Keira Luk

⁠I interviewed Professor Lau Chun-fat, the co-founder of the Association for the Conservation of Hong Kong Indigenous Languages. Professor Lau grew up in the Hakka village of Leung Uk in the New Territories; on returning after a period abroad, he discovered that the Hakka language he remembered from his childhood was dying out, and he subsequently pursued a doctorate on the topic, becoming an expert on the preservation of local languages.

Why is it important to preserve these indigenous languages – what do we lose if they die out?

These languages were once the home languages of hundreds of thousands of Hong Kong people. They contain the tradition and wisdom of the farmers and fishermen here. If we lose them, the indigenous culture of Hong Kong will be gone.

What are the links between culture and language – can you preserve one without the other?

Each Chinese dialect is a cultural container for their own groups of people. They were the media for preserving these cultures. Without these dialects, the cultures will wipe out like a fish without water.

You’ve spoken about successful efforts in Taiwan to preserve the Hakka language - and also about how the Maori language was revived in New Zealand. What can we learn from these countries in terms of helping to preserve or revive indigenous languages in HK?

To preserve the dialects, we have to create habitats for them. The best way is to keep them spoken within the communities and at home. Another way to help is to introduce them as the medium of instruction for kindergarten and lower primary school years. The third way to help is to let allow them to appear in TV and social media.

The smell of salt water immediately hit me as I got off the bus to Tai O, home to one of the remaining Sui Seung Yan communities – but as I walked further into the village, that scent wafted into something entirely different: egg waffles. There were as many egg waffle stands as there were seafood stands along the sides of the road, and more tourists than locals – a stark contrast to what I would imagine 50 years ago.

The boats that passed under the bridge were all tourist boats taking people out in hopes of catching a glimpse of Hong Kong's famous pink dolphins.

This is the new Tai O.

At a local history exhibit, one staff member told me that in the past, 70% of the area's inhabitants were Sui Seung Yan, but that since then, the numbers have gone down rapidly as people moved out of the village.

Later, as I spoke to a local about his daily life and the dying culture of the Sui Seung Yan, I realized that he was echoing exactly what Professor Lau Chun Fat had mentioned regarding the slow fade of these indigenous traditions. When I had asked him why local languages were fading from memory, he told me, "the reason is simple. No children are learning them. The parents won’t talk to them in their ancestral languages as they think these are useless."

It made me fully comprehend that this is a choice that the older generations of these indigenous communities have made — choosing to teach them Cantonese, and slowly detaching newer generations from their culture — in order to make life in rapidly-transforming Hong Kong easier.

For them, this shift is not about losing traditions – but gaining opportunities that, for so many centuries, these long-oppressed communities have been barred from.

Through the stone archways, each one cradling the next, I caught my first glimpse of Tsang Tai Uk, one of the remaining walled villages in Hong Kong.

The entry archway stands carved into the wall that surrounds the village, protected by auspicious fai chun – red paper banners with wishes for prosperity, good luck, and spiritual protection written on them in Chinese calligraphy. A temple sits nestled in the distance, where people pay respects to their ancestors and those who put down roots in the village long ago.

While not as much of a tourist destination as Tai O, Tsang Tai Uk is similar in one way: many of the original inhabitants have moved out, seeking to build a life for the newer generations outside of the village.

One such man, who requested to stay anonymous, was visiting from the city. He spoke the Hakka language, but said that its role was rapidly diminishing. Like many others of Hakka heritage, this is the reason why he has chosen not to teach his children the language: "Cantonese is the way of life now. That's just how it is."

Dr. Stephen Cheung spoke to me about how Hakka "mountain songs" used to be woven into the fabric of daily life. The themes of these songs range from love to "farming-related situations and elements", including the names of fish, villages, historical figures, and even riddles.

In the past, singing was integral to rural societies, especially because education was limited and literacy rates were lower. Now, these songs have vanished from daily life along with the language – the people I spoke to in Tsang Tai Uk told me that, these days, they only exist in archives.

Dr. Cheung has been working hard to preserve these traditional Hakka songs before they are lost forever: he shared one of his favourite verses with me, recalling that “I collected this verse twenty years ago, and I still vividly remember the laughter of the singer.”

久唔唱歌添忘歌

Haven’t sung for such a long time. I have forgotten how to sing.

久唔駛船跌落河

Haven’t steered the boat for a long time. I fall into the river.

久唔讀書添忘字

Haven’t studied for a long time. I forget the words.

久唔連娘又生疏

Sitting above the coastline and in the mountains of Lantau is a 400 year old village called Shui Hau. The three lineages of the village are the Chan, Chi, and Fung – the first families to settle there.

Years ago, Shui Hau was a farming village, and agriculture was dominant. Walking along the path, I still saw remnants of its past, but the farmlands have since become wetlands, or have been the target of government-planned expansion.

I stopped off at a store a little ways up from where I hopped off the bus, hoping to find a lead on anyone who might still remember the folksong of the area. I was in luck: its owner, Uncle Wing, is of Chan lineage – descended from the original inhabitants of Shui Hau village. He pointed me in the direction of a house down the road, where one of the oldest villagers lived – and that's where I met Chi Tai.

A Wai Tau speaker in her nineties, Chi Tai has lived in the village all her life, and is considered the 10th generation in Shui Hau. Her daughter, Ms. Chan, sat with her as we talked, helping to clarify and translate when needed.

The Wai Tau dialect is similar to modern Cantonese, but there are still distinctions between the two that even a native Cantonese speaker, such as myself, might encounter a little trouble. Ms. Chan told me that her mother did teach her the dialect, but "(they) don't use Wai Tau every day anymore."

Although she herself was not familiar with the mountain songs, Chi Tai remembered an abundance from her youth. She is one of the last inhabitants of the village to keep the musical tradition alive throughout the devastating changes that expel it from our everyday.

Initially, Chi Tai was reluctant to teach me the mountain songs, certain that – as a young person – I wouldn't understand the vocals and the significance of the song. As we spoke, however, her pride in her heritage became increasingly evident – and she taught me a traditional bridal song. Together, we sang:

唱起歌來引起我，

When they start singing, it makes me sing

打起鼓來引起鑼，

When the drum starts beating, the gong sounds

As Hong Kong's skyline lights up, and the Dukling drifts along the harbor, the bustle sends a hush over the oldest cultures and dialects of the land. We don't see it unless we look for it: the relentless march of progress has muted the continuous preservation of indigenous pride.

With the reshaping of the New Territories landscape that give rise to the New Towns, sprawling high rises, and busy highways, the rhythms of the old folksong grow quieter.

We knock down the mountains and fill in the seas, and in doing so, we erase the music.

We find ourselves stuck in what seems to be a culture of disappearance, but in the midst of it, we must notice that this is not entirely a story of loss.

Pockets of history remain scattered across the region, where pride and community stand strong. Many I spoke to looked to the future not with despair, but spirit. Seeing their children seize opportunities given to them, and joining them in stepping into a world unimaginable decades ago – these things are also a form of hope.

Heritage lives on, and it is rarely static: strength can be found in endurance and adaptability, and there is beauty even in the most daunting of changes.

When an old melody echoes in a new world, there will always be a reply.