The problem of aging buildings is one that, sooner or later, confronts every society. In an orderly historical progression, it is constantly manifesting itself in an ever-present cycle of decay and renewal, of obsolescence and replacement.

In our case, the problem is greatly magnified by the fact that we are now reaping the effects of the huge upsurge of population that Hong Kong confronted in the post-war years. To accommodate a veritable tidal wave of immigration, especially marked in the 1950s, both the government and private developers erected residential blocks and tenements as fast as resources would allow.

Inevitably, because of the scale of the demand and the compelling time constraints, sheer expediency became the paramount driving force. We had to build against the clock. Luxury was not an option. Functional, utilitarian considerations took priority.

Today, half a century later, that building boom has effectively come home to roost, providing us with the bulk of our aging buildings and compelling us to examine what we can do about them. But bear in mind that what may seem a typical eyesore today was home, in its time, to many who grew up in its confines.

We must remember - and I suggest that we remember it with pride - that the majority of our population, as I and my parents did, once lived in crowded tenement buildings and resettlement blocks. Within that matrix were sewn the seeds of the community we know today; a community that grew in strength and vigor precisely because of the enforced proximity imposed upon it by those constraints of urgency and sheer lack of space.

Something of the spirit of those times was captured in the Shaw Brothers movie "The House of the 72 Tenants", widely acknowledged to be a classic of Cantonese-language cinema. It knitted together the many tales of a group of families herded together by chance in just such an environment and forced to find a modus vivendi that would allow them to live in harmony and mutual cooperation.

Because of the nostalgia this film evoked among cinemagoers that had been through precisely that experience, it proved so popular, when released in 1973, that it even broke box office records set by legendary screen icon Bruce Lee. It changed public perception of Cantonese language films and became a landmark film of Hong Kong cinematic history.

In much the same way, the aging buildings that our present generation has inherited are landmarks of the way we were; the milestones along the road we travelled to where we are now. Well might we ask ourselves, "If these stones could speak, what would they tell us?"

I suggest they would tell us tales of hardship endured, of obstacles overcome, of the perseverance that prompted our endeavors and paved the way to our success.

So when we look at aging buildings, we are looking at more than the outward material evidence of deterioration and decay. We should also be conscious of the fact that - to a very large extent - these buildings shaped our lives.

To those developers and town planners who are eyeing these aging buildings for profits, I would say this: "Spare the time to look beyond the fabric, at what it represents. Remember that within this matrix developed our very culture and identity. Consider how to preserve the spirit and the essence, if not the vessel itself".

The author is former secretary for home affairs of the Hong Kong SAR government

(HK Edition 11/18/2009 page1)