Why I Care So Deeply About Hong Kong
— Written on the Sixth Anniversary of the Yuen Long MTR Attack
作者：吕峰
编辑：赵杰 责任编辑：罗志飞 翻译：鲁慧文
与大多数同龄人一样，我认识香港，是从黑白电视里的周润发和赵雅芝开始的。后来，录像机和录音机带来了成龙、吴孟达、刘德华、张学友的身影和歌声。那时年幼的我并不明白，理论上大家都是中国人，但他们的生活状态却像是在另一个世界：街道整洁，秩序井然，娱乐多元，言论自由。
在中共的教育体制下，我也曾是一个热血的“爱国少年”，是学校里的共青团积极分子。1997年7月1日零点，全世界瞩目的香港回归仪式，我全程观看了电视直播。那一刻，心中油然而生的是强烈的民族自豪感。像这样重要的历史事件，时政考试必考，所以至今我仍记得那个口号：“一国两制，港人治港；高度自治，一百年不变。”其实，少年时代的我并不真正理解“一国两制”的意义，只知道“我们赢了”。甚至当时听说香港特首是民众投票选出来的，我的第一反应竟是：“董建华竟然不是国家指派的？他要是不听话怎么办？”
随着互联网的兴起，我接触到越来越多的信息，也听到了更多不同的声音。结合自己工作和生活的经历，我开始独立思考，也渐渐理解了民主与自由的真正含义。2014年，香港爆发了震惊世界、要求真普选的“占中”运动。那时，我已有家庭，有了孩子。闲暇时，我常与朋友们谈论：“中国共产党对待香港的态度，就是它对世界的态度。”
果不其然，这次抗议最终以强制清场告终。2019年，当香港各界反对修订《逃犯条例》时，中国共产党竟然直接安排一群白衣人手持棍棒，追打乘客和记者，血染地板。这不是电影，而是现实中的恐怖场景。更令人心寒的是，施暴者还被称作“爱国人士”，而警方姗姗来迟，甚至与暴徒握手致意。
那一刻，我明白了：一国两制已死。中共对香港的承诺，中共对世界的承诺，又一次被撕得粉碎。
我为什么如此关注香港？
因为它曾承载我的童年幻想，是我对文明世界的最初认知；
因为它曾是中国人骄傲的象征，是我们曾经许下的诺言；
因为今天，那些诺言在棍棒和血腥中破碎，而勇敢的人仍在坚持。
纪念“7.21”，不是为了仇恨，而是为了记住耻辱，记住那些无辜被打、被捕的人，记住自由消逝的声音。法治不是口号，自由不是施舍。没有法治、没有自由的地方，再繁华的高楼，也不过是钢筋牢笼。
自由就如同麻雀。麻雀没有美丽的羽毛，也没有婉转的歌喉；自由不需要华丽的辞藻，更不需要漂亮的口号。但若想把它们关起来，它们都会以死抗争。
六年过去了，香港变了，但我们的追求没有变。
终有一天，当人们再谈起香港，不只是叹息和遗憾，而是怀抱希望与尊严。
Why I Care So Deeply About Hong Kong
— Written on the Sixth Anniversary of the Yuen Long MTR Attack
By Lü Feng
Editor: Zhao Jie | Executive Editor: Luo Zhifei | Translated by: Huiwen Lu
Like most of my peers, my first impression of Hong Kong came from the black-and-white television—through Chow Yun-fat and Angie Chiu. Later, it was VHS tapes and cassette players that brought the faces and voices of Jackie Chan, Ng Man-tat, Andy Lau, and Jacky Cheung into my world. As a child, I didn’t understand why, in theory, we were all “Chinese people,” yet their lives seemed to belong to a completely different universe: clean streets, social order, diverse entertainment, and freedom of speech.
Raised under the Chinese Communist Party’s education system, I too was once a passionate “patriotic youth,” an active member of the Communist Youth League at school. On July 1, 1997, at midnight—the moment the world witnessed the handover of Hong Kong—I watched the live broadcast with full attention. A strong sense of national pride rose within me. It was a momentous event sure to appear on political exams, so I still remember the official slogan: “One country, two systems; Hong Kong people ruling Hong Kong; high degree of autonomy, unchanged for 100 years.”
Back then, I didn’t truly understand what “one country, two systems” meant. All I knew was: we won. I even recall my reaction when I first heard that the Chief Executive of Hong Kong was elected by popular vote: “You mean Tung Chee-hwa wasn’t appointed by the central government? What if he disobeys?”
With the rise of the internet, I was exposed to more information and a wider range of voices. Combined with my own life and work experience, I began to think independently and gradually came to understand the true meaning of democracy and freedom.
In 2014, Hong Kong erupted in the Umbrella Movement—a massive protest demanding genuine universal suffrage that shocked the world. By then, I had a family and children. In my spare time, I would often discuss with friends: “The way the Chinese Communist Party treats Hong Kong is the way it treats the world.”
As expected, the protest ended in a forced clearance. Then in 2019, when people from all walks of life in Hong Kong opposed the amendment to the Extradition Bill, the CCP went so far as to organize gangs of white-clad men wielding sticks to chase down passengers and journalists in the subway, leaving blood on the floor. This was not a movie. It was a real-life horror scene. What was even more chilling was that the perpetrators were labeled “patriots,” while the police arrived late and were even seen shaking hands with the attackers.
In that moment, I realized: “One country, two systems” was dead.
The CCP’s promise to Hong Kong—its promise to the world—had once again been torn to shreds.
Why do I care so deeply about Hong Kong?
Because it once carried the dreams of my childhood—it was my first glimpse into a civilized world.
Because it once stood as a symbol of pride for all Chinese—it embodied promises we once made.
Because today, those promises have been shattered in blood and batons, and yet brave souls still resist.
To commemorate “7.21” is not to breed hatred, but to remember the humiliation, to remember those who were beaten and arrested, to remember the voice of freedom fading away.
Rule of law is not a slogan. Freedom is not a gift.
Without the rule of law or freedom, even the most dazzling skyscrapers are nothing but concrete cages.
Freedom is like a sparrow. Sparrows may not have beautiful feathers, nor enchanting songs. Freedom needs no elegant prose, no flowery slogans. But if you try to cage them, they will resist until death.
Six years have passed. Hong Kong has changed. But our pursuit has not.
One day, when people speak of Hong Kong again, it will no longer be with sighs and sorrow, but with hope—and dignity.
Freedom is like a sparrow. Sparrows may not have beautiful feathers, nor enchanting songs. Freedom needs no elegant prose, no flowery slogans. But if you try to cage them, they will resist until death.