Patriots
to Hong Kong and its fighters, and after Claudia Rankine’s Citizen
© 2023 Eugenia Yang, all rights reserved
Photo taken on August 12th, 2019, documenting the protest that caused the cancelling of all departing flights after 5 P.M. © 2023 Eugenia Yang, all rights reserved
I
Certain moments send goosebumps crawling up the skin, water the eyes, and sting the heart. Moment like seeing the protestors sitting in the airport. Like bruises it pains you right under your skin, no, like joint pain, it hurts closer to the bone, deep down and blooming. After what I saw I was at a loss for words. Haven’t you seen this on the news back in Taiwan? Haven’t you been shown the footage of young protestors who are around your age, when provoked, would become the targets of extreme violence? You assumed it wouldn’t get to you because it’s not your home. Eventually, all of this nonsense would stop, though you can’t picture a closure or a consensus or a compromise. And you never did anything about it (why not?) and yet, you don’t ignore. If someone dissects your brain right now, and read your thoughts, this would be your fatal flaw—your compassion, warrior of injustice. Do you feel guilty because they are doing something for their country and you aren’t, or because you are relieved that you are on the other side of the South China Sea?
Because of the horrible traffic in New York City, you have already missed the check-in time for your flight, when the old man at the information desk is trying to help you sort out the situation. The man, looking at your passport, asks you, so you are from China, correct? No, Hong Kong. His response is slow but clear—so yes, China, he says. They are basically the same. You end up missing your flight and rebooking another ticket.
A man in a white t-shirt attacked her son in the MTR station before he could make it to the train. You feel your own body wince at each blow. He’s still breathing, but the son of bitch kept on searching for his next target. She says she grabbed his arm and begged him to stop: I asked him why is he doing this to his own people. Yes, and you want it to stop, you want the kid beaten to the ground to be noticed, to be brought to safety, to be remembered by the person that did not care about him, has never cared about him, has perhaps never cared about anyone who is not on the same side as him and the Men in White.
Don’t go outside if you’re so scared, the officer responds before hanging up.
The beautiful thing is that a group of people—men, women, kids, pregnant moms, students—began to form behind me like an army, holding out their umbrella-shields, she says, like newly found brothers and sisters.
We are on our own. We are all alone. We are not alone.
II
In Memory of Yin-lam Chan
In Memory of Marco Ling-kit Leung
In Memory of Hiu-Yan Lo
In Memory of Zhita Wu
In Memory of Ms. Mak
In Memory of Mr. Fam
In Memory of Alex Tsz-Lok Chow
In Memory of Mr. Luo
In Memory of
In Memory of
In Memory of
because the police can’t
get over their pride
young kids are dying
iii. Stop-and-Search
It first started in the Admiralty Station, it first started in a local Catholic church, it first started in McDonald’s, it first started in a basketball court, it isn’t always this peaceful, it isn’t always this violent, it doesn’t start the same way, it is the same if it starts anywhere: young people wearing black, officers wearing light blue, the ruthless demand—
Maybe because my apartment was a place the officer could not enter, not that a reason was needed, I had entered the station two blocks from where I live, restrained and pushed against the wall, the officer’s hand desperately searching through my bag looking for a reason, the officer’s harsh tone exiting a face that morphed into a downgrading smirk, the officer’s—
Go ahead arrest me you black police escaped my mouth and the officer did not need to arrest me, the officer did not need anything from me except the tears of regret in my eyes on the walk home. You can’t be heard. You are not heard. Our silencing is breaking you down. You are not the protestor wearing black.
This is what Asia’s Finest looks like. Up against the wall, shut your mouth. This is not what Asia’s Finest looks like. Take off your mask now. This is what Chief Executive Lam’s spokesperson looks like. I don’t need to provide a reason, open your backpack. This is not what Chief Executive Lam’s spokesperson looks like. Watch your language, do you want me to arrest you?
And you are not a protestor and still you fit the description because there is only one post-millennial wearing black who is always the post-millennial fitting the description.
In a city known for its freedom, for its names Pearl of the Orient, Fragrant Harbour, such beautiful names—so ironic you can’t unsilence your voice.
There was never a charge, not yet. The officer hadn’t decided on which one. I was told, after the encounter, to stay low. They have my name. They have my face. They have my voice. I was ordered to gather my belongings, to leave, to walk out of the station without even getting near the gates. You are free to go but you are never free.
And still you are not a protestor and still you fit the description because there is only one post-millennial wearing black who is always the post-millennial fitting the description.
IV. In Memory of Alex Tsz-Lok Chow
In the next frame the tear gas is in motion. Its motion activates its brutality. The tear gas is a condition of brutality in motion. It makes a subject of threat. You mean an unarmed subject of threat. No, an object of threat.
Then the tear gas is pursuing the object of threat in the car park and the chemicals push it over the railings. The object plunges from third floor to the second. Then the comment, just another cockroach dead, is itself an awakening chill-to-the-bones November day in modern day China.
The tear gas works its way through crowds, like an invisible enemy, colorlessly creeping through the crowd. The only thing in between you and the person next to you, both running to survival, a lovely image of fighters—then again this tear gas is not about nationalism. It’s a pure weapon to disperse.
The reporters criticize the tear gas, no police brutality, “just enforcing the law,” no black police, “just the protector of the people,” “with honor and pride,” “Asia’s Finest.” The tear gas is taking action—launching itself. And where do you come in the picture, Ā-sir?
In the CCTV footage you are charging with the launcher in hand. Were you dreaming of this moment ever since you entered the force? In your dream did the tear gas bring you comfort and peace? The burnt skin the choking the eye-bulging the puking—do they exhilarate you?
Chief Executive Lam says young people need to be schooled in national identity. And was the tear gas educating or expressing the national identity in you? Such a patriot. You are so proud, an enthusiastic pride, a rightful one: I crushed that cockroach.
Alex Tsz-Lok Chow is dead. The tear gas is a figure of speech. It is your national identity. It is as the trophy awarded to the most patriotic. Who told you it was a trophy? Did we tell you how to love your country? We look up to you, Ā -sir. We looked up to you.
Alex Tsz-Lok Chow is dead. What kind of dreams do you have, Ā-sir? What kind? The kind telling you Alex Tsz-Chow is dead. So unapologetic. So proud, a self-manifested pride. It must keep you going. It keeps you going.