This article was authored in collaboration with The Committee for Freedom in Hong Kong Foundation (CFHK).

Five years ago, Hong Kong passed the National Security Law. Its message was clear – dissent at your peril. Overnight Hong Kong, a city once known for its vibrant demonstrations, became quiet. People no longer took to Victoria Park to commemorate the victims of Tiananmen Square; they no longer filled Causeway Bay to rail against extradition laws to China. Plenty who had taken part in the city’s protest movement fled; a determined number stayed, knowing the risks. Scores were arrested. Many remain behind bars to this day. 

I’ve never been in prison, but I’ve spoken to enough former political prisoners to understand one central characteristic: the crushing sameness. As the world outside has spun forward – from Covid lockdowns and wars to elections and viral video trends – for Joshua Wong, Jimmy Lai, Benny Tai and others, the days likely blur, indistinguishable, from one to the next. 

Such a juxtaposition has been noted, with frustration, by those who have loved ones locked up.  

“My father is still in prison, there are still more than 1,000 political prisoners in Hong Kong at the moment,” Sebastien Lai told me as we reflected on the fact that while Hong Kong is largely out of the news cycle, his dad is not out of jail. 

There is no downplaying the significance of the passage of the National Security Law on 30 June 2020, of the thousands who were arrested because of it, the newspapers shuttered, the pro-democracy groups disbanded, and the hundreds of thousands who fled. It was, of course, not the beginning of repression in Hong Kong. I have vivid memories from 2018 of the journalist Evan Fowler telling me, voice shaking, that it was a city “being ripped apart”. 

Nor was it the end of repression. “In reality there has not been a single eye-catching moment when everything suddenly changed,” wrote Jeff Wasserstrom and Sharon Yam in New Lines last year who spoke of the “stop-and-go pace of repression”. The passage of the National Security Law was a “go” moment – a particularly big one – and one followed by other “go” moments. 

Speaking to someone on the ground in Hong Kong, who wished to remain anonymous on security grounds, they said that there’s rarely a month that goes by when they “don’t discuss leaving with loved ones”. 

“Whether it’s t-shirts, a song, a mobile game, books, a newspaper op-ed [opinion piece] or a social media post expressing dissatisfaction with the government, the crackdown on anything deemed seditious only seems to escalate month by month.”

They likened the attacks on freedom of expression to “death by a thousand cuts” – a phrase I’ve heard others use too. 

The thousand cuts analogy is evident in many examples. There has been the passage of new legislation in the form of the 2021 “Patriots law”, which allowed only those who swear allegiance to the Chinese Communist Party to hold a position in government, and of Article 23 in 2024, another national security law that further squeezed freedoms in the city and abroad. 

A police hotline has been established, inviting members of the public to report on each other. Responsible for creating what the BBC termed a “culture of anonymous informing”, it’s received more than 890,000 tip-offs to date. 

In schools – the original battleground for Beijing after Hong Kong’s handover – textbooks have been rewritten to say Hong Kong was not a former British colony and “red study trips” to China are now mandatory for secondary school students. 

The repression extends to the seemingly banal; just last week Greenpeace had to move a talk online after the Chinese University of Hong Kong cancelled it citing “urgent maintenance”. It extends to the families of those who dissent; in May, it was widely reported that police had arrested the father and brother of US-based pro-democracy activist Anna Kwok for allegedly helping with her finances. 

For the protest leader Nathan Law, watching what has unfolded in the past five years has been sobering to say the least. When the National Security Law was announced in May 2020, he deemed it serious enough to escape the city before it was passed. Was that precautionary? Looking back, he reflected that “people were calculating whether it would be a symbolic law rarely used or a draconian law.” It was, sadly, the latter. Precaution paid off. 

Law is obviously not on the ground and doesn’t contact people in Hong Kong for fear it could endanger them. Still, he avidly follows what is happening and can see the “chilling” impact it’s had through the many arrests, and through other markers too. He recently watched a video on a news site in which people on the streets of Hong Kong were filmed asking for their comments on the National Security Law. Most didn’t dare answer; a few scuttled away the second the camera came near. 

Since 2020, headlines like Hong Kong is “dead”, “lost” or “over” have appeared. It’s easy to see how the headlines have come about. At the same time, some have taken issue with such a framing, which is understandable too. Dissent does still exist, even if Hong Kong is a very dim shadow of its former self. A few independent news outlets remain. They tread a careful line – keep to the facts of cases and avoid conjecture – and have to stave off new threats in the form of spurious tax audits and other bureaucratic, legal and financial scrutiny. And yet they continue to report. There are also the occasional small-scale protests, such as one held at the end of May to raise awareness about issues impacting LGBTQ+ communities. It was far from the buzzing spectacle of Hong Kong Pride – which hasn’t taken place properly since 2018 – but it was something.  

Outside of Hong Kong, diaspora communities in London, Taipei and other cities have taken it upon themselves to keep the spotlight up. Artists like Hong Kong duo Lumli Lumlong create eye-catching canvases featuring the faces of protest leaders, which are displayed in galleries; talks about the crackdown in Hong Kong are hosted; critical plays written by Hong Kongers from before 2020 have transferred over to other countries; governments are lobbied and demonstrations are held outside embassies; a commemorative issue of Apple Daily was even printed this week by exiled staff in collaboration with Reporters Without Borders (RSF).  

Law takes solace in this. 

“When we left we brought certain parts of Hong Kong with us. We carry the spirit with us,” he remarked. 

Law misses those who remain imprisoned in Hong Kong dearly. “I feel devastated to see them spending so much time behind bars,” he said. It’s unlikely he’ll see them anytime soon. Wong, who has spent the better part of his twenties in jail, was slapped with fresh charges this month in a move that exposed the authorities’ clear intent to not release him anytime soon. 

Sebastien Lai hasn’t seen his father in more than four and a half years. 

“I miss just the normal daily stuff. Just chatting to him, telling jokes, having dinner with him,” he told me. 

Jimmy Lai is 77 and has deteriorating health. His national security trial is expected to run until the autumn. His appeal to be represented by his preferred lawyer was rejected this March. For Sebastien, and indeed many others, Jimmy’s rags to riches story, his incredible bravery and the attempts to silence him are symbolic of Hong Kong past and present. 

“In what society would you imprison a human rights defender – a man who has given everything that he has to defend the rights of others – but that is Hong Kong now.”