They sign papers in their glass towers, and we are the ink.
Yesterday’s so-called “historic accord” between Pilegron and
Inverportshire is nothing more than another attempt to shove us out of sight. They call it the creation of the New
Kowloon Special Administrative Region. We know it for what it is: a convenient dumping ground, far from the heart of the city we built with our own hands.
The officials beam about hospitals and railways. They talk about peace, prosperity, and dignity. How many times have we heard those words before? Every new decree, every “solution” they announce, comes dressed in the same promises — and every time, it means one thing: erase
Kowloon, erase its people.
They say New
Kowloon is ours. Yet we were never asked. They negotiate our lives without us in the room, turning us into a bargaining chip to patch up their own crumbling friendship. We are the playing ball kicked back and forth between Pilegron and
Inverportshire, and each kick lands harder on our homes.
Look closely at the deal and you’ll see the truth. It is not about us. It is about them — about their banks, their projects, their prestige.
Bethany Hospital will stand tall, but not for
Kowloonians. The new railway will run sleek and polished, but it will not carry our voices. All the while, our core homes in old
Kowloon are still under attack, still threatened with demolition, still branded as a “problem to be solved.”
They claim to give us a future in New
Kowloon, but we know better. We know how these stories end: hollow promises, forgotten infrastructure, and another round of forced moves when the next “grand plan” arrives. They have promised sunlight before — but only the ash of our burned-out streets followed.
We are not rubble. We are not pawns on their diplomatic chessboard.
Kowloon was not built by accords and councils; it was built by us, brick by brick, wall by wall, family by family. If they want to sign away New
Kowloon, let them. But don’t let them pretend it is for us.
The paper may call it history. We call it theft.
Kowloon remains where it has always been: here, in the heart of Pilegron, where no treaty can erase us.