The Young Reporter Vol. 53 Issue 3

Jan 2021

Issue 03 - Competition

Cover Story From underground to mainstream: dreams changes and struggles in Chinese rap scene

Editor’s Letter COVID-19, a name we are unfortunately forced to remember, has brought about horrible memories that most of us have not had before. The year-long pandemic has built invisible walls among people, preventing us from meeting with co-workers, with family members, or maybe with someone who was supposed to be there. Every day when we turn on the news broadcast, the numbers of confirmed cases and deaths have shocked us — it’s another life dying, breaking another heart as lively as yours.

Despite all this, we would still invite you to look ahead, for it’s too soon to grieve when life is yet to give you a better tomorrow. Although parted physically, people stay connected through phone calls, social media, emails, and for us The Young Reporter, through reporting that tells you a story. In this issue, we will take you to see the lives of different people in society.

The Young Reporter Vol. 53 No. 3 Printer Department of Journalism School of Communication Hong Kong Baptist University

Editor-in-Chief Eurus Yiu Deputy Editors Mereen Santirad Carol Yuan Jay Ganglani Moon Lam Mark Chen Art Designers Carine Chow Clara Ip Liony Xue Moon Lam Sunny Sun Reporters Bell Chan Bowie Tse Cara Li Cora Zhu Emily Poon Esten Amalvy Eunice Lam

There are 6 stories of how people across various sectors fight against the obstacles in their lives, where we hope you can also get some courage.

Sincerely, Eurus Yiu Editor-in-chief

Janice Lo Jasmine Tse Justy Lai Kitty Wang Icy Chen Samuel Li Sara Cheng Shameel Ibrahim Simran Vaswani Stacy Shi Summer Li Sumnima Lama Tobey Chan Vikki Cai Yuri Kwok Yvonne Chung Yvonne Tung Editors Alec Lastimosa Bella Huang Cassie Zhang Carine Chow Cherry Lee Clara Ip

Cynthia Lin Han Xu Hong Wong Jay Ganglani Kawai Wong Liony Xue Mereen Santirad Moon Lam Nicole Ko Olivia Tam Ronald Fan Samuel Mo Suey So Sunny Sun Yanni Chow Yetta Lam Advisers Jenny Lam Robin Ewing

In This Issue

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From underground to mainstream: dreams changes and struggles in Chinese rap scene

Surviving assault and the trauma that follows

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Game companies see growth during COVID-19 despite lack of government support

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Airbnb quarantine service worries local residents

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Are colorful masks safe for health and environment?

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Escapism Cooking: One way to survive the pandemic

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From underground to mainstream: dreams changes and struggles in Chinese rap scene Reported by Summer Li & Cynthia Lin Edited by Mark Chen

When his peers go back to the dormitory after a day of classes, Wang Zeyuan, a 20-year-old college student, walks towards the subway station and catches a train that crosses Chongqing — his day has only just started.

He is heading to a recording studio, where he plans to record two songs with his producer and publish them on Netease Cloud Music, an online platform for indie music in China.

In addition to his student tag, he is also known as rapper Uji Young in the underground rap scene of southwest China.

Rapping is an expensive pursuit. A single music production software costs 2,000 yuan.

Recording studios charge by the hour. Post-production of each song costs around 7,000 to 8,000 yuan.

Uji Young has to look for different ways to fulfil his rapping dream. In addition to giving commercial shows, he has worked as a live-house DJ and a part-time model, and has written advertising songs for an anti-hair loss shampoo.

One of his most awkward working experiences was performing for a government propaganda show, where a middle-aged audience watched him, poker-faced.

“There is no other choice,” Uji Young said. “I do whatever I get paid for.”

“I feel lucky because, at least, nowadays I can find ways to earn money to support my rapping career,” he said. The Chinese underground hip-hop scene before 2017, the year Uji ventured to become a rapper, was very different.

“It was impossible for rappers to make a living playing music,” he said.

Hip-hop music has largely been underground since its introduction to China in the 1990s. For years, the market was not in favour of this subculture because there wasn’t much of an audience. Rappers had to face the reality that the genre was not profitable, and they had to have several day time jobs in order to fund their music production.

“Everybody was lost and hard up. Even those who are famous now had to borrow money for a bottle of water,” Uji Young said.

It was not until 2017 when the blockbuster reality TV show, The Rap of China brought the underground culture to the mainstream.

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Produced by China’s largest online streaming platform iQiyi, the first episode of the show drew over 100 million viewers within the first four hours on its launch day on June 24, according to local media. With more than 200 million views of each episode on average, the show soon put many rap and hip-hop in the limelight.

Suddenly, rapping became a nation-wide phenomenon.

The participating rappers started to gain a large number of fans as the show went viral, and became active on domestic social media for the very first time. The costs of their performances rose from thousands to tens of thousands of yuan, even hundreds of thousands, according to the White Paper on China’s Online Variety Market 2017 published by endata, a domestic entertaining industry research center.

For example, Zhou Yan (aka.

GAI), the winner of The Rap of China became an advertising

The Rap of China, the game changer endorser for a group of brands ranging from one of the world’s largest vehicle manufacturers Volkswagen Group to domestic tech giants, Tencent and Meituan.

Rappers started to get invited to perform on TV shows held by China’s flagship media CCTV. When rapper Dong Baoshi (aka. Baoshi Gem) appeared in the New Year Gala of 2020, the most watched television program in China, it was the first time hip-hop music was performed in front of the entire country.

The Rap of China beats one of the longest running mainstream music shows in the country Sing! China, which has been on air for nine years.

The Rap of China was revolutionizing the Chinese underground rap scene and was having an impact on the careers of young people. Bai Chuan, a film graduate from Hong Kong Baptist University, decided to be a full-time music producer and rapper because of the show.

“The Rap of China made rap known to everyone,” Mr Bai said. “It allowed practitioners to gain more income and recognition, and gave me the confidence to pursue rap as a formal career.”

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After The Rap of China, in addition to more performance invitations, rappers started to take advertising endorsements like other celebrities. Most of the brands they have worked with are all very well-known to the domestic public.

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Uji Young said it was The Rap of China that changed how underground rappers live and work. “The show has given us more opportunities to become known, so that we have more ways to make a living, such as through advertising, fashion labels, albums etc,” he said.

Rappers no longer only focus on music production. They also need to run their social media accounts to attract and interact with fans, just like other celebrities, according to Ms Fan. “The sudden success brought them a lot of attention and money,” said Ms Fan. “It could be hard for them to take it all in within such a short time, especially for those young rappers. They need more time to think and explore a proper path to develop.”

As hip-hop culture attracts more and more attention in China, the Chinese rap scene also faces challenges.

“The freedom of expression in lyrics is declining,” said Ms Fan. Regardless of the topics or themes of the song, if individual artists want to share their work with the public, they have to pass the

lyrics censorship on the music platforms first.

For individual songwriters, sharing their works directly online is one way to promote their music. Uji Young has his own channel on Netease Cloud Music. He complains that the censorship on the platform is getting tighter and tighter.

“I’m so, so mad about it,” Uji Young uttered while raising his voice.

Since the review is run by algorithms, usually there’s no way he could know exactly which word is holding him back.

“I often have to modify the wording again and again until I get approved and it drives me crazy every time,” he said.

For once, he deleted all the words related to hatred, politics and sex in the song. He even tried to replace those words with Pinyin or added more metaphors to imply the original meanings.

“But this will destroy the meaning of the song. I do not want my audience to guess what I am trying to express,” he complained.

Since rap music became popular, Uji said many works on the platforms have been deleted because they were “against mainstream values”.

“I don’t think this is a change that rap is willing to make,” Uji said. “I understand that there is no absolute freedom, and I believe that rappers should have a sense of social responsibility, but it doesn’t mean one-size-fits-all is appropriate.”

In addition to the censorship on lyrics, Uji Young found that the way rap is marketed has brought a fandom culture.

The term “fandom” is a subculture derived from the Korean idol industry, which is used to describe fans who are willing to spend a significant amount of time and money to support their idols. The term is now also popular in Japan and China.

Uji Young said it has led some rappers to package themselves as idols, which could be taken advantage of.

“Some men will brand themselves as rappers to flirt with girls but they don’t really know about rap at all,” he sneered with anger. “It’s disgusting.”

Also, the popularity of fandom in the rap scene exposes a problem, as well as a challenge for the current Chinese rap industry — the industrial bubblization.

“After The Rap of China in 2017, the popularity of rap music skyrocketed domestically in a short time,” said Ms Fan. “Chinese rap scene attracted too much attention before it formed a mature market, so that the community became fickle.”

Music producer, Bai Chuan said that such explosive success of the show had misled some outsiders to wrongly believe that the rap market is lucrative, and as a result, the quality of the music declined.

“Rappers looked viral on social media because the show made

Censorship and industrial bubblization

“This is when the rap scene in China became an industry,” said Fan Shuhong, writer and critic of Chinese hip-hop culture from Radii China, an independent media platform for arts and creative stories about China. “Mainstream media platforms benefit from the rap music community and generate the concept of the ‘industry’ for this music genre.”

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them so. But rap in China is still a minor culture,” he said.

Without marketing strategy or capital injection, Bai Chuna believes it would be very hard for rappers to really stand out in the mainstream music industry.

“The problem is that the Chinese rap scene hasn’t developed a complete and mature industrial chain like in Korea and the US, where the marketing of rap music has been so successful,” Mr Bai said.

To improve the situation, Ms Fan suggested that there should be some form of professional music media to educate the audience about what is real hip-hop.

“At present, the public can only learn about rap music through reality TV shows, which are too partial. The audience needs to be guided to learn about rap from a professional angle,” she said.

In 2020, three rap shows are being aired simultaneously on different online streaming platforms. The Chinese rap music seems to have managed to position itself in the domestic mainstream music scene.

In addition to the fourth season of The Rap of China, two more new reality shows, Rap Star and Rap for Youth were launched on China’s leading streaming media platforms MangoTV and Bilibili respectively this summer.

More Chinese underground rappers are making their debuts in Rap Star, and more young and creative rappers are emerging in Rap for Youth.

“I am happy to see more hiphop culture elements featured by mainstream platforms,” Uji Young said.

He has just participated in the first round of a competition, 8 Mile Underground 2020 in Chongqing, the biggest freestyle rap battle in the country.

He spent more than a week preparing a roughly two-minute video to share his stories and songs for the competition.

“I am a young hip-hop music lover raised in Guiyang. I came to Chongqing with my music and dreams,” he said in the video clip, with a confident smile on his face.

“I treasure this opportunity.

This time, my aim is to share my music with more hip-hop lovers through this competition, and I’m sure I can make it.”

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Surviving assault and the trauma that follows Reported by Simran Vaswani Edited by Alec Lastimosa

Divya, 23, sits on the rooftop of the building where she lives to savour the pink and purple Hong Kong sunset.

It’s her favourite place in the world, her comfort, like being wrapped up in a big, cosy blanket on a chilly day.

It was also here where she was sexually assaulted more than 10 years ago.

At the time, she was 12 and her assailant was 20. He was a relative who lived under the same roof. He touched her inappropriately almost everyday until she was 14 years old.

Until one day, it happened.

Divya blacked out.

She only recalls waking up and shoving him off her. For reasons unrelated to the attack, he moved out because of family tensions and was out of her life for good.

Trauma counsellor, Karina Calver on the cover of Around DB Magazine. Photo: karinacalver.com

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To this day Divya, who asked to be identified only by her first name, hasn’t mentioned it to anyone in her family because she was terrified of victim-blaming, a prominent yet toxic culture in South Asian households where she was raised.

A study in India found that sexual violence is more likely in patriarchal cultures. Blaming the victim is prevalent, for example, a woman for the type of clothing she wears.

“I was afraid that people would think it was my fault,” Divya said.

Hong Kong police figures show that there were 31 reported cases of rape and 414 cases of indecent assault up till August this year. While that’s a decrease from last year, many victims still do not come forward.

One out of seven women will experience sexual violence in Hong Kong, but nine out of ten stay silent, according to a report conducted by The Women’s Foundation.

Divya was 16 when she briefly told a friend about the attack.

Despite trying to block out the experience, she had vivid flashbacks repeatedly.

“Sometimes, I feel him on top of me,” she said.

Divya struggles to come to terms with the fact that her perpetrator got off easy. “I do feel it’s unfair because he’s married right now and has a daughter, “ she said, “I don’t feel like

Most sexually harassed women suffer from anxiety, depression, weight loss or gain and sexual dysfunction, according to the Equal Rights Advocate, a women’s rights non-profit organization in the US. “It depends person to person, some people go through depression, some people get anxiety to the extent that they can’t cope, some people compartmentalise and become masculine,” said Karina Calver, a trauma counsellor, who has been doing pro-bono work for almost seven years in Hong Kong.

Ms Calver says the effects of sexual assault can negatively affect intimacy in relationships for trauma survivors. It takes a long time for survivors to heal after the assault. Some would subconsciously think of ways to avoid intimacy because of trust issues.

But truly letting go of that trauma starts from within. “The hardest part is to acknowledge it yourself. You will be angry, you will be crying, you will be pissed off, you’ll probably be enraged and that’s okay,” Ms. Calver said. “It’s allowing yourself to feel all those emotions.”

Since it happened at such a young age, Divya was unable to come to terms with her emotions, leaving her feeling numb.

She mentioned being heavily depressed and anxious, but often swept it under the rug because she couldn’t process her symptoms and feelings.

She started to gain weight.

It’s one of the defence tactics among victims. Divya wanted to appear unattractive in order to avoid any form of intimacy in romantic relationships. This was her way of saying “no” without actually saying so.

“We often think we know an issue well until we really hear the voices of individuals who actively face these issues,” Bidhya Shrestha chairperson and founder of Aama Ko Koseli a student-led non-profit organisation that focuses on gender issues

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She still wakes from haunting nightmares, gets panic attacks and flashbacks 11 years after the assault took place.

“We often think we know an issue well until we really hear the voices of individuals who actively face these issues,” said Bidhya Shrestha, chairperson and founder of Aama Ko Koseli, a student-led non-profit organisation that focuses on gender issues.

She explained that shedding light on sexual assault victims and giving them the chance to amplify their voices are critical in supporting and allowing them to heal. “[We should] keep ourselves in check and informed with the realities rather than make assumptions about what these individuals might need,” said Ms Shrestha.

After all these years, Divya has decided to seek support from counselling. She said her experience of assault was not her motive, but may have subconsciously led her there. She only recently opened up to her councillor about the assault.

Founder and Chairperson of Aama Ko Koseli and HKU Student, Bidhya Shrestha. Photo: @aamakokoseli.hk on Instagram

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I wanted to get better and it felt good telling somebody. It was a bad experience, but it doesn’t define me anymore.

Divya

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Game companies see growth during COVID-19 despite lack of government support Reported by Cora Zhu Edited by Olivia Tam

Parsue Choi Ying-tung is developing his game team. During the pandemic, the 43-year-old indie game developer and illustrator has launched two mini-games, one of which was selected by game website simmer.io as “Editor’s Choice” for its popularity and high quality.

“Now is the best time for game developing,” he said.

Mr Choi is one of the many local indie game developers who see business opportunities during the pandemic to gain revenue and promote future growth since COVID-19 is making people spend more time at home.

“The current economic downturn actually is an advantage for games. Now the economy is bad, many people have more free time [to play games],” he said.

Mr Choi also said people who play games usually already have spare money and have plans to pay. “So there’s no difference. People who used

to play games will still play, and they’ll play more,” he added.

Hong Kong online game revenue was about HK$640 million in 2019, while mainland China gained nearly HK$342 billion in revenue last year, according to data provider Statista.

The global game market, including mobile and PC games, is expected to reach $174.9 billion (HK$1.4 trillion) this year, increasing 19.6% year on year, according to data analysis company Newzoo. Mobile game revenues will grow 25.6% from the previous year, accounting for nearly half of the global market.

Meanwhile, Hong Kong saw its fifth straight quarterly contraction of GDP shrinking 3.5% in real terms in the third quarter compared with the same period last year. The unemployment rate hit 6.4% between August and October, remaining at the highest level in nearly 16 years.

“Overall, the local game industry is growing during the pandemic,” said Philip Lau Ka-sing, founder of Hong Kong

Game Developer Alliance and a local indie game company, Anxious Otter Games Ltd. “Because most people were stuck at home and bought less stuff outside, they had more money to spend on games.”

With 11 to 12 members, Lau’s company has seen revenue increase to over HK$10 million this year. In general, a small and medium-size local game company will make HK$4 million per year on average. Most of the local game companies are small with only seven to eight members of staff, Mr Lau said.

Founded in 2017, Hong Kong Game Developer Alliance gathered around 110 local game companies on different platforms including mobile, PC, Virtual Reality and Artificial Reality. Most local companies are developing mobile games.

There are nearly 1,400 local mobile game publishers on Google Play, according to data analysis company 42matters.

Despite more people spending time on mobile games with overall download numbers

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Users can play Mr Choi’s mini-game “No Run No Life” for free on mobile devices.

A mobile game advertisement in Kowloon Tong MTR station.

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Users need to pay real money for equipment in Mr Choi’s game “Among Us.”

“Devil Stone” was the first game launched by Huang’s company, Simplist, in June 2019, and it was recommended by App Store and Google Play.

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increased 10 to 20%, they are less willing to pay considering the future uncertainty, the South China Morning Post said in April. There are local game companies with a revenue drop of 5 to 15% during the pandemic, the Post reported.

“We’ve revised down our revenue expectation recently,” said Mr Lau. “As people are getting used to the pandemic, they now go outside more often. And the global economy isn’t good, people’s disposable income has decreased. They’ll have less money spending on games.”

The game charging mode is also a consideration, said Mr Choi whose game is free for download, but players need to pay real money to purchase equipment in the game.

“People are more willing to spend a little amount of money every month in the game. Many people think it isn’t cost-effective to pay a large amount of money to buy a game,” he said.

In Hong Kong, 57% of mobile game companies adopt in-app payment to gain revenue this year, more than double the global average 21%, according to 42matters.

Arnold Chan Yu-hin, co-founder of Gamestry Lab, said revenues from paid computer games remain almost the same during the pandemic, and other businesses such as offline events and game designing for other firms have been affected due to social distancing rules.

“It [COVID-19] happened to give us a chance to try new

ways to make money,” said Mr Chan, whose team has recently launched a free mobile game, which generates revenue from advertisements.

Game developers make money either by charging to download the games,or through advertisements in free games. Players can download the game directly, while the game developers make a profit by advertisements on the platform or by in-app billing, Mr Chan said.

“No matter if the economy is bad or not, the Hong Kong game industry hasn’t matured yet,” Mr Choi said. “It lacks a comprehensive ecosystem.”

Local game developers are competing with companies around the world. With the high cost of salary, lack of investment and game design talents. Several local game firms said that Hong Kong game companies lack competitiveness compared to other places.

The government has recently sponsored the Hong Kong Digital Entertainment Association to launch the second Hong Kong Game Enhancement and Promotion Scheme. The scheme will offer selected companies HK$400,000–500,000 for new game promotion.

Josepher Hung, founder of indie game company Simplist, has been selected. “We haven’t spent money on marketing so far. This time we’ll use this additional money to do promotion,” he said.

In order to improve the quality of games and their profitability, the scheme will select 12 game start-ups, and provide them with mentor guidance, training programmes, technical resources and subsidies for marketing campaigns.

However, Mr Choi, who did not join the scheme, is sceptical about the effectiveness of the scheme. “Only a limited number of companies can benefit from the promoting programme, and there are many limitations when companies apply,” he said.

“The government is paying more attention to the game industry as it has developed well in the past few years,” said Mr Lau, founder of Hong Kong Game Developer Alliance. “It means there’s still a future in developing games in Hong Kong, but the government didn’t put much effort into it. We hope the government will provide more help in the future.”

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Airbnb quarantine service worries local residents

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A girl with an electronic wristband dragged her huge suitcase into a building, but dared not to make a sound.

Chen Yanni, a student from mainland China, was going to undergo her 14-day quarantine in a flat at a residential building listed on Airbnb.

Many mainland Chinese students, like Yanni, preferred to be quarantined in an Airbnb flat rather than a hotel. The fact that renters of Airbnbs are not required to provide their travel history and usually conduct self-quarantine raises concern over hygiene safety among local residents.

Airbnb, the world’s largest lodging platform, has been operating in Hong Kong for four years. Up to July 2020, the

Reported by Kitty Wang Edited by Carol Yuan

number of mainland students who stated their intention to study in Hong Kong increased by 30.77% from the previous month, according to Kai Tak Education, a mainland education agency for Hong Kong university applications.

At Hong Kong Baptist University, more than 90 Year 2 and Year 3 students from mainland China returned to Hong Kong for the new semester in September. That’s about one-third of the mainland students at the university.

“Compared with hotels, Airbnb has the advantages of having cooking facilities. I am less lonely and the space is bigger,” Ms Chen explained.

She quarantined with two friends in an Airbnb apartment in Tsim Sha Tsui. “No outdoor activity for 14 days is already frustrating enough, not to mention in a very tiny space,” Ms Chen added. She wanted to live somewhere that felt more like a home.

On the Airbnb listing, there was no description of whether this apartment accepts quarantine tenants. Potential tenants need to personally message the house owner to ask. “After texting about 30 landlords in person on Airbnb, about 28 replied that they accepted quarantine but needed to make sure nobody would notice us when we enter the apartments,” said Ms Chen.

Currently, Airbnb has no clear regulations on apartment quarantine service, according to their customer hotline. Airbnb’s

coronavirus rules are only based on the World Health Organisation and Center for Disease Control and Prevention’s regulations.

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“Airbnb is a potential risk to consumers,” said Song Haiyan, an International Tourism Professor at Hong Kong Polytechnic University. Dr Song stated that Airbnbs are not licensed to provide quarantine services.

Dr Song was concerned about the hygiene standards in these flats. The properties, he pointed out, are managed by the landlords and there is no checking procedure to ensure standards.

Ms Chen, though, said some of the landlords she talked to weren’t particularly concerned about the potential spread of COVID-19.

“A landlord I consulted on Airbnb told me that if we have problems, we would be sent to the hospital as we arrived at the Hong Kong customs, so she was not worried about potential risks during quarantine,” said Ms Chen.

However, some renters are cautious. One homeowner Ms Chen consulted, asked very detailed questions. “When he knew I am from the mainland and needed to be quarantined, he asked me a series of questions about which city I came from, whether we have done the nucleic acid testing before and so on.”

Before reaching the quarantine location, Ms Chen’s landlord, Mr Cheung texted her several times on Whatsapp, “Don’t show your electronic wristbands. If they ask you what you are doing there, just say you are a friend of mine and want to live here for a few days,” said Ms Chen while reading out the owner’s message.

“When we entered the building with big suitcases, the security people asked us where we were from, which made us nervous,” But because she knew the door password, the security people allowed them in.

“If my neighbours or security people find out I rent my apartment for quarantine service, it will cause unnecessary trouble for both my customers and me,” said Mr Cheung, the host of the apartment, who didn’t want to reveal his full name.

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“If such service exists, I am totally against it,” said Lee Mei, a local resident in the same building where Ms Chen was quarantined. She was not aware that her neighbour Mr Cheung was letting out his flat for this purpose.

“I love to rent my apartments to students because they don’t have much social experience and are easier to communicate with,” Mr Cheung smiled, adding that he would be happy to provide help to students during their quarantine.

“It is so scary and unbelievable,” Ms Lee said.

Helping students to change their bed sheets every week, doing daily disinfection, Mr Cheung said he really understands their difficulties and boredom during quarantine.

Since Dec. 22, travellers from the mainland have been the only renters of Airbnb apartments in Hong Kong. Travellers from countries outside mainland China have to stay in designated hotels for 14 days.

“There will be fewer renters once the new regulation takes effect on Dec. 22, but I don’t care,” said Mr Cheung. Up till December, 13 out of his 15 customers were mainland Chinese students who went back to Hong Kong for the new semester.

But, Mr Cheung expected this market to end soon if mainlanders can come and go from Hong Kong with no quarantine requirement.

“Most of my customers are from the mainland, I can’t imagine the quarantine service will survive without them,” said Mr Cheung.

Dr Song pointed out that Airbnb is competing with hotels for customers.

“Airbnb offers customers more choices and different experiences,” said Dr Song.

“If they can somehow adopt their best practices in keeping the hygiene of the flats, and also publicise the hygiene standard through social media, that will attract more people,” said Dr Song. He thinks Airbnb should learn from traditional hotel service standards and use social media to promote their efforts.

“Airbnb has potential to develop as long as it is within the regulatory framework,” said Dr Song.

“ If they can somehow adopt their best

practices in keeping the hygiene of the flats, and also publicise the hygiene standard through social media, that will attract more people. Airbnb has potential to develop as long as it is within the regulatory framework.

Dr Song Haiyan

International Tourism Professor at Hong Kong Polytechnic University

“

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Are colorful masks safe for health and environment?

Reported by Icy Chen Edited by Carol Yuan

Searching in the bags with colorful masks, Amy Ng picked out a blue purple one that matched the color of her blue denim jacket.

Amy Ng, a 40-year-old lady, is heading to Tsim Sha Tsui to purchase some colorful masks for her family.

Masks have become a daily necessity in Hong Kong where the fourth wave of the epidemic is raging. Recently, colorful

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Since you have to wear a mask every day, why not wear it beautifully and happily?

Ms Amy Ng a customer

printed masks have become popular. But there are doubts whether they are compromising safety for fashion.

The Centre for Health Protection website recommends using masks that have three layers: the water-repellent outer layer, the filter layer and the hydrophilic inner layer.

The outermost layer is usually made of polypropylene, a

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non-woven fabric. It is the most crucial layer because it can prevent liquid from splashing, to stop the flying droplets from contacting the middle layer as well as the mouth and nose.

To make the traditional blue and green masks, producers will put the dye into the polypropylene, melting them together and screening the fabrics out, according to Dr Yip.

“Traditionally the masks are blue, green and white. It is safe because the dye is already mixed with the materials,� said Joanne Yip, an associate professor at the Institute of Textiles and Clothing Department of Hong Kong Polytechnic University.

With Christmas approaching, some stores now offer an array of masks with everything from Christmas trees, to reindeer and snowman.

MF Living is a store in Tsim Sha Tsui that offers more than 240 kinds of colorful masks. Ten masks cost HK$38 while DIY masks are HK$60 each.

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Since our store opened in October, there has been a long queue of customers almost every day.

Ms Angela Lau

Saleswoman at MF Living

MF Living is one of the most popular colorful masks stores in Hong Kong where witnesses long queue everyday since its opening in

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“A general surgical mask costs two or three dollars,” said Ms Ng. “The colorful ones are more unique and not too expensive.”

Colorful masks make the purely functional product more decorative. “My 9-year-old daughter will carefully choose the mask to wear before going to school every day,” said Ms Ng. “She wore a gradient blue mask yesterday and was praised by her teacher and classmates, which delighted her.”

“I may wear special masks at Christmas,” said Huang Hanjin, a year-three student at City University. “It makes me happy.”

Ms Ng ordered a pack of limited Christmas masks online to give to her friends.

Unlike surgical masks, most of the popular colorful masks are

made with the patterns printed on the outermost layer.

“In order to ensure safety and for the color to not fade out, the selection of dyes should be very careful,” said Dr Yip. The colorful pattern, she explained, should stick to the polypropylene in order to ensure it’s water repellent.

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The color you add to the mask will eventually go to the environment.

Dr Joanne Yip

Associate professor at the Institute of Textile and Clothing Department of Hong Kong Polytechnic University

There is a mask production line in My Living store, which provides customers with DIY service as well as handmade service.

She pointed out that masks made with food grade dyes cause less harm to the environment than those made from oil or petroleum.

Dr Yip explains that reusable masks are usually made of cotton which takes a few months to decompose once they are in the landfill, whereas disposable masks that contain polypropylene can take 20–30 years.

“It is easier to find patterns on reusable masks because their outermost layers are cotton,” said Dr Yip. “By doing so, people can get rid of the concerns on dyes safety but enjoy the fashionable patterns,” she added.

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Most citizens are wearing the traditional surgical masks while some colorful ones stand out.

A large variety of colourful masks available in MF Living, in both adults and kids sizes.

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Food blogger and cookbook author, Mandy Lee.

Photo credit Mandy Lee

Escapism Cooking: One way to survive the pandemic Reported by Jasmine Tse Edited by Carine Chow

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Mandy Lee made a well in the flour with her finger and then poured in the beaten egg yolks.

She added water and salt to the mix and aggressively maneuvered it, kneading and tearing it until a silky dough was formed. She then carefully flattened it through a pasta machine and to create the uniform strands.

Staring at the finished product in front of her, Ms Lee found her suppressed anger and anguish briefly consoled via the exhaustive pasta-making session. Spellbound by this sensation, she did not leave her apartment until she perfected the tonnarelli recipe two weeks later.

"Without knowing it yet, I became what I would like to call later on – an escapist cook," Ms Lee wrote in her blog Lady and Pups.

Mandy Lee moved to Beijing in 2010, where she struggled to live under China's communist regime. She started to cook as a form of escapism from the torture of her reality. This later evolved into her "angry food blog" and a cookbook, The Art of Escapism Cooking.

Ms Lee was born in Taiwan in 1980 and spent her teenage years in Canada. She dropped out from the University of British Columbia after a year to attend an art school in New York. Graduating from Parsons School of Design, she then worked at an architecture firm before starting her own dog food business with a friend.

Reflecting on her seven and a half years in New York, Ms Lee said the city complemented her

Mandy's cookbook delves into her world of escapism cooking while offering readers a range of mouth-watering recipes.

personality. “I love New York for the kind of city it is and the kind of energy it has and the kind of freedom it provides,” she reminisced.

“It’s very frustrating when you grow up accustomed to certain liberties and all of a sudden you need permission for everything,” she said.

However, such a lifestyle was quickly uprooted when her husband had to move to Asia for a job, finding herself living in the capital of mainland China.

In her cookbook, she wrote how her reluctance to say “Beijing” and how it led her to come up with the nickname “Richard,” referring to the proto-Germanic root meaning for “hard ruler” and used as a euphemism for — in her own words — “a dick.”

Despite being fed anti-Chinese propaganda during her early years in Taiwan, she decided to hold off on any judgements until she arrived in the country. “I was quite willing to be proven wrong about my assumptions,” Ms Lee said, “but then all those assumptions were true.”

Like a prisoner counting down the days till freedom, Ms Lee sought refuge in the kitchen, and it soon transformed from a hobby to an obsession.

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Two years in, her husband suggested she start a food blog after compiling a growing list of recipes, even though she despised it as something only losers do. “It was like a career suicide, like my life is going to amount to nothing from this point on,” she said.

She soon found a corner of the internet to unapologetically vent her frustrations and anger of living in China, thanks to people and food around her.

A patriarchal Chinese taxi driver who commented “[a] good wife must make dumplings so [her] husband is happy” led her to derisively produce a batch of Taiwanese wontons. A disappointing Mexican meal in Beijing led her to venture into the unfamiliar cuisine and create her own spin on beef tostadas.

Ms Lee is not one to sugarcoat her life. Her raw and often self-deprecating content may be one of an acquired taste, but her audience loves it.

“She isn’t afraid to put herself out there and talk about depression and anger,” said Emily Greenwell, a fan of Ms Lee’s work.

Photo credit Mandy Lee Through her Hong Kong-style milk tea gelato, Ms Lee reflects on the significance of the city's protests last year.

Brûlée Coconut, Palm Sugar, Pork Floss Sticky Buns — Ms Lee’s latest invention.

Photo credit Mandy Lee

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“I appreciate the lack of pretension. You know who she is. It’s not a curated personality.”

After leaving Beijing in 2016, Ms Lee is now based in Hong Kong.

While she feels more at ease in the metropolitan area, she considered herself a recovering addict from escapism cooking. “There are still times when I cook as a distraction, and I’ve gotten so used to not going out and staying home that now I have to make an effort to go outside,” she confessed.

Since earlier this year, many have followed Ms Lee’s footsteps in embracing escapism cooking as they cooked and baked as a distraction from the distress of the ongoing coronavirus pandemic.

The comfort of food gave rise to a wave of sourdough bakers, celebrity chefs catered their content for home cooks, food publications started columns for quarantine-specific advice, cookbooks sold like hotcakes, and amateurs started their own food blogs.

“The pandemic allows more people who are interested in cooking, but never had the time, to finally cook,” Ms Lee said.

for quarantine-specific advice, cookbooks sold like hotcakes, and amateurs started their own food blogs.

“The pandemic allows more people who are interested in cooking, but never had the time, to finally cook,” Ms Lee said.

Escapism cooking has also been prevalent among Ms Lee’s global audience.

In March 2020, Vogue Hong Kong and Time Out Hong Kong listed her account as a must-follow for foodies and cooks alike as a source of inspiration. Ms Lee now has more than 130,000 followers on Instagram.

“Cooking has been the only form of escape while being isolated in New York city during coronavirus, and her recipes offer a new springboard of inspiration,” said Ms Greenwell, a follower of Ms Lee on Instagram page.

Another follower, Judee Tan in Singapore, agreed. “During the pandemic, I definitely did a lot of escapism cooking myself.” to finally cook,” Ms Lee said.

“Cooking to me is not therapeutic.

It’s very stressful, but that’s why I like it too. To me, cooking is like playing a game and by having this challenge, I can just take a break from the agony of living in Beijing,” Mandy Lee

Food blogger and cookbook author

Photo credit Mandy Lee

Wontons made out of spite after an offensive taxi conversation.

Besides the visually striking photos of her beloved dogs and home, Ms Lee uses Instagram as a platform to introduce unconventional recipes.

Another follower, Judee Tan in Singapore, agreed. “During the pandemic, I definitely did a lot of escapism cooking myself.”

Besides the visually striking photos of her beloved dogs and home, Ms Lee uses Instagram as a platform to introduce unconventional recipes.

Her sticky buns with pork floss was a coalescence of South Asian, Taiwanese and Western foodstuff, and she lured her audience by describing its sugary contents melding with the savory: “This

"It will open up a corner of your taste buds that you didn't know existed. It's so bizarre, so absurd, yet so undeniably addictive."

Mandy Lee

Food blogger and cookbook author

coconut and palm sugar goo partners cheek to cheek with this bacon-y coconut-y bun. And did I mention the whole thing is ‘creme brûlée-d?’”

Ms Lee again referred to her approach towards food as a challenging game, sparking her sense of curiosity.

“When I start a recipe, it’s always because there’s something I don’t understand about it and I’m curious about how it works,” she said.

Ms Lee again referred to her approach towards food as a challenging game, sparking her sense of curiosity.

Her scallion popover s’more was another unprecedented pairing of East and West. Calling it a paradox, Ms Lee wrote.

Ms Lee again referred to her approach towards food as a challenging game, sparking her sense of curiosity.

“When I start a recipe, it’s always because there’s something I don’t

understand about it and I’m curious about how it works,” she said.

Both Ms Greenwell and Ms Tan enjoyed Ms Lee’s boldness and creativity in creating her own other-worldly fusion recipes.

“I feel she is able to take a recipe, whether it is of her own or not, and relate it to herself, her personality. I find it very grounding, and I appreciate that quality,” Ms Tan said.

Ms Greenwell, however admitted that not all of Ms Lee’s recipes suited her taste. “Regardless,” she said, “I’m always interested in what she’ll come up with next, even if I don’t plan to make it.”

Last October, Ms Lee published a recipe for Hong Kong-style milk tea gelato.

Comparing the black tea leaves in her teapot to the black-clad protesters on television, she wrote, “Despite being small and scattered, their hickory essence had nonetheless spread through the entire body of water, slow, organic, yet resolute. A

bittersweet transformation. A fool’s hope, maybe. But all the best kinds are.”

Tiffany Lau, a chef in Hong Kong and another follower of Ms Lee’s Instagram, admired Ms Lee’s words. “Every voice is important and I am glad to see her voicing out too, even though she was born in Taiwan.”

Looking back, Ms Lee said, “I’m not sure how I would be able to live with myself if I didn’t say anything. I wrote the piece because it was the right thing to do.”

Ms Lee has no idea what the future holds, but she hopes to move to Europe someday. “I just want to live in a place where dogs can go everywhere and see what that’s like,” she said musingly.

In the meantime, she hopes to perfect every component of Cantonese barbecue — made from scratch of course.