Last year I wrote this post about the 20th anniversary of the June 4th massacre. Twenty years passed: the small child who watched the bloodshed on TV in utter confusion had turned into a woman whose mind was filled with literature, art and a complicated anger towards the country her hometown had to return to in a history of never-ending terrors. The memories of violence were intact and vivid; I wanted to tell the world that as a native Hong Kong person, I was proud that we lived in the only Chinese city where people could openly commemorate the massacre victims and rally for justice. And that despite our reputation for being materialistic, Hong Kong people had a keen sense of moral obligation and at times, generosity--we acted out of our feelings about what's right and what's wrong, and we were not afraid.
Another year passed. Tonight I was at the candlelight vigil with my artist friend Claire. My faith has remained unchanged: the freedom we still have in this city means more than anything else to me. Do not ask me why I, or any other Hong Kong person, go on protests in support of dissident Chinese intellectuals or against crazy government projects when it is all futile effort. Isn't our freedom gradually fading behind the flowers of forgetting that spring open over my city? Aren't we supposed to fade into Fascist oblivion and be silent? I do what I do because I love Hong Kong--I must safeguard what's so precious to me about this town. I light a candle--as many others do--out of a pure insistence that what we hold dear must not be taken away even when the authority is bashing us against the wall. That we must cry and we must be true to ourselves no matter what.
Like I wrote last year, sometimes I get driven to tears in defending my hometown when certain foreigners question the validity of freedom in Hong Kong--it is a sinking island now, there is no hope for anybody. Whether that is the truth I do not know. One day this city will turn into a place I can no longer recognize--I wish I will not live to see it. I have no patience either when people ask: Why hold onto the impossible? My answer is that the only thing that matters is what one lives in one's heart. Why shouldn't I go and sing what I know to be true? Why should we give up our fight when we can still fight? Do you know how much this means to the mainland Chinese parents who lost their children in the massacre, or their families, homes, livelihood in all kinds of absurd tragedies in their country? And some others who are aware of what's happening and support our effort from a distance?
Yes, they listen, follow and some cross the border to join us when they have a chance, amid the People's Liberation Army officers in casual wear who come over and drift into the crowd. In the last months I translated a handful of poems by dissident Chinese writers into English together with a Chinese poet in Hong Kong. Some of them--mostly the ones by Liu Xiabo--have been sent to his wife and other Chinese writers, and some get read at overseas readings. Tonight for the first time I thought about the significance of our simple act--of flipping through the pages, thinking, typing away to communicate the spirit of these writers to those who may not otherwise get to see it, to preserve it for future readers who may chance upon these lines. It means something, at least to the writers and those who are directly affected by the terrorism in their home country. One day it could mean a great deal.
I was brought up on Chinese literature--some of which is still very close to my heart, though I admittedly have a very different mindset and I write creatively in English only at this point. The Chinese philosopher, scholar and teacher Confucius said: 'Know something to be impossible and do it.' I first read and contemplated this line in my Chinese literature class in high school. Since then I have held it as one of my principles. Yes, know something is impossible but do it regardless. This is how I hold onto my ideal; this is how I live.
Another year passed. Tonight I was at the candlelight vigil with my artist friend Claire. My faith has remained unchanged: the freedom we still have in this city means more than anything else to me. Do not ask me why I, or any other Hong Kong person, go on protests in support of dissident Chinese intellectuals or against crazy government projects when it is all futile effort. Isn't our freedom gradually fading behind the flowers of forgetting that spring open over my city? Aren't we supposed to fade into Fascist oblivion and be silent? I do what I do because I love Hong Kong--I must safeguard what's so precious to me about this town. I light a candle--as many others do--out of a pure insistence that what we hold dear must not be taken away even when the authority is bashing us against the wall. That we must cry and we must be true to ourselves no matter what.
Like I wrote last year, sometimes I get driven to tears in defending my hometown when certain foreigners question the validity of freedom in Hong Kong--it is a sinking island now, there is no hope for anybody. Whether that is the truth I do not know. One day this city will turn into a place I can no longer recognize--I wish I will not live to see it. I have no patience either when people ask: Why hold onto the impossible? My answer is that the only thing that matters is what one lives in one's heart. Why shouldn't I go and sing what I know to be true? Why should we give up our fight when we can still fight? Do you know how much this means to the mainland Chinese parents who lost their children in the massacre, or their families, homes, livelihood in all kinds of absurd tragedies in their country? And some others who are aware of what's happening and support our effort from a distance?
Yes, they listen, follow and some cross the border to join us when they have a chance, amid the People's Liberation Army officers in casual wear who come over and drift into the crowd. In the last months I translated a handful of poems by dissident Chinese writers into English together with a Chinese poet in Hong Kong. Some of them--mostly the ones by Liu Xiabo--have been sent to his wife and other Chinese writers, and some get read at overseas readings. Tonight for the first time I thought about the significance of our simple act--of flipping through the pages, thinking, typing away to communicate the spirit of these writers to those who may not otherwise get to see it, to preserve it for future readers who may chance upon these lines. It means something, at least to the writers and those who are directly affected by the terrorism in their home country. One day it could mean a great deal.
I was brought up on Chinese literature--some of which is still very close to my heart, though I admittedly have a very different mindset and I write creatively in English only at this point. The Chinese philosopher, scholar and teacher Confucius said: 'Know something to be impossible and do it.' I first read and contemplated this line in my Chinese literature class in high school. Since then I have held it as one of my principles. Yes, know something is impossible but do it regardless. This is how I hold onto my ideal; this is how I live.
for the past six months i've been researching and working on a manuscript on aung san suu kyi. (different country, similar cause) your post strikes something deep inside me. i just wanted to let you know that, and also that i appreciate you sharing your words here. we need to hear your voice.
ReplyDeletesherry