Hong Kong, September 2019. I was on the streets every other day, having just joined the Protect the Children Action group (PtCA). It was the height of the pro-democracy protests. The Hong Kong police shot two people in the eye, a nurse and a journalist, and tear-gassed care homes full of elderly residents. Hong Kongers fought back. Young people may have been the backbone of the protest, but the whole of society mobilised. Alongside those marching peacefully, others handed out food and drink, and the Methodist Church in Wan Chai opened its doors to everyone, offering shelter and comfort.
PtCA was made up of older people who could not run as fast as the young, or whose other commitments kept them from the frontlines. Yet we stood at the forefront of the protest, facing the police directly. One of our members was beaten by more than 40 police officers in a back alley. We formed human chains, trying to separate police from civilians. We stood as lookouts, warning people of approaching police so they could decide whether to stay or go. We made sure the young stragglers — one as young as 13 years old — were not picked up.
This culminated in the university sieges. After a day of fighting at the Chinese University of Hong Kong, I remember the quiet that followed; the ashes on the ground still smelled of tear gas, assaulting my senses. The quiet sunrise over the mountains meant we had made it through another day. A week later, at the Polytechnic University, things were more desperate. I saw a girl curled up behind the entrance to the MTR (Hong Kong’s metro), screaming, as a water cannon hit the building at full force. That was my protest.
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