The Protester and Me

by Pieta Sparrow (Australia)

Making a local connection Hong Kong

The first thing I saw at the airport that day was a large group of people congregated in front of the immigration desks. This didn’t strike me as unusual. When you travel, you get used to queues. So I tried to find the end of the line. And then I started to notice. The signs. The facemasks. The chanting. I felt a flutter of anxiety in my chest. What was going on? It took me far too long to realise: I was in a protest. My first solo trip, I found myself stuck in the middle of the Hong Kong protests. I had a fifteen hour layover with little to pass the time, but had planned a ride up to The Peak, a beautiful lookout over the greenery and skyscrapers of the city. I experienced a humid day in Hong Kong, and headed back to the airport at six. My baggage had been sent through and I was already checked in, so I just needed to make my way through immigration and then I could relax. Then my plans started to unravel. I’d known about the civil unrest in Hong Kong before I left Australia, but it hadn’t seemed disruptive to my plans. Now, I was kicking myself: why didn’t I stay in the airport the whole day, avoid the protesters altogether? What if I miss my flight? There were still a few hours before take-off, so I sat and ate some pretzels. Perhaps the protesters would disperse? Perhaps the police were on their way? While I had no love for the Chinese government, I hoped that the protest could wait until tomorrow, and my trip could go ahead as planned. As the evening went on, it became clear that wasn’t going to happen. Protesters gathered, passengers congregated in angry little groups, with some throwing themselves into the fray to try and fight their way through the protesters. Every time this happened, the passengers would be held back, with the protesters chanting; “SORRY. SORRY. SORRY.” I was freaking out. I called my parents, and they advised me to try and find a female demonstrator to help me out. Perhaps she could escort me through? I was nervous to ask, but I approached a lady. I could barely talk through my tears but somehow got the message to her. She briefly spoke to the group, and then returned. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.” I sat back down, feeling more overwhelmed than ever. I was crying behind my glasses and couldn’t have been more embarrassed – there were thousands of people in the airport at that point. I looked up and saw a twenty-something lady had approached me. “I’m Emily. Are you okay?” I recounted my story again. Emily had a resolute expression. She marched up to the protesters and began a fast paced conversation in Cantonese. The leader of the protesters, a tall male, gestured angrily towards me. Their voices grew louder. More people started to gather, with some staring at me curiously. Teams started to form. More protesters were yelling at Emily, but some had joined her side and were yelling right back. I felt a glimmer of hope – maybe I’d get through! Thirty minutes of back and forth, but the protesters didn’t budge. They begin chanting again: “SORRY. SORRY. SORRY.” I went to Emily. “It’s okay. Thank you for trying.” She was in tears with me, both of us crying at the hopelessness of the situation. We went and sat a while. A few other protesters came over offering food, water, comfort. My flight time came and went, and I got a call from my mum: she’d booked me a hotel, I should catch a taxi there and get some rest. I told Emily my plan, and she stopped me before I could finish. “I’ll take you.” She drove me the forty-minute ride to the hotel, and as she helped me out, I embraced her. While I didn’t make my flight that day, I made it the next. I lost a few hundred dollars, but I gained an experience that I’ll never forget. I don’t think I’ll ever see Emily again. But I’ll always remember her.