Smoke

It’s chaos.

It’s chaos it’s chaos it’s chaos.

Why is everyone wearing gas masks and black shirts? Why are there police in helmets and shields and armor? What is this chanting, this yelling, those warning flags, why is everyone suddenly running, oh shit, should I run with them?

I’d expected to be lost and confused, but not this lost and confused. Maybe I should’ve gone straight to my provided housing unit when I’d been let out of the facility in the daytime, instead of sitting on a park bench for 5 hours just to rest and soak up the vitamin D. Maybe I should’ve gone straight to my housing unit after I’d finally gotten off the park bench, instead of wandering the strange, bright streets until I found myself in this mess.

And now, here I am, in the middle of some odd frenzy of odd people, panicked out of my dumbass mind.

They’re kids, most of this masked group, just kids; half of them are teenagers, and 85% of them don’t look a day over 25.

I run with them. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I run with them, away from the advancing police line, away from the makeshift barricade of metal signs and bamboo sticks and uprooted railings. I run with them as someone yells at me, “No gear? Are you crazy?” I run with them as someone shoves a surgical mask and a pair of safety goggles towards me, as someone else slams a hardhat onto my head, as a third person presses an umbrella into my hands. I run with them as the bang of a launched projectile echoes between the too-tall buildings enclosing the narrow street, as the metal cylinders land at our feet, as white smoke pours out of them and stings my eyes, my throat, my skin. At the edges of my blurred vision, I see several people rush towards one of the smoke-spewing canisters. One of them covers it with a large orange and white cone, while the others pour water over the ground around it.

Is this even Hong Kong? What the hell is going on?

I half scream, half choke my question into the crowd, and several of the black-clad youngsters shout words of agreement, but none answer my question. I follow the group as it ducks through a side street and flows into an adjacent road, away from the clouds of spreading fumes. I can barely see; the tears won’t stop flowing. I suspect some of them are not from the chemicals, but from fear.

I stop in the side street, blind, and bend over, eyes and throat burning. “Did you get gassed?” says a voice to my left, and I nod, coughing too hard to speak. “I’ll wash your eyes,” says the voice. “Tilt your head back and to the side.” I do as it commands, and warm liquid is poured into my left eye. “Now the other side.” I obey, and my right eye is flushed as well.

I blink away the liquid, eyes still stinging but not quite so badly anymore, and see that my savior is a short teenage girl, masked and goggled, a translucent bottle of what I assume is water in her hands. “Thank you,” I croak, but she’s already moved past me, and is pouring water into the eyes of a young man so much taller than her that he has to squat.

Spread around me are more black-clad youths, some with umbrellas strapped to their backpacks, some wearing thick rubber gloves, and almost all in goggles, helmets, and masks. “Hey, what is this?” I cough out, approaching an idle-looking man leaning against a street railing. Like many of the other people here, he looks to be in his early 20s. “What’s going on?”

He looks at me, confused, for a moment, before answering. “First time eating smoke?” he asks, and continues without waiting for a response. “It hurts, but you’ll get used to it. I’ll give you water to rinse your mouth.” He reaches into his bag and passes me a bottle. “Spit it out, don’t swallow.” I do as he says, and the burning in my throat and mouth subsides a little. I start to hand him back the bottle, but he shakes his head. “Keep it. Oh, and this is to wash your eyes.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two thumb-sized plastic capsules of clear liquid, which, upon closer inspection, are labelled as saline solution.

“I mean, what’s going on?” I press, now that I can speak properly. “Why are they gassing us? Why is everyone dressed like this? Why are we running from the police? Why are they even chasing us in the first place? What’s with the helmets? What the hell has happened to Hong Kong?”

He stares at me again, the look of puzzlement back on his face, then nods. “Yeah,” he agrees, “it’s crazy. I don’t know what’s happened. 2014 seemed bad, but this is a whole new world of fucked up.” He pushes himself forwards, off the railing. “I’m heading back out,” he says. “Be careful. Be water.” And then he’s off, walking towards the road we just ran in from, opening his umbrella even though the night sky is sunless and clear, leaving me with more questions than I started with.

It takes several more tries before I find anyone who actually explains, or at least attempts to explain, the mess I’ve wandered into: a group of teenagers sitting on the empty road, all swiping their fingers across glowing rectangles they hold in their hands. Looking around me, I see that almost everyone who is not walking or talking or hauling various objects around is holding a rectangle of their own, staring at it as if it is their lifeline.

“What, have you been out of town for a long time?” asks one of the teenagers, a boy with some kind of shiny transparent film wrapped around his forearms.

“Something like that,” I say. There’s no way they’ll believe I’ve been frozen in a lab for 67 years, and I’m trying to get answers, not questions.

“And you haven’t been following the news? At all?”

“I just got back,” I say mock-defensively, “and I’ve been away for so long. I grew up overseas. I don’t really have family here anymore.”

The looks of disapproval don’t leave the teens’ faces, but one of them launches into explanation. They’re protesting, she says, they’ve been out on the streets since the beginning of June. The Chinese and Hong Kong governments have broken the treaty they signed with the British in ’97. It all started with the extradition law, which she won’t get into now, I should just search it online (on what line?), but basically, the Chinese government is infringing on Hong Kong’s autonomy (we have autonomy?), the Hong Kong Police Force is abusing their power and has acted violently against peaceful protestors, and the government refuses to acknowledge any wrongdoing. Five demands, she tells me, it’s five demands, remember, five demands, but I should just search that, I won’t understand it if she tries to explain it to me now, they have to get back to the frontline, the frontline needs backup. The closest subway station has been shut down (what the hell is a subway?), but if I walk that way (she gestures), I’ll reach another one in about 20 minutes, and I should go home or to my hotel or wherever now, I should really go if I don’t know what’s going on, it’s not safe out here, the police are closing in from both the east and the west.

She stands up, and the rest of the group follows in suit, turning towards the road we’d run in from. “Oh,” says the forearm-wrap boy, turning back to face me, “and download Telegram on your phone.” He waves his glowing rectangle in the air. “It’s where you’ll get all the news and safety updates, police locations, and transportation information.” And then he turns and walks away with the rest of them, and I’m left standing alone in the street, still confused, still so, so confused.

I walk in the opposite direction of the group, towards the “subway,” or whatever that kid said I should head to. On the road adjacent to the one we’d fled from, there is a two-lane human chain of more protestors, frantically passing cardboard, umbrellas, helmets, goggles, bottles of water, and strange supplies I can’t identify in the direction opposite to where I am heading. “It’s raining!” someone yells, and suddenly, they all open their umbrellas, though the sky is still bone-dry. I see a flash of movement between the two lines of people and hear the scrape of metal being dragged along the ground, but can’t see through the colorful wall of umbrellas shielding whoever and whatever are making the noise. And then as quickly as they were lifted, the umbrellas are closed and lowered, and the protestors are back to passing supplies.

“Liberate Hong Kong!” comes a shout, and I nearly jump as the cry “Revolution of our times!” resounds from all around me in response.

I am lost, I am confused, I am exhilarated, and I have absolutely no idea what destination I am walking towards.

I have been asleep for far too long.