Tag: protest

  • Standing with Hong Kong: An Interview with Joshua Wong and Jason Y. Ng

    Standing with Hong Kong: An Interview with Joshua Wong and Jason Y. Ng

    Joshua Wong and Jason Y. Ng, authors of Unfree Speech, discuss free speech in Hong Kong, coronavirus, and the role of literature in campaigning for global democracy.

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    The sub-title of Unfree Speech references ‘global democracy’. Could you both speak a bit more about how the Hong Kong context relates to a global context, and to liberties that are threatened internationally.

    JOSHUA WONG: In recent years, autocratic regimes like have China started to extend their tentacles worldwide, towards the retreat of global democracy. With its swelling economic clout, China pressures the business world to take its side; attacks critics of its human-rights abuses, such as ‘re-education camps’ for Uyghurs; and jeopardises universities’ autonomy through the Confucius Institute programme. All these imperil the civil liberties that global democracies rest upon.

    In our global battle against tyranny, Hong Kong is at the forefront. The Hong Kong movement demonstrates the possibility of saying no to authoritarianism. To hold these global human rights abusers to account, Hongkongers also call on the wider world to put forward an effective human-rights sanction regime.

    JASON Y. NG: One of the key messages in Unfree Speech is that Hong Kong, a semi-autonomous territory under Chinese rule, is the only place on Chinese soil where citizens dare stand up to those in power. We believe the kind of suppression of free expression and erosion of civil liberties that has been happening in Hong Kong will happen to the rest of the world in the future – that it’s a matter of when, not if. Like the canary in the coal mine, Hong Kong is sending out a distress signal, so that countermeasures against China and other autocratic regimes can be taken before it is too late. 

    Activism takes many forms, some transient and some permanent, some direct and some indirect. What does literature allow us to do with our activism? Is it about permanence, reach, or something else?

    JN: As a writer, I believe literature can speak to people more directly and personally than any other form of communication. Every book is a private, intimate conversation between a writer and their reader – one that can simultaneously convince, comfort, compel and coerce. It is the sharpest arrow in an activist’s quiver. Literature is all the more crucial in the era of social media, in which disinformation obfuscates truth, and complicated issues are condensed into soundbites.

    JW: Under China’s autocratic regime, censorship has become commonplace. Whilst whistleblower doctors are detained for telling the truth, and critical voices on social media are suppressed, literature is permanent activism. It resists China’s attempt to rewrite the history.

    As Milan Kundera said, the struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting. And the Beijing authority is extremely aware of civil society’s ability to document and archive. Unfree Speech mentions our archival project, Decoding Hong Kong’s History, which is unearthing declassified files from the 1980s on Sino-British negotiations and the future of Hong Kong. China’s state mouthpieces said this documentary project was about ‘creating alternative narratives’. In this context, to write is to resist.

    What do you fear most? And what drives you to persevere?

    JW: In response to public outcry, authoritarian regimes often use force and fear. Resistance has a price; most of the time, this is a long war that makes breeds frustration. When injustice prevails, hopelessness persists, and people turn apathetic, that is what I fear most. 

    JN: Hongkongers are fighting a war of attrition against communist China. In this long game, patience and resolve become the most valuable commodities. But because we don’t always get the outcomes we want – at least in the short run – disappointment and frustration can  turn into apathy and tacit surrender. It’s my greatest fear too.

    JW: But I have trust and confidence in Hongkongers’ creativity and resolve. Over the past nine months, the movement has unfolded its endless alternatives, forged by ordinary people. All of them are beyond my imagination. The people, our children, and our city’s future are the reasons I choose to continue fighting. 

    Free speech is a complex, nuanced, contested term. It is being pulled from multiple directions – by its fraught relationship to hate speech on one hand, by its erosion and suppression in increasingly authoritarian spaces on the other. What are your conceptions of free speech? 

    JN: Free expression is the one thing that separates the free world from the rogues’ gallery of authoritarian regimes around the world. It is what separates good from evil, the right side of history from the wrong side, us from them. We don’t need to look hard for an example: the suppression of free expression – the punishment of a whistleblower in Wuhan, China – has led directly or indirectly to a pandemic that is now ravaging the entire world.  

    But free speech is not absolute, and it reaches its limits when it’s weaponised to spread hatred and intolerance. I see its elusiveness as an opportunity, not a threat. The fact that free speech is a right that needs to be exercised, protected, and sometimes curtailed keeps us critical and vigilant.

    JW: The outbreak of coronavirus indeed demonstrates that free speech is more than just a matter of freedoms: it’s a matter of life and death. When China detains whistleblower doctors and citizen journalists for telling the truth, unfree speech in one place affects other parts – all parts – of the world. In societies without democratic institutions, free speech is the only weapon to hold the governments accountable for their misconduct. Tyrannical regimes may dictate the people with an iron fist, but not their souls. 

    Joshua, you have said that you know you will return to prison. What does this certainty do to your activism? Is it immobilizing, or is it liberating?’

    JW: For all human-rights defenders, imprisonment is a common tactic that tyrants use to silence dissent. In prison, I had time to read the writing of dissidents; their stories show that imprisonment does not kill dissidence, but instead unveils problems. Imprisonment further challenges the legitimacy of the regime, and mobilises more people to resist. 

    Could you both speak to me a little about violence and nonviolence?

    JN: I spent the better part of January traveling in Europe, giving talks and interviews about the political situation in Hong Kong. Audiences and journalists invariably asked about the sporadic incidents of violence on the streets. So I know first hand how the emergence of violence can complicate the narrative of our pro-democracy struggle, at a time when international support is crucial to our movement. 

    I continue to advocate nonviolence and reiterate my commitment to the principles of nonviolent civil disobedience. That said, I hasten to point out that the unelected and unaccountable Hong Kong government is ultimately responsible for pushing citizens towards more combative forms of resistance. A piece of anti-government graffiti on one of the protest frontlines offers a poignant explanation (but not an excuse) for the use of more aggressive tactics: ‘It was you who taught us that peaceful protest doesn’t work’.

    JW: The answer to the question of violence and nonviolence depends on a government’s response. Hongkongers have used the most peaceful ways possible to call for change. 2 million citizens took to the street to demand political reforms. 200,000 demonstrators formed the 25-mile ‘Hong Kong Way”’across the city. People lit up the city’s mountaintops with protest demands. But the government will not listen, and instead suppresses demonstrators – be they children, elderly, pregnant women, journalists – with excessive police violence. It is understandable, then, that tensions escalate.

    It is my belief, however, that all those clashes could have been avoided by – and the political dilemma can only be resolved with – genuine political reform. The democratisation experiences of South Korea and Taiwan echo this. Before universal suffrage, protesters used both violent and nonviolent action in their cause. Afterwards, the use of violence vanished. This is because democracy is the only way for people to see hope in the system. 

    You’ve found a perhaps surprising ally in the current US administration. What value and risks for you feel solidarity from different international contexts can hold?

    JW: The support for freedoms can be found in many countries. The authoritarian threat from China is real to all of them. Soon after President Xi Jinping came to power, China became increasingly hostile on an international level. President Xi leverages economic shares for overseas political influence, tramples upon our human-rights standards and institutions, praises the superiority of the authoritarian regimes over democracies through propaganda programmes, and bends international communities to his political will. In other words, the authoritarian threat is at their doorstep, which is why they stand with Hong Kong. 

    JN: Solidarity from the International community, especially foreign governments, often comes with strings attached. It is often driven and confounded by commercial, diplomatic or geopolitical motives. At the same time, Hong Kong is a tiny city and we don’t have the luxury to be picky with international allies and only to accept support from those with whom we see eye-to-eye on policy issues. And so we take whatever we can get, but always do so with our eyes wide open. 

    Why are booksellers, writers and publishers seen as such a threat (that is, as a threat to undemocratic or authoritarian governance)?

    JW: Under digital authoritarianism, China has established successful ways of censoring. For printed materials, the cost is much higher. Making use of that loophole, many liberal scholars and political dissidents use books as an essential medium of disseminating critical voices. Under the legal protection of One Country Two Systems, many independent booksellers choose to set up bookstores to sell sensitive books to travellers from China. Most of these books criticise China’s governance. That is why the Beijing authority has begun to close this loophole in recent years, kidnapping and imprisoning booksellers like Gui Minhai.

    JN: The abduction of booksellers in 2015 was a watershed moment for civil society in Hong Kong. It was a wakeup call – that we had been operating with a false sense of security, and that the perceived firewall separating the city from mainland China was an illusion. The incident gave me and a few like-minded writers the impetus to found PEN Hong Kong in 2016, to defend free expression and promote solidarity among writers, publishers and booksellers. 

    The blunt act of aggression was motivated by Beijing’s fear of the spread of subversive literature from Hong Kong to mainland China, which exposed not only the regime’s ruthlessness but also its insecurity. 

    Jason, how does this book sit in relation to your first three titles, which form something of a trilogy on Hong Kong’s development?

    JN: In Umbrellas in Bloom, the last of my trilogy, I made several predictions about Hong Kong’s political future in the post-Umbrella Movement era, including attacks on civil society and further deterioration of freedoms. With the eruption of mass protests in 2019, and the subsequent fallout, the worst possible scenarios I feared came to pass. As such, Unfree Speech is an ominous postscript to my trilogy. 

    But Unfree Speech is not all grim. It chronicles Joshua’s spectacular rise from a teenage activist to an international human rights icon. It is also a manual on what all of us can do to counter Communist China’s threat to global democracy. Despite its sombre message and sense of urgency, the book is a source of hope, inspiration and positivity. 

    Joshua, do you feel old? (If not, when will you?)

    JW: Well, during 2019, I did have that kind of feeling, as more and more underaged protesters risked their lives and struggled for the city’s future. At the age of ten, kids are supposed to have happy childhoods, playing video games after school and hanging out with friends. But under authoritarian rule, children have to fight for their future and safeguard the city’s vanishing liberties. They were unlawfully assaulted, injured, sacrificed, disappeared. Some have had to flee to other countries, looking for political asylum. That is not the life that our kids are supposed to live. They are young, but they suffer most. That is also the drive that pushes me to do more. 


    Joshua Wong was born in 1996. He has been named by TIMEFortuneProspect and Forbes as one of the world’s most influential leaders. In 2018 he was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize for his leading role in the Umbrella Movement. He is Secretary-General of Demosistō, a pro-democracy organisation which he founded in 2016 that advocates for self-determination for Hong Kong. Joshua came onto the political scene in 2011 aged 14, when he founded Scholarism and successfully protested against the enforcement of Chinese National Education in Hong Kong. He has been arrested numerous times for his protesting and activism and has served over 100 days in jail. He has been the subject of two documentaries, including the Netflix original, Joshua: Teenager vs Superpower. This is the first time his work has been published in English.

    Jason Y. Ng is a leading non-fiction writer in Hong Kong and the author of three acclaimed books charting Hong Kong’s post-colonial development, Hong Kong State of MindNo City for Slow Men, and Umbrellas in Bloom. He is also a lawyer, activist, columnist, and former president of PEN Hong Kong. Ng has covered Joshua’s story from its beginnings in 2011, and has continued to report and advocate for his cause ever since.

    Interview by Will Forrester, Editor.

  • Protest as Dance

    The first protest poem I ever heard was about Vietnam. It was 1966 and Adrian Mitchell was performing it in a ground-breaking show called US, produced by Peter Brook for the Royal Shakespeare Company. Mitchell had first performed it in 1964. It started:

    I was run over by the truth one day.
    Ever since the accident I’ve walked this way
    So stick my legs in plaster
    Tell me lies about Vietnam.

    I had by then heard Bob Dylan sing ‘The times they are a-changin’ and Joan Baez singing ‘We shall overcome’. I was 17 at the time and Vietnam was the first major war to impinge on my all-but-adult consciousness. Mitchell read the poem with real attack. It was witty and striking and urgent.

    We knew we were against Vietnam because we were against war generally. The operative lines in the four I quote above were the first and fourth, which, however, would have been nothing without the extended conceit of having legs in plaster. I don’t actually remember anything of the rest of the show. There was truth and there were lies: that much was clear.

    That clarity helps a great deal in protest poetry, but so does the wit. The truth was a matter of seeing it. As Nicanor Parra, the Chilean poet, put it much earlier:

    I close my eyes to see more clearly
    And I sing with rancour
    A song from the turn of the century

    Rancour helps too because it is a more subtle emotion than those usually invoked, such as rage and despair, however intensely these might be felt. Rancour brews and blossoms: the rest explode.

    Think of the verse that got Osip Mandelstam arrested and eventually killed, his famous Stalin epigram:

    Our lives no longer feel ground under them.
    At ten paces you can’t hear our words.

    But whenever there’s a snatch of talk
    it turns to the Kremlin mountaineer,

    the ten thick worms his fingers,
    his words like measures of weight,

    the huge laughing cockroaches on his top lip,
    the glitter of his boot-rims.

    Ringed with a scum of chicken-necked bosses
    he toys with the tributes of half-men.

    One whistles, another meows, a third snivels.
    He pokes out his finger and he alone goes boom.

    He forges decrees in a line like horseshoes,
    One for the groin, one the forehead, temple, eye.

    He rolls the executions on his tongue like berries.
    He wishes he could hug them like big friends from home.

    The poet wriggles free of the chains that bind him by indulging in a surreal piece of portraiture that hangs together with great brio. Language and imagery continues to excite him. The poem makes a new thing. It is far from his best poem but you can sense the poet dancing.

    Mandelstam’s was a dangerous dance but what the poem dances is full of life not death. It doesn’t simply have what Keats in a letter called ‘a palpable design on us’, the thought of which Keats hated; it doesn’t advertise its views, it dances them. The dance may be bitter, like Mitchell’s, but it remains a dance.

    Not only does it dance, it juggles too if it can. It juggles with the instruments poetry has to offer, such as rhyme, as in the Hungarian poet Gyula Illyés’s long single sentence poem written in the Fifties, ‘One Sentence on Tyranny’. It begins:

    Where tyranny exists
    that tyranny exists
    not only in the barrel of the gun
    not only in the cells of a prison

    not just in the interrogation block
    or the small hours of the clock
    the guard’s bark and his fists
    the tyranny exists

    not just in the billowing black fetor
    of the closing speech of the prosecutor,
    in the ‘justified use of force’
    the prisoners’ dull morse

    In 2012 an anthology of poems was quickly compiled in sympathy to the arrest and trial of the group known as Pussy Riot. I wrote the introduction remarking in it how the anthology, given its aims, was a political act as much as a poetic one. There was much passion and outrage and some good poems but what has stayed with me are four outrageous haiku by Alison Winch from near the end of the book. They are witty and powerful precisely because they are in haiku, that most meditative, least shouty of forms. They are properly fierce and feminist too. If you want to address a patriarchy like Putin’s which is part Mafia, part Russian Orthodox and part KGB, they are perfect. They are the Cunt Haikus.

    This is how they go:

    Capital of sex:
    at the size of his wallet
    she pursed her pussy.

    *

    Not a hole or lack,
    but a fat profiterole.
    Come here. Eat me. Come.

    *

    Breakfast: spread them like
    peanut butter. Take a bite:
    salty, sweet – the nut.

    *

    Not penis envy
    or clitoral shame, but our
    collaboration.

    Is this protest? You bet your life it is. The irony is funny but can kill. The poem dances its grave, ironic dance lightly while thumbing its nose. At least I think it’s a nose.

    George Szirtes, Sabrina Mahfouz and English PEN Director Jo Glanville will appear on a panel chaired by Ursula Owen at Ledbury Poetry Festival on Sunday 5 July.

    More information on English PEN’s partnership with Ledbury Poetry Festival, and how poets performing at the festival will be supporting poets at risk around the world, is available here.

  • Taking a stand

    Oray Egin reports on the continuing protests in Turkey, why they began in Gezi Park and what the writers of the country owe to those marching on the streets

    It was a small, insignificant park at the centre of Istanbul. For years it served as a gay cruising area at night, but during the day families with children spent time there as it was one of the last remaining green spaces. Many couples got married at the adjacent registry office. Almost all Istanbulians have memories in the park, but none of these mattered to the administration of the pro-Islamist Justice and Development Party (the AKP). Their decade-long rule of Turkey brought along a construction boom, and the Gezi Park was the latest to face a similar destiny.

    Turkey’s Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdoğan first conceived of a construction project at the site of the park when he was the mayor of Istanbul, in the early 90s. He didn’t get enough support then, but as a powerful premier, with 50 per cent support from the electorate, he revisited his original idea. His wish was to rebuild the Ottoman era military barracks torn down by the 50s government to make way for green space. “It may be a hotel, or a residence with shops on the ground floor,” Erdoğan recently announced.

    Urban transformation projects in Turkey rarely involve public opinion, therefore the bulldozers entered the Gezi Park without much delay after Erdoğan’s statements. But that tiny park triggered a country-wide demonstration against the government when a small group, of about 20 to 30 people, stood against the bulldozers and saved a tree.

    Soon after, the word got out via Twitter and involved more people frustrated with the government’s policies – not only environmental, but an accumulation of frustration. Thousands marched to Taksim Square, where the Gezi Park is located, and similar protests erupted in dozens of other Turkish cities. Police dealt brutally with protesters using tear gas bombs and water cannons. There are numerous injuries, including a protester who lost an eye, and even a civilian casualty.

    Turkey’s media, out of fear of the government, remained silent for days. The country’s first privately owned news network, NTV, became the focus of heavy criticism. The network is part of a large conglomerate which also owns Garanti Bank, one of the largest in Turkey. On Monday, its shares dropped 9 per cent and more than 1,500 customers closed their accounts. The network’s executive issued an apology the next day: “We were wrong.”

    “It’s significant that the protest started over a tree,” says Buket Uzuner, a novelist who’s working on a quartet inspired by nature. “But of course, it is not only about a park, all of us are frustrated. And for the first time in ten years we’ve had the will to say enough.”

    Indeed, the Gezi Park protests were ignited because of the government’s increasingly authoritarian rule and threats to secular lifestyles. Just recently, a bill banning alcohol sales from 10pm until 6am was passed by the government. A symbol of the Istanbul Film Festival, the historic Emek Theatre, was torn down and is now being converted into a shopping mall. Added to this is the intimidation of free press.

    “For me one of the biggest issues is censorship and self-censorship,” adds Uzuner. “I was writing in the 70s as well, during military rule, and I can honestly say that the pressure wasn’t as severe as today.”

    Most recently, many of Turkey’s leading writers, including Uzuner, O.Z. Livaneli, Latife Tekin, Mehmet Murat Somer, Ece Temelkuran and Ayse Kulin signed a petition calling for an independent council to be formed that will hear the people’s demands and stop police brutality. “I believe that among those protesters are people who grew up reading my books,” says Uzuner. “I owe it to them to raise my voice, support them, and even march with them.”

    About the Author

    Oray Egin is a journalist and a writer based in Istanbul and New York. You can follow him on Twitter @orayinenglish

    Additional Information

    This special edition of PEN Atlas is in response to events in Turkey, and will be followed by a piece tomorrow by Mario Levi on The Sounds of Istanbul.