White Terror
A story written for the True Fiction Project by M AL from Gaza
Bob Hayworth was not an ordinary man, some of his colleagues in London called him a leftover, a remnant of the British colonialism era, an MI5 spook chasing cute young princesses in Hong Kong. But for the people of the Special Administrative Region, his liberating words on radio, represented an unexplained sense of safety. Of immunity. The comforting voice of a protective father during a time of hardship. To them, he was an activist, representing their cause against the oppressive dragon to the north — China.
Bob had spent the past 35 years in Hong Kong brandishing high, the flag of freedom, democracy, individualism, and civil liberties. It had become home in every possible way. And he became a founding father of the civic party, reminding Hong Kong’s 7 million citizens of the price they had to endure to maintain freedom.
Bob’s nightmares began in Spring 2019 when the Chinese government bullied the Hong Kong leadership into dropping the One country, two systems doctrine, by imposing a new National Security Law; Designed to eliminate what had been up until then progressive, free, and democratic territory.
He was enraged by rumors that had begun to circulate early the year before. The law had not yet been announced but he noticed something strange: an unexplained series of malfunctions in the broadcasting equipment at the public Radio station where he worked.
Was it coincidence? Or something pre-planned? Or “just a figment of his imagination,” as the authorities purported when he took it upon himself to complain.
Bob called it White Terror. He had seen it coming, ever since the China’s Liaison Office purchased the South China Morning Post through the so-called progressive lens of Alibaba. He knew it was a matter of time before his beloved radio station would be taken from him too. Because he represented the old Hong Kong…the Hong Kong that people knew and loved. The Hong Kong that he become home to his heart.
One evening later that year, Bob walked out on Granville street with no particular aim. He merely wanted to defy the recent fear that most residents experienced by going outside at night, a fear that had begun since the revolution and pro-democracy protests earlier that year. A fear initiated by a massive authoritarian crackdown setting off kidnappings, mass arrests, murder, torture.
Bob’s mental state was disturbed. In the past several months, he had developed a sense of dis-ease that wouldn’t go away. A piercing noise banged inside his head. He could no longer hold a meal inside his fragile digestive system. He claimed to smell corpses during his sleeping hours. The doctors insisted that all this was a figment of his imagination. “You just need rest,” they said. “Everything is fine.”
But Bob’s mental, physical and emotional being was seized by paranoia. A figured of my imagination? He wondered. Were the doctors traitors too ?
Bob’s dis-ease was suddenly interrupted by a loud noise of something hitting the ground … hard ….just a few feet away. When he turned to look, he saw a girl …..maybe 19 or 20 years old….with a steady flow of blood gushing forth from a hole in her chest. She had fallen from Tycoon Court, the apartment building looming before him. Her eyes, pierced his with a helpless gaze that clanged louder than a million screams. She was alive yet taking her last few deep breaths…. It all lasted not more than a few seconds. But to Bob, it felt like a thousand years. A part of him dying right there with her.
And then lights of an emergency vehicle flashed from behind.
How could an ambulance arrive in just moments after she had fallen ? Bob thought. Who were these people in the street, where had they come from”
He became conscious of a group of people gathered around him. They stared at him with eyes of the devil. Bob heard the voice of his deceased father “walk away my son, walk away from this place.”
Bob’s body wanted to tremble. Yet his mind controlled that deep sense of fear. He cast his eyes towards the now dead girl before him, as he heard the ambulance driver speak — “we tried to save her but we were too late. She committed suicide. It is common these days.”
But Bob knew this was no suicide. No accident either. The girl’s black clothes and scarf revealed she was a revolutionary from the black-clad pro-democracy movement. This was no cute young princess….yet it was clear to him that she had been pushed from some high up floor in that apartment building. To deliver a message …. specifically….to him.
They had watched him. They had seen him plan his walk that evening and they had planned accordingly.
Was this too, a figment of his imagination?
They waited for me to be in this exact spot. He murmured to himself. And then dropped her from that high floor to deliver a message. They did not kill her, I did.
For five days Bob could not shake the thought: They did not kill her, I did.
For 5 days, his phone did not ring, his internet did not work. No one knocked on his door.
It was White Terror. In full swing. Was this too, a figment of his imagination?
Bob’s head throbbed deeper with each day that passed. A newfound sadness accentuating the fear. He wished he had been the one to die. And so on the 6th day, after 35 years in Hong Kong, he packed his bags and headed back to where he had come from. England once again became home to his body, but Hong Kong remained home to his heart.
— -
Barely a few months later, the Hong Kong government adopted the new National Security Law…establishing a painful new normal. The territory went from being a bastion of free will to a place in which the air reeked with the odor of fear-mongering.
Bob sat in his England cottage home — helpless, torn, heartbroken. At a complete loss for what to do. Yet over the months he continued to be reassured by a massive network of Hong Kong activists. Their actions signaled that the battle for freedom was far from over. And so once again, he picked up his crusade of communication against the reign of White Terror. Even from his makeshift home studio.
He spoke into his microphone, connecting by zoom this time, with a public radio show host in America.
Were it not for the revolutionaries, we all would be slaves to the current dynasty, Bob said. Freedom is a right that isn’t granted but rather can be taken by force…… if absolutely necessary….
Right then… a sound of fuzz and static cut short his delivery as the before the zoom connection went dead.
Bob’s heart sank once again. He heaved a sigh as moved his fingers along the trackpad in an attempt to reconnect.
Was this also a figment of his imagination?
Or was it the oppressive dragon to the north of home? A dragon that insisted on weighing down a heart that so wanted to be lifted?
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