Hong Kong residents unite in the fight for democracy

Its route number has been changed to N689, a derisory reference to Leung Chun-ying, and the number of votes he won to be appointed as Hong Kong's leader in 2012. The destination of the bus, also altered by a sign stuck on the front, is now "hell".

It is testament to Leung's unpopularity around these parts that the suggestion that he "go to hell" is among the more polite – and wittier – executions of hostile abuse plastered over all sides of the bus, amid plaintive calls for democracy, direct elections and support for the colossal protests sweeping Hong Kong for the past week.

Mong Kok, Causeway Bay and the main protest site outside government headquarters in Admiralty have been paralysed by tens, if not hundreds of thousands of demonstrators camping out nightly since Sunday.

"I think this is our last chance to help our Hong Kong to have democracy," Hillary Ma, a 20-year-old  film studies student, says. "I'm so tired, and I'm very sticky. Everyday when I go home to bathe, the water is turned black."

Nicole Lau, also 20, pats the rock-hard bitumen that is now her rather uninviting bed.  "I couldn't sleep at all for two whole nights at the start, but I'm so tired I can fall asleep easily on this now, no mat or anything."

While the scale and intensity of the city-wide protests were not anticipated, they had always been planned for the centre of the city.

The occupation of Mong Kok, north of the harbour in Kowloon, on the other hand, was rather more spontaneous, helped by the fact that it is the most-densely populated district in the world.  Already aware that student protesters had been demonstrating outside government headquarters, news filtered through on the evening bulletins, social media, and old-fashioned word-of-mouth, that riot police had  fired tear gas on demonstrators, many mere teenagers. Outraged residents filed downstairs and spilled onto the streets, crippling traffic. Many more have since joined. Some have never left, except to shower or relieve themselves.

"The news came from everywhere; everyone was so angry and wanted to show support," Tam Kwok-keung, a 54-year-old semi-retiree, says.

As well as bus N689, six other public buses, and private vehicles including a late-model BMW, got stuck in the heaving throng, and were also abandoned.

So too, it appears, was a police van, now covered in yellow ribbons and flowers, a symbol of the city's pro-democracy movement. "We can't accept the Hong Kong police becoming the Gong'an," a placard reads – referring to China's public security bureau, a police force usually more associated with oppressive behaviour towards its citizens than Hong Kong's.

War for public support

It has just passed midnight on Thursday and an emotional crowd of protesters outside government headquarters in Admiralty has just heard Leung  call a news conference to say he will not cede to their demands and resign. While expected, it is still  a blow for students who have spent more than a hundred hours on the streets.

"I'm very angry," says Sam Tsang, a 19-year-old social sciences student at Lingnan University, who has slept rough outside government headquarters since Sunday.  "I feel helpless. After all these days, the action we have done, the attitude from CY Leung is that he seems unwilling to listen to us."     Determined as they are, fatigue and frustration are visibly setting in. A common complaint among students is a lack of direction, with the tedium of a long, peaceful struggle against a government seemingly hard of hearing magnified by physical and mental exhaustion. But student organisers are imploring the crowds to stay patient. Any violence and public and international sentiment will quickly sway against them.

"This is a war for public support," says Joshua Wong, the 17-year-old convener of Scholarism, who has shot to fame for his leading role in the protests. "We must show Leung that we have the support of the masses on our side."

Sometimes though, Tsang says, "violence is a good option".

"I did it very hard to keep calm because we are so angry. So angry. If we're not angry we wouldn't be here."

The protests stem from anger at what pro-democracy groups, including civil disobedience movement Occupy Central, and student groups Scholarism and the Hong Kong Federation of Students, say is a betrayal by the Chinese government, which had promised Hong Kong the right to choose its own leader at the next election in 2017, instead of being appointed by a 1200-member nomination committee stacked with elites loyal to Beijing.

Instead, China said last month that while there would be an unprecedented direct vote, the candidates would be limited to "two or three" and would have to be approved by the same nomination committee.

The decision kick-started a wave of protests that escalated rapidly.

University students boycotted class en masse, and by last Friday hundreds charged into the forecourt of the government headquarters, leading to 78 arrests. Protests outside the government complex grew in size, and as tensions grew on Sunday, riot police fired canisters of tear gas on 87 different occasions in an attempt to disperse growing crowds which, while unarmed, were – according to authorities – said were trying to breach police lines.

The use of tear gas, and the disturbing footage it produced, backfired heavily on police, galvanising protesters and prompting many in the public, who had been unconvinced on the merits of protesting, to join in.

"The use of tear gas proved totally counterproductive as it simply provoked the public," Willy Lam, a politics professor at the Chinese University of Hong Kong, said. "After each deployment of tear gas, the protesters regrouped in bigger numbers."

With police deliberately backing off since Sunday's ugly clashes, the government's new strategy appears to be to wait the protesters out, hoping that they tire, or that public sentiment turns against them because of the disruptions to the city.

"They want us to feel like there's no target," Nicole Lau says. "Their final goal is for us to leave one by one."  An undercurrent to all this is the negative sentiment towards  China – which cuts across all ages  but is especially strong among those in their 30s and younger – and anger at its growing influence in Hong Kong. Typical gripes include overcrowding due to an influx of  tourists, and the competition for university places and jobs because of Chinese students and workers.

But ultimately, the spectre of China's authoritarian government taking greater hold scares Hong Kong people.

"Our worry is not just this struggle for a genuinely-democratic electoral system, our worry is that there's a distinct danger that we may just be reduced to another big city in China," says Joseph Cheng, a pro-democracy campaigner and academic, "that we are going to lose our special characteristics, our spirit, and we may not even protect our core values, our lifestyle".

This, in part, accounts for Leung's unpopularity. The blanket criticism from detractors is that he is too close to the Chinese central government; that he is at the beck and call of Beijing rather than acting in the interests of the people in Hong Kong.

Back in Mong Kok, heated arguments increasingly break out between supporters, and locals frustrated with the incessant noise and disruption to their daily lives.

In many ways, it is acting as a bellwether of support for the broader protest movement.

While people who travel to the other more central protest sites invariably support the demonstrations, those who oppose the protests in Mong Kok have to live in its midst.

"It's over the top. How much longer can it go for?" one middle-aged woman, who only wanted to be identified  by her surname Fong, said.

"Are they waiting until the [Chinese] central government sends in the People's Liberation Army?"

Shop owners complain of the effects on their business, although jewellers on the Nathan Road strip notoriously popular with Chinese tourists appeared to be doing a brisk trade.

Hordes of cashed-up Chinese tourists taking advantage of a week-long National Day holiday are in Hong Kong, Many cross the southern Shenzhen border with empty suitcases to fill with shopping; particularly popular are luxury goods, which are taxed heavily back home.

But despite the dramatic lift in average incomes in China in recent decades, there are the tell-tale signs of what people in Hong Kong say they would rather not become.

As any correspondent in the region can attest to, while Hong Kong people don't think twice before speaking to foreign journalists, most Chinese baulk at commenting publicly on anything remotely politically sensitive for fear of reprisals back home.

Having approached more than a dozen curious Chinese observing proceedings in Mong Kok, most told me they did not know what was going on, did not know enough about the issue, or that it was "inconvenient" to comment. Two said they supported the movement and the courage of protesters, but were unwilling to provide their names.

Finally, a man from Nanjing, Zhang Liang, is willing to offer his views.

"It's been eye-opening," he says, smiling, before walking briskly away.