Whenever I feel lost I dive into my earliest memories involving a profound sense of purpose. The first time I learned about what my parents, along with hundreds of thousands of fellow HongKongers, did to support that very movement in Beijing, and, what eventually happened at the end.
It was the first time I saw that image of the man who fearlessly stood in the way of a column of tanks, his name and fate remain unknown.
It was also the first time I realized, standing solemnly amid a sea of flickering candlelight, that there are things far greater than our own existence.
Voices that have been reverberating throughout the past 26 years. Memories that live on. The enduring pursuit that passes through the generations.
We don’t call ourselves Chinese and we surely don’t consider ourselves patriotic, for the definition of our nation remains disputed, and yet what holds us together is, after all, a shared vision for justice and democracy. A belief in humanity.
In memory of those whose lives, albeit in death, continue to ignite the dark.
Lest we forget.