【Lost and Uncertain – The Compulsory Course for Protesters After Class】

*Image is a fictional representation, not the actual appearance of the interviewee.

“Loss” is a subject many protesters must learn. In the pursuit of justice and ideals, long before we ever come close to the goal, loss is inevitable. Yung’s story is simple, but it is the kind of simplicity that conceals complexity. It could be summarised in a single line: “A teacher struck off for protesting loses __.” At first glance, one might expect that blank to be filled with “job”, “teaching post”, or “future”. But after speaking with Yung, it became clear: what he lost cannot be summed up in just two words. Perhaps walking alongside someone begins with understanding the road they've travelled.

【To Lose Without Understanding, To Go Without Regret】

For Yung, teaching was never just a job — it was his passion. “When you truly love what you do, you don’t think about gain or loss — you just want to do it well.” To give students the best possible classroom experience, he worked until 3 or 4 a.m., prepared extra materials, returned to school on Saturdays without pay, and never once complained. “Even though I was exhausted — as tired as a dog — I felt deeply satisfied.” It was the only time during our entire conversation that Yung smiled with genuine warmth.

But passion couldn’t shield him from what came next. Like many in Hong Kong in 2019, Yung took to the streets. And like many, he was arrested. He was charged with “rioting” — an accusation that, almost without notice, has become a routine offence familiar to many Hongkongers. His casual tone gave the sense that he’d seen it coming all along.

Yung wasn’t devastated by the arrest — at least not in the way one might expect. The real pain came afterward. “Honestly, I had considered the possibility of being arrested — I’d played it out in my head countless times. And losing my job as a teacher? I’d thought about that too, at least rationally. But some things, no matter how much you prepare for them, feel completely different when you’re actually living them.” The school board informed Yung that he would need to leave immediately to safeguard the school’s reputation, though institutional pressure likely played a part too. “I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt — but what hurt the most, what I couldn’t bear to let go of, was my students.”

【Receiving the Struck-Off Notice Behind Bars – The Loneliness Behind a Lie】

During the bail period, Yung managed to pick up a writing job. The salary wasn’t great, but for someone trying to figure out his next steps, he put it simply: “In that situation, having any job was already a good thing.”

The conviction rate for “rioting” charges in the new Hong Kong is well known and hardly needs repeating. Yung never held onto false hope — he simply prepared himself for the outcome. “I couldn’t bring myself to tell my family I’d been arrested and would be going to prison, so I told them a ‘white lie’ — that I’d been given a rare opportunity to study abroad and would be leaving Hong Kong for a few years.” To keep up the pretence, he even sent money home regularly as “household expenses”. Naturally, this meant he couldn’t rely on his family for emotional support while in prison.

During his time in prison, Yung received the expected letter from the Education Bureau — confirmation that he had been struck off. It meant he would be barred from teaching for the foreseeable future. The teaching role he had yearned for, sacrificed so much to achieve, and devoted years of his life to, was gone in a single moment. “I thought I was prepared,” he reflected. “But when I saw the letter, I couldn’t stay calm — it felt like I’d lost a piece of my life.”

“Last year, I finally ‘finished school’,” Yung said. But after legal fees, two years of sending money home, and basic prison expenses, his savings had been nearly wiped out. “I’m not joking — I had $147 left in my bank account. The ATM wouldn’t even let me withdraw more than a single $100 note.”

【Gathering what’s broken, living through what remains.】

The first major lesson after “finishing school” was financial survival. With the help of Bonham Tree Aid, a day-rate writing job from his old company, and some tutoring introduced by a friend, he was barely able to scrape by. Although the pay was modest, he couldn’t afford to stop working. “I work hard from Monday to Saturday. My savings are gone, and now I have to cover rent, transport, and meals. If I skip even one day of work, I won’t make it.”

Despite the workload, Yung still finds time to serve as a courtroom observer — perhaps out of duty, or perhaps a habit too deeply ingrained to break.

“Compared to others, I’m actually doing alright — at least I’ve got a job. That day-rate role eventually became full-time, even though the pay’s still not much. But I know friends convicted of the same charge who still can’t find full-time work — they’re surviving on odd jobs and community support.” Indeed, once employers realise a job applicant has a criminal record — especially one tied to political charges — many become more cautious, and the barriers quickly multiply.

“A lot of people say that just having a job after coming out is already a blessing — that it doesn’t matter what you’re doing,” Yung said, his voice catching with emotion. “But I don’t agree...” Changing careers is a normal part of life, “but when you’ve done nothing more than the right thing — and you’re stripped of your profession, forced onto a different path — that’s something else entirely. Sometimes, it feels like I’m being quietly robbed of time, slowly and silently.”

Perhaps it was the teacher in him that kept Yung speaking with such calm clarity. But at that moment, he paused. He reached for his coffee cup, fidgeting with it ever so slightly. And in that instant, a flicker crossed his eyes — a fleeting glimmer of sorrow, laced with defiance, tenderness, and a quiet sense of no regrets. At first, you might assume his frustration stems from financial strain, or the loss of a stable job. But if you truly listen, if you meet his gaze, you’ll see it for what it is: the cry of someone who came heartbreakingly close to a dream — only to have it torn away.

Since 2019, many Hongkongers have lost something. For Yung, it wasn’t just the two years behind bars. It was the identity of a teacher — his calling and his dream.

“My job now is just for survival. I can’t throw myself into it the way I used to. With a criminal record, it’s incredibly difficult to find work in education again — and many professions are now closed off to me,” Yung said with a weary sigh, his face lined with quiet resignation. “Still,” he added, “I hope this is just a stopover. I still dream of going back to study one day, and finding a new path I actually want to grow in.” For now, though, he’s working tirelessly just to get by — with barely enough to live on, let alone fund further education. And yet, he continues to wait — waiting for the homecoming of his next dream.