Photo taken by Benson Wong, used with permission.
This post is also part of Global Voices’ July 2026 Spotlight series, “Statelessness.” This series offers insight into the issue of statelessness and how it hinders people’s freedom of movement, educational opportunities, political access, and more. You can support this coverage by donating here.
Hong Kong is not a state, despite the term “city-state” having occasionally been used in academic literature to describe this former British Crown Colony (or British Overseas Territory, according to the terminology now adopted) before its transformation into a Special Administrative Region of China in 1997. Consequently, the concept of statelessness has rarely been applied meaningfully to Hongkongers because of the limited political imagination that confines Hong Kong within the framework of a territory rather than a nation.
Since 2021, however, at least 200,000 Hongkongers have left Hong Kong for the United Kingdom. Many have realised that they continue to miss Hong Kong in different ways, and one of the few spaces where this collective longing becomes visible is through arts and cultural performance.
On June 21, 2026, I travelled from Woking to Nottingham — a journey of approximately two and a half hours — to watch the renowned Cantonese opera “The Flower Princess” (Di Nü Hua). The opera tells the tragic love story of Princess Cheung Ping and her husband, Chow Sai-him, who witness the collapse of the Ming dynasty. Although they survive the dynasty’s fall, they devote themselves to ensuring that their deceased emperor is buried with dignity while securing the safety of the young prince. The opera concludes with their tragic suicide, accompanied by a moving duet expressing unending sorrow, loyalty, separation, and eternal love. Themes of statelessness, displacement, and loss resonate profoundly throughout the finale.
When I watched the same opera in Hong Kong, I regarded it primarily as an artistic masterpiece whose sophisticated singing and performance deserved admiration. Watching it in the United Kingdom, however, generated an entirely different experience. The limitations of resources inevitably required the production to adapt to its local setting. Instead of elaborate palace scenery, a solitary tree decorated with yellow ribbons stood on the stage.
Within the Hong Kong political context after the Umbrella Protests in 2014, yellow ribbons have come to symbolise the pro-democracy movement, liberal values, resistance to authoritarianism, and opposition to the Chinese Communist Party. This simple stage design introduced an additional political layer that would scarcely exist in today’s Hong Kong.
Image taken by Benson Wong, used with permission.
How, then, are “The Flower Princess,” statelessness, and the Hong Kong diaspora connected?
One immediate observation is that statelessness and homelessness become almost inseparable in articulating the emotional condition of Hongkongers who have left their home.
Retrospectively, many perceive the “real” Hong Kong to have fallen following the implementation of the National Security Law on June 30, 2020, which fundamentally transformed the city’s political and legal landscape by substantially restricting freedoms, democratic participation, and the rule of law over the subsequent years. Simultaneously, the growing influx of mainland Chinese migrants into Hong Kong may also be understood as part of a broader project of cultural assimilation.
Two symbolic developments deserve particular attention. The first was the closure of the Hong Kong independent news outlet Apple Daily, which represented not merely the disappearance of a newspaper but also the silencing of an important independent and democratic voice. The second was the effective disappearance of public demonstrations, especially the annual July 1 marches that had taken place since 2003 as an institutionalised form of public expression and a demand for democratic reform, including universal suffrage for both the Legislative Council and the Chief Executive.
In this sense, the fall of the Ming dynasty portrayed in “The Flower Princess” inevitably evokes parallels with what many Hongkongers perceive as the disappearance of the Hong Kong they once knew.
The following video, produced by the Atomic Cantonese Theatre, explicitly lays out these political implications by interweaving excerpts and audio from their production of “The Flower Princess” with photos and images from the Umbrella Protests, shuttered independent news outlets, acts of civil disobedience, Hong Kong’s skyline, and other political imagery.
Another observation concerns the audience’s interpretation of the opera itself. Following the collapse of the Ming dynasty, Princess Cheung Ping is ordered to die by her father, the Chongzhen Emperor, to preserve her honour before rebel forces enter Beijing. Although she survives, she is forced into hiding. Her experience unintentionally mirrors that of many Hongkongers who relocated to the United Kingdom to escape the tightening authoritarian control following the introduction of the National Security Law.
Her eventual reunion with her fiancé, Chow Sai-him, is equally significant. Initially, the princess refuses to see him as a means of protecting herself emotionally. Only after Chow demonstrates his unwavering loyalty — to honour his deceased father and rescue his imprisoned brother — does she decide to reunite with him. Together they negotiate with the Qing Emperor, whose policy of clemency seeks to secure the cooperation of former Ming loyalists. Once their objectives have been fulfilled, the Qing Emperor arranges their marriage as a display of imperial benevolence. Yet the wedding becomes the setting for their joint suicide, symbolising their enduring loyalty to the fallen Ming dynasty rather than submission to the new Qing regime.
Viewed from another perspective, however, their suicide also conveys liberation. Death enables them to reunite beyond earthly suffering, political oppression, and permanent separation. For many Hong Kong diasporas, this tragic conclusion resonates deeply with their own circumstances. Few know whether — or when — they will ever be able to return home. As Chow Sai-him and Princess Cheung Ping ultimately recognise that the Ming dynasty cannot be restored, many Hongkongers likewise struggle with the possibility that the Hong Kong they once knew may never return.
The introduction of the British National (Overseas) visa route in January 2021, together with the subsequent migration of hundreds of thousands of BN(O) status holders and their family members to Britain, has transformed the United Kingdom into a second home for many Hongkongers. Consequently, these new communities have created a sustainable audience for cultural activities associated with Hong Kong heritage, whether traditional, modern, or contemporary.
One example is the international circulation of Hong Kong cinema. In 2026, two films — “Ciao UFO” and “We’re Nothing at All” — received favourable responses from both Hong Kong and British audiences. Each captures nostalgia and darkness in different ways. “Ciao UFO” evokes the disappearance of the familiar Hong Kong before 2019, while “We’re Nothing at All” portrays the emergence of a decayed yet unfamiliar city afterwards. Together, both films echo the experience of statelessness: one mourning what has vanished, the other confronting what has replaced it.
I also recall a Facebook friend describing his experience of watching contemporary Hong Kong films in exile. He wrote that once the film began, “the tears simply would not stop,” expressing the accumulated grief and trauma produced by the profound political and social disillusionments of the past seven years. Such emotional responses suggest that cultural productions have become more than entertainment; they function as collective sites of remembrance, mourning, and identity formation within the Hong Kong diaspora.
Charles Dickens famously opened “A Tale of Two Cities” by writing, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” To a considerable extent, this captures the paradoxical condition experienced by Hongkongers both within and beyond Hong Kong today. They inhabit a world suspended between memory and reality, belonging and displacement, hope and loss.
Watching “The Flower Princess” in Britain, therefore, became much more than attending a Cantonese opera; it became an encounter with the emotional landscape of statelessness itself.
