Loekalization Blog

The sentencing of Joshua Wong (黄之锋) and Benny Tai (戴耀廷) is the latest flashpoint in Hong Kong’s transformation under Beijing’s National Security Law. The West portrays these developments as the grim final act for Hong Kong’s freedoms, while mainland China cheers what it sees as long-overdue justice. To fully grasp the stakes here, you need to look beyond the headlines and into the layers of history and cultural perception that frame this drama.

Hong Kong’s modern story began with Britain’s brutal opportunism during the Opium Wars in the 19th century. After defeating the Qing Dynasty, Britain forced China into a series of humiliating treaties, starting with the Treaty of Nanking in 1842, which ceded Hong Kong Island. Additional land grabs followed, culminating in the 1898 lease of the New Territories. For over a century, Hong Kong became a crown jewel of British colonialism—a bastion of trade, finance, and, to Beijing’s resentment, a glaring reminder of China’s “Century of Humiliation.”

But British rule wasn’t exactly a democracy fest. Governors were appointed by London, and Hong Kongers lived under a colonial administration with little say in their own governance. It wasn’t until the 1980s, with the handover to China looming, that Britain introduced limited democratic reforms. Critics saw this as a last-minute bid to ensure Hong Kongers would resist full integration into China. For Beijing, it was a cynical gesture designed to undermine sovereignty. When the handover finally occurred in 1997, it was under the “one country, two systems” principle, promising Hong Kong autonomy for 50 years. Two decades later, this promise feels tenuous at best.

The 2019 protests marked a pivotal moment in this unraveling. Sparked by opposition to an extradition bill, the demonstrations quickly morphed into a wider rebellion against Beijing’s perceived encroachments. Initially peaceful, the protests descended into chaos as clashes erupted between protesters and police. Both sides accused the other of escalating violence, but certain incidents shocked even hardened observers. One of the most infamous involved a man who was set on fire after an argument with protesters. The video of him engulfed in flames became a flashpoint in mainland media, where it was used to paint the protesters as dangerous extremists.

For mainland Chinese, this incident—and others involving street fights, vandalism, and Molotov cocktails—reinforced the view that the protests were not about democracy but chaos. “这些人都是暴徒，根本不是为了民主 [These people are all thugs, not fighting for democracy],” one Weibo user commented. To them, the protesters crossed the line from dissent to outright lawlessness, legitimizing Beijing’s heavy-handed response.

When Beijing implemented the National Security Law in 2020, it was framed as a necessity to restore order and prevent future upheavals. The law’s critics, both in Hong Kong and abroad, argue it goes far beyond maintaining order, criminalizing virtually any form of dissent. The arrests of Wong, Tai, and others under this law became a defining moment. While the West cried foul, Chinese netizens had a very different reaction. “至少50年，犯罪成本太低了 [At least 50 years; the cost of crime is too low],” wrote one user. Another gleefully added, “这些反贼就该一辈子捡肥皂 [These traitors should spend their whole lives picking up soap].”

The crude reference to prison abuse reflects the intensity of disdain many mainland Chinese feel toward these activists. For them, these figures aren’t freedom fighters but symbols of betrayal, accused of colluding with foreign powers to destabilize China. The narrative of Western interference is deeply ingrained, with state media often pointing fingers at organizations like the CIA. Whether these allegations are grounded in fact is almost beside the point; they resonate strongly in a society that views foreign meddling as a recurring theme in its history.

Critics in the West often draw comparisons to how democracies handle similar situations. They argue that peaceful protest and political dissent are protected under free speech laws in places like the U.S. or Europe. But there’s a key distinction to be made. While peaceful activism is safeguarded in Western democracies, attempts to overthrow or paralyze a government—especially through violent means—carry severe consequences. For instance, participants in the January 6th Capitol riot in the U.S. have faced significant prison sentences. This parallel, however, isn’t likely to persuade Beijing’s critics, who see the National Security Law as a pretext to stifle even nonviolent opposition.

The case of Wong and Tai, therefore, sits at the intersection of two opposing worldviews. In Hong Kong, their supporters see them as martyrs for democracy. In mainland China, they are criminals who undermined stability and sovereignty. The sentences—56 months for Wong and 10 years for Tai—are being heralded on Chinese social media as proof of justice served. “判轻了！这种人应该终身监禁 [The sentence is too light! These people should get life imprisonment],” reads another Weibo comment, capturing the prevailing sentiment.

Ultimately, this clash isn’t just about Hong Kong’s future—it’s about competing visions of governance, justice, and the boundaries of dissent. To the West, these sentences symbolize the death of freedom in Hong Kong. To Beijing and its supporters, they represent the triumph of order over chaos, of sovereignty over subversion. Somewhere in between, Hong Kong’s identity hangs in the balance, shaped as much by its colonial past as its contested present.