Foundation(s)

Part IV: The Religious Roots of Hong Kong's Public Housing (and Sci Fi)

In recent years, Hong Kong has turned to transitional housing as a stopgap for those caught in the long wait for public rental flats. These modular developments, often built on idle land, offer temporary relief but they also raise deeper questions about how a city as wealthy and developed as Hong Kong continues to struggle with sheltering its people.

To understand why housing remains such a defining and divisive issue, we need to return to its origins. Hong Kong’s public housing story began not with blueprints or bureaucracy, but in churches. Long before the colonial government took action, Christian organisations were already responding to the city’s housing crisis, driven by a belief that shelter was not just a civic duty, but a calling.

United Court, transitional housing completed in 2022, operated by Hong Kong Sheng Kung Hui, the Anglican Church in Hong Kong and Macau (source: HK Gov)

The turning point came in 1953, when a fire swept through the hillside slums of Shek Kip Mei, leaving nearly 58,000 people homeless. The disaster jolted the government into launching one of the world’s largest public housing programs. However, the groundwork had been laid earlier, in the postwar years, when waves of refugees overwhelmed the city and informal settlements proliferated. Faith-based groups stepped in not only to house the displaced, but to reimagine what housing could be: a place of dignity, healing, and community.

Today, public housing in Hong Kong remains largely rental, and homeownership is still out of reach for many. Yet the city’s housing story has always been about more than bricks and mortar. It is a story of improvisation and resilience, of private faith filling public gaps, and of a city constantly redefining what it means to have a home.

How It Started

In 1946, Hong Kong was a city on the verge. The population had exploded from 600,000 under Japanese occupation to 1.6 million within a year. Refugees from mainland China poured in, fleeing civil war and famine. With no coordinated housing policy, thousands of people built makeshift shacks on hillsides out of wood, tin, and tarpaulin, with no electricity, water, or sanitation.

These settlements were not only unsustainable, but also lethal. Fires, landslides, and disease outbreaks reduced them to death traps. The government, viewing the influx as temporary, was hesitant to act. But where bureaucracy failed, churches stepped in.

The Hong Kong Housing Society was founded in 1947 by Anglican Bishop R.O. Hall thanks to a £14,000 donation from the Lord Mayor of London. What began as a church-led mission quickly became a cross-denominational movement and, eventually, a pillar of housing reform.

Refugees near Rennie’s Mill (now Tiu Keng Leng) in 1953 (source: University of Chicago HK)

From Shacks to Shelters

Former squatter residents in Nga Choi Hang sift through the ashes of their homes, searching for salvageable belongings after a devastating fire in early 1950s (source: HK Memory)

In the squatter settlements of postwar Hong Kong, fire was a constant threat. Families cooked over open flames surrounded by flammable scrap. In 1950 alone, fires displaced more than 20,000 people. Many fled to the cemetery grounds of Ho Man Tin Hill, where tombstones offered more safety than their homes.

Amid this crisis, faith-based groups didn’t just offer charity, they built alternatives. In 1951, Sister Imelda of the Maryknoll Sisters secured land to construct Chi Man Village (治民村), or “Healing People Village.” Built in three phases, its 82 stone houses offered rare stability and dignity. Residents had access to clean water, communal kitchens, and even basic healthcare. It wasn’t just shelter but a prototype for what public housing could be.

Chi Man Village sparked a wave of church-led housing initiatives throughout the city. The Baptist Convention of Hong Kong and the Hong Kong Church World Service have built Carmel Village (迦密村), Ho Man Tin New Village (何文田新村), and Faith Hope Village (信望村). These villages provided more than just roofs; they promoted education, community, and a renewed sense of purpose.

Though most of these settlements have vanished, their names remain on the city map. Street signs like Chi Man Street (治民街) and Carmel Village Street (迦密村街) serve as subtle reminders of a time when finding shelter was a faith-based decision.

Kowloon (GSGS L901) Ref: 1965 (source: HK Maps)

Infernos of Despair, Sparks of Hope

For years, the government turned a blind eye to the sprawl of informal settlements, even as fires and disease made them increasingly unlivable. That changed in January 1951, when a blaze tore through Kowloon City, displacing 20,000 people overnight. The scale of devastation forced officials to draft the city’s first resettlement policies.

But the true reckoning came on Christmas Eve, 1953. A fire in Shek Kip Mei razed entire hillside communities, leaving nearly 58,000 people homeless in a single night—one of the worst urban fires in Hong Kong’s history. The colonial government could no longer afford to wait. In the aftermath, authorities cleared the ruins and erected temporary two-storey bungalows, later replaced by concrete resettlement blocks. These became the prototype for Hong Kong’s public housing program.

Over the decades, the system expanded into a vast network of rental estates and subsidized ownership schemes. Today, more than half of the city’s population lives in government-supported housing, descendants of those emergency shelters.

New Villages in the New Territories

As postwar Hong Kong grappled with urban overcrowding and fire-prone slums, faith-based housing efforts quietly expanded beyond city limits. In the 1950s, the Lutheran World Federation’s Department of World Service established Lutheran Village (信義新村) in Yuen Long, followed by Herman A. Washington Village (元朗華盛頓村), named in honor of a former U.S. Consul General known for his humanitarian work.

The most overlooked housing crisis, however, occurred at sea rather than on land. For decades, Hong Kong's boat dwellers have lived on the periphery, adrift not only in harbours but also in society. They were frequently labelled as unsanitary or backward after being denied land rights, education, and basic services. That began to change in the 1950s and 1960s, when natural disasters such as Typhoon Mary in 1960, combined with a growing demand for public housing, forced a mass migration ashore.

A woman carrying water jugs walks across floating sampans in Hong Kong (source: Business Insider)

Christian organisations stepped in to help ease the transition. They collaborated with World Lutheran Social Service to create permanent villages for displaced fishing families, providing not only shelter but also dignity and a path to self-sufficiency:

Lutheran Village in Tsing Yi (青衣信義村), built in 1964 and funded by Lutheran Friends of Sweden, offered 32 hillside homes for families displaced by redevelopment.
Tap Mun New Fishermen's Village (塔門漁民新愛信義新村), built in 1965 with funding from New Zealand Overseas Relief Association, replaced shoreline shelters with 80 stone houses and featured a rare resident-run cooperative.
St. Paul's Village (青衣明愛保祿村), built by Caritas in 1973, housed relocated Tsuen Wan fishermen, emphasisng faith and community cohesion.

These villages, which have largely vanished or been absorbed into modern developments, provided more than just physical shelter. They challenged the idea that housing was only a logistical issue. They posed a deeper question, one that continues to echo in Hong Kong's housing debate today: Can we build homes that heal rather than shelters that contain?

Shelter & Sci-Fi

By the 1950s, the Methodist Church in Hong Kong had shifted its mission from pulpit to pavement. Originally ministering to British soldiers and English-speaking elites in the mid-19th century, the Church found itself confronting a very different calling in the postwar years: housing the displaced.

As refugees flooded into the city, the Church responded not just with sermons, but with stone and mortar. It built four major settlements: Wesley Village (衛斯理村), Asbury Village (亞斯理村), Epworth Village (愛華村), and St. Andrew’s by the Sea Village (愛德村). These were not simply housing projects. They were caring communities, founded on faith, built for survival, and immortalised in science fiction in one instance.

Wesley Village (衛斯理村)

Where Faith Met Fiction

Before the Shek Kip Mei fire forced the government’s hand, the Methodist Church had already begun building. In 1955, with a $23,000 grant from the Methodist Committee for Overseas Relief, it completed Wesley Village in So Kon Po, Causeway Bay. The village offered 80 stone homes, each just 235 square feet—with shared kitchens and low rents. Nearly 500 refugees from across China found refuge there.

But Wesley Village left a legacy beyond housing. One day, author Ni Kuang (倪匡) passed the settlement and noticed its name—Wesley (衛斯理), locally interpreted as “defending the truth (保衛道理).” Inspired, he named his sci-fi protagonist Wisely, launching a literary universe that would shape Chinese-language science fiction for decades. A housing project born of crisis became the unlikely seed of speculative fiction.

Asbury Village (亞斯理村)

A Refuge for the Mandarin-Speaking Community

Commemorative plaque for Asbury Village (source: Peace Sail@Word Press)

In 1959, the Church turned its attention to a different kind of displacement—linguistic and cultural. Mandarin-speaking refugees, many from northern China, struggled to integrate into Cantonese-speaking Hong Kong. With US$50,000 in aid, the Church built Asbury Village in Tai Wo Hau, Tsuen Wan: 115 stone cottages arranged around a central hub. By 1960, it housed 500 residents.

Named after Francis Asbury, the first American Methodist bishop, the village fostered a rare sense of belonging through shared language and faith. When redevelopment threatened its existence in 1961, the Church relocated many homes to preserve the community. Though the village was demolished in the 1980s, its spirit endures in Asbury Methodist Church and a commemorative stele at the site of its Jaycee Library—once funded by then–Vice President Richard Nixon.

Asbury Village in 1961 (source: Peace Sail@Word Press/HKU)

Epworth Village (愛華村)

The Largest Methodist Settlement

Founded in 1960 near Chai Wan, Epworth Village, named after John Wesley’s birthplace, was the Church’s most ambitious project. With 372 stone bungalows and over 2,500 residents, it was a full-fledged community. Affordable rents were paired with wraparound services: a church, social offices, a kindergarten, and an auditorium.

This wasn’t just a place to live; it was a place to rebuild. For many residents, Epworth offered a second chance at stability, education, and dignity. Though the village was cleared in 1977 to make way for Hing Man Estate (興民邨), its original service center still operates today—a quiet but enduring testament to the Church’s role in shaping Hong Kong’s housing landscape.

St. Andrew’s by the Sea Village (愛德村)

Fostering Self-Governance in Tai Po

In 1969, the Church extended its mission to Tai Po, where displaced fishermen lived in precarious stilt homes vulnerable to typhoons and tides. With support from the Plummer Relief Fund, it built St. Andrew’s by the Sea Village, named after the patron saint of fishermen: 154 prefabricated stone homes offering basic amenities and long-overdue stability.

The governance of this village, rather than its construction, differentiated it. Residents formed the Better Living Cooperative Society, which manages daily affairs and eventually owns the homes. When the fund was dissolved in 1972, ownership was transferred to the cooperative, marking a rare instance of refugee housing becoming self-sufficient.

Though demolished in 1990, St. Andrew’s remains a model of community-led resilience. In an era when public housing is often synonymous with dependency, it asked a radical question: What if residents ran the village themselves?

Building Homes or Communities?

In the early decades of Hong Kong’s housing history, shelter was more than a structure—it was a statement of values. Stone and scripture were used to build villages like Wesley and Asbury, which provided more than just shelter but also relationships. Residents governed themselves, shared resources, and created lives based on mutual care.

Today, that spirit feels distant. Public housing has become a numbers game: how many units, how fast, how high. The urgency is real: with private home prices among the highest in the world and waiting lists stretching years, the demand for public housing is overwhelming. Yet, in the rush to build, something essential has been lost. The question is no longer “What kind of life are we making possible?” but “How many square feet can we squeeze in?”

This shift mirrors a global trend: the commodification of housing. In cities from San Francisco to London, homes have become speculative assets, not places to live. However, some cities have resisted the tide, offering models that challenge the status quo.

Singapore: Vertical Village

Singapore's public housing model, overseen by the Housing and Development Board (HDB), is widely regarded as one of the world's most successful. Over 80% of Singaporeans live in HDB flats, with more than 90% owning their homes. What is less discussed is how Singapore has built community into the very structure of its housing system.

Since the 1970s, HDB has created self-contained "new towns" with integrated amenities such as schools, clinics, markets, and parks that are all within walking distance. These towns are divided into neighbourhoods and precincts, each with common areas such as void decks, playgrounds, and community centres. The goal is to instill the "kampung spirit" of mutual aid and familiarity in a vertical city.

Kampung Admiralty is a prime example of this ethos. Designed as a "vertical village" for seniors, it combines housing, healthcare, childcare, and public space into a single complex. Residents garden on rooftops, go to medical appointments downstairs, and socialise in shaded plazas. It's a daring reimagining of density—not as a barrier, but as a canvas for connection.

Vienna: Housing as a Civic Right

Vienna’s approach is even more radical. For over a century, the Austrian capital has treated housing as a public good. More than 60% of residents live in subsidised or municipally owned flats, many of which are indistinguishable from private developments in design and quality. These buildings are clean, well-designed, and integrated across income levels, removing the stigma of public housing.

Nowhere is this ethos more visible than at Karl-Marx-Hof, the crown jewel of “Red Vienna.” Built between 1927 and 1930, the kilometre-long complex, one of the world’s longest residential buildings, was designed by Karl Ehn, a student of Otto Wagner. It offered more than 1,300 apartments, plus laundries, a library, a health clinic, a kindergarten, and expansive communal gardens. It wasn’t just housing—it was a statement: that working-class families deserved beauty, dignity, and services on par with the elite.

Nearly a century later, that vision endures. Vienna’s public housing estates, or Gemeindebauten, continue to prioritise livability over profit. With courtyards, cultural venues, and shared spaces, they foster connection across income levels. Maintained by the city and insulated from speculation, they offer cohesion and not just homes.

Barcelona: Architecture of Belonging

In Barcelona, housing is being redefined as a form of urban resilience. Faced with rising rents, gentrification, and a tourism-fueled affordability crisis, the city has turned to cooperative and public models that prioritize sustainability, democratic participation, and long-term stability.

At the centre of this movement is Lacol, a local architecture collective using design as a tool for social transformation. Their flagship project, La Borda, opened in 2018 on public land in the Sants neighbourhood. The self-managed cooperative includes 28 units arranged around a central courtyard, with shared kitchens, guest rooms, and communal spaces that blur the line between private and collective life. La Balma, completed in 2021, takes the model further. Built from cross-laminated timber, the 20-unit development features modular layouts that residents can reconfigure as their needs evolve. Open-air galleries and shared spaces encourage daily interaction, reinforcing a sense of community often missing in conventional housing.

Together, these projects challenge the traditional divide between public and private housing. They offer a third way where residents are not just tenants, but co-creators of their living environments.

Hong Kong’s Crossroads

Compared to cities like Singapore, Vienna, and Barcelona, Hong Kong’s housing system has grown increasingly technocratic. While it has succeeded in providing homes for nearly half the population, it has struggled to nurture the sense of community that once defined its faith-led villages. The moral clarity that shaped early efforts has given way to market logic and bureaucratic targets.

That shift is now most visible among those still waiting. As of early 2025, the average wait time for public housing remains at 5.3 years. In a further blow, the government recently ended its Cash Allowance Trial Scheme, a modest but vital subsidy for low-income families waiting more than three years for a flat. Since 2021, the programme supported over 220,000 households. Its quiet cancellation, despite clear demand, highlights a deeper question: Has Hong Kong lost sight of the people behind the policies?

A Call to Recentre

As cities around the world confront housing crises, Hong Kong’s story offers both a warning and a way forward. It shows the cost of reducing housing to a commodity but also reminds us of a time when shelter was rooted in care, community, and moral responsibility. The challenge now isn’t just to build faster or taller. It’s to build with purpose.

What if success were measured not in units delivered, but in lives improved? What if housing were treated not as a transaction, but as a public commitment? The answers may not lie in the next tower block, but in the forgotten villages that once stood on a duty of care—and held together by the belief that everyone deserves a place to belong.