Hong Kong freedom protest in Piccadilly Circus, London, August 31, 2021

An Exile

A Hong Kong story

In May 2020, I published a book called Liberate Hong Kong: Stories from the Freedom Struggle. It was about the massive protests of 2019. When I wrote the story below in late summer 2021, I thought of it as the new conclusion to that book. Then again, the fate of Hong Kong is an unfinished, on-going, rapidly evolving story: if a new edition of that book ever appears, there will probably be another concluding story to write, beyond this one. In other words, this is less a conclusion than a continuation.

It is a story of exile, just one of literally tens of thousands in the last two years. Together, these stories are part of a new culture that is being created and mark a new era in Hong Kong history.

A note on composition: When I first wrote this story, I tried to do so as freely as possible. Of course, given the oppression in Hong Kong and the risks that every freedom-loving person there faces, I knew from the outset there were some parts that simply could not be told, but within those parameters, I just put down what came to mind. In the finished text, there are no indications of what that stuff is that has been left out. Then I went back and deleted anything that could possibly lead to the endangerment of others. Then I did so a second time, now using the eyes of those I knew who were the most cautious when it came to matters of security. Then I showed the text to others who suggested further changes and deletions. The marks of these stages of the process can be seen below in the blacked-out bits (which happen to be mah-jong tiles) — I wanted to leave some indication of what it means to write about Hong Kong under the current oppressive circumstances. This indeed is a process of self-censorship, in turn indicating the degree to which freedom of expression is being increasingly restricted. Hopefully, one day, when HK is free, the full, unredacted story can be told.

From the above, you will not be surprised to know that names, except where they are already part of the public record, and some details have been changed.

This is dedicated to all freedom-loving HongKongers, wherever you may be, whether in exile or at home. 香港人加油. 煲底見.

The departures hall was almost empty, so silent that even a small noise from its farthest corner could be heard. Dark too, as if the lights had been dimmed. It felt like a prohibited area, surreal, the setting of a dystopian novel.

The airport train had been mostly deserted as well, and one had to show a flight ticket in order to even enter the airport.

I had been through this place so many times. It was always easy to go and easy to return. This time, it was a one-way trip. Strange to think: there would be no coming back, not for years.

The place, like the rest of the city, was usually so bustling — that busy-ness, that crowdedness, constantly being jostled up against others. In few other places in the world were so many crammed together in such a small space. I would miss it, already missed it now.

In normal times, there were more than a dozen flights a day to various destinations around the US. Now, there were just two a week, to a single place, Los Angeles. Even with so few, I’d had no difficulty getting a ticket. The pandemic had all but brought international air travel to a halt.

At the first stage of security, photos were taken employing facial recognition technology — the only place in the city where this was known to occur. I would normally have opted out and protested, but I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself, especially with so few travellers. I assumed my every move was monitored.

At immigration, another photo was taken. Then a thumb pressed to a thumb pad. I’d had visions of the gate remaining shut, an immigration officer approaching. But no. The gate opened. I entered the secure area.

While waiting for the plane, I tensed for the sudden tap on the shoulder: “Come with us.” Not until the plane had taken off, wheels lifting from the ground, departing HK and Chinese air space, would I feel safe, out of their clutches.

Could it really be so easy, to slip away unseen like a ghost? So simple to leave one’s home unnoticed, perhaps forever?

*****

Ten days before, the Chinese Communist Party had announced plans to impose a new “national security” law on the city. It was ripping up even the pretense of any commitment to previous obligations. “One country, two systems”, HK’s supposed “high degree of autonomy”, mantras repeated ad nauseam down through the years, now discarded like so much waste.

In fact, the edict had nothing to do with “national security”. It was meant to ensure CCP control. It turned the majority of HK people — those who wanted real autonomy and real democracy — into the enemy. Even “law” was a misnomer, a euphemism for the will of the CCP. It was the gambit of a colonizing power.

While Article 23 of the Basic Law obligated HK to pass so-called national security legislation, the CCP security law was being imposed directly by the National People’s Congress Standing Committee. No one in HK would so much as see the text of the law before its promulgation. For the first time ever, we were to be made subject to a law we had never seen.

The drip-drip of CCP propaganda made clear that the decree would outlaw “separatism”, “subversion”, “terrorism” and “collusion with foreign forces”. Given that no one was allowed to see the draft legislation, one could only imagine how draconian it would be.

As soon as we heard about it, 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 said, “You have to get out.”

“When?” I asked.

“Now. As soon as possible. Call 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 . 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫’ll help you figure it out.”

*****

We’d been talking about leaving for ages, in that notional way that many HK people did in that period, with a sense of impending doom hanging over them. HK as it was just couldn’t last, the thinking went; and it wasn’t going to get better; it was going to get worse, in the short term at least. Whenever people of a certain class gathered — people with connections abroad and means to even regard flight as a realistic option — the topic came up in conversation. But up to then, it had been mostly talk.

I hated the idea. I felt guilty even considering it. It was like abandoning a sinking ship, abandoning the cause I’d been committed to for so many years, abandoning all of the people I’d fought side by side with, abandoning the majority who were stuck; there was no option for them but to continue to exist in this open-air cage, the walls inexorably closing in around them.

The atmosphere on the streets was increasingly oppressive. Apart from attacking protests and trying to snuff them out before they got started, police had for months been arbitrarily stop&searching people, especially young people. It wasn’t for nothing that the words, “In HK, being young is a crime,” had become a standard observation.

Not being young myself, I had until very recently never been stop&searched, let alone arrested, even though I’d attended hundreds of protests over the course of the past eleven months. (Up to that point, more than 8,500 protesters had been arrested; eventually, that number would reach almost 10,500.)

But then, within a matter of days, I was stop&searched twice, in back-to-back protests.

The first time could be written off as coincidence. Police were trying to stop protesters in Causeway Bay from marching down Hennessy Road toward Admiralty, where government headquarters was located. A sudden fusillade of tear gas took people by surprise; few were able to don respirator masks in time. I was standing in the middle of the road near a journalist who was overcome and collapsed in the street. I helped her colleague pick her up, gathering her equipment as well. We ran toward the nearest sidewalk, not far from police lines, looking for a safe place to put her down until medics could be found. The police descended on us and pulled me away.

Pointing to her equipment, I shouted, “This belongs to her; will you please give it to her?” An officer ordered, “Stop&search, stop&search.” I was pulled then pushed then pushed-and-pulled over to and up against the metal shutters of a closed shop.

The officers who’d been ordered to stop&search me were not enthusiastic. They wanted to get back to the action and seemed to realize I’d only been trying to help the journalist. I kept repeating, “This is her equipment; could you please return it to her?”

They said, “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” and took it. Hopefully they brought it to her — I’d been pushed and pulled and pulled-and-pushed so far away and was surrounded by so many cops, I could no longer see her and her colleague. They then did the most cursory of searches of my bag — empty except for a water bottle. (I’d learned long ago to pack nothing that could be even remotely construed as incriminating — people were being arrested for possession of wrenches, screwdrivers, cable ties, laser pointers, marbles, all kinds of everyday items because the police suspected — often correctly — they were being used to vandalize, build barricades, attack the police.) They didn’t even check my ID, just told me to be on my way.

The second time I was stop&searched, only a few days later, was no coincidence. I’d seen police searching young people outside a shopping mall, again on Hennessy Road in Causeway Bay, and decided to get a closer look. As I approached, a group of half a dozen police officers walked past. I sensed they noticed me and figured when I got to the entrance of the mall, I would enter and hope they wouldn’t follow.

But just as I got there, the mall security guards closed it, and I heard the police shout for me to stop. One of them said, “What are you doing here? We see you at a lot of protests.”

“Have I met you before?” I asked.

“Answer the question,” the officer said.

“I’m going to buy football boots at Decathlon [a sporting goods store a couple of blocks away] for 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫’s birthday.” I’d thought of the alibi in advance, and it was partly true — I had planned to get a present while I was out.

This time the police searched my bag thoroughly. They also searched my pockets and went through my wallet, taking out everything in it piece by piece, every card, every photo.

The library cards piqued their interest. I had not only my own but also my kids’. “These cards are old, they’re not good any more. These days, you have library cards on your HK ID.”

“No,” I replied, “you can still use those.” Which was true. Now the cops think they’re library experts too, I thought. I was tempted to ask what books they were reading these days.

“Are these your children?” the interrogating officer asked, pointing to photos.

“Yes,” I said.

“Where do you live?”

“Do I need to answer that? I’d rather not.”

Amazingly, the only thing in my wallet they didn’t examine was a small scrap of paper on which I’d written the telephone numbers of three hotlines protesters could call in case of arrest — those of Civil Human Rights Front, Civil Rights Observer, and 612 Humanitarian Relief Fund. They connected arrested protesters to legal assistance. Once notified, an on-call lawyer would go down to the police station to meet the arrestee and provide advice and representation. Maybe my handwriting was so bad it discouraged the police from inquiring. Some protesters wrote the numbers in permanent marker on the inside of their forearm; my scrap of paper was a bit less conspicuous.

“We just need to call in to see if you’re wanted,” the officer who’d been questioning me said. “As long as you’re not, you can go.”

By this time, dozens had gathered around us, heckling the officers, who, I sensed, were getting uncomfortable, perhaps wondering how they would extricate themselves from the crowd.

After several tense minutes, word came back I was not “wanted”. I was genuinely relieved; I had wondered whether I was on some list. After all, as the officer himself had said, I’d been noticed at protests, and must have been filmed at countless “unlawful assemblies”, and while I’d never done anything that could remotely be construed as “violent”, apart from standing side by side with other protesters who had, these days people were being charged with “riot” simply for being in the vicinity of events that police arbitrarily designated as “riots”. They could get you for just about anything, and these days were doing exactly that, even before the imposition of the CCP security law. You had a feeling in those days that you could be charged with serious crimes you weren’t even aware of having committed.

I was released and told to leave the vicinity but instead circled back and entered the mall by another entrance that was still open. It was packed with thousands of protesters. Not long after, they poured out into Hennessy Road. Vans full of riot police immediately swooped in and began kettling people up against a string of jewelry shops along the sidewalk. I barely avoided the dragnet, climbing stairs to a pedestrian bridge to take photos of those entrapped. The police would end up arresting dozens of them, as well as several hundred others elsewhere that day, for “unlawful assembly”.

*****

Even before the back-to-back stop&searches, I’d been harassed with increasing frequency. Not long before, I had been walking down the street in Tsim Sha Tsui. A protest had been called nearby, and there was a suffocating police presence in response. A group of riot police approached on the sidewalk. I tried to avoid them. A thick-set officer made straight for me and gave me a chest-bump. I bounced off his bulletproof vest and almost fell over backwards. “Aren’t we famous?” he sneered. I didn’t answer. In an earlier period of the protests, I would have remonstrated with him, told him he worked for the public not the regime and I paid his salary with my taxes, so he had better behave. But the police had simply become too volatile now — you never knew how they would react. I often thought of myself as morally courageous but physically cowardly — I didn’t fancy getting my head bashed in, or worse. I spun around to the other side of bus stop separating me from them and scurried on. Their shouted insults followed me down the street.

It wasn’t just the stop&searches, the increased police harassment, the threat of arrest. Propaganda against me had ramped up. Again. Ever since the protests broke out in June 2019, I had been portrayed in Party-owned-and-allied propaganda organs as a “black hand” inciting young people. Images of me at protests would be published in newspapers like Ta Kung Pao and Wen Wei Po, both directly controlled by the CCP along with subtle and not-so-subtle insinuations that I was somehow behind it all. These in turn generated seemingly endless regurgitations on pro-CCP social media, often accompanied by doxxing of my HK ID number, telephone number and address, and family members, and increasingly distorted accusations against me — not only was I a black hand inciting youth but a pedophile; I was getting paid by the CIA to stir up trouble, etc etc. The propaganda ebbed and flowed, peaking at times when the regime felt most threatened or regarded as “sensitive” and virtually disappearing at others. Just when it seemed to have passed, it would reappear, as it had recently, with an article in a Party-allied newspaper “unmasking” me as someone intimately involved in “riots”.

Then my name appeared on a list of some 250 “subversives” compiled and circulated by anonymous Party allies who said the list had been forwarded to security agencies so that they could act on it once the “national security” law was imposed. “Subversion” was a crime under that law. Whether such lists were actually taken seriously by those in power was hard to say at the time, but it hardly required a leap of the imagination to see that they just might be. (A year on, dozens of people on that list had been arrested under the security law, some facing maximum sentences of life in prison.)

In an earlier era, the pro-CCP propaganda and the drawing up of lists of subversives could be safely scoffed at, but in the current situation, it had to be taken more seriously: the whole point of the security law was that it provided the state with great discretionary power. It was meant to keep people guessing in order to control them. In imposing the law, the Party became the law, and in that guise, it could act as it pleased.

To top it all off, my new book about the protests was about to come out. It had the “sensitive” title Liberate Hong Kong, after the most widespread slogan of the protests, 光復香港，時代革命 (“Liberate Hong Kong, revolution of our times”), which some pro-Party types had taken to interpreting as a call to overthrow the regime, or for independence. “Secession” was reported to be one of the crimes under the impending security law. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 feared the book’s publication could bring additional unwanted attention. (In fact, on the very first day the CCP security law came into effect, the regime declared the slogan to be in breach of the law, an “incitement to secession”, and the first arrests under the law were for flying banners with that slogan on them.)

In short, by May, the probability of my being arrested, whether at a protest or elsewhere, had increased. If arrested, I probably wouldn’t be allowed to leave HK, as my passport would be confiscated as a routine requirement for bail.

I am a US citizen, so could otherwise expect to be able to travel freely to the US. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫, however, isn’t. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 only route into the US was through me. If I got arrested, it would make it all the harder for 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 and our kids to get out.

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫

When the news of the law first surfaced in May, no timeline for its imposition was announced; it was said only that the legislation would undergo an “expedited” process, which everyone took to mean sooner (weeks) rather than later (months). There was an NPC Standing Committee meeting scheduled for late June. The rumor was that the CCP wanted the law passed by July 1, the anniversary of its founding as well as of the handover of HK from the UK to the PRC.

If you were arrested for a relatively minor offense like unlawful assembly, in most cases you were released on bail within 48 hours. But one standard condition of bail was that you had to surrender your passport to the authorities and could not leave HK while the police were “investigating” your case or until your trial, a period that could go on for months. If you refused bail terms, the police either had to bring you to court and formally charge you within 48 hours — in which case, the judge almost certainly would impose similar bail terms — or unconditionally drop charges against you — in which case, they might still inform immigration authorities and, if you tried to leave, you might be stopped and rearrested at the border. In other words, once you were arrested, your freedom to leave HK shrunk to virtually nil.

If I got arrested and was prohibited from leaving HK, 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 couldn’t get out.

And what would happen to our kids if we were both arrested?

In effect, once the security law was imposed, we’d be at the mercy of the regime. Indeed, that was its purpose, to to allow the regime to operate freely in what had heretofore been a place run with a modicum of respect for rule of law. As one person put it, with the security law, it would be like shooting fish in a bowl.

*****

As repression was ramped up, we had increasingly been leading an underground life, having to take many precautions. Much about our activities and associations had to be kept secret so as to avoid potentially endangering others.

The precarious security situation caused tensions. Periodically, 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 accused me of not taking my, and therefore also our, security seriously, of putting 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 and others at risk. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 basically regarded me as a walking security breach. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫. Sometimes it seemed to me that rather than sticking up for me when I was under attack, 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 was all but blaming me for being attacked.

All along we’d known the probability was high that we one day would have to confront the decision of whether or not to leave HK. But we most likely would have continued living with the dangers and tensions indefinitely, as we already had for some time, even while they escalated, if not for the impending imposition of the CCP security law.

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫

The situation felt increasingly untenable. The impending security law brought things to a head, presenting a clear choice: Either remain and live with the prospect that at any time not just one but both parents could be arrested and imprisoned, eventually receiving lengthy prison sentences, especially if under the security law, or leave and gain security and freedom as well as the certainty that the family could remain together. If we were both imprisoned, our kids would be left with no parents to raise them. But flight meant leaving the city and people we loved, the movement we’d been a part of for years, and not being able to return unless there was a dramatic change in the political situation.

My immediate reaction was that leaving was selfish. Thousands of protesters and hundreds of freedom struggle leaders had already been arrested. Why should I be different? I’d done the same as they. Wasn’t it my obligation to stand by their side, to endure what they endured? Were they not serving time on my behalf? Was flight not a betrayal? If I were single, I thought, I would probably stay and allow fate to take its course, but didn’t having family mean having to consider them definitely more than myself and perhaps even more than the movement? Couldn’t it also be considered thoughtless to put the movement before our own children, especially given that we weren’t essential to the movement but we were to our children?

For 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫, from the moment news of the security law broke, the choice between being a good revoluationary and a good parent was clear, the need for action immediate.

From what I’d been hearing, others who might also be targets of the new law weren’t quite as alarmed as 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫. Quite a few were committed to remaining in HK regardless of how bad the situation became. They were the heroes. I wanted to be like them. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 had always accused me of having a foolish attraction to self-sacrifice, but what if everyone left? That would suit the CCP just fine, to be rid of all the troublemakers. It could just replace us all with mainlanders.

At a moment like that, if one was considering leaving at all, it was hard to know exactly when was best. There was always the risk of waiting too long and then not being able to get out. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 thought that if you were going to go, the safest approach was to get out as fast as you could, while the power to do so remained within your own hands.

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 was determined to go; it wasn’t the sort of thing one could even discuss 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 in any rational way. I felt embarrassed to tell 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 I didn’t really want to leave. So I didn’t. I could only hold the debate in my thoughts. But it wasn’t really a debate, just the same thoughts that repetitively flashed back and forth: It was wrong to leave. Think of all the people who couldn’t. Think what would happen to the HK freedom struggle if we all left. It was important to stay and fight, no matter what. It was important to stand up for HK. I’d been exhorting others to do that for years, and now look: It was me who was about to abandon HK, leaving it to its fate. And leaving without even telling anyone. Sneaking out the door. How ignominious, how cowardly, how unheroic.

We had always wanted to raise the kids with a strong sense of themselves as HK people, and, with that, of a responsibility to fight for freedom. One night, after the decision was made but before I left, 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 said, out of nowhere, “And now our kids will be Americans…,” with a mixture of dejection and resignation, as if the many consequences of our decision were just beginning to dawn on 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫.

For years, 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 had struggled with anxiety. It had gotten progressively worse, becoming at times debilitating. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 had seen up close what the regime did to its enemies, how it obliterated them, and destroyed their loved ones as well. Unlike many, 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 understood the nature of the CCP and had no illusions.

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫

In the days to come, those words, that voice echoed in my head: “I hate this regime. I hate it so deeply.”

*****

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫

*****

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 said the earliest flight 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 could get me on was June 7.

OK, I said.

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 said it had to be sooner.

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 managed to find a ticket on the 2nd.

No, said 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫. Too far away. Let me call 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫.

By the time they got off the phone, I had a ticket on the 31st, only four days away. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 was afraid I would somehow manage to get myself arrested before then.

For the first time ever, I would miss the June 4 candlelight vigil. It had been banned that year, also for the first time ever. But even if the police stopped people from gathering in Victoria Park, they couldn’t stop them from commemorating the massacre, the 1989 protests. People would go out to the street wherever they were in the city and light candles at 8 pm on the 4th, the time the vigil traditionally started. Instead of extinguishing the flame, the government ban was inadvertently spreading it throughout the city. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 I was helping to distribute the white candles and paper cones (to catch the candlewax) around the city. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 I continued to do that, among other reasons so as not to raise suspicion, while also making preparations to leave. I set aside a candle and cone for myself and vowed to hold a solo vigil wherever I happened to be on the 4th. I kept thinking about the many people I was letting down, all the responsibilities I was just dropping. I had to arrange with others to make the deliveries I’d promised after I left. None asked why; the way it was then, and had been for some time, everyone helped everyone else out, no questions asked.

*****

In the meantime, following the announcement of the security law, the rubber-stamp National People’s Congress passed a resolution on May 24 authorizing the NPC Standing Committee to draft the actual legislation. The authorization directed that the legislation then be inserted directly into HK’s Basic Law and thereby automatically promulgated, without any action taken by the HK government or any involvement by anyone in HK whatsoever. This was unprecedented. HK was completely cut out of the process, even in the most pro forma, cosmetic sense.

A year before, apoplectic at HK football fans booing the PRC anthem at HK national team matches, the regime had passed a “national anthem law” in China and then inserted it into the Basic Law, requiring the HK government to pass legislation criminalizing “disrespect” or “insult” of the anthem. HK’s rigged, pro-Communist-majority Legislative Council was scheduled to duly pass the legislation that summer of 2019, but it got postponed due to the huge protests that broke out in the meantime. Now, in 2020, Legco was set to pick up where it had left off the year before. But even that bill, also essentially an edict from the dictator, went through a legislative process in HK, however rigged. The regime didn’t dare expose the “national security law” to the same process, probably for fear of protests like those against the extradition bill. It simply couldn’t risk dissent.

Indeed, that was the very purpose of the security law, to quash dissent entirely, to never have a repeat of the anti-extradition bill protests. Even though HK had largely contained the coronavirus and there had been almost no local cases for weeks, the HK government was still using the pretext of protecting public health to ban public gatherings. All authorized protests had been outlawed, and police aggressively attacked protesters who dared to come out in spite of the blanket ban. HK had become a police state; it was effectively under something resembling martial law. The right to peaceful freedom of assembly was indefinitely suspended. It was under these conditions that the regime decided to the time was ripe to foist the security law upon the city, as if afraid that the repressive measures thus far taken would prove insufficient to keep the people down. The law was meant to finish us off.

*****

These were the circumstances that lead to my being in the airport that night of the 31st, awaiting a flight to Los Angeles, half-expecting the tap on the shoulder.

As I waited, I realized I was partly relieved at the prospect of getting out, a sign of how much stress we’d been under over the eleven months of protest, stress that had become so routine I hadn’t really noticed it.

That relief was mixed with grief and guilt at departure, and anxiety about the situation of the rest of the family, whom I was leaving behind, without knowing when we might meet again.

Though I understood all the factors involved, and could give more or less the explanation I’ve given here of how I got to be at the airport that night, I was still stunned. It felt surreal, to be leaving HK perhaps for the last time, never to return. It wasn’t something I could quite comprehend.

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 wanted a chance to lead a “normal life”, 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 wanted a garden, some predictability, not to have to constantly worry about security, the knock on the door, the tap on the shoulder. Wasn’t there, I wondered, something morally reprehensible about the normal life at a time like this? Given the situation in HK, how could it be justified?

*****

The tap on the shoulder never came.

Others who went into exile took video of their plane taking off, the moment the wheels lifted off from the ground, the ascent, the sea, the clouds, the city down below. I hadn’t the presence of mind to do any of those things. It was night. I had no lasting impressions.

Apart from the fact that the flight was so empty that I had three seats to myself and could lie down and sleep the whole way, it was in no way out of the ordinary.

*****

LA airport was just as empty, silent and spooky as HK’s, minus the risk of arrest. I arrived at ten o’clock in the evening and had to spend the night there before catching another flight to my final destination.

All the news about the coronavirus in the US was bad. On the flight from HK, in addition to the standard customs form, passengers had been given health forms to fill out. I assumed when we arrived, there would be a brief interview and a temperature check. But in fact, there weren’t even customs officers, let alone public health officers. We were in the middle of a pandemic, and people from anywhere in the world were just walking into the country unscreened. If this was typical of the way the pandemic was being handled, no wonder the US was bad off and getting worse.

On the plane, the crew had announced there was a curfew in LA and mentioned we’d be arriving after it took effect, but not to worry: if we encountered police, we needed only explain we were on our way home or to accommodation and show our boarding pass. I wasn’t paying much attention and simply assumed the curfew had something to do with the coronavirus. But later, it occurred to me that didn’t make any sense: why have a curfew? And weren’t people already under “shelter at home” orders? Then it hit that the curfew was because of the protests. George Floyd had been murdered by police only six days before.

The protests were fresh, still breaking out. There was much propaganda from local authorities about the violence of the some of the protests being caused by “outside agitators”. I had to laugh. Not only did this sound like what Southerners said about civil rights protests in the fifties and sixties but also like Party propaganda about the HK protests: they were caused by “foreign interference.” Anything to delegitimize, to avoid facing the issue head on, to distract from the fact that most protests were peaceful, in the US as in HK.

But in the days to come, as I travelled to several US cities, attended the protests, and met the protesters, my main impressions gave me hope, in direct contrast to the mood of anguish and despair in HK.

Yes, the US was in the midst of a pandemic that it had badly mishandled, mostly due to poor political leadership at the top coupled with a highly individualistic if not selfish culture in which it was difficult to get people to discipline themselves and act for the common good. (In HK, on the other hand, in spite of bad political leadership, the people rose to the occasion and the virus had been contained.)

Yes, the US had a terrible legacy of racism and police brutality that it had never fully come to terms with. And yes these problems appeared so chronic as to seem almost intractable.

Yes, US democracy was imperfect, with many defects and weaknesses — poor election turnouts, the excessive influence of money in politics, the gerrymandering, the electoral college, the dysfunctional Senate, the often neanderthal level of political discourse, gross economic inequality, mass incarceration, Guantánamo, torture and the forever wars abroad, just to name those that came most immediately to mind. But unlike in HK, it had a political system that wasn’t specifically designed to entirely block the popular will and progressive change. The people on the streets gave me hope and the actions of some political leaders were cause for hope as well.

In HK, we had endured over a year of police abuses and brutality, yet not a single officer had been held accountable. It was the very definition of a police state: the police knew they could act with impunity and the government used the police as its primary means of addressing a political crisis.

In Minnesota, where George Floyd had been murdered, within days the police officers involved were fired and arrested. The governor of the state announced a civil rights investigation into the Minneapolis police going back ten years, to be conducted by the state’s Department of Human Rights. The Minneapolis city council quickly enacted some basic reforms, and a veto-proof majority of the council pledged to “dismantle” the police. I and many others had been calling for the HK police to be disbanded ever since it had laid siege to two university campuses back in November. And here were elected officials saying they would do just that. That was the key, of course: they were democratically elected, unlike government officials in HK. As the weeks went on and the protests tapered off, it looked like reform efforts might also stall. There was a backlash against slogans like “abolish the police”. Republicans in the Minnesota state legislature blocked any meaningful reform, and Republicans in the US Congress did the same. Substantive change was not going to come easy, but the possibility did still exist.

In HK, by contrast, the only cause for hope was the people themselves. The political system was not only rigged against them, it was used to oppress them. Not everyone might feel free in the US, but I did. From the moment I arrived, I felt the freedom in the air; it was as if I could breathe again. The contrast with the suffocating atmosphere in HK was palpable.

In the US, I was struck by how many of the protesters against racial injustice were white. Sure, their support might in some cases be superficial and trendy; sure, many were bound to become disengaged long before much had been achieved. But they were there, and they were part of a changing demographic. Not only was the population becoming less white, but it was also, arguably, becoming less racist, in the same way that younger generations were less homophobic and sexist than their elders. Just as the attitude of many young people was that it shouldn’t matter whether you’re gay or straight, so it went for whether you were black or white or any other color. This also gave hope, that eventually, by force of demographics and changing attitudes, the country would go in a better direction. Progress wasn’t preordained or guaranteed or even achievable without a struggle but it was possible, and the air was full of that possibility.

*****

Within days of my departure from HK, the first print run of the book sold out. The publisher ordered a second run. The printer, which had printed the initial order, refused, without explanation. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 The people at the company had always been professional, conscientious, efficient, with that heart-breaking work ethic so typical of HK people — they just tried to live up to their own high standards. And now they wouldn’t do another print run. With the impending security law, the atmosphere was already changing. I wrote a note thanking them for all their years of help and said I didn’t blame them if the reason was political.

It was strange to think that virtually no one in HK knew yet that I had left. I received messages assuming I was still there. I didn’t disabuse them. It was unwise to say anything until the family was out.

I found a place to rent for the summer. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 The only question remaining was whether a visa would be issued in time for 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 and the kids to get out before the security law came into effect.

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫

The clock was ticking. The NPC Standing Committee reviewed draft legislation at its June 18 to 20 session. Many had expected it would be passed by the end of it. But the 20th came and went with no announcement. That bought us a bit more time.

On June 4, people throughout HK lit their candles, up and down main streets and sidestreets, in markets and parks, in windows high up in buildings and on the lower floors, standing together in groups and standing alone, in every area of the city. In spite of the crackdown, every chance HK people got, they showed their love of freedom was still alive and would not die. I watched from an ocean away as many in HK Alliance, accompanied by well-known pro-democracy figures, went to Victoria Park in defiance of the ban. The police stayed away, but several days later arrested more than two dozen leaders.

My day was turned upside-down by the time difference, trying to keep up with what was happening half a world away. I had little patience for what I regarded as the relatively trivial concerns of many Americans. You’re free, I thought to myself, what more do you want?

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 sent me a video of 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 playing Bach’s “That Sheep May Safely Graze” on the piano, 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 halting uncertainty, 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 perseverance through the hard parts, and then another banging out “Glory to Hong Kong” with gusto. We’d learned to play the anthem together, I strumming the chords on guitar in accompaniment.

Once, when I could not reach 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫, I had the sudden fear that something terrible might have happened. If it had, what I would do? How to rescue 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫, retrieve the kids? At such moments, I felt helpless, powerless to bring about the desired result.

A friend in HK said he thought just about everyone there was suffering from PTSD. That sounded about right. Just after that, 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 took a test that indicated 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 had both PTSD and depression.

I didn’t feel like that, neither when I was in HK nor now in the US. Whenever people rose up against oppression, I was inspired. I regarded the CCP’s harsh repression, while causing great suffering, as a potentially fatal mis-step. I thought of Vaclav Havel’s words: Hope is definitely not the same thing as optimism. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out.

*****

Nine days after I got to the US, a dozen people were charged in HK with “riot” over the storming of the Legislative Council building back on July 1, 2019. The number itself was not particularly noteworthy — at that point, nearly 650 protesters had already been charged with “riot”; it was more the government’s timing, the fact that it communicated the decision to escalate the charges from “entering the Legislative Council” to “riot” on June 9, the first anniversary of the first mass protest, of over one million people. Also, these were the first protesters arrested in connection with the Legco break-in to be charged with “riot’. And several were quite well-known, including actor Gregory Wong, former University of Hong Kong student union head Althea Suen, and protest organizer Ventus Lau. Among the twelve was Brian Leung Kai-ping, former editor of Undergrad, the magazine of the University of Hong Kong student union.

Brian was famous all over HK for having been the only protester to enter the Legco chamber that day of the storming and remove his mask, showing his face to the world. It was one of the more memorable moments of the protests. He stood up on a desk and gave a speech through a megaphone. First, he read out a ten-point declaration that, remarkably, had been composed through crowdsourcing on LIHKG, the Reddit-like forum of young HK protesters, within a matter of hours that very evening. The declaration may be worth presenting in full, for it gives a sense of the defiant spirit of those days and of the historic nature of that moment:

1. In regard to Hong Kong people’s resistance movement in recent days and also in recent years, all HK people have fought for their rights and all citizens who love HK will support this struggle forever.
2. On behalf of all HK people, we HK citizens will always pursue universal values and social institutions.
3. HK citizens can no longer tolerate the current executive, legislative and judicial organs. The corrupt education system has killed many students and teachers. The corrupt health care system has killed many doctors, nurses and other hard-working medical staff. The corrupt social welfare system has killed many social workers and left the weakest members of society bereft. The corrupt government of Hong Kong has never admitted the scourge of heavy-handed rule and centralization of power, from the time of British colonialism to the current period of Chinese colonialism. There is no mechanism to hold to account the ruling class of senior officials and tycoons who have used loopholes in “one country, two systems” ever since the handover to engage in corrupt and immoral dealings between China and Hong Kong. If the corrupt government does not immediately implement people-oriented democratic reforms, the people shall overthrow the tyranny and the Legislative Council.
4. The absence of democratic elections is the root cause of the perpetual crisis. We must reform the right to vote, nominate and stand for election to the Legislative Council, as well as the distribution of seats and the method of electing the Chief Executive, and abolish unfair and outdated functional constituencies. If genuine universal suffrage is not implemented, we shall step up our civil disobedience.
5. All officials of the corrupt government responsible for the current governance crisis must step down immediately.
6. The corrupt government must immediately release arrested protesters and political prisoners.
7. The corrupt government must investigate police brutality and suppression of protesters.
8. A motion must be passed in the Legislative Council recognizing movements since the Umbrella Movement as democratic civil disobedience movements, not as “riots”.
9. Legislation must be passed making the anniversary of June 9 an official day of public remembrance to those heroes of the people who have given their blood and life for Hong Kong’s future.
10. Never forget Hong Kong’s bloody June.

Four of the points would become key demands in the protests over the coming months — universal suffrage in both Chief Executive and Legislative Council elections, release of all arrested protesters and political prisoners, investigation of police brutality and suppression of protests, cessation of labeling protesters rioters. One of the most common slogans heard at protests for months on end, “Five demands, not one less”, referred to those four plus a fifth. The original fifth demand was that government officials responsible for the crisis caused by their attempt to ram through the extradition bill step down. That was replaced by the demand that the extradition bill be fully withdrawn, the only demand the government would eventually meet, though only after months of protests by millions of people, and even then only as a desperate and ultimately failed attempt in September to put an end to the protests before the seventieth anniversary of the founding of the People’s Republic of China on October 1.

After reading out the declaration, Brian concluded his speech in Legco that night with a plea for unity and solidarity: “People broke into the Legislative Council building in spite of the risk to their lives to clear a path for the rest of us to enter. If we retreat, we will become ‘rioters’, as TVB [a pro-CCP television station] will refer to us. They will film the destruction and mess in Legco and condemn us as rioters. So we cannot allow ourselves to become divided in this movement ever again. If we are to win, we will win together. If we lose, we lose ten years [a reference to the maximum penalty for the crime of ‘riot’]. Our entire civil society will not recover from this for the next ten years. Our students will be arrested. Our leaders will be arrested. So this time, if we are to win, we must win together. If you can stay and occupy, if you have considered this option carefully, then stay and occupy with us. The more people we have, the safer we will be. The police cannot shoot tear gas in here — we’d die from it. They cannot disperse thousands of us with batons. Right? Let’s urge those outside to join us. After we have taken this step, there is no going back. This can’t just be a flash mob. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to occupy Legco. We are at the point of no return. So if you can, stay and occupy Legco. If not, stay and peacefully surround Legco, using your bodies to protect us. We cannot lose anymore. If we go home and sleep in an air-conditioned room tonight, tomorrow morning nothing will have happened in Hong Kong. Sacrifices made over the past month will have been in vain. Do we want the three lives lost [an allusion to protesters who had in recent days taken their own lives in protest against the regime], the blood and sweat we have shed over these many days, to have all been for nothing? We cannot lose anymore. I urge students outside not to have picnics anymore. Do not do flash mobs anymore. Come in and join us in the occupation. In the Sunflower Movement [in Taiwan], after students occupied, adults, leaders advocating peace, Legislative Yuan members were there to protect us [sic: them]. So, students, don’t be distracted. We need to have enough brothers and sisters, enough friends, with the courage to enter this chamber. The more people we have, the safer it is here. I’ve removed my mask to let everyone know that we HK people have nothing more to lose. We cannot lose anymore. If we lose again, it’s ten years. Think about it: ten years. Our civil society would hit bottom, the government….”

It was a heartfelt plea. Looking back, Brian said, “As police were drawing closer, after some deliberation, most decided to end the siege. I volunteered to be in front of the camera to read out the key demands of protesters in the chamber. The last thing I wished to see was to have no clear demands put on the table.”

By the time police arrived not long after, the building was completely empty, every last one of the protesters having evacuated. But Brian’s plea for unity was taken to heart. After the Legco break-in, the usual pundits said the “radical” action would split the movement, as “moderates” wouldn’t support it. This lazy assumption could not have been further from the truth. Something coalesced that day. Brian’s message struck people’s hearts, not least because he was risking his future to make it. We all stuck together, “radical” and “moderate” (or, to use the movement’s own terminology, “valiant” and “peaceful and rational”), localists and pan-dems, traditional advocates of universal suffrage and advocates of independence, young and old; we knew deep in our bones that we were all in this together, and one of the freedom struggle’s defining characteristics and greatest strengths became its unflagging unity and solidarity among all, regardless of differences.

Now, as of June 9, 2020, Brian and the others arrested for being there that night nearly a year before were facing the “ten years” he alluded to. (Actually, “only” seven since they were being tried in District Court, where a sentence of seven years in prison was the maximum limit.) They’d all originally been charged with the lesser crime of “entering or remaining in the Legislative Council chambers” but now, more or less arbitrarily, the regime had decided that what had occurred that night was a “riot” and they should face harsher charges.

Not long after the storming of Legco on July 1, 2019, it became known that Brian had left HK the very next day. He was not alone: others who had been in Legco fled to Taiwan. Brian had gone to the US. He’d already been studying for a PhD there. Like Liu Xiaobo who was also studying abroad in 1989 when the Tiananmen protests broke out and made the fateful decision to return to China, Brian had come back from abroad in June. He wanted to be a part of the historic protests. Unlike Xiaobo, he then left HK. Xiaobo would go on to spend most of the next twenty-eight years in prison and died in state custody in 2017. Brian’s fate would be different.

But exactly what was hard to say. He was trying to figure it out himself. On June 9, the day the new “riot” charges were laid, he tweeted:

“Last July 1st in HK LegCo, I volunteered to read out a statement on behalf of protesters. It laid out our five demands, one of which is universal suffrage guaranteed in the Basic Law. Beijing’s refusal to honour its promise was the very reason why we chose to occupy the LegCo.

“This January, I received a legal summons that I’ll be charged with illegal entrance into the LegCo when I resumed my study in the US. But just as we approach the 1st anniversary of the movement, HK govt amended the charge to ‘riot,’ an offense punishable by 10 yrs imprisonment.

“The draconian riot law, itself a colonial legacy, is used by the HK govt as a legal tool to repress HK people’s freedom to gather and protest. If ‘riot’ is the language of the unheard, the riot law is a language of a govt that refuses to hear its people.

“To go back, or not to go back, has tormented me for months. As I made up my mind and bought a ticket back home, I received this heavy news, not to mention Beijing’s decision to introduce the national security law. Am I now a fugitive? An exile? A political refugee? I don’t know.

“What I do know is there is no feeling comparable to one when you’re severed from your homeland, drifting in foreign places. And to other protestors who’re also involved in the same case and face the same riot charge, I feel incredibly guilty and sorry.”

So he’d just bought a ticket home when he learned he was charged with “riot”. Though he didn’t explicitly say so in his tweets, it appeared he’d decided not to go back, apologizing to others in the same case and expressing a feeling of guilt.

Many responded to Brian’s tweets, advising him to remain abroad. The main argument (one with which I was all too familiar, as I had repeated it to myself many times, not always persuasively): If you go back, you will only end up in prison, probably for an extended period of time. And there are already plenty who have taken that path; no need for there to be more. You can do good abroad, perhaps even more than at home.

The “international front”, as it had come to be called, was quickly becoming one of the pillars of the freedom struggle, especially as, within HK, all protests were banned and the ones that did occur were crushed, pro-democracy parties were essentially excluded from working within the rigged system, thousands were prosecuted, hundreds were imprisoned, pro-democracy and protest leaders were especially targeted for persecution, and civil society and the media were under attack. More than ever before, repressed at home, HK people were reaching out to the rest of the world.

Brian was an extraordinarily articulate speaker and a profound thinker with all of the skills needed to communicate effectively with the international community; plus, he had the street cred of his Legco speech, of having put himself on the line. I thought of Brian as someone who would make a great future leader of HK. Intelligent, measured, thoughtful, politically astute, he was exactly the sort of young person any decent, self-respecting society would want to cultivate. His predicament was indicative of the tragedy of HK: Only the worst ruled; the best were persecuted, especially the best among the young.

A political refugee, an exile, a fugitive — as Brian said, it was difficult to know what to call it, not least because having to choose between prison and exile was, for HK people, a new phenomenon. In his own case, he didn’t yet have to make a definitive choice, as he was in the US on a student visa.

When I left HK in mid-2020, the extent of the refugee situation had yet to become clear. By that point, it had already been reported that over two hundred had fled to Taiwan. These were mostly young people who had been on the frontlines. Many of them had been arrested and skipped bail; others feared imminent arrest. Forty-six HongKongers were reported to have applied for asylum in Canada. Others had fled to the UK and Australia. In all, there were at that time several hundred HK people seeking refuge abroad from political persecution.

It was expected that with the imminent imposition of the NSL, hundreds if not thousands more would flee. HK had once itself been a refuge, with hundreds of thousands having fled CCP rule in China, and now, with an increasing number escaping the regime’s lengthening grasp, HK was becoming yet another CCP-ruled locus of repression from which many fled.

The first known political refugee from HK was 18-year-old Lee Sin-yi, who fled to Taiwan after she was charged with “riot” and assaulting police in relation to the so-called Fishball Uprising in Mong Kok at Chinese New Year in 2016, three years before the massive protests of 2019. In 2017, a year after the incident, an audio recording ascribed to her appeared on the internet. It confirmed that she’d fled to Taiwan. “You can say that I’m a coward,” she said, “escaping a trial in the Hong Kong courts. But in my heart, it has been a long time since I believed that there is rule of law…. We once proudly and mistakenly believed that under the rule of law in Hong Kong, it would be impossible to have political prisoners. Now, not only does our judiciary create political prisoners, but Hong Kong also has political exiles like me…. Sorry I chose exile, but faced with the prospect of becoming a stranger in my own hometown in China’s Hong Kong when I’m middle-aged, I’d rather escape in search of a new opportunity for freedom.”

Taiwan had no formal asylum process, but it was sympathetic to HK freedom fighters and quietly allowed them to stay. The government was nervous, though, as it didn’t want to provoke the CCP, which had recently been stepping up belligerent rhetoric about retaking the island by force if necessary. So it asked HK people who arrived there to keep quiet. Eventually, in some higher-profile cases, it worked with the US to transfer the exiles out of Taiwan. The government didn’t want the island to become a base of HK resistance.

In May 2019, news emerged that Germany had formally granted political asylum to Ray Wong and Alan Li, both in their mid-twenties, a year before, in May 2018. They were the first HK people ever to be formally granted asylum abroad. Both had, like Sin-yi, taken part in the Fishball Uprising and been charged with “riot”. Warrants were issued for their arrest, and the trial of their comrades went ahead without them. Edward Leung, the most prominent leader of HK Indigenous along with Ray, was eventually convicted of “riot” along with about two dozen others. He was sentenced to six years in prison. Their contrasting fates — one in exile abroad, the other in prison for six years — presaged what would happen on a much larger scale in the wake of the 2019 protests.

Brian and the rest of us might be uncertain what name to give it, but exile was quickly becoming part of the HK experience.

*****

It was announced at 9:30 am on June 30 that The National People’s Congress Standing Committee had passed the “Law of the People’s Republic of China on Safeguarding National Security in the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region,” to quote its official name. It was to come into effect at 11 pm that very evening. Up to that point, no one in HK, not even the Chief Executive or other members of the HK government, who were all CCP puppets, had so much as seen the text of the legislation.

Ever since 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 had sent 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 passport to the US consulate 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫, 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫’d heard nothing back. That was seven days ago. Once the news emerged that the NPCSC would meet again in late June and this time was almost certain to rubber-stamp the law, 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫’d booked air tickets for a flight imminently departing HK.

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 was at the beach with the kids when 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 was told the visa was ready to pick up. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫. There were only hours before the plane was scheduled to depart and the NSL was to take effect. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 packed quickly, gathered the kids, and headed to the airport. As in my case, there were no goodbyes.

From the moment they left home, we were in touch every step of the way. I was especially concerned that they got through airport immigration controls and got on the plane. Not until it taxied to the runway 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 did 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 text that 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 was turning off 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 phone.

Before 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 did, 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 sent a photo of the kids sitting 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 in their seats. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫’s bangs had been cut by 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 because 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 wanted to keep strands of 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 hair. The short bangs made 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 look like 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 were excited, expectant. Of course, they knew we were leaving for good, but how could that compute? After all, HK was the only place they had ever lived; they knew nothing else. How could they understand what it meant to move, to leave your country behind, to not be able to return?

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 said it was strange to be leaving without having said goodbye to almost anyone. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫

There was one stop on their route. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 contacted me when they arrived. I asked 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫, Now that they were out, how did 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 feel?

Tired! 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 said. And grief. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫. I wonder, 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 said, if I over-reacted. Could we have stayed?

I who all along felt that we could have and maybe should have stayed, who felt I’d abandoned everyone there, said, Of course we could have stayed. But it would have meant coping with increased risk and levels of stress. The prospect of being imprisoned and separated from our kids would always hang over us.

Yeah, 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 said, and that would be too much for me. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫

It was the middle of the night. They had several hours to wait for their fifteen-hour flight to the US. But they were out, they were safe.

*****

Meanwhile, back in HK, a new era was dawning under the CCP security law. July 1 was the anniversary of the founding of the CCP as well as the handover of HK. On top of that, it was the traditional day of the annual pro-democracy march. The year before, half a million people had turned out and thousands had broken into Legco. A year on, all protests were banned, and had been for more than three months. Still, many vowed to turn out, lead by some prominent pro-democracy figures, in order to protest the draconian new edict. People had been doing so for over a month, ever since news of it came to light in late May; they were always met with massive and brutal force. To mark the new era, the police had a new flag, purple in color to distinguish it from the other warning flags regularly hoisted at protests. This one warned people they may be in breach of the new security law.

Thousands came out in spite of the threat of repression. By the end of the day, at least 370 had been arrested, 10 on suspicion of having violated the security law, most for having done no more than display a 光復香港，時代革命 (“Liberate HK, Revolution of Our Times”) flag.

Prior to that day, there was no indication that a flag people had been flying for a year would suddenly be decreed illegal by the regime, and it wasn’t until late in the evening of the 2nd, more than 24 hours after their arrest, that the government indeed issued a statement confirming that: “Some people participating in illegal and violent activities yesterday (July 1) displayed or possessed items bearing the words 「光復香港 時代革命」 (English translation ‘Liberate Hong Kong, the revolution of our times’). A Government spokesman made the following solemn statement today (July 2): The slogan ‘Liberate Hong Kong, the revolution of our times’ nowadays connotes ‘Hong Kong independence’, or separating the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region (HKSAR) from the People’s Republic of China, altering the legal status of the HKSAR, or subverting the State power.” Now uttering or displaying those eight characters was tantamount to the commission of a serious criminal offense endangering “national security” that could land you in prison for years.

The government’s interpretation of the slogan — the most widely shouted of the protests along with “Five Demands, Not One Less” — was novel. To most of the millions of protesters, it meant something akin to “regain HK’s autonomy” or “preserve HK’s distinct identity” or “make HK a place that is truly ruled by HK people, as promised”; in other words, it had to do with defending HK from tyranny as well as looking forward to a day when HK people would truly be their own masters. But to the government, it was now an incitement to secession or subversion.

It was a new era indeed, an era in which the government asserted the power to interpret speech and decide upon its legality. That clear abuse of the right to freedom of expression was problematic for a panoply of reasons, one of them being simply that the government was neither a capable, credible or impartial interpreter. There was indeed another slogan that some people shouted at protests and flew on flags, though not nearly as widely: “Hong Kong independence, the only way out”. The meaning of that one was unequivocal. But to state that 光復香港，時代革命 (“Liberate Hong Kong, Revolution of our times”) could mean one thing and one thing only and that thing was to advocate secession or subversion simply revealed an inability or refusal to understand reality, or, more likely, a will to supplant all other versions of reality with the exclusively valid official version. With the security law, it claimed the power to hold an entire population captive in its fantasy.

Probably the most indelible image of the day became that of a lone motorcyclist flying the 光復香港，時代革命 (“Liberate Hong Kong, Revolution of Our Times”) flag while bearing down on a group of police officers who tried both to get out of his way and snatch him from the vehicle. He skidded into them and was thrown from his cycle. They beat him with batons though he was already lying on the ground, obviously injured. Then they arrested him. His name was Tong Ying-kit, previously unknown to the public but soon to become a folk hero. He was a cook and, like hundreds of others, had worked as a volunteer first-aider during the protests. He would eventually become the first person to be prosecuted under the security law, charged with “terrorism” and “inciting secession”. For driving into a bunch of police while flying a flag. Before July 1, 2020, the charge would have been “dangerous driving”.

A factory in Taiwan had begun to manufacture large quantities of the flag Tong Ying-kit and thousands of others had flown. It was not difficult to procure and could be seen at virtually every HK solidarity rally around the world. I and many others thought of it as our true national flag, much like the banned flags of Tibet and East Turkestan. The three flags together made a striking image: the white crescent and star against the light blue backdrop; the white snow lions and snow mountain and blue and red solar rays bordered by yellow; the white characters on black which reminded me of a pirate flag. I’d always found the Tibetan flag to be among the most beautiful and original, but I really liked our all-black-and-white as well — it exuded a no-nonsense rebellious anger.

On that same day, the first under the security law, while in the act of apprehending a protester, a police officer was stabbed. The assailant, who was among a group trying to stop the cop from making the arrest, plunged a knife into his shoulder. That evening, just before its departure to London, a plane was called back to the gate. It had already left the terminal and was taxiing to the runway. Police boarded the aircraft and arrested the suspect. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 . I remembered the fear I’d had a month before, of the tap on the shoulder that could come at any moment, even after you boarded the plane.

*****

I headed out to the airport to meet the family in the morning, US time, just as protests against the security law were being crushed in HK. I arrived hours before the plane was scheduled to land. The airport was as empty as the ones I’d come through on my way there.

While I waited, I planned to watch a House Committee on Foreign Affairs hearing on HK. Marking the inception of the new CCP security law era, it was called “The End of One Country, Two Systems?: Implications of Beijing’s National Security Law in Hong Kong”. I usually found such hearings dull — full of politicians pleased by the sound of their own voice, but I wanted to tune in to this one as much as anything else to cheer on the HK witnesses, Brian Leung and Nathan Law in particular.

Nathan’s name was added late to the list of witnesses. As soon as I noticed, I thought, “Something’s up.” Lee Cheuk-yan was participating as well. I knew he was still in HK and had no intention of leaving. (Indeed, he would go on to be put on trial in five separate cases and be convicted four times; he’s currently serving multiple sentences, albeit concurrently.) But with Nathan, it was different — I could smell something. Under the security law, simply participating in a US Congressional hearing was enough to get you arrested for “collusion with foreign forces”. At the conclusion of his opening statement, Nathan shouted,「光復香港 時代革命」(“Liberate Hong Kong, Revolution of Our Times”). That’s when I knew he had left.

Sure enough, the next day he confirmed his departure in a Facebook post. He felt there was a need to put more resources into operating on the international front, especially with the increasing repression in HK, and there was no way one could do that while remaining in HK under the security law.

I was heartened to have a leader like Nathan speaking up for us abroad — articulate and likeable, conscientious and hard-working, a deep thinker, adept strategist and good writer, one of the numerous HK young people who seemed preternaturally wise for his age. Plus, international media and politicians already knew him well.

Watching him testifying to Congress via video link from an undisclosed location, I wondered how many years he would end up spending in exile — beyond his youth? into old age? the rest of his life?

Could we become like the Chinese exiles of recent decades — lost, forgotten, increasingly irrelevant, reduced to bickering among one another? Maybe after a while, the rest of the world wouldn’t care much about us anymore. There were large diaspora communities from many nations that spent decades waiting for change that never came — Tibetans, Palestinians, Sri Lankan Tamils, Iranians — the list goes on and on.

I wanted to believe our fate would be different. HK exiles tended to be like Nathan — young, cosmopolitan, with good English and a good idea of how the world worked and how to communicate with it. They had no illusions. They knew the CCP wasn’t about to fall tomorrow or the day after. They understood the struggle would be long and hard. One had to dedicate oneself to it for the duration with both determination and patience.

It was possible that geopolitical constellations were beginning to align in our favor. Western countries were becoming more distrustful of the CCP. Many were waking up to the threat it posed. For the first time in decades, their China policies appeared on the brink of undergoing substantial change, not least because of what the CCP had done to HK.

Nathan had already chiselled out a basic message that was clear and effective: At root, what is emerging is a global struggle between democracy and authoritarianism. Democratic countries have to step up and defend democracy both at home and abroad. HK is on the frontlines of this struggle. Hong Kong people both deserve and need the support of other democratic forces around the world. The CCP’s ultimate objective is to transform the world in its own image, replacing existing norms with its governance paradigm of dictatorship, just as it is doing right now in HK. It has to be stopped in HK to prevent it from spreading. Not only is that the right thing to do; it is a matter of self-interest.

All we could do was persevere and see what happened. Much depended on forces beyond our control: How long would Xi Jinping last? What would come after him? Would the CCP succeed in irrevocably destroying HK? Would it eventually collapse under the weigh of its own oppression? Would the democratic world stand up for democracy? Would it see that this was just as urgent to the world’s future as fighting global warming?

*****

The plane’s status changed to “landed” on the arrivals screen. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 texted: they were on the plane and had arrived. Now for the last hurdle: US immigration. There was no reason to think they wouldn’t be let into the country, but still, until they crossed over to the other side, one worried. Other passengers with their luggage in tow trickled out of the arrivals hall. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 texted again: they were being detained in a separate room, apparently no more than standard procedure 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫. In all, they would spend nearly three hours there waiting for a perfunctory interview that lasted no more than a matter of minutes.

I, on the other side of the wall, whiled away the time thinking of the place I had found for us: a 1,500-square-foot cottage-style single-family house, small by American standards but still more than double the size of our home in HK. It was owned by two nature-loving biologists with three children. They’d built a terraced garden of vegetables and fruit trees on steep slope. There were also a half-dozen egg-laying chickens and an old cat. A real urban homestead. We could stay there for the summer while we looked for our own place. I hoped it would make a good first impression, excite the kids about their new home, and give 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 a place to rest and recover: working in the garden would reduce 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 anxieties.

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 told me it was 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 especially who had suffered in my absence. Through 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 first years of life, the two of us had been almost inseparable, never going more than twenty-four hours without seeing each other. I put 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 to sleep most every night. Until the police began to use violent means to suppress protests, I’d often taken 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 with me, putting 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 on my shoulders when 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 got tired. Political activism was a way of life 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 known for nearly as long as 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 been alive. Back in 2014, when 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 and 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 friends slept in a tent at the Admiralty occupation during the Umbrella Movement, 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 and I would bring them breakfast in the morning.

When they finally emerged from the automatic sliding doors, after their swift departure from HK, their more-than-24-hour-long journey, and their three-hour wait in immigration, they looked stunned, bewildered, exhausted. We’d been apart a mere month; it had seemed much longer. Now we were all safe. I had to keep telling myself it was the start of a new life.

As we left the airport, I turned to 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫: “You’re an HK freedom fighter. Whatever else happens, that’s something you must never forget. That’s why I’m telling you this the first day you are here. You’ve gotten out. Think of all the others back in HK who will continue to resist. We have a responsiblity to them. We have a responsibility to HK. You’re in America now and you’ll probably grow up American. I want you never to forget this. When you’re an adult, you’ll have to fight for HK.”

“I know, daddy.”

Over my shoulder, I could see 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 rolling 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 eyes. It wasn’t hard to tell what 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 was thinking: do you have to start on that already?

But I went on: “Don’t forget you are a refugee. Don’t forget we are refugees. We were forced to leave our home because it wasn’t safe for us there. When people ask you, tell them where you come from. Tell them you’re a freedom fighter. Be proud of it. Because now, you’re fighting for all of the people back there, all of the people who have to fight so hard themselves. And you can tell people here about it. Spread the word. That’s one good thing you can do.”

“I know, daddy.”

*****

That was already over a year ago. We were part of the first wave of emigration. Since then, many have followed.

In his Facebook post of July 2, 2020 announcing he’d gone abroad, Nathan didn’t disclose his whereabouts. It wasn’t until some time later that it became clear he was in the UK. I was a bit disappointed he hadn’t come to the US, but he said HK advocacy in the US was already quite strong, as was the political support for the HK freedom struggle, whereas it needed strengthening in the UK and the rest of Europe. At the time, that was an accurate assessment. But much had changed in a year.

On July 1, 2020, the very day the NSL came into effect, the UK government announced that all HK people who possessed or were eligible for the British National (Overseas) passport, as well as their immediate family, would soon be able to apply for special visas granting up to five years’ residency in the UK with an option to apply for citizenship after that. An estimated three million HK people — some 40% of the total population — would be eligible for the scheme.

From the start of 2021, when the visa scheme began, through June of that year, 64,900 HongKongers applied, and 43,000 applications were approved. These tens of thousands are already transforming the UK into the de facto capital of the HK diaspora. Ironically, the country where Nathan thought reinforcement was needed has gotten so much that it is now the place that needs it least: he’s right at the heart of things.

I am reminded of how after the Dalai Lama fled Tibet in 1959, India, and Dharamsala in particular, became the hub of the Tibetan diaspora. Now the UK and London are about to play a similar role for HongKongers. On the recent second anniversary of the police attacks on civilians at the Prince Edward MTR station in HK on August 31, 2019, commemorative rallies were held in more than a dozen UK cities, with upwards of 1,000 people in attendance in London.

And there may very well be many more coming. The UK government itself projects that upwards of 300,000 HongKongers may eventually avail themselves of the BN(O) visa scheme. That would be something like 4 percent of the entire HK population, or nearly 1 in every 20 people. A Freedom of Information Act filing revealed that 463,110 BN(O) passports were issued to HongKongers in 2019 and 2020, compared with 68,915 in the three previous years, a sign that even those who were not rushing for the exit were preparing for the eventuality of emigration — they wanted an escape route.

Canada and Australia have also recently opened pathways to make it easier for “highly skilled” HongKongers to immigrate.

In all, tens of thousands have already left due to the CCP’s rapid transformation of HK into a place that HK people hardly recognize and deeply deplore. It is as if a thief has entered your home and stolen all that is precious to you, rendering it unrecognizable. Most have emigrated not because they were personally targeted for persecution or feared they would be. Rather, they could see what was coming, they found the oppressive atmosphere unbearable, and saw no future in HK for themselves or their children. Indeed, many of those availing themselves of the BN(O) visa scheme are families with young children.

Others have felt compelled to flee due to experienced or imminent persecution. And while the UK, Canada and Australia have all made it easier for certain classes of HK people to immigrate — namely, those eligible for BN(O) passports, the highly educated, skilled and talented — , no country has made it any easier for persecuted HongKongers to seek asylum. As of the end of August 2021, I had documented 674 HongKongers who left HK after having experienced persecution or due to fear of imminent persecution. This includes 179 who applied for asylum in Australia, 166 in the UK, 49 in Canada, 12 in the US, 8 in Germany, 5 in New Zealand, and 1 in Sweden. Of those 420 in total who applied, only 26 were granted asylum, with most still awaiting adjudication. In addition, 255 had fled to nine different countries under other immigration arrangements, most of them to Taiwan.

Whether or not that number will continue to grow is hard to say. It is possible that most who wished to take this route already have. Plus, it is increasingly difficult for the persecuted to flee. Both ordinary protesters and leaders of the freedom struggle who are undergoing prosecution — over 2,800 altogether — have had their passports confiscated as a condition of bail or are remanded in custody. Others have been sentenced to prison. Others fear being arrested at immigration if they attempt to leave the city. For many, especially those who might be considering seeking refuge abroad, HK has become a kind of open-air prison.

For a while, some attempted high-risk escapes.

In July 2020, five people, who had either been arrested and had their passports confiscated by the authorities or had warrants out for their arrest and were in hiding, took a small inflatable boat with two outboard engines hundreds of miles across the South China Sea to Taiwanese waters, where they were picked up by the Taiwan coast guard, then confined at a secret government location for months until the US agreed to take them.

The next month, another group wasn’t so lucky. Its boat was intercepted by the Chinese coast guard with twelve aboard. They were brought to China, tried in secret for crossing the border illegally, and, except for two minors who were returned to HK, sentenced to prison. Two received longer sentences of two to three years for “organizing illegal border crossing” and remain in custody. Eight were given shorter sentences of less than a year. After completing them, they were sent back to HK where all were remanded in custody to await trial for other crimes allegedly committed in HK. None is yet to have emerged to freely tell his story.

Recently, at an HK protest in the US, I met a young man who said he was the first HK person to cross the border from Mexico to the US. Since then, he knew of four others who did the same. Once over the border, he turned himself in to authorities and requested asylum. He was detained in an immigration facility in California for 63 days, then released while his application was processed. He described his time in detention as “like a vacation” and expressed gratitude for being allowed to stay in the US.

One didn’t have to look far to find pretty crazy stories. On September 27, 2020, four young people sought asylum at the US consulate in HK. They had apparently received poor advice encouraging them to do so — it was far from standard practice for US embassies or consulates to take people in, not least of all because there was no clear way for them to shepherd the asylum seekers out of the country even if they wished to. The four were told there was nothing the US consulate could do and were somehow able to leave without being apprended by the HK police. Another person, though, was arrested near the consulate on the same day. He was 19-year-old Tony Chung, former leader of the pro-independence Studentlocalism. He was charged with “secession” under the security law. For saying he thought independence was the solution to HK’s chronic political crisis. One of the four who sought asylum was 18-year-old Tsang Chi-kin. He had been shot point-blank by a police officer in the chest during the October 1 protests the previous year and for a time, his injuries appeared life-threatening. But he survived. And after the failed attempt at the US consulate, he found some other means of escape. In December, a UK exile group issued a statement on his behalf saying that he was now in exile. Just the week before, his 15-year-old girlfriend Aurora announced that she had sought asylum in the UK, the youngest HK refugee yet.

*****

All of this emigration had been occurring without much public debate. It was as if things were happening too fast to deliberate. People were increasingly wary of expressing themselves publicly as the crackdown intensified and speech was criminalized — if you so much as lifted your head above the parapet, you risked becoming a target. HK had become the sort of society where it was always safer to keep your mouth shut. Meanwhile, people left in droves, simply “voting with their feet”. Some didn’t reveal their plans even to others they knew well, for fear the regime might prevent them from leaving or just because it seemed safer not to. By the middle of 2021, the spectacle of hundreds of emigrating HongKongers saying goodbye to their extended families and friends at the airport became a nightly occurrence, almost a kind of new HK ritual — the tears, the hugs, the last waves, the grief, the guilt, the regret.

It seemed there was a need for some sort of discussion. The phenomenon of mass emigration was occurring without us, as a community, really having gotten our head around it. Didn’t we have to talk about this? Was it good or bad for the freedom struggle? If one didn’t experience direct, targeted persecution or fear it eminently, should one leave?

These questions certainly went through my mind and the minds of every other HK exile I knew, as well as a great many who remained in HK, but it wasn’t until around the second anniversary of the start of the protests, when the emigration trend was already long underway, that they began to be discussed more openly.

On May 17, 2021, a letter from Ventus Lau was posted on his Facebook page. Ventus was in prison, one of several dozen candidates who took part in the July 2020 pro-democracy primary ahead of Legco elections. Some 600,000 people voted. Seven months later, 47 (42 candidates and five organizers) were charged with “subversion of state power” under the new CCP security law. For taking part in a primary.

In addition to the “subversion” charge, Ventus also faced two other criminal charges related to the protests: “riot” for his participation in the storming of Legco on July 1, 2019 (in the very same trial as Brian’s), and “inciting unlawful assembly” for a demonstration Ventus had organized in January 2020, one of the very last demonstrations that actually had received pre-approval from the police. Throughout the months of protests, Ventus had lead a group called HK Civic Assembly that organized easily a dozen or more large protests.

Ventus’ letter begins, “Everyone who suffers always hopes that his suffering can at least have meaning.” He fears that the time he and many others are spending in prison is futile, or even worse than futile because they’re being used by the government to scare others and crush the pro-democracy movement. He says, “I hope my suffering can be a reason for HK people to bravely insist on staying, that it will inspire people rather than destroying morale…. The existence of political prisoners should make HK people stronger and fortify their dedication, proving that the the regime’s arbitrary arrest strategy is a wasted effort.”

Ventus’ was the first statement by a prominent freedom struggle leader — stamped with the moral authority of one who had been imprisoned for his actions no less (as indeed most leaders had been by then) — that asked people to stay in HK and not to leave. His plea struck a chord and inspired much needed discussion.

One frontliner I’d been in regular contact with — and with whom I’d discussed just about every aspect of the freedom struggle — concurred with Ventus. He argued that unless you were under immediate threat, you should stay in HK. In his own case, for instance, though he’d participated in many high-risk protests and advocated armed rebellion, he’d never been arrested and was not high-profile, so he didn’t feel an urgent need to leave. He’d been accepted into a university in Taiwan and was also eligible for a BN(O) visa, but the only place he really wanted to go was the US, probably one of the hardest places to get into. (He wanted to go into the gun business, get military training, provide it to other HongKongers, and eventually help bring about an armed uprising in HK, and there was no easier place to get guns than the US.) If you didn’t have a specific purpose for going abroad that had to do with furthering the struggle, then you had better stay. That’s what he thought.

The regime lost no sleep over the mass emigration of HongKongers. Apart from the embarrassment of the constant stream of images of people departing — hardly an endorsement of its rule — , it was happy to get rid of troublemakers and malcontents. It already had a program to replace them with people from the mainland, a form of settler colonialism similar to those in Tibet and Xinjiang. Up through 2019, about 1,078,362 mainlanders had arrived in HK via the One-Way Permit Scheme, more than 14 percent of HK’s current population of 7,394,700, accounting for virtually all of HK population growth over the past two decades. The OWPS was ostensibly set up to prevent large numbers from immigrating to HK from the China, but many believed it was in fact used by the regime to funnel regime loyalists, spies and underground CCP members into the city, to, in effect, change its political composition. Rather than a mechanism for general immigration, it is meant for the purpose of family reunification, but the immigrants are chosen by the CCP with no oversight or vetting by the HK Immigration Department. When HK’s Chief Executive was recently asked about the large number of people emigrating from HK, she said it was no cause for concern and the government would step up its recruitment of people from the mainland and overseas.

On June 12, widely commemorated as the second anniversary of the start of the protests, a full-page ad appeared on the cover of Apple Daily, HK’s only pro-democracy newspaper. Featuring an illustration of a person against a stylized skyscraper cityscape emblematic of HK, it encouraged people to stay in HK. Next to the figure was a blank space in which to write one’s own vow to stay and post it on social media.

A few weeks later, Apple Daily itself had entirely ceased to exist, forced to close by the regime’s seizure of its assets and arrest of its top executives on security law charges of “collusion with foreign forces”. A whole newspaper, the city’s biggest in terms of circulation, disappeared just like that. A columnist who had worked at the paper for decades was arrested at the airport on suspicion of the same security law charge as he was about to board a flight to the UK .

On June 26, a letter from Joshua Wong on the question of whether to stay or go was released. Joshua too was in prison, and his words were dated May 10, a week before Ventus’ piece. Joshua said that when deciding whether to stay or leave, the focus should be on one’s mindset. The foremost question now, he said, was whether we can refuse to be swallowed up by fear and instead empathize with others. A prerequisite to leave is a certain amount of money, and there are many people in HK who don’t have enough. For them, it’s not really a decision — they’re stuck. Addressing those advocating emigration, Joshua said you have to realize that it is inevitable that a large number of people in the freedom struggle will remain in HK regardless. He seemed to be arguing that people who leave HK need to find ways to work for HK from abroad and also to support people remaining in HK. The situations of those in prison and those abroad are pretty clear; the ones who remain in HK but are not in prison have the most difficult situation. (It seemed to me Joshua was trying a bit too hard to be diplomatic, to be generous to all sides, to promote unity, avoid division. I guess what he meant to say was it was better to stay but he wasn’t about to condemn anyone for leaving and there were very good reasons for doing so as well, especially if you were working for the cause. Above all else, whether staying or leaving, we had to remember we were all in this together.)

Throughout all these tribulations, most HK people involved in the struggle were gentle, understanding and generous with one another. We had all been through so much and had been through it together. No repression by the regime or dissension among the ranks was about to crack that unity. The consensus that just seemed to naturally form was that it was one’s own personal decision whether to stay or leave, and whatever decision one made, one should try within one’s capacity to do whatever one could for HK. We had faith that we all would do so.

No one knew what the future held, apart from increasing repression in the short term. It was hard to make a strategy based on the unknown, especially with so many factors beyond our control. So the de facto strategy became, Have faith in your brothers and sisters — in protester lingo, your “hands and feet” — 手足 — as if we were all part of a single body with nearly infinite limbs — , in their ability to examine their motives honestly and make the best decision for themselves and the movement, as well as to determine the best balance when it may appear the interests of the two — self and movement — did not entirely overlap.

A sensible consensus it was, but just as it tended toward giving each other permission to make their own choice according to their circumstances, news emerged on July 14 that a secretly made documentary about the protests was to premiere at the Cannes Film Festival on July 16, the day before it closed. The film was called “Revolution of Our Times”. It was made by the director Kiwi Chow, but when the title appeared on screen, beneath it were the words, “by HongKongers”, as if it were all of us who had both done the deeds depicted in the film and made the film itself. The film was presented as a collective effort.

Kiwi was best known for his episode in the iconic film “Ten Years” made just after the Umbrella Movement. For that project, several directors were asked to imagine HK ten years from then. Most of the segments were dystopian, imagining an HK in which the CCP had gained much greater control. Kiwi’s part, “Self-immolation”, was about a young protester doing just that as the city rose up. At the time, it was hard for most to imagine someone setting himself on fire for the cause, as upwards of one-hundred and fifty people had done in Tibet in recent years. And though no one came to do so in the protests that started in 2019, several sacrificed their lives in other ways, and the violence inflicted on protesters by police was greater than what was imagined in Chow’s “Ten Years” segment.

Now, it emerged that he’d been making a film about the protests for the past two years. By the time it was finished, he knew that in the era of the CCP security law, the chances of the film ever being shown in HK were next to nil. So he had all raw footage smuggled out of the city and transferred the film’s copyright to an unnamed friend abroad. Having done that, he arranged the premiere, at Cannes no less. So as to protect the security of the people involved (and maybe also to prevent the CCP from yanking Chinese films in protest), the Cannes organizers kept its screening there a secret until just three days before the festival was to end. And it was shown to the public just once. But that one time was enough to give it global coverage. People in HK were especially impressed, and all the more flattered that, rather than taking credit for the film, Chow gave it to “HongKongers”.

His film had fled but he did not. He remained just where he was. And that was where he intended to stay. Kiwi said people had told him to leave HK for his own safety. While he was making the film, he deliberately did not allow himself to think about what might happen to him, for he feared that would make it difficult for him to make the film he really wanted to make. Now that it was finished, he had no intention of leaving. One shouldn’t give into fears about what may happen, he believed. He had children — one born during the Umbrella Movement and another on the way — but decided to stay.

Listening to him made me wonder whether those of us who decided to leave and the many who essentially gave everyone in the movement permission to make their own decision weren’t perhaps being a bit too self-indulgent.

“I did not want to resign myself to fear,” he said. “I think that is very shameful. My documentary was people-based. All of my interviewees — whether they showed their faces or not — were taking immense risks. If I hide, how ugly and shameful is that?”

Then again, as he himself also mentioned, some of those who had appeared in the film had since fled.

*****

What has been occurring in HK over the past year and more is nothing less than the relentless dismantling of a liberal society, a spectacle encountered not all that often in this day and age. It’s like watching in fast motion a film played backwards — all of things that once were built up are now smashed, destroyed, undone.

Key institutions of civil society have been forced to close: the pro-democracy Professional Teachers Union, the city’s biggest union; Civil Human Rights Front, a coalition of civil society organizations that organized some of the biggest demonstrations ever seen in the city, or anywhere in the world for that matter; Hong Kong Alliance, which for three decades organized the annual June 4 candlelight vigil banned by police the past two years; 612 Humanitarian Relief Fund, which provided legal aid to arrested and prosecuted protesters, having raised an astounding HK$236,383,746 in its two years of existence from donations by ordinary people and helped 22,938 protesters; the staunchly pro-democracy HK Confederation of Trade Unions, an umbrella group of sixty-some unions in the city; and many smaller organizations such as Progressive Lawyers Group, Progressive Teachers Alliance, and Civil Rights Observer; and not to forget, the above-mentioned Apple Daily. In all, from the start of 2021 to September, 49 different civil society groups had ceased to exist. These groups represented the very best of civil society, the city’s pride, showing what ordinary citizens could accomplish when they freely banded together. Though they had existed legally in HK for decades, now all were smeared by the regime as “anti-China”, “subversive”, “foreign agents” and the like. Many of their leaders were arrested and imprisoned.

More than 10,400 protesters have been arrested and more than 2,800 prosecuted. Among those are 169 protest and political opposition leaders who have been arrested 293 times, including many of the best-known figures in the movement. Veteran leaders now in their sixties and seventies have been put on trial and convicted multiple times for nonviolent offenses, most often “unlawful assembly”.

After pro-CCP forces were virtually wiped out in the November 2019 District Council elections, with opposition candidates winning nearly 90 percent of seats, the 2020 Legco elections were postponed under the pretext of protecting public health during the coronavirus epidemic, though large elections took place in many countries in that period, including in the United States which had a much higher infection rate, without any sign that they fueled the epidemic. They were rescheduled for December 2021. In the meantime, almost all of the pro-democracy candidates planning to stand in those elections were arrested for “subversion” and remanded in custody for months on end. Most sitting pro-democracy Legislative Councillors and District Councillors were also arrested. In the meantime, the regime enacted substantial “election reform”, essentially rewriting election rules to ensure that only those whom the regime considered “patriots” (CCP-speak for loyal to the Party) were allowed to stand as candidates. Elections in HK had never been fully free and fair — the long-standing pro-democracy demand had been for full universal suffrage in Chief Executive and Legislative Council elections — , but any vestige of competition or possibility of an uncertain outcome was now unequivocally erased.

All protest has been formally banned since March 2020 under the pretext of protecting public health during the pandemic. New censorship rules for films have been imposed, to ensure that no films about the protests can be screened. “National security” education requirements have been imposed in schools and universities, and a crackdown on teachers, including the imposition of mandatory loyalty oaths, is meant to cow or weed out any with pro-democracy sympathies.

Throughout, Cultural Revolution-style campaigns have been lead by the CCP-owned Ta Kung Pao and Wen Wei Po newspapers which publish multi-page propaganda attacks on organizations and individuals. These are tantamount to announcing the start of a campaign; the HK government and police then follow up with denunciations, threats and arrests.

Faced with these incessant attacks, this overarching repression, this siege, of course many feel powerless, hopeless and depressed. But nobody has changed their opinion. Instead, essentially a whole population has gone underground: people do not emigrate but remain within the city while at the same time absenting themselves as much as possible from the many structures and institutions meant to control and brainwash them. They keep their heads low. They hold out for a better time. They attempt to “live in truth”, to continue to live lives of integrity, decency and conscience. It is generally agreed that whether one leaves or stays, one should hold firm to one’s convictions, remain connected with others, and do whatever one can to strengthen the common HK identity that pervades the struggle. The CCP is trying to kill connections between people, collective action, separate identity, so to maintain them is an act of resistance. In its shock-and-awe onslaught, the CCP hopes to permanently stamp out dissent and opposition. Instead, HK identity has grown stronger in the face of oppression.

Grim determination might be the general ethos. For the time being, HK is an occupied nation, and people act accordingly. One said to me, “This must be what it felt like for the Poles, the French, to have the Nazis in their midst.”

In 2021, the June 4 candlelight vigil was banned for a second year in a row. Victoria Park, one of the biggest public spaces in the city, where the vigil had been held for decades, was closed to the public and hundreds if not thousands of police patrolled its perimeters. Still, people went there, turned on the flashlights of their mobile phones, and held them aloft all around the borders of the park until the police chased them off.

After hundreds of police raided Apple Daily, froze its assets and arrested its executives, forcing its closure, again people turned up at its out-of-the-way production facility and stood in the rain at the gates late at night as the last issue of the paper was produced, shouting their best wishes up at the building while Apple Daily workers stood on the rooftop and balconies flashing the lights of their mobile phones back at the well-wishers below. Long queues formed at newstands all over the city from the early morning hours before the sun came up. Over a million copies of the last issue were sold, more than ten times the daily average.

On July 1, 2021, the annual pro-democracy march was prevented from occurring, also for the second year running. Thousands of police officers occupied the streets to prevent even the smallest of gatherings. In the late evening in Causeway Bay, the traditional starting point of the march and so a place where the police presence was especially suffocating, a man stabbed a police officer in the shoulder with a knife. He then turned the knife on himself, plunging it into his own heart. He died before arrival at the hospital. His name was Leung Kin-fai. He was in his fifties. He was employed by the iconic HK soy milk maker Vita Soy and had no immediate family. He lived a life of obscurity. HK people immediately began to mourn his death. He was spoken of as a martyr. Over the next twenty-four hours, people streamed to the site of the incident, where they attempted to lay white flowers. A heavy police presence prevented them from doing so. The government and police had described the incident as a case of “terrorism” and threatened that anyone who expressed sympathy with the “terrorist” could be arrested for “promoting terrorism”. While few HK people would do what Leung Kin-fai had done, many understood the impulse to do so. The University of Hong Kong Student Union passed a motion expressing condolences. They were immediately reprimanded for doing so and held a press conference to announce they had revoked the motion. But the university barred them from campus and four were arrested for “promoting terrorism” under the security law. For expressing condolences. On the one-month mensiversary of the incident, two young men surreptitiously climbed into a tree near the site and left a bouquet of white flowers among the leaves. Not long after, two plainclothes police officers removed the bouquet and threw it in a rubbish bin.

*****

We had to leave the house we’d rented for the summer and found another place. As 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 had dreamed, it had a yard with room for a garden. 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 set to work with impressive industry and ambition. She learned a new climate, a new soil and which plants grew well in those conditions. She designed the garden with great care.

I often think of 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 as the one who has more difficulty coping with the vagaries of life, the one who can’t stop worrying, but 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 has done much to make a new life for 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫, for us all, to actual live in the place we live, not where we have been.

I, on the other hand: I still have the clock on my computer set to HK time. Before going to bed, I check to see whether anyone has been arrested in one of the police’s preferred early morning raids. When I wake, I check to see which organizations were closed while I slept, which trials concluded, whether anyone was sentenced to prison that day. I still wear black — the color of protest — every day, though it doesn’t signify anything to anyone here, beyond a fashion choice. Exile: where you were is more real than where you are.

🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 has built raised beds, planted fruits and vegetables. By the end of the first growing season, kale, chard, green beans, strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, eggplant, tomatoes, cucumbers, and even a small watermelon have been harvested.

One evening, looking at 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 working in the garden, I am reminded of a poem.

It is a poem of exile, written in 1938 by Bertolt Brecht. By then he has already been living abroad for five years. On February 27, 1933, the Reichstag was set on fire. Hitler gave the order that all Communists be hanged that very night. President Hindenburg vetoed the order but did grant Hitler dictatorial powers, which were used to round up 4,000 Communist Party members. Fortunately, Brecht wasn’t at home that night. The next day, others helped to smuggle him, his wife and his young son out of Germany to Prague. They ended up in Denmark.

About the poem, I just vaguely recall the poet’s son fetches him away from his writing to attend to a small tree after an unexpected spring snowstorm while the spectre of Nazism looms over the continent.

I wonder whether the tree is still there, up against the house, having outlived both the Nazis and Brecht, or it has died, all of them outlived by the poem.

The house is still there. A traditional straw-roofed house in white plaster and brown timber, now a retreat for artists. A beautiful place, a beautiful location, with a view of the sea. A more wonderful refuge Brecht could not have asked for. He was productive there, writing many poems and several plays, though for such a garrulous man, the isolation was tough to take. He tried to tempt his friend Walter Benjamin to visit, writing to him, Die Welt geht hier stiller unter. (The world is coming to an end more quietly here.)

The very next year, 1939, with war imminent, Brecht moved to Sweden, a setp ahead of the Nazis who invaded Denmark a year later, and while the Danes did a singularly magnificent job of saving most Danish Jews, they probably would not have been able to do the same for Brecht. From Sweden, he went to Helsinki and from there through Russia to the US, where he ended up staying for six years, until driven out in 1947 by the Red Scare, departing the day after having been subpoenaed to testify before the infamous House Un-American Activities Committee. Two years later, he settled in East Berlin where he was given his own theater.

So it was that he left Germany in 1933 to escape one dictatorship and was welcomed back by another in 1949.

In 1953, during the workers uprising, he wrote a letter to that dictatorship expressing his support for its crackdown: “History will pay its respects to the revolutionary impatience of the Socialist Unity Party of Germany. The great discussion with the masses about the speed of socialist construction will lead to an understanding and safeguarding of the socialist achievements. At this moment I must assure you of my allegiance to the Socialist Unity Party of Germany.”

A few months later, he wrote “The Solution”, which came to be one of the best-known satirical poems of dictatorship, expressing a quite a different opinion:

After the uprising of the 17th of June
The Secretary of the Writers’ Union
Had leaflets distributed on the Stalinallee
Stating that the people
Had forfeited the confidence of the government
And could only win it back
By redoubled efforts.
Would it not be easier
In that case for the government
To dissolve the people
And elect another?

That’s essentially what the CCP is doing in HK, dissolving the people after the latter proved themselves unworthy.

While the Nazis were already clearly a criminal regime in 1938 when Brecht wrote his poem about the tree at his refuge in Denmark, their worst crimes were yet to come. The rest of the world was still largely indifferent, or deluded, or reckoning it was advisable not to “provoke” the Nazis, or simply thinking that the best course of action was to do nothing and hope for the best.

Brecht like other German exiles had no such illusions. They felt the danger deep in their bones. Two years earlier, to their disgust, the Olympics were held in Berlin, a great showcase for the Nazis. Now we stand before a Winter Olympics in Beijing as hundreds of thousands of Uighurs are interned in concentration camps in Xinjiang — the first mass internment of a racial group since the Nazis did it to the Jews — , the CCP threatens to invade Taiwan and decimates HK, having broken every promise it ever made there. We’ve called for a boycott of the Games. We’ve warned the world that it faces a struggle between democracy and authoritarianism. It had better recognize that the CCP is the most powerful force for the latter, trying to remake the world in its own image. People mostly kind of get it, but there are always more urgent matters to attend to, and not much is done. For most, it is not the critical historical moment we HongKongers feel in our bones.

I leave 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 in the garden and go into the house to look up the poem on my phone. I want to know the exact wording:

Spring 1938

1

Today, early Easter Sunday
A sudden snowstorm passed over the island.
Between the greening hedges lay snow. My young son
Brought me to a small apricot tree against the wall of the house
Away from a line of verse, in which I pointed my finger at those
Who were preparing a war that
Could very well destroy the continent, this island, my people, my family
And myself. Silently
We laid a sack
Over the freezing tree.

Just as I am about to commit the words to memory, an update flashes across the screen: The first sentence under the CCP security law: Tong Ying-kit — found guilty a few days before of “inciting secession” and “terrorism” — gets nine years in prison. Nine years. For skidding into police officers on a motorcyle while flying a flag that read 光復香港，時代革命 (“Liberate Hong Kong, Revolution of our times”).

Sentenced while 🀫🀫🀫🀫🀫 was gardening and I was remembering a poem. “Silently / We laid a sack / Over the freezing tree.”

My mind drifts to words of Ying-kit that Shiu Ka-chun posted online a few days ago.

Shiu himself is an interesting person: a social worker, a pro-democracy activist, a former Legislative Council member, and a former political prisoner, having served time for his role in sparking the Umbrella Movement. He is also something of a saint. After leaving prison, he set up an organization to assist other political prisoners whose number is rapidly growing. He visits them himself, arranges visits for others, brings them things they need, organizes food donations, advocates for prisoners’ rights, facilitates a pen pal program between prisoners and those on the outside, and posts messages from prisoners to the public. An indispensable role, to which he is eminently well suited.

Ying-kit strikes me as a man of few words. Say his name, and what comes to most people’s minds is not speech or even a backstory but the image of him on his motorcycle zooming by in a blur, the 光復香港，時代革命 (“Liberate Hong Kong, Revolution of our times”) flag flying in the wind behind him, like a latter-day flag-bearer charging into battle. It was such a gloriously defiant act, I often found myself wondering what he had been thinking in the moments, hours and perhaps even days leading up to it. In what moment did he conceive of the idea? In what moment did he say to himself, I will do it? As Ying-kit’s trial drew to a close and a verdict loomed — a verdict that most thought pre-ordained — Bottle, as Shiu was called, took to visiting him. It was only then that the rest of the world got to know a few of Ying-kit’s thoughts.

Perhaps his words come to mind in the moment I learn of his sentence because they seem a comment on my constantly disorienting awareness that he sits in prison while I lead my free life abroad.

Conveying Ying-kit’s words, Bottle wrote, “For those who are continuing to take a stand, he says wait and be patient. For those who have left Hong Kong, he looks upon that calmly and thinks, ‘Hong Kong is in your hearts, everywhere is Hong Kong.’”

*****

Postscript

Days after I finished writing, 22 prisoners remanded in custody at the Lo Wu Correctional Institution for women were placed in solitary confinement, apparently for showing their support for six prisoners who were being punished for allegedly being in possession of an amount of chocolate and hair clips that exceeded the permissible maximum according to Correctional Services Department rules. Anti-riot police were sent into the prison to ensure that discontent spread no further.

This was followed by an extraordinary attack by the Hong Kong government’s Secretary for Security (and former Commissioner of Police), who claimed that prisoner support organizations, which grew out of the protests, “sowed seeds that threaten national security…. Many people may wonder what the problem is with having one more hair clip, one more piece of chocolate. These signify privilege within prison walls…. By smuggling these things inside… [these groups intend] to recruit followers and build influence, and create hatred towards the government and endanger national security.” Thus the M&M conspiracy was exposed, M&Ms being the only type of chocolate allowed in prisons. Not until then had anyone imagined that the CCP’s enemies would be so devious as to use M&Ms to “undermine national security”.

This would all appear to be little more than veritable self-satire, except that in the era of the CCP security law, such words signal the beginning of a crackdown. In this case, without naming names, the Secretary for Security alluded to Bottle’s organization, Wall-fare, being at the center of the conspiracy. Wall-fare’s Chinese name is 石牆花, Stone Wall Flower, the idea being that even out of a stone wall, like those that surround prisons in HK, a flower can grow. Within days, Bottle announced that the flower was uprooted from the wall: Stone Wall Flower would close.

As of now, Bottle has not been arrested or charged with any security law crime, or any crime at all for that matter, but it would be no surprise if that were to soon occur. Indeed, only a few days later, it was not Wall-fare but another small organization, Student Politicism, that was targeted. In the early morning, the police raided the homes of three of its members. The police then confiscated dozens of large boxes of supplies intended for prisoners — tampons, shampoo, the infamous M&Ms, etc — from the group’s storage unit. The three arrestees were charged with “conspiracy to incite subversion” under the security law. A fourth was later arrested. They were all between the ages of 18 and 20.

Today is Mid-Autumn Festival. Seventy-two are remanded in custody pending the completion of their trials on security law charges, plus Ying-kit who is so far the only one sentenced. There are at least 585 other political prisoners remanded in custody or serving their sentences. On this holiday, a cartoon is widely circulated in both HK and the diaspora: In four separate panels, it shows people in HK, Taiwan, the UK, and prison with eyes closed, palms pressed together, faces turned upward toward the full moon, bathing reverently in its glow. The caption reads, 但願人長久, the penultimate line of a poem about the moon by the Song Dynasty poet Su Shi. It can be translated as, “Yet one still hopes for longevity.” In context:

. …Why is [the moon] always full at times of separation?
People have sorrows, joys, partings and reunions.
The moon is dark, bright, waxes and wanes.
So has it always been.
Yet one still hopes for longevity,
A thousand miles apart, together seeing the beauty of the moon.

I ask a friend well-versed in the classics if it’s taking liberties to construe 但願人長久 to mean, “May all persevere.” Yes, she said; it’s too militant.

OK, I think, maybe. But if Su Shi were a HongKonger in the 21st century…

May all persevere, a thousand miles apart, together seeing the beauty of the moon.

by 阿塗, Mid-Autumn Festival 2021