It's abnormal when people monitor you when you are saying or doing something
Thirty-seven years after soldiers moved through Tiananmen Square and the world watched a city count its dead, a single artist in Hong Kong approached a signpost with a thread six meters and four centimeters long — and was stopped before he could tie it. What was once a civic ritual drawing tens of thousands to candlelight vigils has been reduced, under Beijing's national security law, to solitary gestures met with immediate police intervention. Hong Kong's long role as the one place in Chinese territory where public grief was permitted has quietly, deliberately, come to an end.
- A 6.4-meter red thread and a question-mark balloon — the smallest possible acts of remembrance — were enough to summon police escorts and potential criminal exposure in what was once Asia's freest city.
- The machinery of suppression is no longer subtle: artists are detained for writing numbers in the air, for chanting a date, for standing outside a department store holding a balloon.
- Three former vigil organizers await verdicts that could send them to prison for a decade, while their co-defendant has already pleaded guilty, signaling how thoroughly the legal terrain has shifted.
- Victoria Park, where tens of thousands once gathered by candlelight, now hosts pro-Beijing carnivals — the physical space of mourning converted into a demonstration of who controls the city's memory.
- The vigil has not died; it has been exiled — London, Canada, and diaspora communities now carry the ritual that Hong Kong's own streets can no longer hold.
On a Wednesday afternoon in Causeway Bay, performance artist Sanmu Chen approached a street signpost carrying a length of red thread — 6.4 meters, a deliberate echo of June 4, the date Chinese military forces crushed weeks of student-led protest in Beijing in 1989. Police stopped him before he could tie it. Nearby, another artist, Chan Mei-tung, was escorted away from a department store entrance for holding a question-mark-shaped balloon. Two small, solitary gestures. Two immediate police responses.
For decades, Hong Kong was singular: the only place under Chinese rule where public mourning of the Tiananmen crackdown was not only tolerated but practiced on a massive scale. Every June 4, tens of thousands filled Victoria Park for candlelight vigils. That ritual ended in 2020, when pandemic bans merged seamlessly into the prohibitions of Beijing's newly imposed national security law. Civil society groups disbanded. Media outlets closed. The park that once held a city's grief now hosts carnivals organized by pro-China groups.
Chen has been here before. In 2024 he was detained for tracing the numbers eight-nine-six-four in the air. In 2023, for telling passersby not to forget the date. Released this time, he told reporters that being monitored for expressing condolences felt, simply, abnormal. Three former vigil organizers face subversion charges carrying up to ten years in prison; two await a verdict expected in July.
What the city can no longer hold, the diaspora carries. Communities in London, Canada, and elsewhere now host the vigils that once defined Hong Kong's civic identity — a city promised autonomy in 1997, now one where saying a date aloud can end in detention.
On a Wednesday afternoon in Causeway Bay, one of Hong Kong's busiest shopping districts, a performance artist named Sanmu Chen approached a street signpost with a length of red thread. He was attempting something that would have drawn crowds by the tens of thousands just a few years earlier: a public gesture of remembrance for the victims of the 1989 Tiananmen Square crackdown. Police stopped him before he could tie it.
The thread was 6.4 meters long—a deliberate reference to June 4, the date when Chinese military forces moved into Beijing's Tiananmen Square to suppress weeks of student-led protests. Soldiers fired live ammunition that night and into the following morning. Hundreds, possibly thousands, were killed, along with dozens of soldiers. For decades afterward, Hong Kong remained the only place in mainland China where large-scale public mourning of that event was permitted. Every June 4, tens of thousands would gather in Victoria Park for candlelight vigils organized by civil society groups, a ritual that persisted even as memories faded elsewhere.
That changed in 2020. The vigils were banned during the COVID-19 pandemic, but the ban never lifted. That same year, Beijing imposed a national security law on Hong Kong following massive anti-government protests in 2019. The law was framed as essential to stability. Hong Kong authorities insisted it clearly protected human rights while safeguarding national security. What followed was a systematic silencing of dissent. Leading activists were arrested. Media outlets shut down. Civil society groups disbanded, including the organization that had run the vigils for decades. When COVID restrictions eventually ended, Victoria Park was occupied instead by a carnival organized by pro-China groups.
Chen's encounter with police on Wednesday was not his first. In 2024, he was briefly detained after appearing to write the numbers "eight nine six four" in the air with his hand—another reference to the crackdown date. The year before, in 2023, police detained him in the same area after he chanted to passersby: "Hong Kongers, do not be afraid. Don't forget tomorrow is June 4." When released this time, he told reporters his thread was meant to express condolences to those who died. "It's abnormal when people monitor you when you are saying or doing something," he said.
Chen was not alone that day. As evening fell, another artist, Chan Mei-tung, stood outside a nearby department store holding a question-mark-shaped balloon. Police officers stopped her as well and escorted her to the subway station. These were small, solitary gestures—a thread, a balloon—yet they triggered immediate police response. The contrast was stark: what once filled a park with tens of thousands now risked detention when attempted by individuals.
Three former organizers of the Victoria Park vigils now face charges of inciting subversion under the national security law. Two have gone to trial and await a verdict, possibly in July. If convicted, they face up to ten years in prison. Their co-defendant entered a guilty plea, which typically results in a reduced sentence. Some people who attempted to commemorate the crackdown near the former vigil site on June 4 itself were detained.
As Hong Kong's public space for remembrance has contracted, the work of keeping the memory alive has migrated overseas. Communities in London, Canada, and elsewhere now host vigils and rallies, carrying forward what was once a defining feature of Hong Kong's civic life. The city that was promised autonomy and freedoms when it returned to Chinese rule in 1997 has become a place where tying a red thread to a signpost requires police intervention, where the simple act of saying a date aloud can result in detention.
Notable Quotes
It's abnormal when people monitor you when you are saying or doing something— Sanmu Chen, performance artist
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why a red thread? Why that specific length?
The thread itself is a symbol of connection, of binding people together across time. Six point four meters—that's the date encoded into the object. June 4. It's a way of speaking when speaking becomes risky.
But he was stopped immediately. Did he expect that?
He's been detained twice before on the same day in recent years. So yes, he knew the risk. The question is whether the gesture matters even if it lasts only seconds before police arrive.
What changed between the vigils that drew tens of thousands and now?
A national security law. A pandemic that provided cover to ban the gatherings. The removal of the organizations that coordinated them. And a shift in what the government considers acceptable speech about the past.
The three organizers facing trial—what are they actually charged with?
Inciting subversion. Under the national security law. The maximum sentence is ten years. They're waiting for a verdict, possibly in July. It's a way of making an example.
Does anyone still gather in Hong Kong to remember?
Not publicly, not in any organized way. People try individually—a thread, a balloon, a chant—and they're stopped. The memory has moved elsewhere, to London, to Canada. Hong Kong is no longer the place where this happens.
What does that say about the promise made in 1997?
That autonomy and freedoms were conditional. They lasted as long as they didn't challenge the center of power. Once they did, they were withdrawn.