It's abnormal when people monitor you when you are saying or doing something
On the eve of the thirty-seventh anniversary of the Tiananmen Square crackdown, a performance artist in Hong Kong's Causeway Bay was stopped by police before he could tie a 6.4-meter red thread to a street signpost — a quiet, coded act of mourning for those killed in 1989. The intervention was small in scale but vast in implication, reflecting how thoroughly the space for public remembrance has contracted in a city once celebrated as the sole place within China's reach where that history was openly honored. What was once a candlelit gathering of tens of thousands has been reduced to a single thread, and even that was too much. The question the artist left behind — what it means to live under a system that monitors grief itself — is one that history will not easily let go.
- A performance artist attempted to mark June 4th with nothing more than a length of red thread, and police intervened before the knot could be tied.
- Hong Kong's annual candlelight vigils, once among the largest commemorations of the Tiananmen crackdown anywhere in the world, have been banned since 2020 and replaced with pro-China carnivals at the very site of mourning.
- The national security law imposed by Beijing in 2020 has gutted civil society — media outlets shuttered, activist organizations dissolved, and leading figures now facing up to ten years in prison for charges of inciting subversion.
- The artist himself has been stopped, detained, or questioned in each of the past three years, each incident smaller in gesture and larger in meaning than the last.
- As commemoration becomes impossible inside Hong Kong, the work of remembrance has migrated to London, Canada, and diaspora communities beyond Beijing's legal reach.
- The city that was promised fifty years of protected freedoms after its 1997 handover is now a place where a question-mark balloon and a spool of red thread are enough to summon a police escort.
On a Wednesday afternoon in Causeway Bay, performance artist Sanmu Chen stood at a street signpost holding 6.4 meters of red thread — the length a deliberate echo of June 4, the date in 1989 when Chinese military forces opened fire on student protesters in Tiananmen Square. His intention was to tie the thread as a memorial. Police arrived before he could finish, searched his bag, questioned him, and released him. "It's abnormal," he told reporters afterward, "when people monitor you when you are saying or doing something."
It was not his first encounter. In 2024 he was briefly detained for tracing the numbers "eight nine six four" in the air with his finger. In 2023, police stopped him in the same neighborhood after he called out to passersby not to forget the anniversary. On the same evening this year, another artist was escorted to a subway station by police for holding a question-mark-shaped balloon outside a nearby department store. These were not isolated moments but markers of a systematic narrowing.
For decades, Hong Kong had been the only place within China's reach where the Tiananmen crackdown was commemorated publicly and at scale. Every June 4, tens of thousands gathered in Victoria Park for candlelight vigils. That tradition ended in 2020, when the vigils were banned under the cover of pandemic restrictions — restrictions that were never lifted. The park now hosts pro-China carnivals. The civil society organization that had organized the vigils for thirty years disbanded under legal pressure.
The accelerant was Beijing's national security law, imposed in 2020 following a year of mass protests. Framed as a measure to restore stability, it has functioned as a mechanism for silencing dissent. Three former vigil organizers were charged with inciting subversion; two are awaiting verdicts that could carry ten-year prison sentences, while a third pleaded guilty. Leading activists were arrested. Independent media shut down.
The 1989 crackdown — in which soldiers fired live ammunition on protesters, killing hundreds by conservative estimates and possibly thousands by others — remains a historical fact. But Hong Kong's ability to acknowledge it publicly has been methodically dismantled. The work of remembrance has since moved abroad, to diaspora communities in London and Canada who now carry what the city that once promised to hold it can no longer publicly bear. A red thread on a signpost, in the city that was guaranteed fifty years of protected freedoms, is now enough to bring police running.
On a Wednesday afternoon in Causeway Bay, one of Hong Kong's busiest shopping districts, a performance artist named Sanmu Chen stood at a street signpost with a length of red thread in his hands. The thread measured 6.4 meters—a deliberate reference to June 4, the date in 1989 when Chinese military forces opened fire on student protesters in Beijing's Tiananmen Square, killing hundreds and possibly thousands. Chen's intention was simple: tie the thread to the post as a memorial to those who died. Police arrived quickly and stopped him before he could complete the gesture. They searched his bag, questioned him, and let him go. When reporters asked what he had been trying to do, Chen explained that the thread was meant to express condolences. "It's abnormal when people monitor you when you are saying or doing something," he told them.
This was not Chen's first attempt. In 2024, he had been briefly detained after appearing to write the numbers "eight nine six four" in the air with his hand—another coded reference to the crackdown date. The year before, in 2023, police had stopped him in the same area after he chanted "Hong Kongers, do not be afraid. Don't forget tomorrow is June 4." As darkness fell on this June 3rd, another artist, Chan Mei-tung, was also stopped by police while holding a question-mark-shaped balloon outside a nearby department store and escorted to the subway station. These were not isolated incidents but symptoms of a larger transformation in Hong Kong's political landscape.
For decades, Hong Kong had been unique within China—the only place where the Tiananmen crackdown was publicly commemorated on a large scale. Every June 4, tens of thousands of people gathered in Victoria Park for candlelight vigils organized by civil society groups. The vigils were a ritual of remembrance, a space where Hong Kong's distinct identity and commitment to free expression were on full display. That ended in 2020. The vigils were banned during the COVID-19 pandemic, but the ban has never been lifted. The park that once held mourning crowds now hosts carnivals organized by pro-China groups. When people have tried to commemorate the crackdown near the site on the anniversary itself, they have been detained.
The shift accelerated after Beijing imposed a national security law on Hong Kong in 2020, following massive anti-government protests the year before. The law was framed as essential to stability, and Hong Kong authorities have insisted it includes protections for human rights. In practice, it has become a tool for silencing dissent. Leading activists were arrested. Media outlets critical of the government shut down. Civil society organizations disbanded, including the group that had organized the vigils for decades. The legal consequences have been severe. Three former vigil organizers were charged in 2021 with inciting subversion under the national security law. Two went to trial and are awaiting verdicts expected possibly in July; if convicted, they face up to ten years in prison. The third entered a guilty plea, which typically results in a reduced sentence.
The 1989 crackdown itself remains a historical fact that cannot be erased, even as Hong Kong's ability to acknowledge it publicly has been systematically constrained. On the night of June 3-4, 1989, under the direction of then-leader Deng Xiaoping, the Chinese military was deployed to Tiananmen Square to end weeks of student-led protests. Soldiers fired live ammunition. The death toll remains disputed—official accounts are far lower than eyewitness and international estimates, which range into the thousands. Dozens of soldiers were also killed. For thirty-seven years, Hong Kong had been the place where that history was kept alive in public memory. Now, as Chen discovered on a Wednesday afternoon in Causeway Bay, even the smallest gesture of remembrance draws police attention.
Meanwhile, the work of remembrance has migrated overseas. Communities in London, Canada, and other places outside China's reach have begun hosting vigils and rallies to keep the memory alive. The contrast is stark: in the city that once promised to be a bridge between China and the West, where freedoms were supposed to be protected for fifty years after the 1997 handover, the space for public commemoration has narrowed to nearly nothing. A red thread tied to a signpost is now an act that requires police intervention. The question Chen posed through his detention—what it means to live in a place where saying or doing certain things draws official monitoring—remains unanswered, hanging in the air like the thread he never got to tie.
Citações Notáveis
It's abnormal when people monitor you when you are saying or doing something— Sanmu Chen, performance artist
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
Why did Chen choose a red thread specifically, and why that particular length?
The 6.4 meters was a direct reference to June 4—the date of the crackdown. The red thread itself is a symbol of connection, of binding memory to the present moment. It's a minimal gesture, almost fragile, which makes the police response all the more telling.
Has Chen always been an artist, or did he become one after the national security law was imposed?
The source doesn't say. What we know is that he's been attempting these commemorative acts for at least three years—2023, 2024, and now 2026. Each time, he's found a different form: chanting, hand gestures, now a thread. He's adapting his method, but the message stays the same.
The vigils used to draw tens of thousands. What happened to all those people?
They didn't disappear. But the space where they gathered was closed to them. Some tried to commemorate near the site anyway and were detained. Others have left Hong Kong entirely. Many have simply gone quiet. The carnival that replaced the vigil sends a message: this is no longer your space.
Do the three organizers on trial have any chance of acquittal?
The source doesn't indicate what their defense is or how strong their case might be. But the charge is subversion under the national security law, which is broadly written. Two are waiting for verdicts possibly in July. The third took a guilty plea, which suggests the legal environment is not favorable.
Is there any official explanation for why the vigils were banned after COVID restrictions lifted?
No. The ban was imposed in 2020 during the pandemic, but it was never rescinded. The government simply didn't allow them to resume. Instead, the space was repurposed for pro-China events. It's a form of erasure—not through prohibition alone, but through replacement.
What does Chen risk by continuing to do this?
Detention, as he's experienced. Potentially arrest and prosecution under the national security law. The three organizers facing trial show what the stakes can be—up to ten years in prison. Chen is operating in a gray zone where his actions are stopped by police but he hasn't yet been formally charged. That uncertainty is itself a form of control.