No. 1 signal on Monday, November 11, because of Severe Tropical Storm Fung-wong. The No. 1 alert was lowered the same week on Tuesday evening as the storm departed.
Scientific Officer at the Hong Kong Observatory, Raphael Lui Yuk-sing, says the proportion of intense tropical cyclones in the Western North Pacific region is expected to increase.
“Due to climate change, the sea levels will rise, and we can expect a higher threat of coastal storm surges. We must stay alert and be fully prepared to face the threat of tropical cyclones or extreme weather in the future,” Lui says.
Regarding the recent storm-chasing incidents, the officer says even though a lower signal is hoisted during a typhoon, the public should be on alert and pay attention to the information provided by the Hong Kong Observatory.
“They should always stay away from the shoreline and avoid engaging in water-sport activities,” Lui stresses.
Edited by Erica Hwang
Desperate old couples in China are hiring surrogate mothers to give birth to babies.
By Ivonne Deng
Chen Guifang feels embarrassed to be regarded as the grandmother of her six-year-old twins whenever picking them up from kindergarten.
“It is annoying to be recognised as their grandmother by other parents… I try to think of it in a funny way. After all, I chose to give birth to these two boys to satisfy my husband. I’m happy with my life now,” the 55-year-old woman living in Fujian, China says with a smile.
Like many Chinese, Chen and her husband are bound by traditional values that having a son is important in family inheritance. Due to their old age, they decided to have children through surrogates. Introduced to a surrogacy agency by her friends, the family used the husband’s sperm and a donor’s egg to have their sons through a surrogacy agent in Guangdong, China.
According to a paper issued in the Science Journal Nature, there were more than 400 surrogacy agencies in China that facilitated the births of over 10,000 surrogate children each year between 2014 and 2019.
“I am worried about the ethical and legal risks, but my husband and I desperately wanted a boy at that time. I couldn’t get pregnant, and I could not stand it if my newborn child was a girl even if I could give birth,” Chen says.
The surrogacy agency Chen found offers a full range of services at a cost of RMB ¥600,000 (US $84274), from body examinations to taking the baby home. An extra RMB ¥100,000 (US $14046) is needed for the household registration of the baby, the permit that allows access to schools, homes, civil service jobs, public health care and almost every aspect of daily life in China.
Similar to other surrogacy agencies in China, the one Chen visited is an underground one, which is hidden inside a “health research centre” in Guangdong. It has its own secret lab, a group of surrogate mothers, and doctors from top hospitals for the treatments.
Peng Weitian, the consultant of the Shenzhen branch of this agency, points out that most of the customers are old couples who are eager to pick the sex of their babies. They have to wait for about two years to have their own surrogate children.
“Most of them are couples over 40 years old. Time is not a big issue as they have been waiting so long because of the one-child policy. They can be really picky in customising a perfect boy, instead of rushing to start the process,” Peng says.
He adds that compared to other agencies in China, his agency charges a higher price because their clients are ensured that the eggs and sperm come from the exact person they choose, and they will try to make sure the babies are healthy with the sex the clients desire.
“It is an advantage of our agency. In the mainland, the information about embryonic genes is not available. My customers always want to make sure the baby has the genes they want, not worrying if it is being replaced by other genes,” he says, adding that the agency will send the embryo to Hong Kong for examination.
He admits that it is not possible to ensure a 100 per cent success. Once health problems are found, the customer can restart the process without extra charge. Working in a grey legal market in China, Peng notes that the separate responsibilities make the agency hard to be caught. “The only thing that cannot be found is our lab,” Peng says.
Six years after bringing back her twin sons home from the agency, Chen’s family has mixed feelings about having them via surrogacy. “I took a big risk to customise two lives. My husband thinks it’s worth it. For me, sometimes I’m happy, sometimes I have to brainwash myself,” the mother says.
Chen has two daughters that she gave birth to on her own and feels proud of. The elder one is 36 years old and is working in the US now, whilst the younger one, a 19-year-old, is a bright student studying in Hong Kong.
“The twins are much more naughty and silly than my daughters, so we spend much more money on them than my daughters… raising them is harder than I thought,” She admits.
Chen adds that the family has to buy a new home in a district with reputable primary schools to secure a spot for the sons, which puts the family under financial strain as her husband is the only main source of income.
Her daughters refuse to give any support to their brothers. “My second daughter has quarrelled with me many times. She is angry that I exploited other women for sons,” Chen says.
“But I have no choice now. I have to raise them because of all the risks I have taken, and the responsibility as a mother,” she says.
Edited by Alexia Leung
Sub-edited by Myo Min Htin
Miru Wong Ka-lam shares her journey of running a 67 years old embroidered shoe shop.
By Belle Yip
Embroidered shoes maker Miru Wong Ka-lam works from 8pm every day to prepare different compartments of embroidered shoes.
“I spend five to six hours cutting soles into different sizes and sewing patterns for the vamp of the shoes,” says Wong, who inherited a handmade shoe shop from her grandfather.
Sewing different patterns for each pair of shoes can be time-consuming. “It can take me more than 10 hours to sew the patterns for each pair of shoes,” the third-generation owner of a shoe shop, ‘Sindart’, says.
The shop was established in Hong Kong by Wong’s grandfather in 1958. It is now located on the first floor of Bowring Centre in Jordan.
The price of her handmade embroidered shoes falls in a range. The most affordable option costs HKD$99 while tailored order can be up to HKD $2800 or above.
“Once, it took me half a year to hand in a pair of tailor-made embroidered shoes to a customer who was about to get married. She wanted to wear embroidered shoes which were the same as her mother’s wedding shoes on her big day,” the shoemaker recalls.
Embroidered shoes were once fashionable footwear in the 1950s-60s. Now ladies only wear them during special occasions such as Chinese traditional weddings and Lunar New Year.
Wong shares that the most time-consuming part was designing a dragon and phoenix motif. “The bride gave me a photo of her mother’s shoes. But it was not clear, and it took me some time to work out the details of the design. I had to keep making changes to suit the customer’s needs,” she says.
Apart from the design, her handmade shoes can also be tailored based on each customer’s unique foot size, features, and issues such as asymmetrical feet and feet with larger bones. Some customers also ask Wong to create a new design based on images of their pets.
Her creations feature a variety of colours, of which each colour has five to six different colour tones, requiring a lot of time for sourcing materials of the right colours.
Wong’s love for embroidered shoes began when she was a six-year-old primary school pupil. Her grandparents taught her beading and sewing after seeing her drawing on shoes. Her first masterpiece was a sewing flower.
When she was a media communication major student, she used embroidered shoes as a main theme in school projects. “In filming, catalogue and editorial design projects, embroidered shoes were featured as the main character,” she shares.
Being showered with compliments from classmates and teachers at university, she became more devoted to embroidered shoes production and started to design new patterns, such as pandas.
She also conducted more in-depth research on embroidered shoes for her final year project. “I learnt more about embroidered shoes, the related culture and history, such as the development of the craft in different dynasties. During the Qing dynasty, consorts wore those shoes with flowerpot-heels to show their prestigious status,” she says.
Wong makes use of what she learnt at university to produce promotional materials to rebrand and reform the store with 67 years of history.
In 2016, she wrote a book to promote embroidered shoes. The book also covered history, the making of shoes and her personal experience from childhood to inheriting the family business.
As a new blood to the industry, Wong continues to release new designs to retain customers. New patterns on her embroidered shoes now feature adorable animals such as rabbits, Shiba dogs, and cats to boost her business.
“I use new types of cloth such as denim and velvet, depending on the seasons and compatibility into daily outfits,” Wong says.
The styles of shoes are also amended. “I have made more slip-resistant soles for slippers, so they are more suitable for wearing outdoors. I design high-heel and more slim-fit editions to make embroidered shoes more fashionable,” she says.
Wong finds that there are supporters for both traditional and innovative designs, and sometimes older customers opt for those with unconventional patterns such as rabbits and Shiba dogs.
“Most existing customers purchase our shoes about once a year, especially for festivals or special occasions such as Lunar New Year. Some tourists visiting Hong Kong also buy my shoes, and most are from Japan,” she says.
Despite Wong’s effort to sustain the business, 2025 is tough for her. “My shop survived SARS and COVID. But in 2025, the total change of consumption pattern is a big hit. People are more willing to spend money on traveling instead,” Wong says.
The business was good even during the pandemic. The embroidered slippers were popular, and many purchased them online,” she adds.
“Also, it has become harder to buy materials for making shoes in Sham Shui Po, where many cloth and needle work stores have closed down due to decline in demand,” Wong says.
At the height of the business when her grandparents were running the store, each version with the same size and design had 10 pairs produced. The stores mainly sold ready stock instead of made-to-order items.
“There were 20-30 full-time workers back then when my grandparents were in charge. They had to seek help from neighbours and friends sometimes before Lunar New Year to meet the sudden increase in demand,” Wong recalls.
“A few years ago, I made five to six pairs of the same size and design. But now, only one to two pairs for each are produced,” she says.
To sustain the business, she scales it down and continues to create more new designs to grow customers.
Wong also tries to hold more workshops to promote embroidered shoes. “Participants can make their own shoes from scratch and learn about the meaning of each pattern,” she says. So far, about 2000 people have joined her workshops since 2012, most of them are in their 60s and 80s.
Wong gives talks at schools to promote the traditional skill to students.
“Youngsters do appreciate traditional culture. I put my passion into this craft. I will persist, until the time when I accomplish,” she says.
Edited by Alexia Leung
Sub-edited by Suan Yeon
