I was having dinner with my friends from Taiwan, and we were having so much fun but in a moment of silence, someone asked about Hong Kong. Everyone paused what they were doing and looked at me; someone got up and removed themselves from the table to go to the restroom.

I recognized moments like this. In fact, it has happened to me many times not long ago. Yet, before I plunged into my recollections and recognition, I had to respond to the silence before me.

How do you explain it all in the span of five minutes? The pain of a city toppled over, people literally losing their freedom, the good and the brave being let down, creativity and beauty being stifled, the evil and the mediocre henchmen rising to power, and many of the young faces I know so well now imprisoned… Only five minutes, no more. I know the people at the table were genuinely concerned, but nothing more. The darkness is not desired at an enjoyable meal, nor is it something that the good people at the meal are mentally ready to embrace. This is not their position, so why make good people feel powerless?

All sorts of ideas occurred to me but in the end, I spoke about Hong Kong. The case of the 47 democratic activists, the end of our road to democracy, the persecution, the criticisms and struggles, and the foreseeable withering away, as we watched absurdity replace integrity and common sense. I also talked about the young people I know who are facing immeasurable prison terms and still with indomitable spirit. ...I had a feeling I was going to ruin this dinner gathering.

Sure enough, everyone was quiet. I saw the eyes of people who were saddened but did not know what to say. Someone finally spoke up, and in a tone of mourning, said it was a pity for Hong Kong. Someone else then asked what will happen next. The tone is that of someone who was trying to take a breath from the heaviness.

I reached a point where I could no longer cope and respond to any more questions. Is Hong Kong dead? Is there a future for Hong Kong? If we do not share the same emotional space, this kind of question and answer is just tormenting each other. I too have often been one to express kindness, however, if that kindness comes from within and without the determination to enter the other person’s world, then it is not possible to pierce through the torment, and instead appears to be very cheap. This is perhaps the predicament of watching other people suffer.

After a decent amount of silence, I attempted to salvage the otherwise pleasant ambiance of the dinner party by making some lighthearted jokes. Political jokes and dark humor are never in short supply in a totalitarian society. Finally, the sound of laughter gradually returned.

My spirit also seemed to be gradually detached from the conversations at the table. I began to reflect on the feeling of familiarity at the beginning of this story. It was the same scene that often took place in Hong Kong: “I was having dinner with my friends from Hong Kong, and we were having so much fun but in a moment of silence, someone asked about Liu Xiaobo. Everyone paused what they were doing and looked at me; someone got up and removed themselves from the table to go to the restroom.”

In the past, in front of my Hong Kong friends, I also had no idea how to talk about China. In China, the monster in everyone’s eyes, there are people who are lovely, brave, and bullied but still passionate. Just like today in front of my friends from Taiwan, from outside, I really have no idea how to talk about Hong Kong.

Or perhaps I do know what to say, but I do not know how people who have nothing to do with it are supposed to hear it. I often fail to find the connection, or even the necessity, to translate between two contexts. Being a dissident, says Herta Müller, a German writer in exile, is “In a life bound up in wires, I always know more than what I can say.”

After Hong Kong in 2019, I often thought of China after 1989, of the many students and intellectuals who left and never returned to their native land, and lived a wandering life in a foreign country for decades. Every new acquaintance would ask them about the June Fourth Incident. For 30 years, they have been talking about it over and over again. They could not joke about it, they could not disregard it, and they could not disrespect it. But with the painful trauma they experienced and the heavy burden placed on them by their friends, as survivors, how do they tell the story over and over again, like what many people say, “living as a tombstone”?

(Zhang Jieping is the founder of Matters.)

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