Flying into Hong Kong's Kai Tak airport is a harrowing experience. Even the most seasoned traveler feels a pang of horror as his plane makes a last minute turn to the right, straightening out just seconds before touching the runway. Planes make their final descent inches above the tenements of the most densely packed neighborhood on earth, landing on a runway that juts out into the middle of Victoria Harbor. Landing here requires a suspension of disbelief, a strangely appropriate introduction to this most unusual of places. Hong Kong is a city on the edge, living on borrowed land (reclaimed from the sea) and, up until recently, borrowed time (from the Chinese). As I write, Hong Kong is a Special Administrative Region of the People's Republic of China. But when I arrived last January, the island was the last major colony of the British Empire.

I spent last semester abroad at the University of Hong Kong. This was not my first time there. I had been here eight years earlier, at the beginning of a family trip to China. At the time, I had never seen anything like it: absurdly tall and skinny apartment towers that emerged from the landscape like bamboo, people in a frantic hurry, and both extravagant wealth and miserable poverty. Hong Kong is the most unlikely of places, but it captivates me. After eight years of tossing the idea around in my mind, I was finally living in Hong Kong.

I was drawn to the city by its vitality, density, and cultural diversity. Hong Kong is an unimaginable mix of skyscrapers, fishing villages, rugged wilderness, crowded markets, and upscale boutiques. The city is predominantly Chinese, but maintains a substantial expatriate population, composed mainly of British and American citizens. Most of these foreigners come for a few years to work in banking or finance, but some stay on for a lifetime. Most remain within one rather isolated community of expatriates. Theirs is an entirely Western world, rooted in the leftovers of British colonialism. "Expats" are well-paid, live in posh apartments, and work ungodly hours.

My Hong Kong experience was quite different. As a student, I had no flashy apartment or established social community. Home was a low-rent student apartment in the very Chinese neighborhood of Sai Ying Pun, known to the few foreign tourists who actually venture as far west as the dried fish district. I quickly discovered that life in one of those bamboo-like apartment towers left a little to be desired. To this day, I can't say that I ever really got over the shock of moving in. My bedroom that measured six feet by eight, with a small window that opened onto an airshaft. It was impossible to tell the weather without stepping outside. My mattress was about two inches deep, and the stairwell was home to an extended family of cats, who insisted upon leaving their mark whenever possible. Mine was, indeed, far from the typical expatriate experience in Hong Kong.

A few weeks into my stay, I was invited to a party in the Mid-Levels neighborhood of Hong Kong Island. I hadn't really explored the city much beyond the university and Central District, and because I was running late, I hailed a taxi. I announced my destination when I got in, but English street names have little to do with Chinese street names, and the driver asked me to point out the location on a map. While I was searching for Seymour Road, I noticed a Star of David with the caption, "United Jewish Congregation of Hong Kong."

I made it to the party in reasonable time and really did end up having a nice evening. I stayed quite late and walked back toward the university with a group of German law students. Not understanding too much German, my mind began to drift. I wondered if there were Jews at all in Hong Kong. Were they British? Americans? Chinese? Were they Orthodox who would make me feel like a total heathen? My past experience with a foreign synagogue had been unpleasant. I remembered feeling absolutely terrible after being turned away from Yom Kippur services in Naples, Italy, four years earlier because my female companion was wearing slacks. And I didn't want to be in one of those services where the women sit upstairs.

I am not exactly what anyone would call an observant Jew. I eat pork. I can't read Hebrew to save my life. I do my best to elude capture by the mitzvah tank. I do avoid eating on Yom Kippur, but I have been known to sneak in a Coke. I grew up in a more-or-less Jewish community but attended a private, Episcopalian high school. My Jewish identity has always been more of an ethnic identity than a religious affiliation. But it was all different in Hong Kong, and from the start I was yearning to find a community where I felt comfortable.

Over the next few months I went out of my way several times to walk up past Seymour Road to the buildings of the United Jewish Congregation. The Jewish community center in Hong Kong consists of two buildings. There is an Orthodox synagogue that sits in an elegant colonial building behind a security cordon of barbed wire and video cameras. Next door is a new luxury high rise, with a small sign by the road indicating that it is also home of the Conservative and Reform meeting halls. I very nearly went into services one Friday evening but decided against it at the last minute. Nonetheless, I took special comfort and pride in the fact that Judaism and Jewish identity, even if different from mine, could continue to exist in this last outpost of the British Empire.

Two weeks before Passover, I saw a small advertisement in the South China Morning Post: "Orthodox, Conservative, and Reform Passover Services. Contact United Jewish Congregation at 2419-5728. All are welcome." I thought about it for a few days. As much as I had never been an observant Jew, I had never missed Passover, and this advertisement was staring me in the face.

The Reform seder was to be held in the Grand Ballroom of the Excelsior Hotel, Causeway Bay. I left early and took the bus. By this point in the year, I knew Hong Kong well, and I knew I would arrive at least 45 minutes early. But I was nervous. How many people would show up? Would they all know the prayers? Were they a tight-knit synagogue? Would they all be tourists from Florida?

In the Grand Ballroom, I immediately spotted a woman I knew from a Yale Club hike, and we exchanged that "I never knew you were Jewish" glance. She was an investment banker, recently transferred from Singapore. It was a phenomenal feeling of relief to actually know someone at this massive seder. And nobody batted an eyelid at the fact that she was wearing slacks. Perhaps this wouldn't be a repeat of Yom Kippur in Naples.

In the next few minutes, hundreds of people drifted up to the reception desk, getting table assignments, mingling with friends, and looking around the room at the other faces. The Grand Ballroom was full of people who had somehow found themselves in Hong Kong. Most were businesspeople. Several were travelers. A few were American college students. Some of the people had friends in the crowd. Most didn't. I sat between an art history professor from the University of Hong Kong and a South African investment banker.

People exchanged smiles and business cards, and an atmosphere of chatter and confusion prevailed. But in the midst of it all, I felt a strong bond of commonality, of unity. Maybe it was because we were all so ridiculously far from home, so far from our families and communities. Maybe it was because we managed to come together after years of diaspora, both historic and modern. Maybe it was simply because it was Passover.

The seder was admittedly a little bit different from that to which I was accustomed. The spellings in the Haggadah were in British English, and the charoset didn't taste quite right. The whole evening was something like a talk show in format, as the Scottish rabbi went from table to table, leading the Grand Ballroom in prayer and song. The seder went at a fast pace, the obvious impact of Hong Kong on the lifestyles of the two hundred or so assembled for the Reform service. A few of the melodies were different, but the kid that was eaten by the cat that was bitten by the dog still cost two zuzim, an amazing testament to the power of tradition.

A French child insisted on reading the four questions in French. Chinese waiters carried trays of matzah and Manischewitz. Children were given plastic frogs to better understand the ten plagues. A South African girl found the Afikomen in less than a minute. The entire room sang Dayenu. In spite of generations of geographic separation, we were all Jews, observing the same Passover. And although there was a Cantonese flair to the roast chicken, I can honestly describe my seder as a small-scale reunion of the tribes of Israel. The crowd was really something I had never seen before: Americans, English, Ethiopians, Spanish, Israelis, Russians, half-Chinese, South Africans, Italians. Some were tourists. But most were expatriates who had somehow found their way to Hong Kong. And all were Jews.

Matthew B. Jacobs is a senior in Morse College.