Scattered around Hong Kong are cavities
in the ground. They disrupt the stable, concrete surfaces that define the city
and add yet another vertical layer to the urban, altering how we move through space:
we are no longer confined to a life of upward mobility, but also have the
option of moving downwards, into a life detached from natural light and air. While
the train functions as a means to efficiently travel through the city, the complex
network of underground tunnels that accompany this transport simultaneously give
life to an entirely alternate world – one that lives and breathes right under
our feet, entirely hidden from our view. What this buried world embodies is a parallel
universe: while it may be located in the same place and contain the same
culture and language as above, the people – once they enter these
concrete-encased tubes – are momentarily transformed from organic, autonomous individuals
into quasi-human machines. We begin to inhibit a cyber-world that is characterised
by a wholly technologized sensory experience that guarantees organisation of
bodies and our compliance with the latter.
Once we descend, the underlying, human murmur of the outside is instantly
replaced with multiple, bodiless voices that to seem emanate from the walls, ceilings
and floor of the tunnels – that engulf you from all angles and cannot be attributed
to any identity. These disembodied voices command you to “Hold the handrail on escalators”, “Take elevators when wearing sandals”, and we listen to them, without
questioning their authority. The melody accompanying these commanding voices is
one of infinite beeps and dings, radiating from the hundreds of
phones that are not only a way to maintain connection with the world above, but
also function as a technologized extension of our own bodies: as our eyes and
limbs continue to be glued to these devices during the ‘mundane’ commute on a
train and its underground world, our phones become the link between the human
and the technological, forming into a cyber-organic limb that is always latched
onto our body and/or mind.
Coupled with these robotically-voiced
regulations are arrows and lines that dictate the flow of movements within the
space. While they may only be coloured symbols on the floor, these seemingly inconsequential
signs tap into our subconscious and turn individuals into inert machines that conform
to the desired direction and pace of movement. Humans become vehicles, joining
a highway with a specific number of permitted exits and a speed limit. In this
moment, as we enter the tunnels, we forget that we have the right to turn left
or right, move slower or faster, and instead unconsciously agree to use the
space provided in the precise way the arrows and lines expect from us. I, too,
become sucked into this dormant state of being: my body and mind fuse into one
single unit of permitted, mechanised movements that align with the imposed
expectations of the space.
Accompanying this transformation, from sentient human to passive
machine, is the loss of interaction with and acknowledgment of other people. Despite
being in a space that is so crowded, the train station is an anonymous space. We
do not dare to lock gazes nor speak to another, for that would be too transgressive,
going beyond the type of activities that are permitted. What we move past, in
such proximity, isn’t an individual with an identity and complex history, but a
hollow body – moving matter. Even when body-to-body contact occurs, there is
little to no acknowledgment of the other. It is here, at this moment, when we
fail to recognise each other’s humanity and bypass others without even a flinch
of interest, that we have completed the metamorphosis: we, now, fully embody the
human-machine of the digitalised, underground universe.
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