Carrying Forward the Hong Kong Memory

A Chef’s Journey from the Streets to the Dining Table

“For you, it may be the past; for many, it is a present that never ends.”

Late at night, Ah Ming landed in a foreign land and went straight to the “parents’ house,” a temporary refuge for comrades in the UK. The next morning, he slipped out early, unnoticed. It wasn’t until lunchtime that others discovered the leftovers in the fridge had been transformed into something new. A fried rice, prepared with care for everyone, released its wok-fired aroma as it was reheated and placed on the table. While they enjoyed the meal, the chef who deserved all the praise had already disappeared.

Ah Ming had loved cooking since childhood. After graduating, he drifted through many jobs before finally deciding to follow his heart—stepping into the kitchen despite the heat to train as a chef. “I like work where the results are clearly visible. Cooking is like that: the ingredients lie before you, you shape them with your own hands, and they become a real dish.” For him, cooking was not just about food, but about bringing tangible change—to make each day a little better for those around him.

Cooking is like that. So is taking to the streets.

In 2019, when the anti-extradition movement erupted, Ah Ming was rarely absent from the frontlines. “Early on, the police were already at my doorstep. They tried to charge me with assaulting an officer. I didn’t worry too much, because I genuinely hadn’t done it. After a while, they changed the charge to rioting.” Despite the charge hanging over him, he kept returning to the protests, doing whatever he could. Outwardly, Ah Ming remained valiant, but the fear of being caught only grew. If arrested again, he knew immediate remand was certain.

The fear came true. By the end of that year, the police came for him again—this time, Ah Ming was taken straight into custody. Nearly a year later, his rioting charge finally went to trial. Although he pleaded not guilty in court, he was sentenced to four years in prison. Recalling the incident, Ah Ming says: “The police officer suddenly rushed out at the scene, and he wasn’t even in uniform. I honestly thought he was one of those trying to attack people.” His instinct to protect those nearby came from years in the social movement. Since the Umbrella Movement in 2014, he had witnessed many chaotic scenes, including plainclothes men blending into the crowds to stir up trouble.

Ah Ming was held in a maximum-security cell that was cramped and poorly ventilated. He knew that many fellow protesters were also imprisoned. Correctional officers often treated political prisoners with coldness, sometimes even hostility. This did not surprise him. “They think we’re restless troublemakers who like to challenge the rules.” Unlike most inmates, protesters were unfamiliar with the prison’s unwritten codes and often discussed the movement and other political issues. In response to the hostile treatment, some went on hunger strike in protest. Most, however, chose a more pragmatic path: to endure. After all, once behind bars, resistance only meant a longer stay.

Ah Ming was one of those who kept quiet and followed the rules. More than anything, he wished to get out sooner rather than later. Though cut off from the outside world, comrades subscribed to newspapers to stay informed. They ordered Apple Daily until it was shut down; afterwards, they switched to Ming Pao. Correctional officers censored “risky” content, sometimes tearing out entire pages. Ironically, the thinner the newspaper, the clearer the picture of what was really happening outside. “When I read about the 47-person case, it felt like so much had been sacrificed, but nothing had been gained.” Guilt, powerlessness, and disappointment weighed heavily on Ah Ming.

“Sometimes, when friends visited, I could sense that the atmosphere outside had changed. Nobody knew what more could be done. Gathering like-minded people had become impossible. After the crackdown, divisions within the movement resurfaced and grew even deeper. The distance between people only widened.”

Finally, Ah Ming finished his sentence and left prison, but he did not feel truly free. The National Security Law loomed overhead like the Five Finger Mountain in Journey to the West. Self-censorship had become a survival instinct, with people twisting words into metaphors when discussing politically sensitive topics. News of re-arrests circulated where charges were often flimsy and trials unfair. Sorrow and anger could only give way to silence under such political repression. Although Ah Ming kept in contact with the like-minded friends he had met during the protests, it was easy to notice the caution in their words and the distance they maintained.

That cautious distance seeps into everyday life. While some comrades still keep the faith, another refrain has begun to spread: “It’s been years already—why keep talking about it? Why still donate?” Commenting on this, Ah Ming’s voice grows heavy: “For you, it may be the past; for many, it is a present that never ends.”

It has never ended, especially for comrades who have become political prisoners. “How many of them would have thought they would be jailed for doing the right thing? You could never prepare for this.” Ah Ming believes that those who were spared bear an even greater duty to support those who have paid a heavier price for the same struggle.

Ah Ming considers himself fortunate. Not long after his release, he was invited to join a restaurant run by comrades. Though it wasn’t his familiar cuisine, his basic skills had not faded. The boss gave him time to catch up, and a social worker friend offered support along the way. Things seemed to be going smoothly for the newly released. Yet the disruption to his personal development remained hard to bear. “In your twenties, you’re supposed to be building your career. But it felt like I was sent away for years.” He had little savings, and many plans had become impossible due to the shifting political climate. While his peers settled into stable lives, he felt cast out of regular life. In times of hardship, many turn to their family—but for Ah Ming, there was a constant fear of burdening them, making the weight on his shoulders almost unbearable. Recalling his time behind bars, he says calmly:

“Of all the comrades I know, including myself, none of us thought we would be jailed. I wasn’t even some bad kid growing up.”

When the place you call home turns its back, leaving becomes the only path forward

“When you are no longer allowed to speak out, you simply cannot stay in Hong Kong—you have no choice but to sacrifice your dignity.”

By the time Ah Ming was released from prison, society had changed dramatically from when he was first sentenced. Many had chosen silence. He knew that, for someone like him who had been convicted, it would be extremely challenging to build a life under this new order.

Ah Ming once considered restarting his life in Hong Kong. He returned to the kitchen, hoping to adapt to the new reality. But it didn’t take long for him to realize that things were no longer the same. He began to question whether this was still a place where he could truly live.

As public scrutiny intensified, Ah Ming sensed that he would eventually have to leave his hometown. Although he had not been charged again for his involvement in the protests after his release, he constantly felt “targeted,” as if trapped in a Foucauldian panopticon, where every move could later be used against him. Even his work as a chef was at risk under the authorities’ crackdown. Recently, reports emerged that food licensing authorities were targeting anyone considered a “national security risk,” from restaurant staff to suppliers. Restaurants with even indirect connections faced the threat of license revocation. “When I looked for work, would employers worry about hiring me?” Such pressures made life difficult for business owners and made employment for former inmates all the harder.

“When you are no longer allowed to speak out, you simply cannot stay in Hong Kong—you have no choice but to sacrifice your dignity.”

At the beginning of the year, Ah Ming made up his mind to leave for the UK. Initially, he planned to apply for the BN(O) visa, but his criminal record made the process complicated and unlikely to succeed in time. In the end, he sought political asylum with help from Hong Kong Aid. After settling down, he began volunteering with Bonham Tree. From preparing protest materials and setting up exhibitions to transporting equipment and organizing workshops, Ah Ming is involved everywhere. Through his active participation, he has made new friends and reconnected with the path that was once cut off. “Most people around me are Hongkongers, so it’s easy to connect.” However, life still presents challenges. “But it feels like I haven’t stepped out of my comfort zone.” His daily interactions remain limited. As his asylum application is still pending, he cannot work or fully integrate into local society. “My immigration interview is next month, but who knows when the result will come.” The uncertainty makes it impossible to feel at ease, and plans for the future remain unimaginable.

After the 2019 protests, some countries introduced immigration schemes for Hongkongers. However, these policies have gradually tightened. Ah Ming cannot hide his disappointment. “The UK has a historical responsibility to Hong Kong. The BN(O) visa scheme acknowledges that Hongkongers can no longer live as before after 2019. But it feels like the help is no longer there for those who paid the price, those who went to prison and were forced to leave.” He recalls that many comrades once secured residency through “lifeboat” schemes in Taiwan and Canada. Today, however, one window of hope after another is shut.

“They said they wanted to help. But when the people who truly need help show up, they are turned away. It’s ironic. I understand a country must consider its capacity to accept migrants, but I still can’t accept it.”

All that he has endured has been for a better Hong Kong. Yet everyone holds a different vision of an ideal Hong Kong. For Ah Ming, it is an independent and diverse country where people value equality and respect one another. In such a Hong Kong, he would simply be an ordinary man—a chef who works and cares for his family.

“I believe all people are born equal. Reality may not match the ideal, but I hope everyone can hold onto the belief that every person deserves equal opportunities, and should enjoy freedom while taking responsibility for themselves and others.” For now, though, the future remains unsettled. “I just hope to get my immigration status, gradually settle here, and keep doing something for Hong Kong.” To him, the Hong Kong community in the UK carries a special responsibility—to preserve the memory of a Hong Kong that can no longer speak for itself.

Ah Ming imagines himself ten years from now: he will have legal status, a family, and three cats. “But I’d have to live in an apartment, not a house. A house would be too big for the cats. They’d get scared!” He laughs. “Even at the vet, they curl up in a corner.”

Part of this ideal plan is to open a small fusion restaurant. After a pause, he adds softly:

“I don’t have a signature dish yet. But in ten years, I probably will.”

Illustration: Hongkonger 

Text: G 

Edit: Ming Yeung

Translation: Kai T