“Check out that security guard,” said Alex, waving to my left.
Alex (fictitious name) is a 20-something protester, and I was meeting him for coffee at the only “yellow” pro-democracy cafe in New Town Plaza, Hong Kong, a formerly quiet mall in my home district. that last year became a battleground in massive protests against the government. I turned to look: there was certainly a guard standing by the main square, looking at the crowd. I hadn’t noticed him before. Now I can’t help but catch him out of the corner of my eye every time I pass.
It was November 2020 and I had just returned home for the first time after a year of tumultuous changes.
Last year, Hong Kong was at the height of the protest movement, and the square was covered with a huge display of pro-democracy posters and artwork. I remember tiptoeing around the confetti of rainbow origami cranes scattered over various prints, trying not to crush their little paper wings.
Before that, it was the scene of a major demonstration of strikes and clashes between protesters and police. In one of them, the riot police invaded the floor with batons and pepper spray. In another, protesters beat up a man they accused of being a spy in mainland China and defaced a Chinese flag. Last Christmas, protesters vandalized the storefronts of various “blue” chain stores owned by companies considered to be complicit in the system of economic and political oppression that keeps Hong Kong one of the most unequal cities in the world.
The square is now empty; a negative space around the weight of what it once was.
Sitting next to me in a secluded spot, Alex seemed cautious at first, holding his takeaway cup as if he wasn’t sure what to say. But he soon relaxed and began to speak freely, reflecting on the rapid changes and how – in the absence of protests – he has channeled his energy into one of Hong Kong’s many new unions. After an hour-long interview, we split up. He may move to Taiwan, but he will keep in touch, he said.
It was one of the many frank and, for me, unexpectedly productive conversations I had with protesters, journalists and activists involved in the pro-democracy movement. On the London plane, I prepared for a destroyed Hong Kong: a Hong Kong silenced and without dissent, worse than the period of fatigue I witnessed as a reporter after the 2014 umbrella revolution. And on the surface, that was it that I discovered.
Since the pandemic allowed local authorities to successfully crack down on mass protests and Beijing passed a comprehensive national security law in June, criminalizing secession, subversion and other ambiguously defined actions, the pro-democracy movement has been experiencing repressions almost daily. Hundreds of protesters, mostly young people, were placed behind bars, including leading figures like Joshua Wong and Agnes Chow. Chinese authorities arrested 12 Hong Kong residents who tried to escape by boat to Taiwan. There were raids in the newsrooms, elections canceled, the disqualification of pro-democracy legislators for reasons of national security and much more.
Censorship, both external and self-imposed, stifled my city – now irrevocably cracked by the invisible lines of yellow and blue pro-Beijing. People are cleaning up their social media production, researching their surroundings before speaking and even rejecting anonymous media interviews. Fear is palpable; the shocking silence for a city that once prided itself on being the bastion of freedom of expression in China.
However, behind it all, there is a thread of resistance, tied tightly together by the resilience of people who continue to care about human rights, express their beliefs and quietly do what they believe to be right, despite increasing pressure.
There is the professor who is concerned with academic freedom and plans to make open source “alternative” teaching materials available online. There is the reporter who has pro-Beijing parents, but continues to cover political news, even though her family is growing increasingly distant. There is the artist who collapsed after helping friends escape from the city, but he is slowly returning to creating theater projects, telling local stories. There is the civil servant who feels persecuted at work, but wants to stay and, hopefully, change the culture inside.
There is also the journalist from mainland China who is saddened by the anti-Chinese sentiment and exhausted for balancing her work with the safety of her and her family in China. “When I arrived 10 years ago, I was naive. I wanted to address human rights – maybe go home and change things. Now I don’t even know if I have a future here, ”he confessed to me quietly, after a long day at work. Still, like everyone I spoke to, she will continue.
In Hong Kong, there is no denying that political life is seriously threatened: the structures we have to defend rights are being quickly eroded. But solidarity is a powerful force. Even in the most overwhelming conditions, it survives, giving life to unheard thoughts, invisible actions.
Solidarity is a prerequisite for both preservation and the creation of mechanisms for change. Hong Kong residents who care about democratic freedoms will continue to establish and use existing political struggle sites: for example, through the district council – the only body where representatives are directly selected by voters – diaspora organization, union membership or grassroots mobilizations. From immigrants and prison justice to the situation of street cleaners, many socioeconomic struggles are being tied to the movement, keeping it alive.
Censorship is only complete with our consent and complicity. For those who are talking and talking: I will be here, with many others, listening. I just hope you are too.
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Jessie Lau is a Hong Kong writer and journalist who covers identity, politics, culture and human rights