Recently, the trial of Lee Cheuk-yan and Chow Hang-tung in the case involving the “Hong Kong Alliance in Support of Patriotic Democratic Movements of China” (the Alliance) for incitement to subversion of state power has lasted more than 20 days. The core of the case remains the allegations under the National Security Law, which argue that the two were involved in organising the candlelight vigil commemorating the 30th anniversary of the June Fourth incident and promoting the slogan “end one-party rule.”
From the court’s perspective, the Alliance’s actions and demands are considered “subversion of state power.” Chow Hang-tung, however, firmly maintains that she and her colleagues were merely exercising freedoms granted under the Constitution, peacefully expressing political views.
As the case is expected to enter judgment in July, Hong Kong society continues to debate whether the defendants should face such charges for participating in a peaceful assembly. But the deeper question is: what exactly is the constitutional dispute at the heart of this case? And what does this complex situation mean for Hong Kong people both overseas and those still in the city?
What is a “constitution”?
The definition and historical evolution of “constitution” differ fundamentally between East and West, and this gap is central to understanding the conflict in this case.
In Western liberal-democratic traditions, a constitution is primarily about limiting power and forming a social contract. Its essence is constitutionalism. For example, in the UK, although its constitution is unwritten and derived from laws and conventions dating back to the 1215 Magna Carta, it is guided by principles of parliamentary sovereignty and the protection of individual rights. The constitution functions as a boundary between the governed and the governing, designed to prevent the over-expansion of power. Within this framework, advocating peaceful political change or criticising the system is seen as a fundamental civil right, not a threat to the state.
The nature of the Constitution of China, however, reflects a very different logic of state-building. In its current framework, the Constitution is not only the fundamental law of the state, but also a legal foundation establishing “the leadership of the Communist Party of China” as the defining feature of socialism. Constitutional legitimacy and party leadership are deeply integrated. As a result, when the Alliance calls for “ending one-party rule,” it may be seen in Western common-law terms as protected political expression, but in China’s constitutional logic it becomes a direct challenge to the state’s fundamental system, and therefore an act of “subversion.”
This structural and historical divergence has led to entirely different legal assumptions between prosecution and defence. The defence, grounded in common law and international human rights norms, argues that political ideas without violence should not be criminalised. The prosecution, however, adopts a preventive national security logic, viewing any mobilisation that weakens institutional legitimacy as a threat—even without violence.
This trial is therefore not only a legal dispute, but a collision between two constitutional civilizations: one that treats the constitution as a shield for dissent, and another that treats it as a sword for defending the system.
The misalignment of constitutional function
From the intersection of legal logic and political reality, Chow Hang-tung appears to be in a paradoxical position—both “right” and “wrong.”
She is “right” in the sense that she operates within classical liberal constitutionalism, where the constitution protects citizens from arbitrary punishment. From this perspective, advocating the end of one-party rule is a legitimate political opinion. Without violence, criminalising such speech would conflict with traditional common-law requirements distinguishing intent and action.
However, she is also considered “wrong” within the current Hong Kong constitutional order, because she underestimates the paradigm shift in legal interpretation. The Chinese Constitution not only protects rights but also establishes Party leadership as foundational. Since the 2018 constitutional amendment enshrined Party leadership in the Constitution, challenges to one-party rule are effectively interpreted as attacks on the constitutional order itself.
Chow’s reasoning reflects her rigorous academic training and Western legal education. With studies in physics at Cambridge and law at the University of Hong Kong, she approaches law as rational, principled, and aligned with international human rights standards. In her framework, law should protect citizens and uphold procedural justice.
Yet this very commitment leaves her and her co-defendants at odds with the current legal environment. The prevailing approach is no longer one of protecting dissent, but of “defensive democracy” and preventive national security. Under this logic, even non-violent “soft resistance” is treated as opposition, and ideological mobilisation itself may be considered subversive.
Thus, invoking constitutional freedoms to challenge a constitutionally entrenched system becomes, within this framework, a legal contradiction.
Why silence is a warning sign
More broadly, the case highlights a troubling development: increasing constraints on public expression regarding sensitive historical events.
In traditional legal systems, stating historical facts is generally protected speech. Chow argues that prosecution has “inverted truth and falsehood,” turning the act of stating facts into “incitement.” However, under current legal reasoning, the court has treated decades of commemoration of June Fourth as potentially constituting “hate speech” or “subversion.”
Efforts to present historical evidence in court have repeatedly been restricted as irrelevant. This effectively limits the space for historical narrative within legal proceedings.
For the Chinese Communist Party, the 1989 crackdown remains a politically sensitive historical burden. Public acknowledgment of wrongdoing could trigger broader demands for political reform. From this perspective, suppressing commemorative activity is not only about present stability but about controlling historical narrative.
The removal of candlelight vigils is therefore not simply about banning an event, but about reshaping collective memory. Once historical symbols are redefined as security threats, the law becomes a mechanism for defining acceptable historical interpretation.
The shrinking of Hong Kong’s public space
Beyond this case, Hong Kong has also experienced a broader contraction of public expression.
In the late colonial period and early post-handover years, public discussion of June Fourth and political criticism was widely tolerated. Candlelight vigils, academic events, and public reporting were commonplace.
However, since 2019 and the introduction of the National Security Law and related legislation, the boundary of expression has shifted from “peaceful conduct” to “national security risk.” Even personal expression is increasingly reassessed through a security lens.
Recent incidents, such as police intervention in residents displaying banners in their homes, illustrate how the boundary between public and private expression has become blurred.
What was once considered private autonomy is now subject to heightened scrutiny. As legal lines become less clear, self-censorship becomes more common.
A generational restructuring of values
Different generations are experiencing this shift differently.
Older generations (60–70s), who lived through 1989, feel a profound sense of loss as their political ideals collapse.
Middle-aged groups (40–50s) tend to adopt pragmatic adaptation, prioritising stability, careers, and family security.
Younger generations (20–30s), shaped by liberal education and local identity, experience the greatest cognitive dissonance, as their legal and moral frameworks clash with present realities, leading many to emigrate or withdraw.
What does the future hold?
With expanding national security laws, self-censorship is becoming a practical norm. Over time, historical memory itself risks fragmentation, as younger generations may only encounter events like June Fourth through official or limited narratives.
This creates a break in historical transmission, where memory shifts from public discourse to private discussion.
For those overseas, particularly in democratic societies such as Australia, the contrast highlights the value of political freedom and expression. The question becomes not only how Hong Kong is changing, but how those outside it choose to respond—whether through remembrance, participation, or active engagement in preserving open civic values.