五年了，我們的香港記憶帶了點苦澀

五年了。時間過得真快。我還記得 2019 年夏天，我在清邁，每天就是盯著螢幕，看著直播，追著香港反送中運動的最新進展。那段日子裡，百萬香港人走上街頭，城市的牆壁、天橋、地下道，到處都貼滿了便利貼，寫著「我們愛香港！我們是香港！香港永不放棄！」這樣的標語。人行道上，有人用傳單拼成棋盤圖案。示威者築起路障，和警察對峙。

Five years have passed. Time flies. I still remember the summer of 2019. I was in Chiang Mai, eyes glued to the screen every day, watching live streams and following every update of the Hong Kong anti-extradition protests. That was a time when millions of Hongkongers took to the streets. The city’s walls, overpasses, and underpasses were covered in sticky notes bearing messages like “We love Hong Kong!”, “We are Hong Kong!”, and “Hong Kong never gives up!” On the pavement, leaflets were arranged into checkerboard patterns. Protesters built barricades and stood off against the police.

這場運動不只是抗議一條引渡條例，更是關乎身分認同的掙扎。我看著那面被換上的黑旗，上面是被燻黑、枯萎的紫荊花，這多像香港的處境，一朵雜交、需要人工才能延續的花。抗議者喊出的口號，唱著那首《願榮光歸香港》，像是在尋找香港自己的聲音。那是一種堅定的拒絕，不願被強加來自北方的身分認同。

But this movement was more than just opposition to an extradition bill—it was a struggle over identity. I remember the black flag that replaced the official one, with a charred, withered bauhinia flower. It looked so much like Hong Kong itself—a hybrid flower that can only survive with human intervention. The slogans shouted, and the singing of Glory to Hong Kong, felt like a search for Hong Kong’s own voice. It was a firm rejection—a refusal to accept an imposed identity from the north.

這場抗爭也伴隨著控制敘事的鬥爭。我看到年輕人冒著風險，摘下口罩，只為了不被官方媒體稱為「暴徒」。但權力方也用盡手段，警察施放了大量催淚彈，甚至過期的，有人在元朗被白衣人襲擊。司法也被用作壓制異議的武器，「法律戰」悄然進行。

The movement was also a battle over narrative. I saw young people take off their masks, risking everything, just so they wouldn’t be labelled “rioters” by the state media. But those in power fought back with everything they had: police fired countless rounds of tear gas, some of it expired; people were attacked by men in white shirts in Yuen Long. Even the judicial system was weaponised—what they called a “war of law” quietly unfolded.

五年過去，香港已經變了很多。那堵堵曾經充滿訊息的連儂牆消失了。網絡監控越來越嚴，抗議貼紙變成了只能私下傳閱的地下刊物。我以前看的《蘋果日報》也不在了。

Five years on, Hong Kong has changed so much. The Lennon Walls, once full of messages, are gone. Online surveillance has grown more intense. Protest stickers have turned into underground zines passed around in secret. The Apple Daily, once my go-to news source, is no longer there.

這種變化，其實早就有跡可循。曾灶財，人稱「九龍皇帝」，他在街頭寫下自己聲稱擁有香港土地的文字，一開始被看作怪人，甚至被送進精神病院。但他堅持了半個世紀，他的墨寶後來成了香港的標誌，印在各種商品上。他用想像力聲稱主權，即使作品被塗掉，字跡依然隱約可見，就像那句「我塗掉文字，是為了讓你們看到更多」。九龍皇帝的反抗精神，似乎一直流淌在這座城市的血液裡。

This shift wasn’t sudden—it had long been brewing. Take Tsang Tsou Choi, known as the “King of Kowloon.” He used to write on the streets, claiming ownership over the land of Hong Kong. People saw him as a madman, even institutionalised him at one point. But he persisted for over half a century. His calligraphy eventually became a symbol of Hong Kong, printed on souvenirs and artwork. Through imagination, he claimed sovereignty. Even when his work was painted over, the traces remained—faint but visible—like his famous line: “I erase these words so that you can see more.” That spirit of resistance seems to run deep in the city’s veins.

現在，香港人想像自己是誰的空間越來越小了。那種失落感和惆悵，像甜甜的家鄉味道突然帶了點苦澀。但我也記得，香港人選擇的反英雄，那些受到壓迫但努力反抗的人們，他們會繼續反抗下去。

Today, the space for Hongkongers to imagine who they are has shrunk drastically. There’s a lingering sense of loss and melancholy—like the taste of home turned suddenly bittersweet. But I also remember the city’s anti-heroes: those who were oppressed, yet fought back. They will keep resisting.

看著現在的香港，再回想 2019 年，心裡五味雜陳。也許有一種失落，卻又同時懷抱希望，希望香港未來能夠重生。

Looking at Hong Kong now, and thinking back to 2019, I feel a mix of emotions. Maybe there’s a sense of grief, but also hope—a hope that one day, Hong Kong can be reborn.

這五年，中國大陸最後一片民主空間——香港，確實沒有了，一切都變了。但那些在牆上、在心裡留下的印記，或許還在吧。

In these five years, China’s last democratic frontier—Hong Kong—has indeed disappeared. Everything has changed. But perhaps, the marks left on the walls, and in our hearts, are still there.

光復香港，時代革命 Liberate Hong Kong, revolution of our times