【From Streets to Bar Counter: A Solitary Upgrade — “Do Not Go Gently into That Good Night”]

“The ultimate goal isn’t just to deal with the enemies in front of us, but to build a better society. And to achieve that, there must be moral recognition for selfless action, along with a stable support system behind it.”

Chris swirls the milk in a steel pitcher, taps out the bubbles. Tilting the cup slightly, a thin stream of white falls onto the surface of the coffee, first sketching a crescent, then shaking out wings. With a final pull, the neck goes crooked. He sets the cup aside and starts steaming milk again.

This is Chris’s everyday scene in the UK: by 7 a.m., he’s behind the counter, beginning his day. As an early-shift worker at a chain café, he makes countless lattes that prioritize speed and consistency. But in rare spare moments, he always spends time practicing intricate swan latte art. He says he prefers “doing difficult things”. In 2019, at fifteen, he joined a social movement for the first time—walking from the classroom to the streets, and eventually into the siege of the Polytechnic University.

Before that, Chris’s life was utterly ordinary. A Secondary 4 student with average grades, drifting aimlessly—after school, he would hang out with friends or go home to play League of Legends. Though he had always held a vague aversion toward China, it wasn’t until that summer that he first took to the streets with friends. As tear gas spread and shouting filled the air, that vague discomfort finally took on a clear shape, pointing toward an invisible yet very real regime pressing down on everyone.

In Chris’s view, different times demand different actions. By July and August, he noticed frontline protesters being arrested one by one, with fewer people remaining. Those at the back were often inexperienced and scattered at the slightest disturbance. Watching this, he understood that someone had to step up. So he moved to the front lines.

“At that time I was chubby—I’d be out of breath after just a couple of steps.” During that period, he forced himself to run every day. At first, he would be gasping after just a few hundred metres, wanting to quit halfway. But even while panting, he told himself not to stop.”

“If you’re raised to be a man, then you have a responsibility to protect the people around you. It’s simple—compare a sixteen-year-old boy with a university girl, who do you think has better physical ability? And even among boys, Form 5 is the minimum threshold. Form 3 or 4 students just can’t keep up.”

The sweat from those night runs was eventually spent on the streets. When talking about his time on the front lines, Chris sounds detached, as if describing someone else. “I never thought I was one of the bravest.” In November that year, he entered the Polytechnic University with friends to support those inside. They originally planned to stay just one night, but the situation deteriorated within hours. Defensive lines were pushed back, exits blocked, tear gas and rubber bullets came from all directions.

In the early morning, several secondary school teachers entered the campus, urging underage students to leave with them—but at the cost of being officially registered by the police. Chris firmly refused: “The worst option is handing yourself over to the principal—that would be betraying myself as a person.”

In the darkness, the campus became an isolated island. Fewer and fewer people remained; the air mixed with the smell of burning and fear, oppressive enough to cloud judgment. Some tried to escape by rope but were arrested; others attempted to enter the sewers but failed. Then came news that someone inside the sewers reported feeling unwell, allowing an ambulance to enter the campus. Chris and his friends judged that this might be their last chance, and chose to leave by ambulance.

After that, he returned to the classroom to complete his final year of secondary school. The school on one side, the streets on the other—he seemed suspended between two timelines. On the first day of public exams, he learned that protesters from Polytechnic had been arrested at exam centres. He suppressed his emotions and flipped through his Liberal Studies paper; the black-and-white words of reason felt unfamiliar and ironic.

Sensing things were going wrong, after finishing exams he didn’t wait for graduation. He packed his bags and soon left for the UK.

In UK, Chris chose to study journalism and media. At first, his intention was simple: to document Hong Kong’s story. But he soon found the curriculum loose and fragmented—seemingly covering a lot, yet practically useless. Language barriers, technical hurdles, and a lack of internship opportunities made it hard to truly enter the field.

In recent years, Chris’s life has stabilized somewhat, but also become quiet—almost closed off. After work, he usually returns home, watching livestreams on YouTube or replaying videos he liked during secondary school. These self-made background sounds keep him connected to Hong Kong’s frequency, preventing his emotions from drying out. The signals cross oceans and arrive with a time lag, yet still allow him to believe, briefly, that the connection hasn’t been severed.

In reality, however, he has almost no true community. The Hong Kong people he meets after emigrating are like passengers on the same bus in Mong Kok: boarding together, speaking the same language, yet differing in background, age, and values. Being in a foreign place doesn’t suddenly make people more united or alike.

It’s not that he doesn’t long for deep connections. But interactions with locals often remain superficial; even among Hong Kongers with similar political stances, it is hard to form deep emotional bonds between those who experienced the siege firsthand and those who followed events from their beds. So although there are many Hong Kongers in his town, most relationships remain nodding acquaintances. “Even if friends say you can talk to them, everyone understands the unspoken boundaries.”

Isolation drives people inward. Chris has begun focusing more on shaping who he wants to become. Each month, when he gets paid, he sets aside money to buy books—self-improvement, humanities, literature. Occasionally when friends visit, he takes them to a large bookstore in the city centre and asks them to pick a book for him as a keepsake. He jokes that his motivation is “a bit cringe”—he simply doesn’t want to be like those “uneducated lads,” so he wants to cultivate some cultural depth.

Recently, he has been reading The Stranger by Albert Camus. What struck him most wasn’t the protagonist Meursault, but the café owner who defended him—knowing no one would listen and nothing would change, yet still choosing to speak up for someone rejected by society. “That kind of unnecessary yet chosen act of defense—it’s absurd, but very real.” Perhaps, between the lines, he saw a reflection of himself.

When it comes to supporting fellow protesters, Chris believes financial and other forms of aid are necessary. “To be honest, many of those who went to the front lines were already on the margins of society—they might not have the financial means to bear the risks.” Therefore, movements need long-term, institutionalized support, so that those who contribute to public causes aren’t left with nowhere to go afterward.

“The ultimate goal isn’t just to eliminate the regime, but to build a better society,” he says. “And to achieve that, there must be moral recognition for selfless action, and a stable support system.” Seeing others contribute money or effort lets those still holding on know that others want to continue together. “When wealthy people donate to make up for what they didn’t do, it’s like buying indulgences—to ease their guilt. But if the money really reaches those in need, at least something practical is done.” To Chris, money and action aren’t opposites, but shared foundations supporting ideals.

As for the future, Chris says he doesn’t really dare to think about it. Back in Hong Kong, he had no long-term goals—he simply acted based on immediate judgment. Even after moving to the UK, that hasn’t changed. The damp, heavy winters feel like a metaphor: fog pressing down, air thick and still, as if time itself has stopped flowing. He says he has no particular ambitions, just continues living day by day. Perhaps this is a form of self-protection—he is still trying to impose order on life, just no longer rushing to assign grand meaning to his actions.

Others might see him as lacking plans, but within him exist two temporalities: one that sees only the present—like how “Tat Gor” (the YouTuber he loved) used to play games without guides, learning through trial and error, leveling up alone; and another carrying a deep sense of history, as if looking back from some future endpoint, where the struggles of the present become inevitable and meaningful.

In the space where these two intersect, his life hovers between the temporary and the historical. Like each cup of latte art, with its small successes and failures, these moments are proof that he still wants to become a better version of himself. That unfinished state is precisely his reality now.

Illustration: Hongkonger

Written by: G

Edited by: @mingyeung_

Translation: Leo