Hong Kong’s Yellow Movement Turns Chinese Propaganda on Its Head

Across Hong Kong, among the thousands of restaurants, shops, and other small businesses participating in what’s known as the “yellow economy” in support of anti-government protests, signs of defiance have emerged in the weeks since Beijing officials imposed a sweeping new national security law. Almost immediately, yellow establishments took down posters with protest slogans that government officials warned may be violating the law. The yellow economy got its start with restaurants that provided food and drink to protesters last year and has since come under heavy criticism from members of the pro-China establishment as well as China’s official representatives in Hong Kong.

At least one popular cafe announced it was withdrawing from the yellow economic circle, and others began to hide their affiliation. But many businesses replaced protest signs with blank Post-it notes or plain paper—the absence of free speech being its own form of dissent. And the boldest have begun to embrace Chinese Communist revolutionary slogans in an ironic appropriation of the language of China’s own revolutionary leaders and in an effort to keep speaking up without prosecution.

“Using politically safe, politically correct, and politically cynical slogans is a way to continue to protest against the Hong Kong government,” says Sonny Lo, a Hong Kong academic and political commentator. “The yellow economy members are now adjusting their strategy to be more flexible, more strategic, more underground.”

Following a year of anti-government protests that sometimes turned violent, China imposed the law on Hong Kong on June 30. It includes broadly worded provisions against subversion, secession, terrorism, and collusion with foreign forces. Human Rights Watch has called it “a roadmap for repression” that seeks to “prosecute peaceful speech, curtail academic freedom, and generate a chilling effect on fundamental freedoms.” Since it went into effect, 12 candidates for legislative elections, including four incumbents, were disqualified over their opposition to the law or to government actions; a total of 15 people, including street protesters and teenage activists who posted on social media, have been taken into custody under its provisions. On July 31 the Hong Kong government announced that the elections, originally scheduled for Sept. 6, would be postponed for as long as a year because of the coronavirus pandemic. Opposition politicians have said the real motive is to prevent the pro-democracy camp from winning.

The vintage posters in yellow businesses are not only ironic: Their calls for change are also inspirational, says the co-owner of Just’er Bar & Restaurant in Hong Kong’s Tsim Tsa Tsui district, who goes by Pong. Plus, they keep police from hassling him, he says with a chuckle. Before, when the pro-democracy eatery displayed posters with slogans demanding freedom for Hong Kong—now deemed illegal under the national security law—police would come in almost daily at the busiest times, he says, to measure the space between tables and ensure compliance with Covid-19 distancing regulations. So Pong went online and ordered a bunch of the historical posters for about HK$2 (25¢) each. He believes he’s the first restaurateur to start displaying them, having replaced his pro-democracy posters on July 2, just after the law came into effect.

“The police see these now, and they don’t want to give me trouble anymore,” Pong says. “If they were to come in and say, ‘You are breaking the law by posting these,’ I can say, ‘Well, then you are against the Chinese government.’ ” A spokesman for the Hong Kong police denied that enforcement of Covid regulations is based on any political stance.

At Mainichi, a Japanese fusion restaurant in Mongkok where protesters took refuge during nearby clashes with police last year, blank Post-it notes have replaced political slogans, and some protest fundraising items previously for sale are gone. Yet a number of the pro-democracy images remain, including one of a yellow-helmeted protester in a cloud of tear gas raising his hand to the sky. One poster still proclaims “Never Give Up,” which the restaurant’s owner, who gives his name as Chong, says shouldn’t be seen as a violation of the national security law.

A resurgence of coronavirus cases, however, may turn out to be more damaging to yellow establishments than the new law. The Hong Kong economy is reeling from the pandemic: Gross domestic product dropped 9% in the second quarter from the same period a year earlier, and unemployment is at a 15-year high. To combat a third wave of the virus, Hong Kong’s strictest measures yet ban evening dining at restaurants and limit diners to two per table at breakfast and lunch, with restaurants restricted to half capacity. But Chong says yellow restaurants may survive because of loyal clients who will keep supporting them with takeout orders. One of the primary apps listing yellow restaurants has shut down, but another is still functioning. Many supporters have migrated to private yellow Facebook and Instagram groups, where photos of establishments posting Mao-era posters have started circulating. Pong, of Just’er, says there’s debate in these forums about whether Mao posters indicate support for China’s Communist Party, but those who know China’s history can understand the appropriation of the message.

Pong’s business is down 90% this year. He says he can hang on for six months using pre-Covid profits, but he’s concerned that his menu of spaghetti carbonara and steaks doesn’t lend itself to takeout. Restaurant revenue in Hong Kong fell 29% in the first half of this year compared with the same period in 2019, according to government data. The Hong Kong Federation of Restaurants and Related Trades forecast a HK$3 billion loss of revenue in July from businesses not able to serve customers in the evenings. Lo, the academic, estimates that one-third to half of yellow restaurants may close. The longer Covid restrictions are in place, the more businesses struggle just to stay afloat—never mind continue their fight for change.

“The pace of the movement has been slowing down, and it seems the fire to sustain it may die soon,” says Carrie Lau, the 30-year-old owner of C+ Burger, who reluctantly replaced pro-democracy posters with blank sheets of paper because customers feared she’d be arrested. “Yet I’m still optimistic about the future. As long as our generation is still here, we won’t be brainwashed by Beijing, and we still have ways of making change. The journey may be a long one, but we’ll never give up.”
 
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