June 4th, 2021 marks the 32nd anniversary of the Tiananmen Square Massacre – and the first year since the 1989 massacre where no formal commemoration event will be held as per government-sponsored censorship rules. Following a tumultuous year of pandemic restrictions, civil and political unrest, and government censorship, the People’s Republic of China (PRC) has deemed vigils to commemorate the deaths of up to several thousand peaceful protesters an “unauthorized political act.” Some of the most notable vigils in Hong Kong, Macau, and Taiwan were restricted and, in Hong Kong, the national security law was invoked warning people to stay away. While censorship of sensitive words, photos, numbers, and symbols that reference the massacre has always been the case in the PRC, the government suppression of voices has recently expanded into Hong Kong. Since 1990, Hong Kong has held two vigils every year to remember the bloodshed of peaceful protests at Tiananmen. The past two years, however, have seen increased government suppression: those taking part or promoting vigils could face more than 5 years in jail, activists have been silenced through enforced “holidays,” online events have been shut down, and tighter security has been applied to the Beijing square. To understand the significance of seeking accountability for the Tiananmen Massacre, it is important to address the events that led up to the massacre. While China’s rapid economic success after the end of the Cultural Revolution and Mao’s death in 1976 introduced foreign ideas of western democracy and liberalism, it also provided opportunities for corruption within the government. In the 1980s, then Secretary-General Hu Yaobang implemented many reforms that overturned several Mao-era policies. He opened up the country to new ideas including those of free-market capitalism and was sympathetic to student’s demands for democratic reform. However, the government's lack of transparency and suppression of the press, in addition to rising inflation, cultivated dissatisfaction among youths, causing widespread and small-scale pro-democratic protests to erupt as early as 1986. This eventually led to Hu’s forced resignation as many other party leaders blamed him for encouraging social instability due to his ‘liberal’ views. In April 1989, Hu Yaobang's death sparked a large-scale pro-democracy movement with calls for better education, freedom of the press, and the right to protest. Tens of thousands of students arrived at Tiananmen Square on the day of his funeral. In the following weeks, the number of protestors grew to be more than 300,000, many of which were university students that came from different cities. Some began hunger strikes as a means of gaining worldwide attention and sympathy to pressure the Chinese government into meeting their demands. The protests divided the Chinese Communist Party internally into those who wanted to reach a consensus with the students and those who wanted to enact martial law to disperse them. On May 20, martial law was declared and the military was mobilized into the square. On June 1, Premier Li Peng issued a report justifying the strong military action against the students, claiming that American forces were involved in the student movement and attempting to overthrow the Communist Party. On the night of June 3rd, the military opened fire on the protestors. The violence lasted well into the next day, as troops used tear gas and machine guns to try and disperse the protest. The magnitude of deaths that occurred during the Tiananmen Square Massacre is still debated today. Reports from the Chinese State Council count the number of deaths to be around 300 people, while other groups claim that it is as high as 4,000. In one night, hundreds, possibly thousands, of protestors were murdered. However, the true number of deaths is at risk of being lost. Because of ongoing censorship, the names, fates, and stories of the victims are largely unknown as it is nearly impossible to openly discuss the events. Chinese social media and search engines filter out any mention of the events taking place and showing remembrance or commemorating the event is considered an act of defiance. By erasing the Tiananmen Square Massacre from history and denying it ever happened, the Chinese government is avoiding not only the responsibility for its use of violence but any remorse or apology for what occurred. Today, freedom of speech and assembly is still denied and the families of those who were killed are closely monitored. Activists have been imprisoned or exiled, and discussions bring the threat of detainment. Three decades and several successions of power later, the government has gone as far as rewriting the history books in an attempt to portray the student protestors as rioters and foreign infiltrators. Mainland China has banned any public events in remembrance of the massacre and has suppressed any voices that try to speak out. Hong Kong, Macau, and Taiwan are some of the few places where vigils and gatherings are commonly held every year. The local government in Hong Kong this year, however, had decided to ban any public gatherings relating to the anniversary, citing public health concerns and possible violations of the National Security Law imposed after the 2019 pro-democracy protests.The law, which banned many forms of public gathering and criminalized many forms of protest and political dissidence in the city, has bolstered police power and presences in regards to political events. Before the pandemic, thousands of Hong Kongers would gather in a yearly vigil at Victoria Park to light candles and sing songs to honor those who were killed in the massacre. This year, the Hong Kong Police closed down the park, placing barricades around the football fields and increasing police presence to guard and prevent any gathering. Two days before the anniversary, the June 4th Museum, which had opened earlier in the week, closed down after it was placed under investigation over the validity of its licenses to conduct a public exhibition. On the morning of the anniversary, police arrested Chow Hang-tung, the Vice-Chair of the Hong Kong Alliance in Support of Patriotic Democratic Movements of China, alleging that she had used social media to organize a public event banned by the police. The park stood empty, but that didn’t stop several organizing efforts from activists, community leaders, and government officials to find other ways for people to commemorate the event. In Causeway Bay and Mong Kok, several people came together in spontaneous gatherings, lighting candles or flashing the lights on their phones despite heavy police presence. Police said they had arrested at least six people gathered near the park and in other places. In other locations, people gathered in churches, where religious leaders held services in remembrance of the events. In Taiwan, leaders called for China to “return power to the people.” Taiwan's President Tsai Ing-wen stated, “I believe all Taiwanese people who are proud of freedom and democracy will never forget this day in history and will hold tighter to our convictions.” However, Taiwan was unable to host any vigils or gatherings this year, as the island is facing a spike in coronavirus cases. To acknowledge the anniversary of this historical event is crucial, as the expression of conflicting political voices in China is as precarious as ever before. Commemorating the 4th is an act of defiance in face of a government actively trying to stamp out any memory of what occurred, an ongoing feat of resistance in a time where people are still being silenced. We must remember the Tiananmen Square Massacre because it was not a crackdown, or incident, or counter-revolutionary riot. It was a massacre. Remembering the event not only pays tribute to those who were killed – it garners much needed recognition and support for those who can not speak up themselves, while carrying on the spirit of freedom and democracy of the 1989 protests. Current Events Editorial Staff

TW: gun violence I miss the innocent days of childhood. Sometimes I wonder, when did the world get so big? Sometimes I wonder if it was always such a scary place. I wonder if it was always so. Sometimes I long for those days. Being able to run carefree without any worries. No thought of the complexities of global politics or evil politicians. No thought to the existence of racism, discrimination, hatred, division. The days when I didn’t live in fear. When the other kids on the playground were just like me. We could accept each other as we were. And not question who they were because of the way they spoke or the way they dressed. The days before we were all sent to school. Before we would have our culture and traditions Mocked, teased, and questioned right in front of us. Before we were told we were the “bright future of our nation” And then told we were “naive,” “immature,” and “unaware.” The days before we learned to categorize people by the color of their skin. When we didn’t separate our peers by race, gender, politics, or religion. When someone else's beliefs weren’t rooted in my own oppression. To the kids whose parents never taught them about other cultures. Who made me believe that my language, food, and culture were “weird.” Who made me believe that if I didn’t fit their image of how their parents viewed my race I was a disappointment, a failure. To the teachers who never realized their own biases. Who could never see the world from the eyes of their students. Who could never realize their own prejudice and misconceptions Would hurt me and my peers. To the world leaders who said we are all “just a bunch of kids” That we are too young, too naive to understand how to fix the world The same leaders who hold the power to make the world a better place Yet do nothing when our environment is slowly melting, and kids are being shot at school I keep thinking about how I was always told to leave it to the “adults.” How we could trust them to keep the world a safe place. I question if they ever have. If they ever made the world a safe place. Ever pursued peace, justice, equity, and equality with the energy and fervor of a child. A child who knows not of wealth, or class. A child who knows not of race or color. A child who knows not of political party, or political allegiance. For we weren’t born to hate. For we weren't born with racism in our hearts. For we weren’t born with the want to divide ourselves. For we weren’t born with evil and malice to one another. Sometimes when they say to spring forward, you have to take a few steps back, And I think we had the right idea as kids. Every one of us. To not see race a reflection of one's personality, To not see another culture as a stereotype or caricature. To not internalize the hatred that we were taught. To be kind, to be loving, and above all, human. - Chris Fong Chew Cover Photo Source: Boston University

For the longest time, I have felt like an imposter in my own culture. Maybe it was the times I was called “white-washed” by my peers, Or the times I felt excluded because I felt I wasn’t Asian enough. For the longest time, I never saw myself as a Person of Color. Maybe it was the textbooks that defined race in America as Black and white, Or being told that Asian Americans were the model minority. I lived, for the longest time, uncomfortably in between. Unable to define my place in the American narrative. Not white, not Black. But excluded by both. Not Asian enough, but still not enough to be American. Unable to define my own identity. Too “white-washed” to be “Asian”, But still a perpetual foreigner in the land I was born and raised in. This wh*te supremacist lie, so deeply internalized, that I have lived comfortably in turmoil, For All my life. Thinking that this. was. normal. Now I feel anger. Anger over my 20 years of life, living this lie. Living this wh*te. supremacist. lie. Because, I am Asian enough. I am Chinese enough. I am American enough. I am not a pawn in this white man’s game of race. My ability to succeed in this white supremicist society does not define my value My value is my ability to stand with my Black brothers and sisters With my Latine brothers and sisters, With my Indigenous brothers and sisters, And white allies. In love. In peace. In solidarity. - Chris Fong Chew 招偉明 Cover art source: https://terranceosborne.com/product/solidarity/

This digital art piece is an exploration of my cultural identity. I thought a lot about feeling split between my Filipino ethnicity and my American upbringing. As a child of immigrants, the culture of my parents is imbued in my own experiences. It impacts my life in a lot of ways, from the food I eat to the ideals I hold. In the process of creating this, I used my hair as a representation of a part of my identity. My hair is extremely thick, and oftentimes difficult to deal with. It’s that coarse Filipino texture that frizzes in humidity, and contingently, a symbol of my cultural identity. It’s also gone through a great deal of evolution as I’ve sought to tame it. It’s been dyed and cut countless times, straightened, curled, and everything else in between. Nothing has ever been able to control it in a way that I am satisfied with, but I’ve learned to embrace it somewhat. In my artwork, my hair represents the part of me that is Filipino. Symbolically, the act of cutting one’s hair in the media is oftentimes shorthand for development and change in a character. It is cut here as a reference to this, as well as the degree of separation I feel from the culture. I know I’ll never truly be a Filipino, but at the same time, I don’t have the same ideologies, experiences, or lifestyles as the majority of my American peers. Even if I have come to accept my differences and learn that this doesn’t change my worth as a person, it still bothers me. I’m not sure if there will ever be a time where being stuck between cultures doesn’t bother me, but I think I can still be proud of my own evolution in grappling with that. The flag and the details within it are very much a representation of what I’ve taken and learned from my Filipino culture. There’s the food I grew up with, Tagalog phrases I hear often, and cultural garb. Things that appear in my life without American influence, but still on the periphery of my existence. As an American citizen first and foremost, I do not possess the same pride and nationalism as Filipino citizens that have grown up in that archipelago. Hence why the red side of the flag—the one that represents such values—is featured the least in my artwork. It’s an act of reluctance and co-existing loyalties. I love the country of my parents, but I cannot truly call it home. Still, there are essences of myself that are fully defined by my Asian culture. The history is my own, as are the hopes held by the Filipino community. The liberty and freedom symbolized by the flag’s sun, a triumph to taking up arms against Spain—that is the story of my people. The white triangle embodies hope for equality, something I still yearn for despite my distance from the nation. And finally, the blue stripe: a representation of justice and peace. It id a message most important in the current climate of the nation that I’m witnessing before my eyes; for even if I cannot call the Philippines my home, it isn’t a place that’s entirely foreign. I will always care for the Pearl of the Orient, a place of people that I call my own, people that I care for. If anything, it is home in the strangest sense possible. The culture itself has become my home and part of who I am. I am Filipina, no less than any other, no less full of love for that country. - Billy Agustin