家

I write this today as a girl from Hong Kong. I proudly grew up in this city, where I could sit at lunch with the Cantonese locals, joke with the Chinese girls from Beijing during recess, laugh with the British uncles and aunts at family dinners, and bond with the Americans at Church. Growing up in the colourful streets of the city, the only danger my friends and I knew was when we would lay on the bustling road for just a second at this red light - what a rush, what a thrill ! lol. Singing and dancing on the pedestrian bridges without a care in the world, having fun with my friends in the raging streets of Lan Kwai, and sneaking back into my house climbing through the back window quietly before my parents woke up. Watching the rainbow rows of hanging t-shirts whip in the hot summer wind at Mong Kok with a cheap Mr. Softie cone dripping down my hand, every corner of Hong Kong felt like home. From the rock pools and the fish markets, to computer 298 and Admiralty - I felt belonging, I felt comfort, and I felt safe. I never questioned or suspected danger lurking in any nook of the mountainous skyscrapers. Not even a typhoon 8 could possibly knock down the walls of my obliviousness to fear and destruction in this world. I grew up different from the majority of the world - so lucky to be able to wear whatever I want, to hold hands with whoever I want, to say whatever slipped through my mouth, to believe in whoever I want, and to run free wherever I felt like going - because that was my city. Inclusive, diverse, accepting, safe, and homey. I slept through typhoons like they were just an orchestra to my bedtime lullabies. A place of comfort. A place of flowery familiarity. A place free. A place immune to violence. A place free to explore. A place where my parents let go of my hand and watched me walk away into the sunset, knowing full well that they would see me so soon. My utopia.

My home...

I write this today as a girl from Hong Kong. Getting ready in the morning, taking out a black T-shirt, and immediately stuffing it back into my closet. How stupid am I, to think I could possibly wear black today. I get excited about the idea of wearing that cute white romper out with my boyfriend when I show him Central. How stupid am I, to think I could possibly wear white today. I take my friends on the MTR, our amazing subway, boasting about how we have the best subway system in the whole world - so fast, so clean, air conditioned, has service, has wifi - my thoughts are suddently asphyxiated as someone insistently tries to airdrop me a bloody propaganda poster from “Fucker’s iPhone”. He tries again. Again. Again. Another poster. Another person. Decline. Decline. Decline. Airplane mode. Airplane mode. Heart beating faster as I look around the cart to see who this could be. I study the faces of each passanger. Is it you? Is it you? Something feels stuck in my throat as I can't tell at the slightest. Heart pounds now faster and faster as I start to think about men in black getting on this exact car and attacking my friends. How can I protect them? We just need to make it home. We just need to make it home. Head down as my mom starts to talk about the police and all their suffering. Head down as my friends from middle school talk about the protesters and all their suffering. Shame starts to rise in my chest. I don't know what to say. I keep my mouth shut. My family turns on the news every morning, where to avoid today? We track the protests and their movement, making plans to head the opposite way. I see as I sit in the car on the way to the gym - unspeakable, wicked, words painted in thick, dripping black -  threats about killing their families on our police stations, where the city’s protectors/“protectors" reside, through the glass. I turn away. My phone rings every 5 minutes. I glance at my mom's number calling again as I am out with my friends: “Are you okay?” "Are you okay?”. I see on the livestream as protestors cry out, as they are injured, hurting, get carried away, their faces painted with scarlet. I pray they don't die today. I pray they don't die tomorrow. On the way to pick my aunt late at night, I see the central hub of Hong Kong look like straight out of the Purge - ruins and rubble everywhere, as the masked men walk away into the smoke. I watch as police report and demonstrate these laser pens that the protestors used to shine into their eyes as weapons, burn a hole through a sheet of paper - horrified, as I remember just how delicate our eyes can be. I listen to my mom tell me that she wants to take us to Taiwan, away from all this, because they threaten to come for our district next. I watch my mother, my emblem for courage, disintegrate to fear. I wake up early at 6 am to make a flight, to avoid the protesters at the airport. I receive a text from my Hong Kong friend in New York, telling me he wasn’t sure if he was going to make it home this time. He’ll catch me in December maybe. I watch as my boyfriend’s passport is searched at the door of the airport, where I used to walk in and out of with my family, reunited and relieved just in time for Christmas. I watch as the bulky men stop me from entering the airport with him, stopping me from sending him off and stopping me from hugging him goodbye. He disappears behind the skyscraping barricades towering before the airport terminal. I see on a tiny boxed screen of mighty, armoured automobiles circling the outskirts of Hong Kong, as an army of uniformed Chinese secretly practice in unison together in Shenzhen. I see innocent men and women beaten with rigid sticks as they just try to make it home for the night. I see a ruthless, masked man with no fear throw a smoke grenade into a police station, mightily celebrating, only to crumble at an instance after being discovered, unmasked, and dethroned. I see people with power shrivel back into their shells like hermit crabs, just waiting for this all to be over - actionless, speechless. I get into a nasty fight with my mother about democracy. I listen to all the opposing voices, all the voices telling their story, all the voices making just one facet of the whole picture. I see the empty sphere of truth, being filled in slithers and cracks, yet so many holes and empty spaces left unfilled, untold. All the voices in my head like engulfing white noise, I don’t know what I think, I don’t know who I believe, I don’t know what’s wrong, what’s right, what's best, what's worst for Hong Kong… 

and it all just gets louder.

louder

louder

LOUDER -

another day, another day, and another day - 

My home… 

I write this today as a girl from Hong Kong. A typhoon rages on outside. Lightning strikes, the thunder echoes. My eyes still closed, I pull the blanket closer to me. Hope diminishes. Thunder roars. My heart drops as I wake up horrified that something bad has happened. Eyes wide, I look at the empty dark room - shocked to find that - 

for the first time here, I feel scared. 

I'm scared of the typhoon. 

I'm scared of Hong Kong.

I'm scared of my own utopia.

Quite frankly, I don’t know what words I could say to soothe the tension, or to cure the problem. But today, I don’t think that’s what's important. Maybe, what's most important right now isn't to preach, but it is to just listen, describe and write. I can say so much, but the undeniable truth is - I don’t know the answer to this. I don’t know the resolution to all of this. I don't know how to handle the situation, how to unite two violent, opposing sides. 

I just miss my home.

I love my home, but today, as a girl from Hong Kong, I am scared of my

home. 

I write this today as a girl from Hong Kong. Can we all be heroes? Can’t we all be heroes? How do we tell the truth peacefully? How do we tell the truth kindly? How do we tell the truth in a sphere instead of in one-sided flatness? How do we resolve issues through love? How do we give all of ourselves to listen intently, to every detail of any story, no matter what side they are on? How do we incorporate all? How do we consider everyone?

Maybe the heroes needed in Hong Kong are more quiet and go more unnoticed than we think. Because they sit and listen and support. The actions that they would take are not violent, are not jurassic, and are not harmful. Their actions are simple. Simple, yet impactful. If we did that, I think that would be heroic right there. I think we would be brave. I think we would bridge that gap together. I think we could be what the city needs. 

Maybe we could be those heroes of Hong Kong. 

Maybe we could pick up the broken pieces again.

Maybe we could heal again.

Maybe we could find a home in Hong Kong again. 

Maybe, one day, I'll dance in the streets again.

Maybe, one day, my parents will finally be able let go of my hand, and watch me walk away into the sunset, knowing full well that they would see me so soon once again - 

and one day, my home will be my home again.

I love you Hong Kong. Forever believing, forever rooting for you.

                                                                                                  -  teeny, tiny, & terrified