THENEWYORKER,DECEMBER16, 2019 43
I mentioned some recent reported
instances of vigilante justice, in which
protesters had launched attacks on other
civilians. “We don’t beat up innocent
people,” No Name said, fixing me with
a stare, before going on to express a
common belief that thugs were some-
times deployed to attack protesters
while police turned a blind eye. “If the
police don’t do their job, we must send
a warning through our actions to those
who abuse us,” he went on. “What we
protesters are practicing is not violence
but force. If you abuse force, that’s vi-
olence—but you can also use force to
express justice.”
Most of the prospective front-lin-
ers he’d interviewed came, as he did,
from working-class families, which he
thought reflected the fact that Hong
Kong’s wealthiest citizens insulated
themselves from politics. “Plus, would
the wealthy permit their children to
get hurt or, if it comes to it, to die?” he
said. I asked if he was willing to die for
the cause. He did not hesitate to an-
swer. “I don’t mind being the one to
die if my death has a purpose and makes
an impact,” he said. “If destiny chooses
me, so be it.”
Our food arrived, and, as No Name
attended to a plate of sweet-and-sour
chicken, he loosened up somewhat. He
was born in the mid-nineties, he told
me, to a couple from a Guangdong
fishing village. In the eighties, the fam-
ily had managed to sail to Hong Kong.
His mother is illiterate, and his father,
who worked in construction, has a pri-
mary-school education. They never
talked about the past, he said, but early
on they were so poor that they sur-
vived by foraging for food in the moun-
tains that make up much of Hong
Kong’s landmass.
Growing up, No Name frequently
defied authority at home and in school.
“I never liked to be forced into doing
something without explanation,” he
said. “I was the smart-ass always ask-ing questions. I was always getting beat.”
He clashed with his father, who was
hot-tempered and governed the fam-
ily with his belt.
Despite having fled Communist
China, No Name’s father, who was
proud of his own father’s service in the
People’s Liberation Army, was a stick-
ler for order and hierarchy, and grad-
ually the father-son confrontations ac-
quired a political cast. As a high-school
student, No Name joined demonstra-
tions against a Beijing-backed plan to
introduce a national education pro-
gram, which many protesters believed
would amount to indoctrination.
During the Umbrella Movement pro-
tests, he spent many nights at the sit-
ins. That’s when his father delivered
an ultimatum: “If you’re going to pro-
test against the government, don’t
bother coming back home.” But, by
then, No Name was in college, living
in a dorm. His father, he said, “no lon-
ger had the power to lock me out, and
he couldn’t beat me into submission.”
After dinner, No Name and I walked
around the neighborhood, and stopped
by an all-night 7-Eleven for a cold soft
drink. We stood outside, drinking and
chatting on the empty sidewalk, but
after a few minutes he abruptly low-
ered his voice, saying that we should
go elsewhere––there might be surveil-
lance cameras in the store. “We aren’t
doing anything wrong,” I said.
“They’ll get you if they don’t like
you, no matter if you are doing any-
thing wrong or not,” No Name replied.
By “they,” he meant the police, the gov-
ernment, the transit authority, and “ev-
eryone who colluded with them in their
coverups.” He started talking about the
so-called August 31st incident, at the
Prince Edward subway station, when
riot police were filmed storming the
terminal, rushing into subway cars, and
assaulting passengers with batons and
pepper spray. The transport authority
closed the station, denying access to
journalists and first-aid services. Al-
though ten people were seen being
taken to the hospital, the number of
injured was later reported as seven. Ever
since, among many protesters, it’s be-
come an article of faith that three peo-
ple were beaten to death.
I asked No Name if he believed that
theory. He took a gulp from his sodaPASSION
Your dog gnaws the rug you made love upon
for the last time.
When your lover left
and you rolled yourself inside the rug
to sleep in agony
your dog stayed with you.
Your dog chews out the armpits of your lover’s shirt
and shreds the underwear
you were wearing when he touched you.
That’s devotion.
The dog chews your pen and stains his tongue
then licks the white pillows.
His way of writing you a poem.
He eats the spout off the blue plastic watering can.
He starts on the porch,
a rotted board, and soon that board rips
away from the wicked red nails.
Your dog eats the nails
and does not die.
Although you have no porch,
no lover, no rug, no underwear,
you understand.
The dog is trying to eat your grief.
In helpless longing
to get close to you
he must destroy what’s close to you.—Louise Erdrich