When you are trying to say something and you are being monitored, that is abnormal.
On the 37th anniversary of the Tiananmen Square crackdown, Hong Kong — once the sole place within China where that grief could be openly held — bore witness to a quiet but telling scene: two artists attempting small acts of remembrance were intercepted by police before their gestures could fully form. No arrests were made, yet the message was complete. What was once a city of tens of thousands gathering by candlelight has become a place where a red thread and a question-mark balloon require a police response, marking how thoroughly the architecture of permissible memory has been dismantled since Beijing's 2020 national security law reshaped the city's civic life.
- On the anniversary itself, police stopped two performance artists within hours of each other — one tying a symbolic thread, one holding a balloon — before either act could be witnessed by more than a handful of passersby.
- The suppression is not incidental: three former organizers of Hong Kong's once-massive candlelight vigils now face subversion charges carrying up to ten years in prison, transforming commemoration into a prosecutable act.
- Where tens of thousands once mourned in Victoria Park, a pro-China carnival now occupies the same ground, its festive name a pointed contrast to the grief it has displaced.
- One former vigil organizer managed a hushed act of resistance near the carnival — bowing, reading names of the dead in a low voice — a measure of how far the threshold of risk has moved.
- Overseas, the memory refuses containment: vigils continue in London and Canada, and a 1989 protest leader speaking in Tokyo insisted that hope, the same force that drove students to Tiananmen Square, is still alive.
On the 37th anniversary of the Tiananmen Square crackdown, two artists in Hong Kong attempted quiet, symbolic acts of mourning. Sanmu Chen tried to tie a 6.4-meter red thread — the length a reference to June 4 — to a street signpost in Causeway Bay. Police searched his bag and sent him away. Hours later, Chan Mei-tung stood outside a nearby store holding a question-mark-shaped balloon. Officers escorted her to a subway station. Neither was arrested. Both were simply stopped. The pattern, however, was unmistakable.
For decades, Hong Kong was the only place in China where the Tiananmen killings could be openly mourned. Every June 4, tens of thousands gathered in Victoria Park for candlelight vigils. Those vigils were banned in 2020 — officially due to COVID-19, but the timing coincided with Beijing imposing a national security law following the 2019 pro-democracy protests. In the years since, leading activists have been arrested, outspoken media outlets shuttered, and dozens of civil society organizations disbanded, including the group that organized the vigils for thirty years.
Three of those former organizers were charged with inciting subversion in 2021. Two await verdicts, possibly in July, and face up to ten years in prison. The third pleaded guilty. The message was clear: commemorating Tiananmen had become prosecutable as a threat to national security.
Where the vigils once stood, a pro-China carnival now takes place each year. It opened on Wednesday, the same day the two artists were stopped. Another former organizer, Tang Ngok-kwan, managed a muted act of remembrance nearby — bowing, reading the names of the dead in a low voice before criticizing the carnival's festive name. It was dissent reduced to a whisper.
Chen, who has been detained at least twice in recent years for similar gestures, told reporters he simply wanted to express condolences. "When you are trying to say or do something and you are being monitored, that is a very abnormal situation," he said. Police described their actions as routine and lawful, maintaining that the security law includes protections for human rights.
Yet the memory persists beyond Hong Kong's borders. Vigils continue in London, Canada, and elsewhere. Speaking in Tokyo, 1989 protest leader Wu'er Kaixi said the democracy movement endures. "We are managing to survive," he said. "Just like 37 years ago, we were driven to the streets by one thing — hope."
On Wednesday, as Hong Kong marked the 37th anniversary of the Tiananmen Square crackdown, two artists attempted small, symbolic gestures of remembrance—and both were stopped by police within hours. Sanmu Chen tried to tie a red thread, 6.4 meters long (the length itself a reference to June 4), to a street signpost in Causeway Bay, a shopping district that once anchored the city's most visible annual memorial. Police officers approached him, searched his bag, and sent him on his way. Later that evening, another artist, Chan Mei-tung, stood outside a nearby department store holding a question-mark-shaped balloon. Police escorted her to a subway station as journalists watched. Neither was arrested. Both were simply stopped, questioned, and released. But the pattern was unmistakable.
For decades, Hong Kong was the only place in all of China where the Tiananmen killings could be openly mourned. Every June 4, tens of thousands gathered in Victoria Park for candlelight vigils organized by civil society groups. The vigils were banned in 2020, officially during the COVID-19 pandemic, but the timing was not coincidental. That same year, Beijing imposed a national security law on the city following the massive pro-democracy protests of 2019. Since then, the space for dissent has contracted steadily. Many leading activists have been arrested. Several vocal media outlets have been shut down. Dozens of civil society organizations have been disbanded, including the group that organized the vigils for three decades.
Three of those former organizers were charged in 2021 with inciting subversion under the national security law. Two have gone to trial and are awaiting verdicts, possibly in July. If convicted, they face up to ten years in prison. The third entered a guilty plea. The charges sent a clear message: commemorating Tiananmen was no longer merely sensitive—it was now prosecutable as a threat to national security.
Where the vigils once drew crowds, a carnival now stands. Pro-China groups organize the event each year at the former memorial site, and this year's carnival began on Wednesday, the same day Chen and Mei-tung were stopped. The juxtaposition was deliberate. Some people who have tried to commemorate the crackdown at the site in recent years have been detained. Tang Ngok-kwan, himself a former vigil organizer, managed a quiet act of remembrance near the carnival. He bowed and read the names of the dead in a low voice, then criticized the carnival's name for its festive connotations. It was a muted expression of dissent in a city where even that has become risky.
When Chen was stopped on Wednesday, he told reporters afterward that his act was meant to express condolences for those who died. "When you are trying to say or do something and you are being monitored, that is a very abnormal situation," he said. Chen has been detained at least twice in recent years for similar acts. In 2024, he was briefly held after appearing to write the numbers "eight nine six four" in the air with his hand. The year before, he was detained on June 3 in the same neighborhood after chanting "Hong Kongers, do not be afraid. Don't forget, tomorrow is June 4."
Police said in a statement that officers had encountered individuals lingering at two locations and had approached them to learn more. The two people subsequently left on their own, police said. The statement added that any police action is handled in accordance with the law and that officers will make appropriate deployments based on threats to national security, public safety, and public order. The Hong Kong and Beijing governments maintain that the security law is essential for stability and that it includes provisions to respect and protect human rights.
But the lived reality in Hong Kong tells a different story. The city was promised a high degree of autonomy when it returned to Chinese rule in 1997. The erosion of civil liberties since 2020 has been swift and visible. What once could be said openly in the streets must now be whispered, if said at all. Yet the memory persists elsewhere. Overseas communities in London, Canada, and other cities continue to hold vigils and rallies to mark the anniversary. Wu'er Kaixi, who was a leader of the 1989 Tiananmen protests, spoke to reporters in Tokyo on the anniversary. "The democracy movement in China is still there," he said. "We are managing to survive. It's not easy, but we are surviving, because just like 37 years ago, we were driven to the square, to the streets of Beijing by one thing—hope."
Notable Quotes
When you are trying to say or do something and you are being monitored, that is a very abnormal situation.— Sanmu Chen, performance artist
The democracy movement in China is still there. We are managing to survive, because just like 37 years ago, we were driven by one thing—hope.— Wu'er Kaixi, 1989 Tiananmen protest leader
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does a red thread, or a question-mark balloon, matter enough to stop someone on the street?
Because symbols are the last language left when words become dangerous. In Hong Kong, you can't hold a vigil anymore. You can't organize a gathering. So artists find other ways to say "I remember, I mourn." The police stopping them isn't really about the thread—it's about the message underneath it.
But they weren't arrested. They were just stopped and let go. Doesn't that suggest the authorities are being restrained?
It's restraint of a particular kind. It's not the blunt force of an arrest; it's the constant pressure of being watched, questioned, searched. It's the knowledge that if you try again, next time might be different. That's how you hollow out a freedom without formally abolishing it.
The vigils used to draw tens of thousands. Now there's a carnival at the same site. How does that happen?
Slowly, then suddenly. First the vigils are "temporarily" banned for pandemic reasons. Then a national security law arrives. Then the organizers are charged with subversion. Then the space is repurposed for something festive and pro-China. By the time people realize what's happened, the infrastructure of remembrance is gone.
What about the three organizers facing trial? That seems like the real pressure point.
It is. Ten years in prison for organizing a candlelight vigil—that's the message being sent. It tells everyone else: if you organize, if you lead, the consequences are severe. One of them already pleaded guilty, probably hoping for leniency. The other two are waiting for verdicts. It's a slow-motion chilling effect.
But people still remember. Chen keeps trying. Tang still bows. Doesn't that suggest the suppression isn't working?
It's not working completely, no. But it's working enough. The vigils that once drew tens of thousands are now individual acts of quiet resistance. That's a different kind of memory—smaller, more fragile, easier to ignore. The authorities don't need to erase the memory entirely. They just need to make it invisible.