A year out of prison, a year longing for Hong Kong

On the anniversary of my expulsion from my adopted home, a reflection on activism, trauma, and the power of purpose

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Reemerging from behind the wall on March 23, 2022

One year ago today, I woke up in my cell at Hong Kong’s maximum security Stanley Prison to the sound of a guard shouting at me to pack my things. He then hustled me over to the prison’s reception center, where I was given breakfast and told to wait for the bus to take me to Immigration Detention. As I waited, I was handed a large stack of letters from friends, family, and strangers that had never been delivered to me in my cell. I sat on a bench and read them, blocking out the bustle around me and soaking in each page as I always did when I received letters in prison.

A senior Correctional Services officer came over as I read. I’d seen him a few times before. He was a gruff man, but never hostile. “You’re getting out today,” he said. I wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement.

“Well, I’m getting out of here,” I responded. “Let’s see if I get out of Immigration Detention.” I knew that the U.S. Consulate had helped arrange a flight for me that night, but I had learned not to trust anything in this broken justice system.

“You will,” he said. He started to walk away, then stopped and turned back to me. “It’s not right what happened to you. Good luck.” Then he went back into his office.

And that was it. Despite my fears, the day went fairly smoothly. I was taken to the Castle Peak Bay Immigration Center for a few hours, then to the airport, where I got to see my partner briefly for the first time in two months. Immigration Officers escorted me through security, where they handed me a piece of paper warning me that any future requests to enter Hong Kong would be denied.

A picture my partner took of me (clearly unprepared) during our brief encounter at the Hong Kong airport under the watchful eye of immigration enforcement officers

“Can I keep this paper?” I asked the officer.

“No.” He took it back. I wasn’t surprised, since there was no legal basis for banning me. But it was strange that they had put something so absurd on paper in the first place.

That night, I boarded a flight to Washington, D.C. I wouldn’t see my partner or dog again for half a year, and my ban from Hong Kong means I may never see many of my friends or my city again. But I was free—and after an ordeal over three years, countless court hearings, and two stints in prison, I had newfound purpose.

***

I arrived in the U.S. as a man on a mission. I would leave behind my life as a corporate lawyer forever, instead spending my time and energy fighting for Hong Kong and all those left behind in prison. And I would work for justice against the officials who had so cravenly betrayed their city for their own personal gain.

In those first frantic weeks in Washington, I set up meetings every day with Hong Kong activists and exiles, Western human rights organizations, journalists, government officials, and anyone else motivated to work with me in the fight. I still work all the time with many of the people I met in those first weeks.

But once that initial frenzy wore off, headwinds appeared. I thought that by burying myself in the fight for Hong Kong, by channeling the trauma of the past three years into my work, I could avoid any negative effects from it. But that’s not how trauma works.

***

Last year, a survey of recent Hong Kong migrants by the group Hongkongers in Britain revealed almost a quarter reported symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder from the events of 2019 and ensuing crackdown. But most said that they were suffering in silence: only six percent had ever discussed mental health with their doctor, and only 8.7 percent said they were considering seeking mental health help in the future. Only half said they felt comfortable discussing mental health even with their closest family and friends.

In other words, tens of thousands who have left Hong Kong in the wake of the government crackdown are suffering negative effects from what we all collectively went through, but few are directly taking steps to work through the trauma and find peace.

It’s easy to say that this approach isn’t healthy, that Hongkongers abroad would be happier if they focused on healing, letting go, and moving on. But it’s not that simple: For many of us, we don’t want to move on. We’re driven to continue the fight because we haven’t moved on. What happens if we find our inner peace? Who will fight for the city then?

***

In my first days back in the U.S., I felt like a foreigner in the country of my birth. Americans would hear my story and welcome me home. But it wasn’t my home—my heart remained in Hong Kong. I chose to settle down in Hong Kong because I had found a sense of belonging there that I’d never quite found growing up in the U.S. Yet here I was, contrary to all my plans, back living in a country that belonged to my past.

I’ve had it better than many Hongkongers forced to move abroad. Activist Nathan Law described having to cut off communication entirely with his family in Hong Kong for their own safety; friends and colleagues here have told me they’ve done the same. But my family is all in the U.S. And while I am still in the country of my birth and easily navigate its culture and quirks, other activists face enormous challenges on these fronts that can be immensely frustrating. Even those with strong English often don’t know how to navigate the systems and norms of their new homes.

Yet I found myself relating strongly in other ways. Soon after arriving in the U.S., I began to feel the survivor’s guilt that many in the Hong Kong diaspora have reported and lamented. As Nathan described it, “I was able to leave Hong Kong while they can’t.” Most of us in this movement have friends still in prison, or awaiting trial. We’ve left them behind. It can be difficult to avoid constantly thinking about them, feeling guilty for being safe when they’re not. As an activist, I’ve often felt shame for not being productive enough in a day, for taking too many breaks, even for taking a day or two of vacation, because I know people I care about in Hong Kong are depending on me to keep fighting.

But without rest, and without creating some separation from the work, it’s easy to become overwhelmed. The work we’re doing is emotionally heavy. That would be true even without a personal connection to it, but that personal connection—not being able to read about a new arrest or review a new report on Hong Kong without thinking about the faces and voices of friends lost to the system—can at times be unbearable.

Occasionally, the inner turmoil can reach a breaking point. I can snap at people I care about, or withdraw from friends and family. I’ve tried to learn to detect that point approaching, to fight the guilty feeling and give myself a break, to forgive myself for failures, and to talk about it with loved ones. Sometimes it works.

I’ve been lucky to find Hongkonger friends here in the U.S., who I value very much. I can connect with them in a way that’s difficult with others—not because of a shared language, but because of a shared longing for a place we can’t be and friends we can’t see. With Hongkongers, there’s no need to explain or justify feeling out of place here, or sad about what’s happened to Hong Kong and those still there. It just makes sense.

Sometimes I see these same emotional challenges bubble up in my Hongkonger friends and colleagues. It pains me to see, but at the same time it is a comforting reminder that I’m far from alone in feeling this way. We all really ought to talk about it more.

Perhaps letting it all go would make life easier. Perhaps embracing D.C. as my new home would be the most mentally sound thing to do. But I don’t want to risk losing my will to fight for Hong Kong’s future. I don’t want to give up. So I hold on, let myself feel the pain and fury each morning when I read about whatever new nightmare has appeared in Hong Kong’s front page news, scream at the wall whenever rich Westerners throw their money around Hong Kong like there aren’t thousands of political prisoners locked away nearby, feel longing whenever I see friends and loved ones post online about their life in the city that I miss dearly.

Sometimes I’m tempted to drop everything to go travel the world, earning money doing a bit of no-strings online consulting when needed, and live a worry-free life for a while. But I know if I did that, I’d lose something much more valuable to me than a carefree existence: the life purpose that this fight has given me.

***

Despite the challenges, I’m proud of what I’ve managed to build this year, sometimes alone but more often with fellow activists. Our wins are always small; any progress on liberating Hong Kong was always going to be a long, difficult journey of incremental steps. But there are genuine wins, and the building blocks of progress are slowly being put in place.

Some things I’ve been most proud of: Working with other U.S.-based Hong Kong groups to build better coordination mechanisms so that we can tackle more complex advocacy work; several successful pressure campaigns against Hong Kong government collaborators here in the U.S.; speaking to policymakers and testifying to a Congressional committee about our political prisoners as we press for more sanctions and other consequences for abusive officials; and, perhaps most of all, continuing to write on this Substack, interacting with all of you and continuing to build our online community.

My biggest failure this year has been my slow progress documenting my personal experiences in the justice system and prison. When I set out a year ago, my top priority was writing a book about my experiences during the ordeal. I took detailed notes as it all happened, knowing that recording personal experiences from those of us who were there as Hong Kong was brought to heel would one day be important to our fight. I also planned a series of articles about my court and prison experiences for this Substack; in prison, I would sketch out articles while under lockdown and waiting for the day I could publish them.

But over this year, I’ve only managed to write six chapters for the book, which recount the three days between my arrest and release on bail in December 2019, and I only published one article here about my experiences in the system—specifically the nightmarish, systemic breakdowns that I witnessed during the February-March 2022 Covid prison lockdown. But in both cases, writing about those experiences took an immense emotional toll on me.

Don’t get me wrong: in many ways, facing those memories was healing, and writing has always been therapeutic for me. But during the periods I spent writing about them, it was difficult to think of much else. My life was put on hold as all my emotional energy centered around dredging up difficult memories. So to write things like this, I have to set aside days or even weeks in which I can focus all my attention and energy on it. With so much going on in the Hong Kong advocacy world, that’s been hard to do.

However, I still think it’s very important to record those memories while they’re relatively fresh, and writing the book remains my top goal for this year. I’m hoping to take some time during the summer to set everything else aside and focus on it full time for a few weeks. I’m going to search around for an agent and publisher as well, as I think getting those lined up—and the pressure that will give me to prioritize the book and meet deadlines—will help me to finish the task. You can all keep bugging me about it until I get it done: don’t let me off the hook.

***

My previous career as a corporate lawyer could be stressful at times, but rarely overwhelming. The work I do now, in contrast, is emotional, often painfully so, and sometimes tests the limits of what my heart and mind can handle. But the meaning and purpose it adds to my life are invaluable. I wake up every day knowing that despite all the difficulties, I’m doing work I care about, with colleagues I admire, for people and a city I love.

Even with all that’s happened, I don’t regret a thing.