One must almost admire the grim efficiency of the modern authoritarian bureaucracy. There is a certain aesthetic purity to it, like a Brutalist concrete block dropped onto a delicate orchid. We turn our weary gaze once again to Hong Kong, that former jewel of chaotic liberty now undergoing a rigorous, state-sponsored lobotomy. The latest act in this tragicomic theatre involves the trial of three pro-democracy activists—Chow Hang-tung, Lee Cheuk-yan, and Albert Ho—who stand accused of the gravest crime known to the insecurities of a superpower: remembering something that happened thirty-five years ago.

The charge is “inciting subversion,” a term that has become the legal equivalent of “because we said so” in the lexicon of the Beijing-imposed National Security Law. Their specific transgression? Organising the annual candlelight vigil to mark the 1989 Tiananmen Square crackdown. For decades, Hong Kong was the only place on Chinese soil where one could publicly acknowledge that tanks generally do not belong in public squares occupied by students. But under the new order, acknowledging reality is a subversive act. It is a fascinating philosophical conundrum: how does one incite subversion against a state by remembering an event the state claims never really occurred—or at least, didn’t occur in any way that matters?

The trial itself, which opened this Thursday, is less a judicial proceeding and more a ritualistic confirming of the inevitable. We are told, with a straight face, that the defendants face a maximum penalty of ten years’ imprisonment. We are also reminded, by statisticians with a dark sense of humour, that the National Security Law boasts a “near-100% conviction rate.” This is not a court of law; it is a conveyor belt. It is a vending machine where the prosecution inserts a coin, and a guilty verdict drops into the tray. To call it a “trial” is to insult the theatrical arts; even a mediocre play has an element of suspense regarding the ending.

Let us consider the defendants. Chow, Lee, and Ho are not bomb-throwing anarchists or generals of a rebel army. They are, by and large, intellectual figures, lawyers, and organizers. Their weapon of mass destruction was a wax candle and a megaphone. Yet, the apparatus of the state treats them with the terrified urgency one usually reserves for an invading horde. This reveals the exquisite fragility of the totalitarian mindset. If your regime’s stability is threatened by a few thousand people standing quietly in Victoria Park holding flickering lights, perhaps your foundation is not made of granite, but of papier-mâché and paranoia.

The prosecution argues that the group these three led, the Hong Kong Alliance in Support of Patriotic Democratic Movements of China, was a threat to national security. The Alliance’s slogan—“End one-party dictatorship”—is cited as proof of this subversion. In the sophisticated world of modern geopolitics, asking for political plurality is apparently akin to treason. It is a delightful irony that the Alliance was disbanded in 2021, crushed under the weight of the very law now being used to imprison its ghosts. The organization is dead, the vigil is banned, the statues are removed, and the books are rewritten. Yet, the state is still not satisfied. It must put the memory on trial. It must drag the concept of remembrance into a courtroom and shoot it in the back of the head.

One cannot help but feel a wave of exhaustion watching the West’s reaction, or lack thereof. There will be statements of concern, of course. Diplomats will furrow their brows in a practiced display of disapproval. But the machinery will grind on. The “One Country, Two Systems” principle, once the unique selling point of Hong Kong, has been surgically altered into “One Country, One System, and Shut Up About It.” The judges, handpicked for national security cases—a concept that effectively eliminates the tedious unpredictability of an impartial judiciary—will preside over this spectacle with the solemnity of undertakers.

Ultimately, this trial is not about Chow, Lee, or Ho. They are merely props in a larger production designed to signal to the rest of the population that silence is not just golden, it is mandatory. The aim is to create a vacuum of history, a sanitized present where the past is editable in real-time. But there is a flaw in this logic, one that tyrants throughout history have consistently failed to grasp. By criminalizing memory, you do not erase it; you consecrate it. By fearing a candle, you admit that you are terrified of the dark. As the gavel inevitably falls and the prison doors slide shut, the silence in the courtroom will be deafening, but it will not be empty. It will be heavy with the things that are no longer allowed to be said, and that is a weight no amount of national security legislation can ever truly lift.