作者：张宇
编辑：邢文娟 责任编辑：李聪玲 校对：程筱筱
黎明来到 要光复 这香港
同行儿女 为正义 时代革命
祈求民主与自由 万世都不朽 我愿荣光归香港——《我愿荣光归香港》
还记得小时候我第一次在一盘盗版VCD里看到的香港情景：街头闪烁的霓虹灯，穿风衣的警探，叼着烟的歌手，还有那句唱到心底熟悉的旋律——“原谅我这一生不羁放纵爱自由”。那时的香港，对我来说，不只是城市，而是一种生活方式，一种自由、时尚、文明、开放的象征。
在那个信息被围墙阻隔的年代，香港是我们“窥见”世界的一扇窗。
可是，当我长大，从2019年3月开始，当关于“自由“”民主”的 话题从香港新闻在消失，当我看到“占中”的学生被打压、“反送中”的人群被污名化，当“光复香港，时代革命”这八个字被定性为犯罪标语，我忽然明白，那座我心中像征着自由民主的东方明珠——香港，已经死去。
我看着那座曾经闪烁着自由光芒的国际大都市，变成了红旗下的橡皮印章，我心痛不已。而更令人悲哀的是，它的死亡，并不是孤独的，那是整个华语世界的暗夜——当自由被践踏，当思想被驯服，当恐惧被合理化，我们每一个人，都在某种意义上幻化成了香港。
很多人以为香港还在热闹，铜锣湾依旧人潮汹涌，维多利亚港的夜景依旧耀眼，金融区的灯光照得人眼花缭乱。地铁依然准时，商场依然高端，游客买着免税化妆品和时尚奢侈品，好像一切看起来就如从前，表面上一切都没有变。
但真正的变化，总是从不被看见的角落开始。
新闻台原本敢于提问的记者，不再出现在镜头前；大学校园里挂满了“国安教育”的横幅，取代了学生会的宣言；图书馆里下架了成推的政治书籍，连《苹果日报》的旧刊都成了“危险物品”；连街头的涂鸦也变得小心翼翼，只剩下模糊的“光”与“自由”，被雨水一点点冲淡。
中共政府告诉世界，香港依然“一国两制”；央视镜头下，香港依然“繁荣稳定”；但每个香港人心里都明白——那只是布景板式的繁华。
我曾经相信，香港会永远保持自己的节奏：那种既中又西、既古典又现代的独特气质。可如今，街头的普通话越来越多，红旗无处不在，连广播里的粤语语调都开始变得“规矩”而单调。自由的城市，变成了“听话的特区”。警察不再是维护秩序的守护者，而是政权的执行者。港府官员在北京的指令下行事，而不再代表市民的声音……
（图片来自于洛杉矶自由雕塑公园）
2019年的香港，是一座被愤怒和希望同时点燃的城市，那年夏天，街头的空气都是炽热的。雨伞、头盔、口罩成了新的标志，年轻人用身体去对抗权利的机器。他们高喊的那句口号——“光复香港，时代革命”，并不是挑衅，而是一种哭喊，一种被逼到绝境后的觉醒。
起初，只是一条看似普通的《逃犯条例》修订草案。但所有人都知道，那是通往极权的桥。一旦通过，任何人都可能被送往内地受审——记者、教师、议员、甚至只是一个发帖表达不满的市民。于是，百万港人走上街头，队伍一眼望不到尽头。黑色的衣服连成一片，如同海浪，呼喊声此起彼伏，那是一场属于公民的复活。
学生们举着“撑香港反送中”的牌子，年轻的女孩在地铁出口分发口罩和水，有老人站在人行道上静静地比出“加油”的手势。这是香港人最温柔，也最坚强的时刻。
但温柔的抗争很快被暴力回应。催泪弹在狭窄的街巷里炸开，白烟弥漫，尖叫四起。有人倒下，有人被拖走，有人用雨伞遮住身边被打的人。警棍挥下去的时候，没有人再分得清正义与秩序。媒体的镜头被封锁，报道被删改。电视上说“暴徒破坏社会安宁”，可每个在现场的人都知道，那些被称为“暴徒”的孩子，只是想要一个可以安全发声的城市。
“光复香港，时代革命”——这八个字成了自由的遗言。它被政府定性为“分裂国家”，却被世界记住，印在游行的横幅上，印在被捕者的额头上，也印在每个热泪盈眶的香港人心里。
最终这场运动没有胜利，2020年6月30日，《香港国安法》在没有经过立法会充分讨论的情况下，于午夜强行生效。香港正式进入“红色时代”。街头的旗帜换了颜色，学校的课程换了内容，新闻的标题换了语气。所有事情都在一夜之间，变得不同。
我还记得，那几天香港的气氛异常安静，没有庆祝，也没有喧嚣。只是人们在手机上默默删掉旧帖，有人换了头像，有人清空了相册，有人关掉了社交账号，就像每一个人都低下脑袋，准备被驯服。
（图片来自于洛杉矶自由雕塑公园）
从此以后，香港变得“听话”。抗议消失了，标语消失了，连街头音乐都变得温顺。艺术家改画风，出版商改选题，每个人都知道，什么可以说，什么必须忘。
港府称这叫“恢复秩序”；中共称这叫“回归正轨”；可我知道，那只是“顺从”的另一种说法。
香港人开始移民。一波又一波，像潮水退去。有人去了伦敦，有人去了台北，也有人去了我所在的城市。他们背着行囊，带着那口熟悉的粤语，却述说着“香港已死”的故事。
有时我看着新闻镜头里的中环，那熟悉的霓虹还在闪烁，但我再也不敢相信那是真的。那是一座被中共极权改写的城市，名字还叫香港，灵魂却早已被换了。
它被迫忘记自己的语言、历史、信念；
被迫学会赞美、表忠、沉默。
那不是香港，而是中共的一个“洋娃娃”。
香港的故事，不只是香港的故事。它是一面镜子，映照出中共极权制度如何一步步吞噬一座城、一群人、乃至整个文明的灵魂。
中共极权的方式从来不是摧毁，而是同化。它不需要推土机，不需要枪炮。它只需要改变语言、改写教材、关闭报社、收编学校。它让人习惯恐惧，习惯沉默，习惯在安全的范围内假装自由。等到有一天，人们真的学会“自我审查”，中共极权就不再需要监控，因为每个人，已经成为自己的看守。
中共极权可怕的地方在于，它不只是统治土地，它要统治人的心。让人习惯屈服，习惯遗忘，习惯把谎言当成常识。一旦记忆被抹去，悲剧就能被重新书写成“成功的故事”。这正是它最阴险的地方。
有人说，香港是“叛逆的孩子”，可在我看来，香港只是一个敢于做梦的地方。它曾经用几十年的时间，证明华人社会也能拥有自由与法治。而如今，这个实验被摧毁。这不是香港的失败，而是中共极权的胜利。有时候我在想，如果连香港都守不住，我们还能在哪里谈自由？还能在哪一片土地上相信真相、尊严与思想的独立？
虽然香港的自由被夺走，但它留下的火种不会熄灭。中共极权可以封锁街头、关闭报社、审查言论，却无法摧毁记忆。那记忆藏在流亡者的梦里，藏在被没收的报纸边角，藏在海外小镇的集会上，在被驱散的广场回声中。
那些高喊口号的年轻人、那些被捕的记者、那些流亡的学者，正在续写“时代革命”的意义。他们在异乡重建媒体、翻译书籍、记录真相。
他们让世界记得：香港并非死去，而是在另一种形式下延续。
（图片提供：张宇；图为张宇参加洛杉矶领事馆门口举行的集会活动）
Glory to Hong Kong
Author: Zhang Yu
Editor: Xing Wenjuan Responsible Editor: Li Congling Proofreading: Cheng Xiaoxiao
Abstract: This article recalls Hong Kong’s former freedom and prosperity, reflects on the profound social transformations after the 2019 Anti–Extradition Bill Movement, expresses deep concern and mourning over the erosion of freedom of speech, the rule of law, and civil rights, and calls for remembering that freedom must not be forgotten.
When dawn arrives, we shall reclaim this Hong Kong.Children of the era march together for justice and revolution.May democracy and freedom endure for all ages—I pledge that glory will return to Hong Kong.— “Glory to Hong Kong”
I still remember the first time, as a child, that I glimpsed Hong Kong through a pirated VCD: neon lights flickering across the streets, detectives in trench coats, singers with cigarettes hanging from their lips, and that familiar melody that lodged itself in my heart—“Forgive me for being unruly all my life and loving freedom.”Back then, Hong Kong was not merely a city to me, but a way of life—a symbol of freedom, modernity, civility, and openness.In an era when information was blocked by walls, Hong Kong was a window through which we “peeked” at the world.
But as I grew up, especially since March 2019, when the topics of “freedom” and “democracy” began disappearing from Hong Kong’s news; when I saw students in the Occupy movement suppressed, protesters in the Anti–Extradition Bill movement demonized; when the eight words “Liberate Hong Kong, Revolution of Our Times” were criminalized—I suddenly understood that the Hong Kong which had embodied liberty and democracy in my imagination had already died.
I watched that once-glittering international metropolis—its glow of freedom extinguished—turn into a rubber stamp beneath the red flag, and I felt heartbroken.And what is even more tragic is that its death is not solitary; it is part of the long night falling over the entire Sinophone world. When freedom is trampled, when thought is domesticated, when fear becomes normalized, every one of us, in some sense, becomes another Hong Kong.
Many people think Hong Kong is still lively: crowds surge through Causeway Bay, Victoria Harbour’s nightscape remains brilliant, and the lights of the financial district are dazzling. The MTR still runs on time, malls remain upscale, and tourists continue buying tax-free cosmetics and luxury goods. Everything on the surface appears unchanged.
But real change always begins in places unseen.
Journalists who once dared to ask hard questions no longer appear on camera; university campuses are draped with banners of “National Security Education,” replacing student-union manifestos; libraries remove stacks of political books, and even old issues of Apple Daily have become “dangerous items.”Even street graffiti has grown timid—only blurry traces of “light” and “freedom” remain, gradually washed away by the rain.
The Chinese government tells the world that Hong Kong still enjoys “One Country, Two Systems”; state television shows a Hong Kong that is “prosperous and stable.”Yet every Hongkonger knows—this is merely stage-set prosperity.
I once believed that Hong Kong would forever keep its own rhythm: a unique blend of East and West, classical and modern.But now, Mandarin fills the streets, red flags appear everywhere, and even the intonations of Cantonese in public broadcasts have become more “disciplined” and monotonous.A free city has been transformed into an obedient “special administrative region.”The police are no longer guardians of public order but enforcers of the regime.Government officials act according to Beijing’s directives, no longer representing the voices of the people…
(Image from the Los Angeles Freedom Sculpture Park)
In 2019, Hong Kong became a city ignited simultaneously by anger and hope.That summer, even the air on its streets felt scorching. Umbrellas, helmets, and masks became new symbols, and young people used their bodies to resist the machinery of power. The slogan they shouted—“Liberate Hong Kong, Revolution of Our Times”—was not a provocation but a cry for help, an awakening born from being pushed to the edge.
It began with what seemed like a single ordinary amendment: the revision of the Fugitive Offenders Ordinance.But everyone understood that it was a bridge leading straight toward authoritarianism. Once passed, anyone could be extradited to the mainland for trial—journalists, teachers, lawmakers, or simply an ordinary citizen who had posted a message of dissent.And so a million Hongkongers took to the streets. The procession stretched farther than the eye could see. Black clothing formed a continuous sea, and waves of shouting rolled through the city. It was a moment of civic resurrection.
Students held signs reading “Stand with Hong Kong, Oppose the Extradition Bill.” Young women handed out masks and water at MTR exits. Elderly people stood silently on sidewalks, raising their hands in quiet gestures of encouragement.This was Hong Kong at its gentlest—and its strongest.
But gentle resistance was soon met with violence. Tear gas exploded in the narrow alleys; white smoke filled the air; screams echoed. People collapsed, people were dragged away, people shielded each other with umbrellas. When the batons came down, no one could distinguish justice from “maintaining order” anymore.Reporters’ cameras were blocked, coverage was altered.Television declared, “Rioters disrupt social stability,” but everyone on the ground knew that those labeled “rioters” were only children who wanted a city where they could speak safely.
“Liberate Hong Kong, Revolution of Our Times”—these eight words became the last testament of freedom.The government labeled them “secessionist,” but the world remembered them. They were printed on banners, on the foreheads of the arrested, and in the hearts of every tearful Hongkonger.
In the end, the movement did not win.On June 30, 2020, without sufficient deliberation in the Legislative Council, the Hong Kong National Security Law was imposed at midnight. Hong Kong officially entered the “red era.”The flags in the streets changed color, school curricula were rewritten, and the tone of news headlines shifted. Everything became different overnight.
I still remember how eerily quiet Hong Kong felt in those days.No celebrations, no noise.People simply began deleting old posts on their phones. Some changed their profile pictures; some wiped their photo albums; some shut down their social-media accounts.It was as if everyone lowered their heads—preparing to be tamed.
(Image from the Los Angeles Freedom Sculpture Park)
From that moment on, Hong Kong became “obedient.”Protests vanished, slogans disappeared, and even street music grew tame.Artists changed their styles, publishers revised their topics, and everyone understood what could be said—and what had to be forgotten.The Hong Kong government called it “restoring order”;the Chinese Communist Party called it “returning to the right path.”But I know all of it was simply another name for “submission.”
Hongkongers began to emigrate—wave after wave, like a receding tide.Some left for London, others for Taipei, and some came to the very city where I live.They carried their luggage and their familiar Cantonese accents, yet the stories they told were all the same: “Hong Kong is gone.”
Sometimes, when I look at news footage of Central, the familiar neon lights still flicker, but I can no longer believe in their reality.It is a city rewritten by the CCP’s authoritarian power—still called Hong Kong, though its soul has long since been replaced.
It has been forced to forget its own language, history, and convictions;forced to learn praise, loyalty, and silence.That is no longer Hong Kong—but a “doll” crafted by the Chinese Communist Party.
Hong Kong’s story is not only Hong Kong’s story.It is a mirror reflecting how CCP authoritarianism devours a city, a people, and eventually the soul of an entire civilization.
The CCP’s method of domination has never relied on destruction—it relies on assimilation.It does not need bulldozers or guns.It only needs to alter language, rewrite textbooks, shut down newspapers, and take over schools.It teaches people to grow accustomed to fear, accustomed to silence, accustomed to pretending they are free within safe boundaries.Once self-censorship becomes instinct, the regime no longer needs surveillance—because every person has already become their own guard.
What makes CCP authoritarianism terrifying is that it does not simply rule land; it aims to rule the human mind.It trains people to accept submission, to accept forgetting, to accept lies as common sense.Once memory is erased, tragedies can be rewritten as “success stories.”This is its most insidious power.
Some say Hong Kong was a “rebellious child,” but to me, Hong Kong was simply a place brave enough to dream.For decades, it proved that a Chinese society could indeed uphold freedom and the rule of law.Now that experiment has been crushed.This is not Hong Kong’s failure—it is the victory of authoritarianism.
Sometimes I wonder:If even Hong Kong could not be defended, where else can we speak of freedom?On what land can we still believe in truth, dignity, and the independence of thought?
Although Hong Kong’s freedom has been taken, the sparks it left behind will not be extinguished.The CCP can seal streets, shut down newspapers, and censor speech—but it cannot destroy memory.These memories are hidden in the dreams of exiles, in confiscated newspaper margins, in gatherings in small overseas towns, and in the echoes of dispersed crowds.
Those young people who shouted slogans, those journalists who were arrested, those scholars who fled abroad—they are continuing to write the meaning of the “Revolution of Our Times.”They are rebuilding media in exile, translating books, documenting truth.
They ensure the world remembers:Hong Kong has not died—it continues in another form.
(Image courtesy of Zhang Yu; the photo shows Zhang Yu participating in a rally held in front of the Chinese Consulate in Los Angeles.)
