By 5J Miley Wu
There is a strange, hollow feeling when you stand where history’s most painful chapters of wars but also the most powerful stories were written. I thought we were simply going on a tour: two days of walking, taking photos, and heading back to our hotel. But standing there, I realised I had brought nothing but my youth and ignorance, and I left with a weight in my heart.
At Weiyuan fort, I traced the cold, scarred stone of the old cannon emplacements. Lin Zexu’s story, once just a school lesson, became visual. I thought about watching your country’s coastline breached by the opium trade. It was not just history, it was a wound to our country. I felt small before my ancestors, but also a quiet respect for those who resisted.
When visiting the Dongjiang Column Memorial Hall, I looked at faces of soldiers barely older than I am now. Our safety and peace are built on people who gave up their youth so I could have mine. I never truly understood ‘national security’ before. Standing there, it felt deeply personal like gratitude, like grief in my blood. And at Tung Sing Farm, we learned to grow food sustainably. Packing vegetables into bags, I felt how hard‑earned our resources are. It was a small act of hope.
The Nansha Planning Exhibition Hall gave me the chance to see scale models of the Greater Bay Area. Hearing ‘Hong Kong integrating into national development’ became real. For the first time, I felt I might have a role to play. At Gaoxin Sha Reservoir, I learned about energy security. A city is only ever one broken pipeline away from crisis. Security is not just about borders, it is water and energy, the invisible systems that keep us alive.
Now I notice drains, power lines, and fresh food. I think of farmers, engineers, soldiers, and the teenagers who fought so I could study in peace. I returned with a deep connection to my country and an awareness of how fragile and interconnected everything is: history, nature, national security, and my own small life. I took back something irreplaceable.
