Amid the pandemic, our digital selves have become just as –
or perhaps even more – important than our physical selves. With more and more facets
of our lives online, more and more people are concerned about their digital
footprint.
Our Periscope section looks into the different ways
people try to escape the matrix online in China and in Hong Kong.
Clubhouse, an invitation-only audio-chatting app, has
exploded in popularity since early February 2021. In China, the app occupied a
special position as a temporary Wild West where users could discuss sensitive topics
without censorship.
But just as quickly as it caught on, it was gone. Clubhouse
was banned in China on February 8, 2021. New users can no longer join even if
they use a VPN, since they cannot receive the SMS verification code to activate
their account. In light of the ban, a Varsity reporter covers the fleeting
yet compelling impact of Clubhouse on its Chinese users.
In Hong Kong, a growing number of users are turning to privacy-focused services to conceal their digital footprint. An exodus from WhatsApp to Signal has begun over concerns about changes to WhatsApp’s privacy policy. WhatsApp’s new terms provide more features for businesses to interact with users, stirring fears over whether Facebook will share users’ data with businesses.
Another trend is the use of VPNs, triggered by anxiety over
the National Security Law. One of our reporters explores the appeal and
security features of these burgeoning services.
This issue of Varsity also features stories about other
diverse social issues. In Hong Kong, reporters investigate challenges faced by
street cleaners under the pandemic, developments in death education, and a
trend of getting tattoos with political messages.
In China, reporters examine the phenomenon of ‘revenge
bedtime procrastination’, difficulties faced by delivery workers, and impacts of
subtitle groups in bringing censored content to a Chinese audience.
HongKongers are using Signal and VPNs due to privacy and security concerns.
By Leung Pak Hei
University
student Fong Kit-wa has switched from WhatsApp to Signal since early January
2021 due to privacy concern.
“I am
worried that WhatsApp will collect my personal data, and I am not sure under
what conditions WhatsApp will give these data to a third party,” the Year Two
student says.
Half of her
friends have switched to Signal a week after WhatsApp released its new privacy
terms.
On January 5,
2021, WhatsApp announced that it would change its privacy policy. The new terms
allow businesses from Facebook and Instagram to connect with WhatsApp users,
sparking concerns over privacy. Many question if Facebook companies will monetise
WhatsApp to share users’ data, including contacts and status updates, for
advertising.
Users were
informed that they would not be able to continue using the app if they refused
to accept the new terms before February 8. WhatsApp users flocked to rival
messaging platforms like Signal and Telegram due to cybersecurity and privacy
concerns. WhatsApp was forced to postpone the deadline to May 15.
Signal was
developed by Brian Acton, co-founder of WhatsApp. The application released in
2014 now
has about 40 million users worldwide.
The instant-messaging
platform later issued a statement: “The changes are related to optional
business features on WhatsApp. The privacy and security of your personal
messages and calls do not change. They are protected by end-to-end encryption,
and WhatsApp and Facebook cannot read or listen to them” on its online Help
Centre website.
WhatsApp’s answers to questions regarding its privacy policy. (Source: WhatsApp Help Centre)
The
statement is unlikely to iron out users’ mistrust. Fong says that Signal has
become her main way to communicate with others.
“Now I use
Signal more than WhatsApp. I only use WhatsApp for work-related purposes, like
talking to my students’ parents when I work as a private tutor,” she says.
“I like the
‘disappearing messages’ function on Signal. I feel like it better protects my
privacy because confidential or secretive messages in a conversation will disappear
automatically,” Fong says.
‘Disappearing Messages’ function on Signal.
“Signal once
crashed at the end of January, but I can tolerate this because it is a
relatively new app,” she adds.
Recently,
apart from switching to Signal, more and more people in Hong Kong are also
using virtual private networks (VPN) for better cybersecurity.
VPN masks
users’ Internet protocol address, making it harder for others to trace their
online footprint.
VPN is also
used to access websites that are banned by governments. In January 2021, Hong
Kong network providers blocked a website named “HKChronicles” due to a request by
the police. The website contains personal information on policemen involved in
the 2019 protests.
University student Lam Cheuk-yin has been
using a
VPN since late June 2020.
“I bought a
three-year plan before the implementation of the National Security Law (NSL)
when there was a 60 per cent discount. Around ten of my friends have also been
using VPNs. They also
bought it before the law came into force,” Lam recalls.
“I use a VPN to
protect my digital footprint because I am concerned that the government may be
able to access my online traffic under the NSL,” Lam says.
“I use a VPN to protect my digital footprint because I am concerned that the government may be able to access my online traffic under the NSL.”
Tsui
Lok-man, an assistant professor from the CUHK School of Journalism and
Communication, says more people in Hong Kong are using VPNs due to privacy
concerns.
“Internet
providers or telecommunication companies may know which websites you have
visited. They may sell information to a third party or even give them to law
enforcers,” Tsui explains.
The
journalism professor thinks that people are switching to Signal out of distrust
towards
Facebook.
“WhatsApp is
a property of Facebook. When Facebook purchased WhatsApp, it claimed it would
not collect any data from WhatsApp. But WhatsApp’s new privacy terms show that
Facebook has broken its promise,” he explains.
“Companies
like Facebook are making a lot of money by collecting users’ data. The data are
used for selling advertisements or product innovations,” the journalism
professor adds.
Tsui believes
that recent political developments have caused an increase in awareness of
online privacy.
“Since the
2019 protests, people who participated in the Anti-Extradition Law Amendment
Bill Movement have become more mindful of concealing their digital footprint
because they are worried that the police may be able to gather enough
information to charge them,” he says.
Meng Wei, an assistant professor from the CUHK Department of Computer Science and Engineering, explains that Signal is more secure than WhatsApp because more conversation data is secured by end-to-end encryption.
“If the
communication is end-to-end encrypted, only the people that are engaged in the
conversation can get access to its raw content. Any other parties will not be
able to learn about the content of the conversation,” he says.
“WhatsApp
also adopts end-to-end encryption, but some of the conversation
data is not encrypted, for example, time of conversation and account names of
senders and receivers,” he continues.
The computer
science professor further explains that Signal provides additional encryption
on the users’ profiles, so it is more difficult to know who is talking on
Signal.
Meng adds
that WhatsApp’s new privacy terms make users concerned, but it will not hugely
affect the app’s security.
“WhatsApp’s
new privacy policy does not change its end-to-end encryption technology, so the
content of the conversations is still kept secret. But WhatsApp is not
transparent on how it will collect users’ data, this is one of the reasons why
users do not trust it,” he explains.
Meng thinks
that using VPN can better protect online security.
“All
communications between the user and the VPN server are encrypted, so other
parties will not know what the user is exchanging with the server,” he says.
“If someone
wants to express their opinion anonymously and does not want to be traced, a VPN
can provide some protection from local internet providers. But if you post some
content after logging in on social media accounts like Facebook, they will still know
who you are,” he adds.
“But if you post some content after logging in on social media accounts like Facebook, they will still know who you are.”
He reminds
netizens to always use
the latest software and products because updates may fix bugs in older versions
and keep attackers away. He also urges netizens to be careful when posting
information online.
In October
2020, the Consumer Council compared 20 free and paid VPN services. Results
showed that number and location of servers, connection speed, safety and
privacy levels vary with each VPN service. Consumers can look for advanced
features like network lock, split tunnelling support, malware and ad block for
further protection. It is always recommended to compare options before
purchasing.
Audio-only app Clubhouse saw an influx of mainland Chinese users bypassing the Great Firewall for censor-free discussions with people worldwide in Feb 2020, before authorities banned it within one week.
By Ryan Li
Avery Guo* joined a Clubhouse chatroom for the first time after she downloaded the application for online audio chatting on February 7, 2021.
A normal Clubhouse chatroom
When a chatroom moderator called out her name, Guo turned on her microphone and shared her thoughts about China’s education policy for ethnic minorities which gives ethnic minority students extra credits in Gaokao, the country’s college entrance examination.
“I said that ethnic minority students didn’t really benefit from the policy and that ethnic minorities in China should be encouraged to speak their own languages instead of being forced to learn Putonghua,” the Chinese University of Hong Kong (CUHK) student recalls her first Clubhouse sharing with over a thousand audience members.
Guo received an invitation from her friend on February 6 to join the Clubhouse community. She then started exploring chatrooms discussing China, Hong Kong, and Taiwan.
“Clubhouse indeed has broadened my horizons. I learned about some Chinese social activists, like Ai Weiwei, for the very first time. It also is a rare platform in China where people holding different views can discuss with each other peacefully,” she says.
“It also is a rare platform in China where people holding different views can discuss with each other peacefully.”
Clubhouse, launched in April 2020 by IT company Alpha Exploration Corporation in San Francisco, has gained worldwide popularity since the first few days of February 2021.
Users are given opportunities to explore audio-only chatrooms on Clubhouse. In these rooms, people talk with each other through a conference call, with audience members listening quietly. Users can freely enter and leave the chatroom or raise their hands to speak whenever they want.
For its users in China, the application has provided a chance for them to freely discuss political issues without censorship.
But Guo noticed some changes on February 8.
SSL error without VPN connection
“Fewer voices from mainland China could be heard, and topics switched from sensitive political issues to love affairs and investments,” she says.
Clubhouse was banned in mainland China in the afternoon of February 8, with a red banner popping up when opening the application saying that “a secure connection to the server cannot be made”.
Chinese users now have to bypass China’s Great Firewall with the help of a virtual private network (VPN) service, which is considered illegal by Chinese authorities, in order to use the app.
The Chinese foreign ministry spokesman Wang Wenbin said China “is firmly determined in safeguarding national sovereignty, security and development interests and rejecting foreign interference”, when responding to questions from a foreign reporter about the ban at a press conference on February 9.
“How to download and use Clubhouse in China” (Shared among Chinese netizens)
But not all join Clubhouse to talk about topics considered to be sensitive in China such as political issues in Tibet, Xinjiang and Taiwan.
Jessica Hua* works for an online game company in Shanghai. She received an invitation to use the app from her colleague on February 4.
“People in our industry by nature pay attention to new products like Clubhouse and new trends in the trade,” Hua says.
“People in our industry by nature pay attention to new products like Clubhouse and new trends in the trade.”
Elon Musk, the Chief Executive Officer (CEO) of Tesla, was interviewed by the Good Time Show in a Clubhouse chatroom, discussing topics from when people can travel to Mars through SpaceX’s programme, to his view on digitalisation of the medicine industry, on February 1.
Elon Musk on Clubhouse (Twitter_ Elon Musk)
“I think (Clubhouse) is a place where elites from various industries network with each other. Sharing sessions with CEOs and company founders flood my homepage,” Hua says.
The 25-year-old now uses Clubhouse less often, partly because of the decreasing number of users from China after the ban.
Mobile phone users in China can no longer be invited to use Clubhouse after the ban was imposed on February 8, as they cannot receive the verification code sent to their phones through Short Message System (SMS) during registration, even if they use VPN.
“Room for discussion has been limited after (the ban). It’s hard to explore new topics with a limited number of active users,” Hua says.
“Room for discussion has been limited after (the ban). It’s hard to explore new topics with a limited number of active users.”
Simulating the user interface and basic functions of Clubhouse, Duihuaba (對話吧) was launched by a Chinese Livestream company Inke (映客) on February 11. Several other companies are also developing similar platforms in mainland China.
Domestic replicas of some applications banned in China have been prospering in China. Two examples are Twitter-like Weibo and YouTube-like Bilibili, which have become mainstream social media platforms in mainland China.
Cyberspace Administration of China said in a notice on March 18 that it has summoned staff from 11 internet companies, including Inke, Tencent and Alibaba, to meetings to evaluate the security of audio-based social media platforms.
Fang Kecheng, associate professor of journalism and communication at CUHK, doubts if these Chinese versions can function like Clubhouse, as he says what made the discussions on Clubhouse special was not about “knowing” but “listening”.
“The essence of the original version lies in its users, and how they connect with each other,” Fang says. He describes the period before Clubhouse was banned, which is around the first quarter of February, as “rare”, because mainland Chinese users could enjoy the freedom of expression without censorship at that time.
“Users (in mainland China) could directly listen to Taiwanese people, Uyghurs and witnesses of protests in Tiananmen Square in Clubhouse. This sense of intimacy can hardly be felt when reading news reports,” he says.
Looking to the future, Fang thinks that the story of Clubhouse in China is nearly over.
“It’s possible that Chinese intellectuals and cultural elites may continue to engage in cross-cultural and cross-regional discussions, but it can hardly have a great impact on the masses,” he adds.
But Fang stresses that although free access to Clubhouse was cut off fast, “We can still see it from an optimistic point of view. It shows that as long as an opportunity comes anda suitable platform can operate, conversations like those in Clubhouse are still possible, no matter how many misunderstandings we’ve had with people holding different views before,” he says.
The Constitution of the People’s Republic of China declares that its citizens enjoy the freedom of speech. But in practice, overseas social media platforms including Twitter, Instagram, Facebook and Clubhouse are blocked in mainland China.
“China’s ban on certain platforms is not reasonable. (The country’s) policy on speech control has been tighter than before,” says Tomoko Ako, a professor from the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences of the University of Tokyo. “I personally believe that freedom of speech is very important for human beings,” she adds.
Ako, who specialises in Sociology and China Studies, lived in Beijing from 2001 to 2003. She recalls there were more citizen-initiated movements at that time.
“Social media was used to put pressure on local governments or officials, as well as to collaborate with investigative journalists or scholars to solve social issues at that time,” Ako says.
“But nowadays it’s very difficult for these citizen groups to mobilise the public,” she adds.
For Chinese users on Clubhouse, the Japanese academic thinks Clubhouse’s most important impact on them is that they have a chance to “look outside the wall”.
Ako believes China’s Great Firewall, to a certain extent, resembles the intangible walls erected by individuals in daily life due to religion and nationality differences. She thinks “everyone has a wall around, and we have to get over it” to mutually understand each other.
“Ideally speaking, if you can go freely between differences, then you can see different worlds and expand your perspectives,” she says.
Ako thinks China will be a superpower in the world, and she has two possible scenarios in mind.
“From a pessimistic view, China will tighten its control on domestic speech, unwilling to communicate with democratic countries,” she says.
“From a pessimistic view, China will tighten its control on domestic speech, unwilling to communicate with democratic countries.”
“I am sometimes very critical to (China’s) policies. But I really hope China can be more open, transparent and democratic,” says Ako, referring to her optimistic view of the country, in which it will try to participate in international dialogues and take its role as a “responsible leader”.
* Names changed at interviewees’ request.
Edited by Laurissa Liu Sub-edited by Patricia Ricafort
Hong Kong sees an uptick in withdrawals from university in recent years, leading to concerns over the city’s education and future planning system for students.
By Felicia Lam
Studying at the University of Hong Kong (HKU) is a dream to many, but Hugo Wu Ho-kong quitted and retook the university entrance exam in 2020.
Hoping to study Chinese language and literature at the Chinese University of Hong Kong (CUHK), he withdrew from taking a Bachelor of Arts at HKU in June 2020.
“Being a Chinese teacher is my dream. I know that the employability and training of Chinese major graduates from CUHK are better than HKU,” the 19-year-old student says.
“Although my learning experience in HKU was pleasant, I heard from my friends that the curriculum design of CUHK is better for preparing myself to be a Chinese teacher,” he says.
Wu withdrew from HKU and retook the Hong Kong Diploma of Secondary Education (HKDSE) in 2020 under huge pressure.
“I must withdraw from HKU in order to be eligible to apply for university place allocation in 2020. (But) if my examination results were not better than my first try, I could not be admitted to my favourite degree programme,” he says.
“Also, my parents did not understand nor support my decision. They were afraid that I could not get into CUHK this year and would end up sacrificing the HKU degree for nothing,” he adds.
Wu’s dream came true in August 2020. He is now studying Chinese language and literature at CUHK.
“The year in HKU reassured my interest in Chinese language. It is totally worth it (to drop out of HKU) when I think about my dreams,” Wu says.
“The year in HKU reassured my interest in Chinese language. It is totally worth it (to drop out of HKU) when I think about my dreams.”
Withdraw to Take a Mental Break
Like Wu, Monica Chan Hiu-man also left higher education to find her passion.
The former HKU medicine major student is now a second-year veterinary medicine student at the City University of Hong Kong.
Monica Chan Hiu-man is a second-year veterinary medicine student at CityU. (Photo courtesy of Monica Chan Hiu-man)
Chan took a gap semester in December 2018 due to emotional problems brought by inability to adapt to university life.
She then went on a trip to France alone and decided to drop out of HKU a few months later.
“Coming to the decision was a struggle. My secondary school teachers did not agree with my decision as they wanted to use my achievements for promotion and student recruitment,” the 21-year-old student says.
Chan is an animal lover, but she did not think of studying veterinary medicine in university before.
“I only followed my teacher’s advice when I filled in a form for my university programme choices. I did not know much about other majors,” she says.
She started to think of studying veterinary medicine when volunteering in an animal shelter in Hong Kong after her withdrawal. She enjoys interacting with animals.
“When I look back, (withdrawing from university) is just a small matter in my life. Studying something I like makes me feel happier,” she adds.
Withdraw to Explore the Workplace
While some university dropouts choose to retake public examinations or take a rest, some join the workforce after their withdrawal and return to campus after a while.
Loras Lam Long-hin, 21, was admitted to HKU to study accounting and finance in 2017. But he withdrew from the university in November 2018.
Loras Lam Long-hin is now a second-year student majoring in journalism and communication at CUHK. (Photo courtesy of Loras Lam Long-hin)
“Being an accountant was my childhood dream. I was very happy at first to be admitted to my dream programme,” he says.
“But after I joined different activities in university, I realised that I do not want to work with numbers for the rest of my life. Instead, I found my interest in marketing and design,” he says.
Lam’s parents supported his withdrawal from HKU to explore his interests. After that, he worked as a sales assistant at Manner Production, a video production company, for eight months.
“I learnt a lot during my work and even had a chance to take part in their video production as an actor,” he adds.
Loras Lam Long-hin participated in a talent quest of Manner Production during their 6th anniversary celebration in 2019. (Photo courtesy of Loras Lam Long-hin)
Lam was admitted to journalism and communication major at CUHK in 2019.
“My working experience strengthened my critical thinking skills. I found my passion in advertising and creative media after working in the video production company,” he says.
Lack of Future Planning Knowledge
In the 2018-19 academic year, a total of 1,474 undergraduate students withdrew from Hong Kong’s eight publicly-funded universities. In 2019-20, the figure rose up by 22 per cent to 1,804, according to data released by the University Grants Committee.
Source: University Grants Committee
While the city sees a surge in university dropouts in recent years, the main causes of student withdrawals remain unclear.
Ng Po-shing, a student guidance consultant from Hok Yau Club, a student counselling group, thinks that the major reason for students to withdraw from university is students do not know where their passion lies.
Ng Po-shing, student guidance consultant at Hok Yau Club. (Photo courtesy of Hok Yau Club)
“Secondary schools focus on training students to sit for public examinations rather than telling students about university majors and future planning,” he says.
He also thinks that students’ habit to search for information online affects their decision-making process.
“Some online content on university majors is misleading. The algorithm pushes similar content and reinforces wrong ideas of different majors,” he says.
Ng points out that parents and teachers’ influence on students’ values also plays a key role when students think about what to study at universities.
“Some online content on university majors is misleading. The algorithm pushes similar content and reinforces wrong ideas of different majors.”
“They tell students that they must choose a major with a promising career prospect. Students may blindly follow their advice and pick a subject that they do not know much about or a major that they do not like,” he adds.
Impact of Withdrawal on Job Hunting
As a bachelor’s degree is a proxy for competence, dropping out of university launches a different signal to employers.
Steven Lui-wang, co-founder of HKCareers, a career training platform, thinks that withdrawing from university may affect student’s employability.
Steven Lui-wang, co-founder and career coach at HKCareers, hosts career workshops for university students. (Photo courtesy of HKCareers)
“Employers always ask students why they withdrew from universities as it is uncommon. They often think that students are immature and have made a mistake when choosing their major,” Lui, who is a career coach, says.
“But if students explain well like saying that the withdrawal reconfirms his or her passion, they may impress the employer and become more likely to be employed instead. But it is hard to explain well,” he adds.
Lui also points out that students who have been admitted to a new programme often keep their old mindset when doing career planning, which gives them a hard time during job hunting.
“But if students explain well like saying that the withdrawal reconfirms his or her passion, they may impress the employer and become more likely to be employed instead.”
“If students still keep their previously planned career paths in mind when they are in their new major, they will have a higher chance to encounter problems when finding jobs,” says Lui.
Edited by Savoki Zhang Sub-edited by Patricia Ricafort
Subtitle groups bring Chinese audience members uncensored foreign films and TV programmes.
By Alina Chen
When Nanmu Zhang was in middle school, he watched The Simpsons with Chinese subtitles in order to understand the American cartoon.
He thinks it is impossible to watch American cartoons via state-owned television channels in China in the foreseeable future.
“For American TV shows like Family Guy and American Dad!, … it is impossible (to watch them on TV in China) because they have sensitive contents,” he says, citing an episode of Family Guy as an example.
“That episode jokes about preference for sons over daughters and baby girls being killed in China. These issues cannot be openly discussed (in China),” he says.
Zhang started to help a subtitle group, which adds Chinese subtitles to American cartoons such as Family Guy and American Dad! three years ago.
He came across this subtitle group when he tried to search for an American cartoon named Brickleberry on the internet. Now Zhang has become the leader of the group. Proofreading is his main job.
“When I have the ability to make subtitles, I hope I can pass on (the tradition of running an internet subtitle group so that others can watch foreign films and TV programmes),” he says.
Zhang says most small subtitle groups in China are not well-organised and members are not paid for their work.
“We select cartoons depending on our personal preference and recommendations from American cartoon fans. We source videos from foreign websites such as RARBG that provide torrent files,” he says.
Zhang says the work of subtitle groups covers sourcing for TV productions and movies to download, doing translation, making timelines, adding special effects, proofreading, compressing videos, and uploading finished products online to cloud services like Baidu Wangpan.
It takes five hours to prepare subtitles for a 20-minute cartoon episode, starting from finding resources to uploading a video online. “Sometimes the whole process will be finished by only one person in a small subtitle group like us,” he says.
Some video streaming websites in China offer legitimate foreign television programmes with Chinese subtitles. Tencent Video is one of the biggest websites.
It provides more than 600 American TV series in total. Ninety of them are only for paid subscribers, including some popular series like Westworld and Game of Thrones. Other less popular series are accessible for all users.
Audience members can also find some American cartoons such as Disney cartoons and superhero cartoons on this website. But animated sitcoms with sensitive contents, such as criticisms towards Chinese politics, are not available.
Another member of the subtitle group is Mandi Yu who operates the group’s account on Weibo, a Chinese microblogging website. She says subtitle groups enable people in China to watch censored TV production and movies.
Part of the famous subtitle groups on Weibo.Part of the famous subtitle groups on Bilibili, a popular video-sharing platform in China.
She posts news about their latest works on their Weibo account. Audience members can also find information about their cloud service account to get access to their subtitle works.
“(Watching the work by subtitle groups) may be the only chance for the public to get access to the full version (of foreign films and cartoons) without interference or censorship,” she says.
“(Watching the work by subtitle groups) may be the only chance for the public to get access to the full version (of foreign films and cartoons) without interference or censorship.”
According to Chinese Regulations on the Administration of Movies which came into effect in 2002, films are prohibited from containing content that propagates obscenity, gambling or violence, or abetting to commit crimes. Impairing the prestige and interests of the State is not allowed either.
“Usually streaming platforms will delete sensitive content or pixelate some scenes to avoid films and TV programmes being removed from their website. This kind of self-censorship may be stricter (than the censorship conducted by authorities) to avoid any problems,” she says.
The nude scene in the film The Shape of Water is censored in a way of being pixelated.
The Shape of Water, a film winning Academy Award for Best Picture in 2018, is one example. When itwas screened in China three years ago, the leading actress appearing naked in one scene was covered by a black patch which made her looked like wearing a black dress.
“Some contents are censored (on streaming platforms and in cinemas). But the censored contents may be the essence of a production,” Yu says.
“Some contents are censored (on streaming platforms and in cinemas). But the censored contents may be the essence of a production.”
Censorship also exists in social media. Some videos uploaded by subtitle groups are removed from Weibo. “No reason is given when a video is removed,” she says.
Yu points out some opinions and values discussed in some cartoons are related to politics, liberty and democracy. “I hope we can instill these opinions in our audience by sharing these kinds of cartoons,” she says.
Fang Kecheng, assistant professor at the School of Journalism and Communication at the Chinese University of Hong Kong, says that subtitle groups in China are platforms where people share resources.
“The presence of control over the introduction of foreign films gives birth to smuggling activities. Subtitle groups can be described as smugglers of information,” he says.
He thinks whether video streaming platforms such as Tencent Video and iQIYI Video will introduce a foreign work is a commercial decision. They will consider the tradeoff between the risk of censorship and profit generated by the introduced content.
“Some films and TV programmes like American sitcoms are not profitable enough. Yet, the risk of screening such kinds of TV programmes is high,” he says.
Fang also mentions some companies and platforms are practising self-censorship to avoid potential political risks. “(For example,) House of Cards (introduced by iQIYI Video) touches on issues related to China. It may be deleted before coming online,” he adds. Fang says obscure subtitle groups are less troubled by censorship from authorities, so the groups pay less attention to self-censorship. Those niche and voluntary small subtitle groups will introduce more diverse TV and movie productions to Chinese audience members.
In China, food delivery drivers are working on thin ice under an algorithm with tough deadlines, low wages and little labour protection.
By Jack Deng in Shenzhen
Costly Bad Comments
Huang Qi, who has been working in delivery service for seven months in Shenzhen, received his first bad comment in August 2020, which made his work that day totally in vain.
“I was there on time. But the customers were in an argument. No one answered the door when I first knocked, so I had to knock harder. After trying knocking heavier, someone answered and took the food angrily,” Huang recalls.
Several minutes later, the 27-year-old delivery man received a bad comment with no explanation, along with a fine of RMB ¥100 (USD $15.36) from Meituan platform, one of the largest food delivery platforms in China.
“I only earn RMB ¥8 (USD $1.23) per order. A fine like this means a day of work is done for nothing. I have no one to turn to about my grievances,” he says.
Huang Qi just received a new order from Meituan, China’s largest food delivery platform.
According to Huang, taking delivery orders and planning routes are totally taken over by computers. Time cost like waiting for lifts or traffic jam due to bad weather is not considered by the algorithm.
“That’s why every day you see many delivery men riding scooters on traffic roads, even if it is illegal,” says Huang. “People will get hit and injured or even killed, but time limit imposed on us forces us to do so,” he adds.
“The platform keeps pushing us to become more competitive. But for temporary workers like me, a traffic accident means that we will have to pay bills by ourselves since there is no accident insurance for us.”
According to the “2019 Shanghai Comprehensive Transportation Annual Report”, 560 traffic accidents happened in the first half of the year 2019, and 325 were related to the express and takeaway industries, accounting for 58 per cent.
Huang says most of the delivery men are part-time workers who have no medical and legal protection. The number of full-time workers is very small.
“The platform keeps pushing us to become more competitive. But for temporary workers like me, a traffic accident means that we will have to pay bills by ourselves since there is no accident insurance for us,” he says.
Under Meituan’s operation policy, if a delivery man keeps receiving bad comments, his or her platform account will be shut down and he or she will not be assigned with any more orders.
Algorithm with No Common Sense
Same as Huang, Zhang Yirong, 41, is also a temporary worker for the same digital delivery platform. He received his first bad comment in January 2021 after working in the industry for three months.
“The platform assigned six orders to me that day. But after I finished the second order, the restaurant for the third order told me to wait for at least 15 minutes for the food,” Zhang recalls.
A 15-minute-wait meant all other orders would be delayed. Zhang then received three bad comments even after having called these customers to explain.
“I can understand why the customers were angry since they were hungry, and I was late. But I think the restaurant should be blamed in this case. Delayed order was due to their low efficiency, but I had to pay for their bad service,” Zhang says.
Zhang hopes legislation should be introduced so that delivery men can have better labour protection.
Zhang Yirong is waiting for new orders allocated according to the algorithm of Meituan.
“The company shifts all responsibilities to us instead of making a deal with restaurants. But overall, we delivery men are thankful for the platforms. They do provide job opportunities for millions of people,” Zhang says.
Varsity tried to contact Meituan, one of the largest food delivery platforms in China, but no reply has been received.
Academic Call for Better Labour Protection
Ma Liang, a professor in the school of public administration and policy of the Renmin University of China, describes these food delivery platforms as “sweatshops”.
“When these platforms design their algorithms, they do not consider feelings of these delivery workers…These platforms are using punishment as the main way of managing in order to lower operation cost,” Ma says.
“Delivery workers are not organised and that makes these platform operators even more powerful. The workers do not have labour unions to speak out and bargain for them. They are largely in a position to be ‘slaughtered’ which is very detrimental to them. So even if they have difficulties, usually they cannot make their voice heard,” Ma adds.
According to research by the Wangjingshe E-commercial Research Centre, which is also known as the Chinese e-commercial Bloomberg, published in 2019, the number of employees in China’s delivery industry surpassed 10 million.
A deliveryman is still working at midnight.
“Currently, there is no government department specifically regulating the food delivery industry. It takes concerted effort of various government departments to look into related issues such as traffic rules, food safety, and labour protections,” says Ma.
Ma believes that the government and platform operators should solve delivery service workers’ insurance problem first.
“When these platforms design their algorithms, they do not consider feelings of these delivery workers…These platforms are replacing management with punishment to lower operation cost.”
“The government should ask platform operators to pay insurance for takeaway riders, clarify the main responsibilities of platforms, and establish a mandatory system that requires these operators to offer workers insurance,” Ma says.
Ma also asks consumers to have empathy for delivery service workers. “A bad comment can ruin the day for these workers,” he says.
The story investigates working conditions faced by cleaners in Hong Kong during the pandemic.
By Victoria Fong
Public hospital cleaner Lee*, who works at an obstetrics and gynecology ward, has endured an increasing workload during the pandemic.
“Since March 2021, (cleaners) are required to sterilize high-touch surfaces such as handles, elevator buttons and armrests along corridors every two hours,” says Lee, who works at Kwong Wah Hospital in Yau Ma Tei. Before the pandemic, she cleaned these surfaces just once every shift.
Lee, whose eight-hour morning shift lasts from 7 a.m. to 3 p.m., also has to mop the floor of almost twenty rooms and two public toilets once every shift.
“I also need to collect garbage at wards, retrieve food trays and disinfect mattresses when patients leave. Having to clean hotspots every two hours makes me very busy,” Lee says, adding that she suffers from arm and leg pain because of her job.
“I hardly have any time to take a break at work, and sometimes I don’t even have time to drink water. I have lost over 20 pounds since I have taken up this job,” Lee says.
She started working for the hospital in April 2020 after being laid off in January.
Lee works at Kwong Wah Hospital in Yau Ma Tei.
The hospital cleaner also has safety concerns during the pandemic.
“When I am assigned to do overnight shifts, I have to collect medical waste in high-risk wards where COVID-19 patients are admitted,” Lee says. She is given N95 respirators and disposable protective clothing only when she has to work in those wards.
Living with her son’s family and her 12-year-old grandchild, Lee always showers before heading home.
“Of course I am worried (for myself and my family) working for the hospital during the pandemic, but what else could I do to make ends meet?” she says.
“Of course I am worried (for myself and my family) working for the hospital during the pandemic, but what else could I do to make ends meet?”
Lee earns about HK $13,000 monthly and receives a HK$500 daily subsidy when she is assigned to work at high-risk wards. Other than that, she does not have any other labour protection.
Cleaners are given N95 respirators and disposable protective clothing when sterilizing high-risk surfaces.
On June 16, 2020, the government introduced a monthly allowance of HK$1,000 under the Anti-epidemic Fund for up to seven months.
The allowance, according to a press release issued on the same day by Secretary for Financial Services and the Treasury, is for cleaners employed by “service contractors of the government and the Hong Kong Housing Authority”.
But cleaners working at public hospitals managed by the Hospital Authority, like Lee, are not eligible to apply for the fund.
“I do not receive other financial protection (apart from daily subsidy). I didn’t even know there were monthly allowances for other cleaners,” she says.
Lee is not the only case. Cleaner Kornwika Heelakul is also struggling to handle a heavy workload to keep building premises clean during the pandemic.
“I empty garbage bins once every shift. It used to be one to two bags of trash. Now I have to take two to three turns, disposing of three to four heavy trash bags every day,” says Heelakul, who works at a commercial building in her first shift and a residential building in her second.
The 52-year-old Thai cleaner attributes her doubled or even tripled workload mainly to an increasing number of lunch boxes being disposed of.
“More people ordered takeaway (to avoid infection and reduce infection risk),” says Heelakul. She works 11 hours a day and has worked as a cleaner for 20 years.
Government outsourced street cleaner Tang* echoes Heelakul’s concerns on his increased workload.
“I have to collect at least 10 more bags of trash at each collection point since the pandemic began. Each bag sizes 38 inches times 42 inches, carrying up to five kilograms of trash,” the 60-year-old cleaner says.
“I have to collect at least 10 more bags of trash at each collection point since the pandemic began. Each bag sizes 38 inches times 42 inches, carrying up to five kilograms of trash.”
Tang, who works 16 hours a day, also says his schedule is packed because of increased waste. “I used to collect one to two tonnes of garbage a day, and now I collect half a tonne more,” he says.
Disposed lunch boxed and food waste have increased on the street.
“Some people dispose lunch boxes and food waste on the street, and I have to clean them up,” Tang says.
A Common Struggle
Denny To, the General Secretary of the Cleaning Service Industry Workers Union, believes cleaners are underpaid despite doing a high-risk and demanding job.
“Cleaners only receive at most HK $7,000 as subsidy since the start of the pandemic. Cleaners under the Hospital Authority don’t even get any subsidy which is very ironic that they cannot get paid despite the high risk of infection,” he says.
“The union has written a petition letter to the Hospital Authority regarding this issue, but they did not respond,” he adds.
To also says that workload of cleaners has rocketed since January 2020.
“People now order takeaways more often and shop online. Goods are usually overpackaged and that creates more trash,” To says.
“Cleaners are also loaded with disinfection work such as cleaning and disinfecting hotspots of contact, such as elevators more frequently. Cleaners also have to disinfect buildings visited by confirmed cases,” he adds.
To says the union also struggles to collect data of infected cleaners.
“The Centre of Health Protection does not always reveal occupations of infected cases. For example, there was an infected cleaner who worked at a public refuse collection point, but the centre only mentioned that the case ‘visited’ the collection point,” he says.
“We can only wait for infected cleaners to approach us instead of actively reaching out to them,” he adds.
“We can only wait for infected cleaners to approach us instead of actively reaching out to them.”
According to To, even if cleaners are infected, they may not be compensated as COVID-19 is not an occupational disease for cleaners.
“It is very difficult for cleaners to prove that they have been infected at work unless there is a cluster. If they can’t prove their infection is a work-related infection, they will not be entitled to employees’ compensation,” To says.
He says the union has been calling for COVID-19 to be included as an occupational disease to ensure frontline cleaners receive fair compensation.
Cleaners are taking extra workload during the pandemic.
But it has been difficult to advocate for cleaners’ rights by organizing collective resistance during the pandemic.
“Regulations on social gathering make it difficult to assemble cleaners for protests and strikes,” To says.
“Right now, (the union) can only conduct researches and surveys to understand cleaners’ struggles and help publicize them through press conferences and media interviews,” he adds.
Connie Yuen Ming-shan held a book talk with a social worker on bereavement counselling targeting those who work in the field. (Photo courtesy of Connie Yuen Ming-shan)
The development of death education for children in Hong Kong still has a long way to go.
By Kajal Aidasani
Molin Lin Kwok-yin
recalls her encounter with an 8-year-old boy with brain cancer during a home visit
to check on the child’s condition and offer psychological support to his
mother.
“The mother told me when
she was helping her son shower, the son asked if he was a burden,” says Lin,
professional service manager of the Children’s Palliative Care Foundation.
Molin Lin Kwok-yin lectured on the challenges of developing children’s palliative care in China at the National End-of-life Care Concern Conference held in China. (Photo courtesy of Molin Lin Kwok-yin)
“A situation like this
could have been a lesson for death education, to reassure children that they
are loved and have not done anything wrong. In this case, the mother burst into tears and
could not respond to his question,” she adds.
Lin stresses that parents, schools, and society all play important roles in death education.
“Children have the right to know more about death, but parents are too protective and afraid to bring up the issue.”
“Children have the right
to know more about death, but parents are too protective and afraid to bring up
the issue. Another case that I handled was an 8-year-old girl with a brain
tumour. The child encouraged her father by saying that death was just a part of
life,” Lin says.
Miranda Leung Mei-mui, a retired nurse of Hong Kong Children’s Hospital with 30 years of experience in paediatrics, shares Lin’s thoughts.
She thinks life and
death education is important and should be taught from kindergarten to
university.
“Frontline medical workers make use of communication tools to help children understand and cope with death in hospitals. Apart from speaking to children, means such as pictures, videos, music, and toys can also be used,” Leung says.
Leung recalls that when she was a nurse, she showed pictures of a pretty flower and a wilted flower to a child who was unwilling to be admitted to the hospital for urgent treatment.
“I asked her to choose the picture she liked. Then I explained if she wanted to be healthy like the pretty flower, she would have to undergo treatment at the hospital,” Leung says.
Leung says they once invited a staff member from the Children’s Cancer Foundation to simulate how a funeral was like to a child with toys after his grandfather passed away. They also taught the child to show love to his grandfather by folding origami.
Miranda Leung Mei-mui and her team designed a pamphlet about how to bring the bad news – death of their family member to children – for the PEACE Project at the United Christian Hospital. (Photo courtesy of Miranda Leung Mei-mui)
“Children should be taught about death or else some might think that (death happens) because they are naughty.”
“Children should be
taught about death or else some might think that (death happens) because they
are naughty. The use of artwork and picture books should not be overlooked. It
is also okay to use the word ‘death’,” Leung adds.
While there are many English
death-related picture books, only a handful are published in Chinese in Hong
Kong. Picture book and map illustrator Connie Yuen Ming-shan was involved in
the production of two of them.
“People used to think picture books published by NGOs are not appealing. By collaborating with them, I want to develop more creative materials to arouse public awareness about end-of-life education,” Yuen says.
Connie Yuen Ming-shan held a book talk on her bereavement picture book (最後的告別) at Eslite Bookstore. (Photo courtesy of Connie Yuen Ming-shan)
She has written two picture books. “The Final Farewell” (最後的告別) was published in May 2018 and tells the story of losing a father. Her other book, “The Big Yellow Lion Under Lion Rock” (獅子山下的黃大獅) was published in December 2020 and is about paying tribute at a graveyard.
Funerals with different kinds of
religious rituals and Hong Kong’s streets are featured in Yuen’s book about
death. “Hong Kong deserves to have its own death-related picture books in a
local context,” she says.
Yuen thinks that parents in Hong Kong do not value death education enough. They only buy picture books that serve task-oriented purposes, such as those teaching children punctuality, politeness, and hard work.
“We give out free copies to district councillors and hold book talks. We even promote our books to social workers, teachers, and nurses to spark open discussions, and for both children and adults to enjoy a good storytime,” she says.
The illustrator is currently working on three books that introduce death to the intellectually challenged, a project which is the first of its kind in Hong Kong.
She believes
everyone should learn about the process – from being diagnosed, treated, and admitted
to hospital to dying – so as to be mentally prepared.
“It takes years for Hong Kong to develop picture
books and death education…With or without the pandemic, there is an urgency to
learn about death. And learning about death teaches us to treasure the time we
are alive,” Yuen says.
Wallace Chan Chi-ho, associate
professor of the Department of Social Work at the Chinese University of Hong
Kong, is also working on a death-related picture book.
The book is about bereaved siblings
and how to handle the death of a loved one in the family.
Chan and his colleagues plan to hold
book workshops and produce guidelines for parents and professionals about how
the book can be used.
Wallace Chan Chi-housed dinosaur-like snacks to engage children in his bereaved sibling project. (Photo courtesy of Wallace Chan Chi-ho)
“Many people think children are too young to understand death. Children just do not know how to articulate their feelings, but it does not mean that they cannot understand.”
“Many people think children are too
young to understand death. Children just do not know how to articulate their
feelings, but it does not mean that they cannot understand,” Chan says.
He points out death remains a taboo in today’s Chinese community.
“There is a lack of formal death
education. Teaching suicide prevention is not enough. Given the alarming
suicide situation, the government cannot afford to put death into the school
curriculum fearing that students might feel even more stressed,” he says.
Chan thinks it is important to equip
professionals such as nurses, doctors, and social workers with knowledge about
life and death education.
“Children can understand death is normal through education. In a broader sense, they can learn how to cope with suffering while still embracing life and finding life worthwhile,” the professor says.
Edited by Sarah Ryou Sub-edited by Patricia Ricafort
Students from Renaissance College participated in the "Refugee Run" simulation on January 8, 2020. (Photo courtesy of Crossroads Foundation)
NGOs are committed to raising awareness about asylum seekers’ issues through simulations.
By Gabriella Lynn
Young single mother Kristel*, an asylum seeker from the Philippines, can only live in Hong Kong with help from others. She survives on HK$1,200 food coupons, HK$200 in cash for transportation, and HK$1,800 for housing every month.
As for necessities like toiletries, clothes, and masks, Kristel cannot afford them. “I use one mask for three days, and the mask is really thin and itchy. My baby doesn’t have masks,” she says.
Kristel came to Hong Kong to work as a domestic helper in 2017. She has been forced to become an asylum seeker since her employment contract was terminated in 2019.
While trying to search for another job, Kristel became pregnant with her baby Ali. Concerned about her family’s reaction, she overstayed her visa while trying to find ways to stay in Hong Kong longer.
“Back home, I was the breadwinner, and I was single. I didn’t know how to explain to my mother why I got pregnant while working,” Kristel says.
Kristel did not immediately surrender to immigration authorities as she was afraid of being deported. During her pregnancy, she finally decided to surrender so she could get access to medical care in the city.
“(Before surrendering to the immigration authorities), I couldn’t get check-ups. I couldn’t even go to hospitals. I hadn’t had an ultrasound – nothing. I needed a private doctor but I didn’t have enough money. So, I surrendered and they gave me temporary papers until I gave birth,” she says.
After giving birth, Kristel began the process of applying for asylum. From her friends who have overstayed in Hong Kong, she learned about Refugee Union, a refugee-led society that protects the rights and well-beings of asylum seekers. She sought help from the group and has become a beneficiary of the organisation.
“Sometimes, (volunteers) take pictures of my baby and post them on Facebook when I need something, like baby formula or diapers. The next day, I get lots of donations from kind people,” Kristel says.
Kristel and her Hong Kong-born baby boy Ali. (Photo courtesy of Kristel)
Because of COVID-19, searching for resources has been difficult. Kristel cannot go to other non-profit organisations in fear of infection risk. She often has to compete for donations with the other 800 active beneficiaries of Refugee Union because everything is distributed on a first-come-first-serve basis.
Understanding, Caring, and Changing
Refugee Union has been raising awareness about the situation of refugees through their social media pages. They post regularly about the needs of their members and run donation drives with other NGOs.
Crossroads Foundation, a non-profit humanitarian aid organisation, shares the same goal as well. The foundation’s Global X-Perience programme runs simulations that replicate the lives of underprivileged people. David Begbie, the director of the programme, wants more people to know about refugees like Kristel.
Begbie conducted a simulation section with students from YMCA of Hong Kong Christian College on May 8, 2018. (Photo courtesy of Crossroads Foundation)
“The very first thing we have to do is make people care. But you can’t engage someone if they don’t know about the issue,” Begbie says.
A student who participated in the simulations, Felicia Lam Sum-tim, says her mindset shifted after attending a session in 2017. “I understood and became more empathetic towards the underprivileged because you just feel their frustration and (helplessness),” she says.
Lam found the experience so eye-opening that she has shared her experience with many others.
“I told a lot of people about (the simulation) and the situation of the underprivileged. (The simulations) can raise awareness as the experience made us reflect,” she says.
One simulation called “Refugee Run” is designed and run by real refugees. “We want to know that for people who have lived through the refugee life, the message of our simulation is on point. When we debrief after the simulation, we also ask them for their opinions,” Begbie says.
“People often come to me at the end of the simulations and ask me how I can use their lives to make a difference. And I tell them, just be themselves. Use their existing skills,” he adds.
“I’ve seen people’s perspectives change radically (after the simulations). Just for a moment, they got a taste of what (life as a refugee) is like, and they grieved at their own callousness,” Begbie says.
“I’ve seen people’s perspectives change radically (after the simulations).”
Making a Difference During COVID-19
Ever since the pandemic started, large gatherings have been prohibited. The simulations, usually consisting of 20 – 100 participants, have not been available for bookings for more than a year.
A simulation site at the NGO’s centre in Tuen Mun is now empty. (Photo courtesy of Crossroads Foundation)
Despite the support, Begbie
says that monetary donation is much needed. “ For a
lot of people, they need money to survive. We need to get people back on their feet,” he adds.
Kristel shares
Begbie’s opinions. “If we have job opportunities, then maybe we can have a
normal life in Hong Kong. We don’t have to be beggars waiting for food and other
donations. But because we have no money, there is no choice,” she says.
The Hong Kong
government holds a “firm policy
of not granting asylum and not determining or recognising refugee status of any person,” according to a government press release
issued on May 20, 2020.
Illegal immigrants can
make non-refoulement claims, and those with substantiated claims will not be
deported.
But the press release
also states that whether their claims are substantiated or not, claimants “have
no right to work in Hong Kong.”
Out of the 31,429
claims made between late 2009 and December 2020, only 243 were substantiated,
according to the Hong Kong Immigration Department.
*Full name omitted at the interviewee’s request
Edited by Patricia Ricafort Sub-edited by Kassandra Lai
Many young people in China play slime to ease stress during the pandemic.
By Sophia Wu
Su Jinyue loves playing with slime during the pandemic so much that she now owns an online shop selling her favorite toy.
The Year Two university student watches online videos more often, as she stays home more during the epidemic. After watching a video of playing with slime in January 2020, she bought a litre of slime and fell in love with this slimy toy.
Su soon started filming and uploading slime videos to Kwai, one of the popular short video platforms in China. She has more than 3,600 followers so far.
Mango Schufflei slime.
“More people have learnt about slime during the epidemic because many have time to watch videos and get to know slime,” she says.
In May 2020, Su opened an online shop to sell slime.
“I want to let my fans play with my homemade slime. I also have a few friends who play with slime. If my friends like my slime, I will give them some for free,” Su says.
Opening a store is a busy and tough job. Her business has also been affected by the epidemic.
“Due to the pandemic, express delivery is restricted in some high-risk areas. This has affected my business,” Su says.
The general process of making slime is to proportionally mix glue, glycerin and foaming agent. Then pour borax water several times and stretch the glue until it is shaped.
Su usually experiments with different types and proportions of glue before putting her products up for sale. She usually uses five litres of slime to make one slime product.
It takes Su a day to turn glue into a five-litre slime product. After that, she will let it rest for 10 days to eliminate the bubbles inside. Now she spends two hours a day playing with and making slime.
“During the production process, I need to stretch, roll, and poke the slime all the time, which makes my arm very sore. After making slime, I often have backache,” Su says.
“During the production process, I need to stretch, roll, and poke the slime all the time, which makes my arm very sore. After making slime, I often have backache.”
Su Jinyue
“I don’t sell slime at a fixed time. I make slime less often when I go to school, maybe only once a term. Because of the epidemic, I have more time at home to research how to develop new slime products,” she adds.
Su Jinyue is making slime (Photo Courtesy of Su Jinyue)
Su says 100ml slime is priced at RMB ¥8 (US $1.24). She has made more than 20 kinds of slime and sold 400 to 500 cans of slime last year. The profit of a box of slime is RMB ¥2 (US $0.13).
Play with slime at home
Han Zitong, a 17-year-old high school student, has also become a slime fan for one year during the epidemic.
“In March 2020, I had to stay at home every day. I found a video of playing with slime and, it made me want to give it a try,” she says.
Han bought three cans of slime online. Then she became a slime lover and now she plays with slime for an hour every day.
“There is nothing like slime that can be stretched and has a variety of textures, and they are beautiful,” Han says.
“There is nothing like slime that can be stretched and has a variety of textures, and they are beautiful.”
Han Zitong
Han buys raw materials online to make slime. She thinks she can save money by doing it herself compared to buying finished products. She also sells second-hand slime or exchanges with others to reduce costs. So far, she has spent more than RMB ¥1,000 (USD $153.72) on slime.
Han’s first attempt was unsuccessful, and her hands were covered with glue. She made a small piece of slime the second time, but Han thought that little success made her feel very happy.
“Playing with slime is quite relaxing. It helps me get rid of boredom brought by the epidemic. Usually, at night, I rub slime when I have nothing to do,” she says.
Slime usually is contained in plastic cans.
Another slime fan, Zeng Zishan, says slime helps ease her pressure from her studies during the epidemic.
“I can hold slime when writing papers, and that eases my pressure,” the anthropology major student says.
Zeng has also tried making slime at home many times. But her family does not like her hobby.
The senior enthusiast has five cases of slime, and she cannot count how many cans she has now. “I used to play with slime at school, but I had to play at home during the epidemic. My family scolded me when they knew I had bought so much slime,” Zeng says.
“My family does not like the smell of slime. It is too pungent , and the formaldehyde in the glue is harmful,” she says.
Because of this, Zeng only buys high-quality glue from reliable sellers. Now she rarely makes slime at home by herself.
Zheng Bo, professor of chemistry at The Chinese University of Hong Kong, reminds slime players to be cautious when playing with slime, which can cause skin or eye irritation.
“Borax is not very toxic, but exposure to the material can irritate the skin or eyes. For adults, a relatively large amount of borax, say about 10 to 25 grams, will be considered toxic exposure,” Zheng says.
“Formaldehyde is highly toxic, and a very small amount can cause harm to people. I am not very worried about toys containing borax, but I will avoid toys containing formaldehyde,” Zheng adds.
“Formaldehyde is highly toxic, and a very small amount can cause harm to people. I am not very worried about toys containing borax, but I will avoid toys containing formaldehyde.”
Zheng Bo
Chen Fenggang, the attending doctor in the emergency department of Shizong People’s Hospital, says exposure to high concentrations of formaldehyde can cause damage to eyes, skin and other organs.“Be aware of mild poisoning symptoms including dizziness, headache, nausea, and fatigue,” Cheng says.