The night of Monday, 3rd May 1982, exploded with energy and danger—a night that would set the tone for years of chaos ahead. My platoon and I were threading our way through the neon-lit streets of Mongkok when a crackling radio call shattered the routine: "Proceed to Kai Tak Vietnamese Refugee Camp immediately." The adrenaline hit was instant.
Kowloon Control confirmed the worst: the camp had erupted into violence. The details were sketchy, but the urgency was unmistakable. We were being thrown straight into the eye of the storm.
Housed at the former RAF Kai Tak base, the camp is a cramped collection of buildings sheltering several thousand Vietnamese, including many children. The camp has the well-resourced New Horizons School and a small medical centre. Operating as an 'open camp', the refugees could move in and out freely. The supposed curfew was never enforced, as the security guards at the gates were indifferent.
South and North Vietnamese live in neighbouring zones with no barrier between them. Given their history, this is a disaster waiting to happen.
With nearly 38 officers at my back, we roared up Kwun Tong Road. The scene was alarming: fires raged inside the camp, flames licking the night sky as oily black smoke twisted into the air. The perimeter wall glowed orange, silhouetted against the chaos. A Superintendent was already on site, his face set with grim determination.
Peering through the single turnstile, I saw chaos: Vietnamese men and women raced between buildings, wielding clubs, knives, and cleavers that glinted in the firelight. The Fire Services, their jets of water arching over the perimeter wall, fought to douse the inferno. Smoke choked the air, blotting out the road and bringing traffic to a grinding, bewildered halt.
A handful of wounded Vietnamese men huddled against the perimeter wall, battered and bleeding. Amidst the confusion, I searched for direction. The Superintendent, after a tense pause, declared he was off to get instructions—then vanished into the night. We wouldn’t see him again.
My team snapped into action, controlling the turnstile as terrified women and children poured through, desperate to escape. Sirens wailed as ambulances shuttled the wounded to safety. In one surreal moment, a constable cradled a crying baby, searching the crowd until a frantic mother emerged to claim her child.
We had no riot gear. I barked at the platoon to draw their batons, and we filed through the turnstile in single file, hearts pounding. It was a painfully slow crawl to form a cordon, but every second crackled with the threat of violence.
The Vietnamese ignored us, too consumed by their own vendettas. Suddenly, a petrol bomb arced through the smoky air and exploded against a hut, sending a fireball skyward. My stomach dropped—this was war, not a disturbance.
"Bloody hell, this is real," I thought, adrenaline surging. Then, cutting through the chaos, Jack Johnson—Regional Commander Kowloon—strode onto the scene, every inch the old-school copper. His voice rang out over the din, instantly taking command.
“Divide the camp into two and isolate the opposing groups,” he ordered
We are soon pushing the Vietnamese back into the huts.
My platoon hesitated, nerves stretched thin—until a Vietnamese rioter lunged at Johnson, his wild swing grazing the commander’s face. That was the spark. Suddenly, chaos erupted: batons whirled, shouts echoed, and I roared, "Charge!" We crashed into a knot of rioters, scattering them with raw force.
Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the Emergency Unit charging in—a flying wedge led by a Chief Inspector, their formation slicing through the mob. Their arrival finally tipped the balance. We surged forward, driving the rioters back until they broke and scattered, fleeing into the darkness.
The next day, my picture appeared in the newspapers. I was out of line, ahead of the platoon, swinging at a Vietnamese male with a baton.
The press coverage was favourable. The Vietnamese beat a few reporters who’d entered the camp; thus, any media sympathy for the refugees evaporated.
We later gained entry to the medical block. A group of nurses, expatriate and local ladies, had barricaded the doors with upturned beds. Relieved to see us, they had stayed with their patients throughout the riot. I left a column to guard them and moved on.
It took around two hours to get things under full control. By now, units from across Hong Kong had converged on us in various states of readiness.
One keen inspector, arriving long after the events had ended, had his platoon in full riot gear blocking Kwun Tong Road. Such was the chaos of the orders.
The following night, in a show of force, we returned with six PTU companies and armoured cars. Once again, we swept the camp to apprehend the ringleaders. We also confiscated a large cache of homemade weapons and illicit alcohol stills. This operation served as a model that would be repeated for many years.
Earlier in the evening, the inspector commanding the Saracens' armoured car unit was overcome by his enthusiasm. He tried to breach a new entrance by ramming the Camp wall. However, the wall held firm as a dented Saracen withdrew.
Hong Kong is a society of refugees. Yet hostility between China and Vietnam diminished any sympathy for the Vietnamese refugees. Additionally, we sent hundreds of Chinese illegal immigrants back at the border each day.
Consequently, the perceived cosy treatment of the Vietnamese was poorly received by the local population. Accused of causing a rise in petty crime, it was only a matter of time before the government intervened.
On 1 July 1982, the closed camp policy was introduced. Confinement became the fate of all new Vietnamese arrivals. The ultimate goal is to resettle them overseas or facilitate their return to Vietnam. The Vietnamese population reached its peak in 1991 at 64,300.
Between 1979 and 1999, approximately 143,700 Vietnamese individuals underwent screening for resettlement outside Hong Kong; meanwhile, the 67,000 who did not pass screening faced repatriation to Vietnam. A few volunteered, but most were forcibly placed on planes to return. I was involved in these flights until 2000.
The resources and energy allocated to managing the refugees distracted the Force from its primary responsibilities. Thousands of officers who guarded, escorted, and fed people were unavailable for routine policing. Consequently, the Triads and others experienced a period during which their activities faced less scrutiny.
I grew up a fraction that night at Kai Tak Camp. That first encounter with a hostile crowd armed with spears was overwhelming. Usually, a bit of reassurance from the more experienced officers did the trick. Yet, I found myself momentarily lost. I'd never have admitted it at the time, putting on a brave face for the men.
Over the following weeks, we established a noticeable presence in the camp. We screened everyone passing through the gates, confiscating any contraband, including alcohol. We quickly identified the ringleaders of the various factions.
Then we started making their lives difficult. We followed them around, disrupted their routines, and made sure the other Vietnamese saw this. Anyone meeting with them was subject to a search. We made them wait in the food line, giving priority to women and children. The message was clear: if you cause trouble, you can expect the same in return.
In the meantime, the government was getting its act together. To defuse tension, the separation of North and South Vietnamese was brought in. Yet, this lesson was later forgotten and returned to haunt us at Shek Kong Camp in 1992.
Kai Tak Camp remained operational until 1997.
In its final years, it functioned as a transit centre for refugees awaiting either repatriation or resettlement. However, the conditions within the camp prompted many of us to question the government's approach.
Children confined behind fences in cramped, unsanitary huts created a disturbing image. It was hard to watch kids growing up behind the wire. Was that the intention? Make it look harsh; then they'll stay away.
With my PTU attachment coming to an end, I expected to be posted in the Emergency Unit. By nature, I believed I was well-suited for that role. The EU is the cavalry. EU responds to all critical calls; robberies, burglaries in progress. They arrive swiftly, take control, then move on after handing over to other duties—the least paperwork, the most action.
Headquarters had other plans. I still had nine months before my tour finished, and four months’ leave was approaching. So, in the meantime, I was posted as a patrol commander at Kai Tak Airport.
Kowloon Control confirmed the worst: the camp had erupted into violence. The details were sketchy, but the urgency was unmistakable. We were being thrown straight into the eye of the storm.
Housed at the former RAF Kai Tak base, the camp is a cramped collection of buildings sheltering several thousand Vietnamese, including many children. The camp has the well-resourced New Horizons School and a small medical centre. Operating as an 'open camp', the refugees could move in and out freely. The supposed curfew was never enforced, as the security guards at the gates were indifferent.
South and North Vietnamese live in neighbouring zones with no barrier between them. Given their history, this is a disaster waiting to happen.
With nearly 38 officers at my back, we roared up Kwun Tong Road. The scene was alarming: fires raged inside the camp, flames licking the night sky as oily black smoke twisted into the air. The perimeter wall glowed orange, silhouetted against the chaos. A Superintendent was already on site, his face set with grim determination.
Peering through the single turnstile, I saw chaos: Vietnamese men and women raced between buildings, wielding clubs, knives, and cleavers that glinted in the firelight. The Fire Services, their jets of water arching over the perimeter wall, fought to douse the inferno. Smoke choked the air, blotting out the road and bringing traffic to a grinding, bewildered halt.
A handful of wounded Vietnamese men huddled against the perimeter wall, battered and bleeding. Amidst the confusion, I searched for direction. The Superintendent, after a tense pause, declared he was off to get instructions—then vanished into the night. We wouldn’t see him again.
My team snapped into action, controlling the turnstile as terrified women and children poured through, desperate to escape. Sirens wailed as ambulances shuttled the wounded to safety. In one surreal moment, a constable cradled a crying baby, searching the crowd until a frantic mother emerged to claim her child.
We had no riot gear. I barked at the platoon to draw their batons, and we filed through the turnstile in single file, hearts pounding. It was a painfully slow crawl to form a cordon, but every second crackled with the threat of violence.
The Vietnamese ignored us, too consumed by their own vendettas. Suddenly, a petrol bomb arced through the smoky air and exploded against a hut, sending a fireball skyward. My stomach dropped—this was war, not a disturbance.
"Bloody hell, this is real," I thought, adrenaline surging. Then, cutting through the chaos, Jack Johnson—Regional Commander Kowloon—strode onto the scene, every inch the old-school copper. His voice rang out over the din, instantly taking command.
“Divide the camp into two and isolate the opposing groups,” he ordered
We are soon pushing the Vietnamese back into the huts.
My platoon hesitated, nerves stretched thin—until a Vietnamese rioter lunged at Johnson, his wild swing grazing the commander’s face. That was the spark. Suddenly, chaos erupted: batons whirled, shouts echoed, and I roared, "Charge!" We crashed into a knot of rioters, scattering them with raw force.
Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the Emergency Unit charging in—a flying wedge led by a Chief Inspector, their formation slicing through the mob. Their arrival finally tipped the balance. We surged forward, driving the rioters back until they broke and scattered, fleeing into the darkness.
The next day, my picture appeared in the newspapers. I was out of line, ahead of the platoon, swinging at a Vietnamese male with a baton.
The press coverage was favourable. The Vietnamese beat a few reporters who’d entered the camp; thus, any media sympathy for the refugees evaporated.
We later gained entry to the medical block. A group of nurses, expatriate and local ladies, had barricaded the doors with upturned beds. Relieved to see us, they had stayed with their patients throughout the riot. I left a column to guard them and moved on.
It took around two hours to get things under full control. By now, units from across Hong Kong had converged on us in various states of readiness.
One keen inspector, arriving long after the events had ended, had his platoon in full riot gear blocking Kwun Tong Road. Such was the chaos of the orders.
The following night, in a show of force, we returned with six PTU companies and armoured cars. Once again, we swept the camp to apprehend the ringleaders. We also confiscated a large cache of homemade weapons and illicit alcohol stills. This operation served as a model that would be repeated for many years.
Earlier in the evening, the inspector commanding the Saracens' armoured car unit was overcome by his enthusiasm. He tried to breach a new entrance by ramming the Camp wall. However, the wall held firm as a dented Saracen withdrew.
Hong Kong is a society of refugees. Yet hostility between China and Vietnam diminished any sympathy for the Vietnamese refugees. Additionally, we sent hundreds of Chinese illegal immigrants back at the border each day.
Consequently, the perceived cosy treatment of the Vietnamese was poorly received by the local population. Accused of causing a rise in petty crime, it was only a matter of time before the government intervened.
On 1 July 1982, the closed camp policy was introduced. Confinement became the fate of all new Vietnamese arrivals. The ultimate goal is to resettle them overseas or facilitate their return to Vietnam. The Vietnamese population reached its peak in 1991 at 64,300.
Between 1979 and 1999, approximately 143,700 Vietnamese individuals underwent screening for resettlement outside Hong Kong; meanwhile, the 67,000 who did not pass screening faced repatriation to Vietnam. A few volunteered, but most were forcibly placed on planes to return. I was involved in these flights until 2000.
The resources and energy allocated to managing the refugees distracted the Force from its primary responsibilities. Thousands of officers who guarded, escorted, and fed people were unavailable for routine policing. Consequently, the Triads and others experienced a period during which their activities faced less scrutiny.
I grew up a fraction that night at Kai Tak Camp. That first encounter with a hostile crowd armed with spears was overwhelming. Usually, a bit of reassurance from the more experienced officers did the trick. Yet, I found myself momentarily lost. I'd never have admitted it at the time, putting on a brave face for the men.
Over the following weeks, we established a noticeable presence in the camp. We screened everyone passing through the gates, confiscating any contraband, including alcohol. We quickly identified the ringleaders of the various factions.
Then we started making their lives difficult. We followed them around, disrupted their routines, and made sure the other Vietnamese saw this. Anyone meeting with them was subject to a search. We made them wait in the food line, giving priority to women and children. The message was clear: if you cause trouble, you can expect the same in return.
In the meantime, the government was getting its act together. To defuse tension, the separation of North and South Vietnamese was brought in. Yet, this lesson was later forgotten and returned to haunt us at Shek Kong Camp in 1992.
Kai Tak Camp remained operational until 1997.
In its final years, it functioned as a transit centre for refugees awaiting either repatriation or resettlement. However, the conditions within the camp prompted many of us to question the government's approach.
Children confined behind fences in cramped, unsanitary huts created a disturbing image. It was hard to watch kids growing up behind the wire. Was that the intention? Make it look harsh; then they'll stay away.
With my PTU attachment coming to an end, I expected to be posted in the Emergency Unit. By nature, I believed I was well-suited for that role. The EU is the cavalry. EU responds to all critical calls; robberies, burglaries in progress. They arrive swiftly, take control, then move on after handing over to other duties—the least paperwork, the most action.
Headquarters had other plans. I still had nine months before my tour finished, and four months’ leave was approaching. So, in the meantime, I was posted as a patrol commander at Kai Tak Airport.
