“THAT IS THE HONGKONGERS’ SPIRIT. WE HAVE NOT CHANGED."
Anna Chan, protester and teacher who marched in 2003 when she was 18 and marched in 2019
On one mat, no matter how perilous
Jeffie Lam
As she dived into the sea of demonstrators, Anna Chan Wah shrugged off the scorching heat, the blaring loudspeakers and, in the pit of her stomach, a gnawing fear of failure.
“We know our street protest today is not going to change anything,” the sixth former said solemnly. “But we are here to fight for democracy in Hong Kong and to show that we still have a voice.”
That was back in 2003 and Chan was 18 when she joined the half a million people who poured onto the streets to oppose a piece of national security legislation the government had introduced. Chan feared the bill, which was to deal with treason and sedition against Beijing, would curb the freedoms and rights of Hongkongers guaranteed by the “one country, two systems” governing blueprint.
She was the first recruit of a new union of pupils against the legislation. She later co-founded the Hong Kong Secondary Students Union. “My mum asked me not to get involved and focus on my studies,” she said. “But we need to show our concern, not just through discussion but action.”
Chan kept her word. Long after the bill was aborted, she continued to attend democracy rallies, first as an undergraduate and then as a secondary school teacher.
On June 9, 2019, when an estimated 1 million people marched in protest against the extradition bill which would have allowed fugitives to be tried on the mainland, Chan was in the crowd. “Hongkongers might seem to care only about money most of the time but they would definitely stand up when their freedoms and core values are eroded,” said Chan, now 34 and mother of an eight-year-old son.
“That is the Hongkongers’ spirit. We have not changed.”
Protesters on that day wore white to symbolize the death knell of the city with the passing of the bill. They chanted “faan sung zung” again and again. A Cantonese phrase which means “oppose being sent to China,” it is in effect a pun that also means sending someone to their death. That double entendre summed up their fears over the bill.
Like Chan in 2003, many admitted feeling pessimistic about their chances of quashing the legislation. But they were not giving up without a fight. As Hongkongers, taking to the streets to send a message was a freedom they intended to use to the fullest, many of the marchers said, as they explained why they were spending seven to eight hours that Sunday on the streets. Protesting was what being a Hongkonger was about, commentators mused aloud in those early days of the cause. The protest instinct was in city residents’ DNA, others said.
Defending Hong Kong
The way protesters understood it, the extradition bill would effectively remove the legal firewall between the city and the mainland. The move would bring Hong Kong one step closer to being a mainland city. That slogan – faan sung zung – induced in many an anxiety that everyone risked being sent to the mainland, not just criminals, who were the target of the legislation. But it also spoke to their fear – fanned by the opposition and activists – that the bill would rob them of their freedoms and identity as Hongkongers.
“Hongkongers have to speak up to express themselves and tell the world Hong Kong is different from China,” said social worker Janus Wong, 40, on June 9. “People on the mainland might dare not to speak up regarding what their government has done, but Hongkongers will.”
Retiree Lily Chan, 70, who went on her own in a motorized wheelchair to join the march along Hennessy Road, said she was protesting for the next generation. “I am here because you can’t trust the Chinese government,” she declared. She feared that if the bill passed, Hong Kong would send people such as the protest organizers to the mainland. “The freedom we have in Hong Kong is being eroded,” she warned.
“Withdraw! Withdraw!” The crowd chanted that day, referring to the bill. That night, they received an answer. The final sentence of a 564-word statement issued by the government at 11.09pm read: “The second reading debate on the bill will resume on June 12.”
On June 12, tens of thousands besieged the Legislative Council complex to block lawmakers from scrutinizing the bill. Chaos ensued and tear gas was fired, for the first time since the Occupy protests of 2014. Police branded the day’s mayhem a riot.
It took Chief Executive Carrie Lam Cheng Yuet-ngor another three days, on the eve of another mass march, to declare the bill suspended.
“No one knew whether it was the June 9 march or the June 12 clashes that triggered the backdown, but mainstream society, including the demonstrators, agreed that it was the combination of both peaceful and radical protests that forced the concession,” said political scientist Edmund Cheng Wai, of City University.
But the concession proved to be too little, too late. After police fired 150 rounds of tear gas – more than double the amount during Occupy – at the June 12 melee, the target of anger widened to include not just the government, but also the officers. As pictures and videos of bloodied protesters circulated on social media, accusations of police brutality took a life of their own.
Protesters soon came up with a list of five demands: full withdrawal of the bill; a commission of inquiry into alleged police brutality; retracting the classification of the June 12 protest as a “riot”; amnesty for arrested protesters; and the resignation of Carrie Lam. The final demand was later changed to the implementation of universal suffrage as they argued that Lam’s departure would not save the city from the quagmire of her own making.
A day after the bill’s suspension, an estimated 2 million Hongkongers returned to the streets demanding its complete withdrawal. If June 9 was about death, June 16 was about mourning. Protesters, young and old, wore black.
Many were also mourning the death of a male protester who had fallen a day earlier from near the top of Pacific Place, a shopping mall in Admiralty, after unfurling an anti-bill banner. An impromptu shrine of white carnations, lilies and origami cranes went up at the site for the man they called the “raincoat martyr” who had been wearing a yellow waterproof jacket when he fell.
In Victoria Park that Sunday, amid chants for Lam to resign, a retiree surnamed Li urged the government to vindicate the students who clashed with police on June 12. “They were both wrong – but the students never had the gear the police had,” the 70-year-old said, her voice breaking and eyes brimming with tears as she recounted a video clip of a protester with his face drenched in blood. “I am just glad no one was killed that day,” she said. By that weekend, the narrative of police brutality had taken hold in the wider community.
Protesters doubled down. It was the school holidays, and many were students with time on their hands. They set up secret Telegram channels to communicate and, before long, they were touting the slogan “be water.” Inspired by the late Hong Kong martial arts star Bruce Lee, to be water was to be formless, shapeless, agile and mobile in their actions. They would stage spontaneous demonstrations that ebbed and flowed without warning.
As the weeks progressed, new slogans emerged. Activists urged each other to be “strong like rice” when clashing with the police, “fluid like water” to stretch police resources, “gather like
