故事 – 50 Years

This was story, or history, or anecdote, I don’t know.  It happened in a place that used to be called Hong Kong. But now, I am not sure if she still has a name. Or, she still has a name. Just no one cares to call it. Or, no one ever dares to call it since the Event 50 years ago.  Since then people here, there, anywhere, have sparsely called her name that everyone has wiped that name in her/his memory, bit by bit, like dementia. Until a nameless time, we all lost it. And now people just call her Island (島).

Technically this name is problematic.  There is only one island that is big enough to be called island, where no one has lived since the Event, except the most villainous criminals.  They sinned so diabolically according to the Government that they should be sentenced to hell right away.  However,  the Government was bounded by its pledge to honour humanitarian values to every individual, even those who are lower than dogs.  The Government cannot execute them.  So, the Government send them in, where they will die anyway because of the severe nuclear pollution there.  A prison and sepulchre in one go.   From a few history bibliography that survives the Look, and folk stories casually but stealthily shared by some very old people here, that only island that is big enough to be called island used to be called Hong Kong Island.

Ironically, Hong Kong has been a name that literally does not exist, in the sense that the name carries no meaning to most of people in the world, as the name Judah, or Jerusalem,  did to Artaxerxes the king of Persia when Nehemiah mentioned them in his plea.   Even someone kept preaching the name Hong Kong Island, people would simply skip the clumsy meaningless words and call it Island.   All of us live in thousands of small islets, natural or man-made, that spread a thousand miles in diameter. But our place is named based on a prison-sepulchre-vallains Island, a waste dump. This is irony.

I am telling this history in English, not because I am any good at it.  English is the only way that what I write can, I hope, survive the Look. I really want to tell you this story. This was story, or history, or anecdote, I don’t know.  It happened in a place that inherits a name carries no meaning.

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