Casualty of efficiency

Block 36 of Shekkipmei Estate is not the common idea of paradise. The squat, unlovely, five-storey block was thrown up in panic four decades ago, to provide emergency homes for burned-out squatters. Over the years, the population dwindled and got older. When it closed last August because of a threatening land slip, 200 residents had to move out. Four out of five were single elderly folk. One of them was Cheng Shing, a 70-year-old retired factory worker. He didn't have much, but what he did possess, he treasured. Mostly, he enjoyed his friends, the aged cronies with whom he shared a bowl of noodles, endless gossip and the occasional game of checkers or pai kau. Cheng's world was 107 square feet of peeling concrete. That was his $400-a-month kingdom. When he lost it, he had little for which to live. He was going to be rehoused and officials had gone to considerable trouble to make sure the new home he picked at nearby Pak Tin Estate, in a block purpose-built for elderly, suited him. These snug, comfortable and well-planned units are run by a Housing Authority scheme aimed to provide self-contained homes for old folk, and to supervise a network that ensures their welfare. But for Cheng, the distance was too far from Block 36. When he learned he couldn't stay at Shekkipmei Estate, he walked across Pak Tin Street to Block 33, climbed to the seventh floor roof, and jumped. Two months after his death, they mourn him still in the narrow concrete alleys between the tenements and in the sitting-out area where septuagenarians laze on autumn afternoons to talk about favourite meals, impossible dreams and their children who have migrated to Canada. What was so precious about life in Block 36 that convinced Cheng that he couldn't live without it? It was certainly not the ambience. Those unimaginative blocks were built frantically, thrown up urgently to provide basic accommodation. And basic it certainly was. Into those tiny concrete cubicles were squeezed entire families at the shoulder-to-shoulder rate of 35 square feet per person. And as the blocks went up across the flats and along the ridges of Shekkipmei, then on the fringe of settled Kowloon, people clamoured and clawed to get into them. They were not much. Shamefully, looking back from the vantage point of prosperity, they were the best we had. Shekkipmei, rose like a phoenix from the flames. On Christmas Day, 1953, a huge winter fire swept through the rough squalor of jumbled squatter huts that sprawled over every patch of undeveloped Kowloon. Next dawn, more than 50,000 squatters were homeless. Government response was to do anything that could provide a roof over as many heads as possible. The fire was the spark that started the public housing programme in which we now take such pride. Block 36, despite reliable maintenance over the past 45 years, remains recognisable to its earliest residents. It is functional. Three blocks - 36, 38 and 40 - were developed to house the elderly. Two of them were closed last August when the steep ridge on which they are built threatened to crumble. Today, resurfacing work continues and big boulders are solidly concreted into the cliff above the pretty but ramshackle temple to the Goddess of Mercy next to Block 36. Song birds flit between the blocks to perch in orange trees, or peck fruit in papayas growing in stone tubs. Old folk, some well into their 80s, sit in the open air corridors to chat. A crippled old lady is helped from her wheelchair and is agonisingly half-pulled, half-carried up a flight of stairs by a middle-aged daughter. (Residents say the absence of lifts is the greatest burden for the ailing old folk in the blocks. I wish a clutch of social workers had been with me last week as I watched, ashamed and helpless, as that frail old lady tried to negotiate the stairs.) A couple of blocks away are the boutique-lined avenues of North Kowloon where a pair of fashionable Italian shoes costs more than Cheng's rent for six months. But none of the residents are complaining. They love it in Shekkipmei. To some people, it would be hell to live there. For the old folk, it is, if not heaven, at least a haven. Nobody is responsible for Cheng's death. Everybody concerned acted properly, and in his best interests. The housing and public works authorities were quick to evacuate Block 36 when it was threatened by a slip. Quite right; imagine the outcry if they were tardy and old people were buried in a landslide. Social workers and relocation staff did their best to find suitable new homes for 400 aged residents. The need was urgent; old people had to be swiftly sheltered and rehoused. Their wishes and best interests were considered, as far as possible, in the rush to solve the problem. Most were found homes nearby. In almost all cases, the new accommodation was superior; it would be difficult not to have improved their housing lot. That help was not enough. For Cheng a move from his beloved Block 36 was unbearable torment. It was not merely his cramped, tiny room with the crouch toilet under the shower and the steel grate opening on to an open air corridor. It wasn't only the sights and sounds of the corner noodle shop and the shouts of children playing as they left nearby schools. No, for Cheng, it was the close circle of friends he had forged during his 15 years in Block 36. Young social workers are idealistic, enthused with a drive to make the world better for the less fortunate. It's laudable that they want to make the world a better place. They are highly trained at our tertiary institutions, have professional qualifications and a genuine calling. But are they sufficiently experienced in life? Old people often have simple needs. For many, especially those without spouse or family, only three things really matter: health, friends and memories. These are paramount. Take away one, and little is left. When Cheng Shing had to leave Block 36, he lost the close pals with whom he had spent the last 15 years and he left behind many memories. What he had left was not enough. Nobody was at fault in his death. But, somehow, our society let him down. Kevin Sinclair is a Hong Kong journalist