In Hong Kong, skyscrapers race to pierce the heavens, while old shopfronts recede like the tide. Even the wind along Nathan Road seems to blow more urgently than it did half a century ago. Yet, tucked away in a small booth at Bowring Centre, a post-90s young woman continues to do something that follows a slower rhythm—threading needles, stitching embroidery, and making shoes by hand.
Her name is Miru Wong, the third-generation inheritor of Sindart, the last remaining hand-embroidered footwear shop in Hong Kong. What she holds in her hand is not just a slender needle, but a piece of folk craftsmanship that spans nearly seven decades, along with a spirit of "creating something from nothing with perseverance and resilience."
"Sindart was founded by my grandfather in 1958, originally run out of a stairwell on Nathan Road." The shop's name, Sindart, takes the character from her grandfather's name, symbolizing the idea that "the one who reaches first leads the way."
In that era, rickshaws and sedan chairs were still common sights on the streets. Embroidered shoes were reserved for wealthy ladies, a symbol of refinement worn "when riding in a car or a sedan chair." Her grandfather, who had worked in a shoe factory, saw not only the elegance of the rich but also the "unattainable dream" in the eyes of countless factory women. Then he conceived a humble yet great idea—to make beautiful embroidered shoes affordable for ordinary people.
And so, a small shoe stall that started beneath a stairwell, passed down through three generations stitch by stitch, became a true Hong Kong old shop.
The charm of handmade embroidered shoes lies in their ability to "move with the times." In Miru's eyes, embroidery is far from a fossil in a museum—it is a flowing, living stream.
"Embroidered shoes from different dynasties reflect the events and aesthetics of their time." In her generation, the goal is to blend East and West. In her grandfather's time, the soles were thin and not slip-resistant, mostly used for indoor slippers.
As customer demands evolved, Miru, as the third-generation inheritor, began to innovate boldly—starting with materials and shoe styles, adding anti-slip features, and transforming traditional slippers into fashionable items that could be worn outdoors. High heels, flip-flops, and more modern shoe styles emerged one after another. Her ultimate goal, she says, is to integrate embroidered shoes into daily life. "When they can be worn every day, that's the best."
Yet the path of preserving craftsmanship has never been easy. Speaking of the difficulties faced by hand embroidery in Hong Kong, Miru's voice carries concern: "The hardest part is finding new blood." In her grandfather's time, there were many apprentices, and young people were willing to learn a trade to support themselves. Although she has taken on apprentices, their numbers are much fewer now.
Moreover, Miru admits that sometimes the patterns she designs are copied and mass-produced by machines into cheap, low-quality replicas, without the rise and fall of stitches or the warmth of human hands. This leaves her feeling somewhat helpless.
But just like the fine needle, delicate as it seems, it can pierce through the roughness of time.
"Making embroidered shoes is about creating something from nothing, conceiving every detail from scratch. I see in this craft the same spirit that lives in every Hong Kong person to press on steadily, with quiet determination, until something truly worthwhile is achieved."
Today, some customers have been coming since her grandfather's time, spanning three generations. Having taken up the baton from her grandfather, she has gradually come to understand that the key is to keep persisting, to keep going through every stage. She believes that as long as there are people willing to learn, this craft will be passed on.
The old Hong Kong may be fading, but its lingering charm remains. Handmade embroidered shoes once traveled the streets of bygone eras, witnessing the growth of generations of Hong Kong people. In an age of roaring machinery, craftspeople like Miru still insist on slow, meticulous work, preserving the warmth of traditional craftsmanship.
The wind on Nathan Road continues to blow, and she sits in that small shop, stitching one thread at a time. The flowers on the shoe uppers slowly bloom. Deep down in Miru's heart, there's a hope: the flowers will last a little longer, and a little longer still...
(Reporter: Rainy; Camerapeople: Bernhard, Yi; Editor: Yi; English Editor: Darius)
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