Everyday movement, p.4
Everyday Movement, page 4
Meanwhile, Uncle Gin and a few other older guys spent their days cursing the protesters, accusing them of being bankrolled by the Americans, of pushing for Hong Kong independence and destroying the city. Ah Mak had assumed the mainland engineers would join them in this criticism, creating a united patriotic front—“Glory to Great China!” “Long live the motherland!”—But they said nothing. Showing no interest in taking a stance, they went on lounging around, watching Douyin. Ah Mak felt a kind of kinship with these young men from the north. They shared a need to stay silent.
Chan Yuek, however, continued trying to lure Ah Mak out of his shell. Lately, on dates, she took to pressuring Ah Mak to carry “the spirit of resistance” into his everyday life. He should, she insisted, work on his colleagues and supervisors and preach the ideals of the movement like gospel. When he heard rumors about the protests, it was his duty, she said, to quash the falsehoods and denounce the liars. He needed to draw a clear line, she said. He needed to demonstrate his loyalty.
Chan Yuek took his ambivalence to be indifference. She couldn’t stand it.
One evening in early July, Ah Mak met up with Chan Yuek at a restaurant after work. Between work and protests, he hadn’t managed to get any rest. Sitting at the table, he was so exhausted that he could barely keep his eyes open. However, her words stung him awake. “Why don’t you ever say anything? I want you to talk to me, to tell me what you’re thinking,” she pleaded.
“We have nothing left now. All we can hope for now is that everyone contributes a little. If everyone takes a small step, it will make a big leap for civil society. But Ah Mak, why couldn’t you even bring yourself to join the strike?”
Ah Mak knew how Chan Yuek drew her lines. On that day, calling in sick to join the rally was the best he could have mustered. He tried to explain this. But it was not good enough for her. By giving notice, he had failed to stand up against the system.
He recalled how, when they were newly in love, they used to excitedly dissect scenes and storylines after finishing a movie. Little had he known that two cinephiles could love movies in vastly different ways. He enjoyed losing himself in the music, the sound effects, and the way the camera moved through a scene; Chan Yuek, however, was devoted to evocative imagery, reasonable plot development, and whether the content of the story aligned with the format of storytelling. Their perspectives were related, but never quite meshed together. After talking past each other for a while, they learned to leave the cinema quietly and to head to a restaurant for a peaceful dinner.
Did these distinctions create an unbridgeable gap between lovers? Ah Mak wasn’t sure. That evening, at the restaurant, he searched within himself but found no response to her exasperation. He didn’t feel entrenched enough to put up a defense; neither was he ready to nod along in appeasement. So he kept his head down as if focusing on his borscht. Each spoonful was as salty as the last. They finished the rest of their meal in silence. Later that night, she broke up with him over a text message.
* * *
—
A few days after Chan Yuek broke up with Ah Mak, he decided to join a peaceful demonstration downtown by himself. Born and raised in this orderly city, he believed the clashes in Tamar Park to be a one-off accident. He put on a plain T-shirt, jeans, and canvas shoes, as if he were heading out for a leisurely afternoon. He wasn’t completely wrong. When he followed the crowd and marched down the wide, car-free boulevard, he admired the bustling businesses lining up on both sides: a dried seafood store steeped in a briny scent; a record shop playing ’90s Cantopop on repeat; a newsstand owner dozing off at his post.
The crowd turned off the boulevard onto a bar district. Ah Mak was struck by how sleepy this place appeared in daylight. On the few occasions that he had come here before, he usually arrived after dinner to hang out with a few friends. In the cool evening air, they shared beers and watched the brilliantly lit streetlamps and neon signs near and far. In Ah Mak’s tipsy vision, they looked like fireworks that had frozen in the sky—a postcard version of Hong Kong’s dazzling nights.
Suddenly, loud noises disrupted Ah Mak’s daydream. In the distance, a struggle broke out. A man was slammed to the ground and arrested. Tear gas seemed to come in all directions. Just a few feet from him, a canister landed on a tree and burst into a bright red-orange flare. As he ran away from the action, Ah Mak inhaled some tear gas. He felt his throat swelling and pressure on his windpipe. He began to choke. He thought he was going to trip and fall. He feared he would get arrested.
Two young volunteer medics caught up with him and grabbed his arms on either side. “Hold your breath! Keep running,” they shouted. Leaning on their support, he kept going. His eyes were stung by the toxic gas and tears streamed down his face. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe. But he kept running.
Soon, the medics helped him into an alley. They sprayed asthma medication into his mouth, rinsed his eyes, and wiped down his face. He was gasping for air. His throat was still burning with excruciating pain. He wanted to vomit. When he looked up, he saw that just steps away were the bars and nightclubs he used to frequent. One night a few months ago, after having too many drinks, Ah Mak stumbled through these streets, held upright by his friends. Just like that drunken night, he was given gulps of water but kept spitting it back out.
The repeated rinsing eventually relieved the tightness in his throat. Sitting on the ground, he realized he was filthy and doused with saline and unknown chemicals. They were only a few blocks away from the protest route, but Ah Mak felt like he had ducked into another world. The streets were brilliantly lit as usual. Around him, tourists and shoppers walked undisturbed. A music shop nearby was playing an old Eason Chan track. Everything was hazy and unreal. Suddenly, a thought washed over Ah Mak: He was no longer a casual viewer at a theater. He had become part of the action.
* * *
—
Within a few weeks, Ah Mak transformed into a radical frontline protester. Perhaps it was his long-simmering repressed emotions bursting into action. Gone was the novice Ah Mak who was clumsy with a gas mask. He now showed up at protests armed with iron pipes from the depot and dressed in full protective gear, finished with a motorcycle helmet and heat-resistant gloves.
When tear gas canisters came flying, he whipped out his water bottle and coated the canisters with water before they touched the ground. Once, a canister landed at his feet without exploding. He picked it up. The heat of the metal shell seared through the fabric of his glove. Without flinching, he grasped it and raised it overhead. His upper body slightly leaning backward, he took aim and hurled it with all his might at a cluster of riot police.
Truth be told, Ah Mak was surprised by his own swift transformation. Once he decided to give up on his ideal mode of resistance, “Peaceful, Rational, and Nonviolence,” his actions escalated quickly and his tolerance for brutality was dialed up. For the rest of the summer, he spent his weekends on the street, where tensions ran high. He extinguished fires and took hits from rubber bullets; he smashed shop windows displaying pro-government signs and threw Molotov cocktails at police vehicles.
Having become a fearsome force of destruction, he also feared the possible consequence of being destroyed. Once, beanbag rounds struck his gas mask, and its plastic shattered against his face, lacerating his lips and cheeks. He tasted blood in his mouth. Running around and dodging the police all day, Ah Mak felt like a gecko, solemnly bearing its pain, ready to sever its tail for survival.
Sometimes he moved alone. Sometimes he had the company of peers he had met on the frontlines. They often stayed out late till the last train. At the end of exhausting days, his friends and he bid goodbye to one another on metro platforms. As the train doors closed, sometimes they shouted, “Don’t die!”
When he arrived home, Ah Mak flicked on the light, often pricking his hand behind the cabinet. He took a shower and soaked his gear. Sleepless, he turned and tossed in bed, reading up on the day’s new developments in group chat. Come Monday, he reported to work as usual.
Somehow, he grew even quieter. At the depot, he rarely interacted with anyone. It was as if there were two dueling versions of Ah Mak. The more frenzied and reckless he was on the streets, the more detached he was in his daily life. Perhaps the resolute resistance fighter in him was siphoning away all the vitality of Ah Mak, the ordinary guy.
He had changed in many ways, but he hadn’t become the man Chan Yuek had wanted him to be. It was easier to throw a Molotov cocktail at a car than to confront a coworker at the depot. He could navigate escape routes on the street but not the complex questions Chan Yuek asked. He was still the man who couldn’t work up the courage to meet Chan Yuek’s gaze, the man who couldn’t say anything when his mother started to move out. He couldn’t live up to or defy their expectations.
And then, they left him.
* * *
—
After Ah Mak’s mother returned to the mainland, she sent him money every month. But it was his aunt who watched over him. She occasionally stopped by with her daughter Panda, bringing him household essentials. As his aunt peeled fruit, she urged him to keep an open mind and not to blame his mom. Ah Mak was taken aback. He never blamed anyone. He knew people sometimes didn’t have a choice.
When Chan Yuek and he used to watch movies together, she relished the thrill of Tarantino flicks, where villains paying for their own misdeeds was an inevitability. He preferred films like A Brighter Summer Day and Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri. In these stories, some innocent people died, and some equally innocent individuals were made to take the fall. This kind of pain and powerlessness.
Ah Mak had never imagined himself capable of such rage, such hatred in real life. And it wasn’t a film that he could pause or walk away from. All around him, he saw injuries and antagonism snowballing. They spurred him to go on. The world was burning, but it barely scratched the structures of power.
Once upon a time, Ah Mak watched and rewatched V for Vendetta and read the original graphic novel. He had believed that most people were like the film’s protagonist, Evey: They were timid conformists, but with the right ideas, they would readily transform into rebels. He had imagined that the picture of these men picking up V masks, fearlessly charging at the military army and riot police, was what resistance looked like. He had thought that ideas were bulletproof.
Now, he knew, ideas didn’t even shield anyone from tear gas or rubber bullets. In a superhero movie like V for Vendetta, every plot twist hinged on the practically bulletproof protagonist, V. Without his special powers, the people would never be able to triumphantly break through the military line. Instead, they would be massacred.
Demoralized by these thoughts, Ah Mak tried to refocus on his task at hand. He began dismantling a display screen in the rickety metro car. The glass was cracked and warped. The faint yellow light made his head hurt. He set the screen down and stepped outside for a break.
His left arm still hurt. A week ago, he was at a rally when things turned violent. A beanbag round injured it so badly that he temporarily went numb. Before he could react, the police advanced toward him and other protesters. They began running, only to be ambushed by another squad of officers around the corner, cutting them off from the crowd and closing in on them. Batons swung wildly, Ah Mak remembered. Protesters were pinned down, the officers’ knees were on their throats, and their faces were beaten, swollen and bloodied beyond recognition.
Ah Mak ducked into an alley and managed to escape. He wanted to notify his peers’ families and friends, but they never exchanged their real names. Back at the apartment, he cleaned up and bandaged his forearm and hand. Ready to rest, he went to his room. Feeling his way in the dark, he groped around in the gap behind the cabinet. The wound limited his mobility, and he couldn’t reach the switch. His palm, swollen from weeks of chemical exposure and burns, scraped against the rough wooden back of the cabinet.
In that instant, he remembered Chan Yuek’s reproachful look. Ah Mak grabbed his backpack and retrieved an iron pipe. He had been carrying it to protests. It was scarred with marks from all that smashing and clashing. Suddenly fueled by boiling rage, he felt ready to destroy the cabinet that had overstayed its welcome. Its impractical nuisance was taunting him. Finally, he acknowledged it. He resented his mother for placing it there without even consulting him. In the darkness, he raised the pipe with his good hand.
But he couldn’t do it. There was another way. He gripped the edges of the cabinet with both hands. He channeled all his remaining strength to pull the furniture away from the wall. In this lurching movement, the contents inside toppled and tumbled onto the floor. And just like that, a space opened up behind the cabinet. Ah Mak poked his head in to check. Although the switch was still obstructed, the gap had become wider and there was now enough space for a hand to slip in and out with ease.
He turned the light on. All sorts of items had slipped behind the cabinet over the years, hiding in the gap without anyone knowing: a lone sock, a CD, a few postcards. There was also a scattering of pink crystal beads, glinting softly in the dust.
Life During Wartime
Chan Yuek’s left eye was bloodshot, streaking red like a fish gill. The pain was so intense she could hardly open it. She dug her knuckle into her eyelid and rubbed vigorously, as though trying to squeeze out a piece of red filament to alleviate the discomfort. The more she rubbed, the more it swelled. The man by her side grabbed her hand. In her hazy mind and muddled vision, she almost mistook him for Ah Mak. He had been like this too. He liked to stop her from rubbing her eyes.
She murmured, “It hurts. It hurts so much I can’t see a thing.”
The man tried to soothe her. “It’ll get better. It’ll get better. Something must have gotten in there.” He squeezed drops into her eye and gently pressed a warm towel on it. Leaning in, he gently blew into the irritated eye.
After a long while, the overlapping images slowly merged back into a single figure. Her vision cleared up. As if coming to from a trance, she realized the man by her side wasn’t Ah Mak. Of medium height, the man had skin so fair that it looked like he had never been exposed to the sun.
“Ho Sam, I’m scared,” she said.
Was she having that feeling again? When something happened so abruptly that she wasn’t quite able to register it physically or emotionally. It was like what happened during one of her first hospital visits as a child. A nurse called out her name, distracting her at the very instant when a long, thin needle poked under the skin of her upper arm. Before she knew to react, the needle was already gone. A tiny trace of blood oozed out in its aftermath.
As they left the hospital, her mother praised her for being so brave. She was treated to a Happy Meal and a visit to a toy store. But perhaps Chan Yuek had known even then, it wasn’t that she was fearless; in fact, being stunned could appear a lot like calmness.
That night, lying in bed clutching her new toy, she couldn’t resist rolling up her sleeve to examine the site of the puncture. Observing the faint red dot and the slightly tingling numbness in her arm, she came to comprehend—an opening had been made on her body, although it was very small.
This feeling returned from time to time in the years to come. In junior high, when her first confession of love was rejected, she kept a smile on her face throughout the day. The disappointment only caught on after she got home when she buried her face in a blanket and sobbed uncontrollably. A few years later, she picked up part-time work as a waitress, and when a male customer stalked her after her shift, she confronted him and drove him off with a stern, commanding voice. When she was at last alone in a bathroom stall, the feeling finally sank in. She couldn’t stop trembling and hugged herself tight.
Several years after breaking up with Ah Mak, she would still lose sleep as she revisited their last few months together, regretting her prideful naivete. Having taken impatience for courage, she hurt a man she had loved and forced their relationship to a premature end.
In the days after they had fled from Tamar Park, Chan Yuek was often visited by a dream. In it, she saw Ah Mak, standing straight and tall, with his back turned toward her. That afternoon, when they ran along the waterfront in the direction of the International Finance Centre mall, they briefly paused near the Ferris wheel when she began coughing uncontrollably. As she caught her breath, she looked across the street and saw the customers and staff in a store on the second floor. By the store window, they crammed together, shoulder to shoulder, palms and faces pressed against the glass, straining to get a look at her and the other fleeing rallygoers from their elevated point of view.
Once they reached the relative safety of the IFC mall, Ah Mak told her he had to go and asked if she wanted to head to the metro together. Chan Yuek shook her head. The camera strap around her neck was coated with ashy tear gas residue, digging into her skin. Her hands and feet had been injured. Ah Mak relieved the camera from her neck and bought some first-aid items from a nearby drug store. On the sidewalk, he rinsed her wounds before disinfecting and bandaging them. Then he washed the camera strap, too, and gently wiped her neck clean. Now that she seemed more comfortable, he suggested again, “Let’s get out of here.”
For reasons she couldn’t explain, Chan Yuek didn’t want to go yet. She wanted to stick around perhaps to see what was going to happen to the people at the rally who hadn’t managed to get away as fast as they had.
She watched Ah Mak walking toward the metro entrance. His back was straight, and he looked so tall. Her eyes followed him, but he didn’t glance back, not even when he paused at an intersection, waiting for the light to change. She kept her gaze fixed on his back until he grew smaller and smaller before vanishing altogether.
