Broken Alarms, Broken Trust: Officials Scramble After Hong Kong Fire Horror

Paul Riverbank, 11/27/2025Hong Kong’s bamboo fire exposes deadly safety gaps, sparking outrage and a crisis of public trust.

People ran. A lot didn’t get far. More than a few, mostly older, made their way down choking stairwells—faces pressed in wet towels or sleeves—while the lucky ones, kids and all, crowded makeshift assembly halls set up in school gyms nearby. A firefighter fell during the rescue—a nine-year veteran, Ho Wai-ho, his colleagues say. Thirty-six people did not make it out. The figure sat heavy on the city by sunset; by midnight, that number still felt uncertain, with hundreds unaccounted for (279, the last official count).

If you’ve lived in Hong Kong any time since the handover, these shots on TV may be the worst you’ve seen—a cluster of high-rises wrapped in bamboo and netting, burning not floor by floor but in great, hungry leaps. Remarkably, this is a rarity: the last incident on this scale was the Cornwall Fire in Mong Kok, back when people doubted if new building codes were working. Even seasoned reporters fumble for a precedent.

And here is the irony—bamboo scaffolding. The bones of old Hong Kong innovation, twisted now into something terrifying. While most big cities switched to metal ages ago, Hong Kong still clings to the bamboo tradition; light, strong, easy to handle, but also astonishingly flammable. Steel looks clunky by comparison—yet it stands, it doesn’t burn. A phase-out, officials said, was already coming, but Wang Fuk Court was still under the old ways.

There’s outrage circulating—for good reason. Residents talk about silence. No alarms, just security guards going door to door, banging their fists on doors and shouting “Fire, go now!” You wonder how many didn’t hear, with thick concrete muting the chaos. “If you slept through the pounding, you were done for,” an elderly resident muttered to us outside the cordon. The city promises safety as a matter of pride. This night shredded that promise.

Scenes unfolded that stretch belief. Firefighters hosing down burning exteriors from cranes, windows shattering above their helmets, neon signs flickering uncertainly amid the smoke. Council member Lo Hiu-fung was out at the temporary shelter, handing bottled water to people who couldn't stop shaking. You’d think a city of this density would have nailed fire safety; but when tradition lags behind reality, familiar images—like bamboo stretching up fifteen storeys—turn sinister overnight.

Questions punctuate every conversation now: How did a simple renovation become a disaster? Why did the alarms fail? Why is bamboo still everywhere? The scale is such that families—hundreds—are trickling into crash pads and pop-up shelters, counting the missing, waiting for news about rooms still on fire hours after the first flames.

President Xi’s office issued a call for “all-out” support, and local officials are out in force, pledging newer, tougher standards. Half of new projects may shift to metal, though—not soon enough for these residents. Discussions on internet forums rage: some want “tradition” held accountable; some demand criminal negligence charges.

It’ll take time to count the losses—not just apartments and lives, but the sense of security that once came from living high above the city. Wang Fuk Court was meant to be a safe perch, not a trap. Rebuilding trust? That may take longer than anything else. Hong Kong’s towers—always looming, steel or bamboo—now look different. No one’s likely to sleep soundly in their shadow, not yet.

Smoke billows high above Tai Po on Wednesday—if you stood on Lam Tsuen Road, you’d see it: thick, orange-black, rolling up from Wang Fuk Court. At first, maybe people thought it was just another renovation mishap; it wasn’t. Around midday, fire snapped from the base of a scaffolding shroud, devouring more than half a dozen tower blocks in minutes. Seven buildings gone up, flames licking at sky, the air thick with bamboo splinters and soot. Sirens never feel loud enough in these moments.People ran. A lot didn’t get far. More than a few, mostly older, made their way down choking stairwells—faces pressed in wet towels or sleeves—while the lucky ones, kids and all, crowded makeshift assembly halls set up in school gyms nearby. A firefighter fell during the rescue—a nine-year veteran, Ho Wai-ho, his colleagues say. Thirty-six people did not make it out. The figure sat heavy on the city by sunset; by midnight, that number still felt uncertain, with hundreds unaccounted for (279, the last official count).If you’ve lived in Hong Kong any time since the handover, these shots on TV may be the worst you’ve seen—a cluster of high-rises wrapped in bamboo and netting, burning not floor by floor but in great, hungry leaps. Remarkably, this is a rarity: the last incident on this scale was the Cornwall Fire in Mong Kok, back when people doubted if new building codes were working. Even seasoned reporters fumble for a precedent.And here is the irony—bamboo scaffolding. The bones of old Hong Kong innovation, twisted now into something terrifying. While most big cities switched to metal ages ago, Hong Kong still clings to the bamboo tradition; light, strong, easy to handle, but also astonishingly flammable. Steel looks clunky by comparison—yet it stands, it doesn’t burn. A phase-out, officials said, was already coming, but Wang Fuk Court was still under the old ways.There’s outrage circulating—for good reason. Residents talk about silence. No alarms, just security guards going door to door, banging their fists on doors and shouting “Fire, go now!” You wonder how many didn’t hear, with thick concrete muting the chaos. “If you slept through the pounding, you were done for,” an elderly resident muttered to us outside the cordon. The city promises safety as a matter of pride. This night shredded that promise.Scenes unfolded that stretch belief. Firefighters hosing down burning exteriors from cranes, windows shattering above their helmets, neon signs flickering uncertainly amid the smoke. Council member Lo Hiu-fung was out at the temporary shelter, handing bottled water to people who couldn't stop shaking. You’d think a city of this density would have nailed fire safety; but when tradition lags behind reality, familiar images—like bamboo stretching up fifteen storeys—turn sinister overnight.Questions punctuate every conversation now: How did a simple renovation become a disaster? Why did the alarms fail? Why is bamboo still everywhere? The scale is such that families—hundreds—are trickling into crash pads and pop-up shelters, counting the missing, waiting for news about rooms still on fire hours after the first flames.President Xi’s office issued a call for “all-out” support, and local officials are out in force, pledging newer, tougher standards. Half of new projects may shift to metal, though—not soon enough for these residents. Discussions on internet forums rage: some want “tradition” held accountable; some demand criminal negligence charges.It’ll take time to count the losses—not just apartments and lives, but the sense of security that once came from living high above the city. Wang Fuk Court was meant to be a safe perch, not a trap. Rebuilding trust? That may take longer than anything else. Hong Kong’s towers—always looming, steel or bamboo—now look different. No one’s likely to sleep soundly in their shadow, not yet.