How the Chinese Communist Party Co-opted Hong Kong’s Triad Societies: From the Eve of the Handover to the Yuen Long White-Clad Attackers | Yaoyao Jiang
This video reveals how the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) gradually co-opted Hong Kong triads starting from the eve of the handover and incorporated them into the CCP's control system. Through an analysis of Xu Jiatun's visit to Kowloon Walled City, the political shift of the Sun Yee On family, the public statements of Minister of Public Security Tao Siju, and Operation Yellowbird, the video demonstrates how the CCP leveraged political loyalty and economic interests to transform triads—which traditionally cared only about profit—into tools taking orders from the CCP. Ultimately, this 'patriotic mafia' model manifested during the July 21, 2019 Yuen Long attacks by men in white, revealing how the CCP orchestrates such layered networks when violence is needed, while cutting off accountability to make responsibility hard to trace.
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Hello everyone, I am Yaoyao Jiang. In July 2019, the anti-extradition bill movement was sweeping across Hong Kong. On July 21, a large mob of triads dressed in white indiscriminately attacked anti-extradition protesters with violence in Yuen Long, Hong Kong. During the incident, the police failed to intervene and mobilized slowly. Afterward, suspicions continuously arose regarding Liaison Office officials inciting the triads to attack the protesters. That night, people witnessed the triads belonging to the Party and obeying its command through the tacit understanding between the mafia and the police.
The real question, however, is why these Hong Kong gangs, which had always cared only about profits and turf, would take orders from the Communist Party? The answer does not begin in Yuen Long, but on the eve of Hong Kong's handover, when Beijing first sent officials to meet with those triad leaders.
On July 1, 1983, Xu Jiatun officially assumed office in Hong Kong. The next day, the Chinese and British governments simultaneously announced that the second phase of talks on the Hong Kong issue would be held on July 12. Xu Jiatun later recalled that when this news reached the ears of 5 million Hong Kong residents, some were overjoyed while others felt anxious. In 14 years, Britain would hand over the city. Although Xu Jiatun's public title was simply Director of the Xinhua News Agency Hong Kong Branch, he actually shouldered the role of Secretary of the Hong Kong and Macao Work Committee of the CCP, making him Beijing's highest-ranking official in Hong Kong.
At the time, what Beijing was going to take over was clearly not just the Government House, the police, and a few government buildings. Hong Kong had been operating under British rule for over a hundred years; British financial conglomerates controlled the financial lifeline, Chinese tycoons ran real estate and shipping, labor unions were divided into left, middle, and right factions, alongside pro-clan associations and temple neighborhoods, each arguably holding its own turf.
Beneath this visible order lay a massive, ambiguously bounded triad society. They ran casinos, entertainment venues, and transportation, and could mobilize a crowd to take to the streets when needed.
For Beijing, the handover was first and foremost a transfer of risk. Would capital flee? Would pro-Taiwan forces stir up trouble? Would tens of thousands of triad members seize the opportunity of the power transition to fight for turf? If riots broke out on the eve of the handover, whom could Beijing rely on to maintain order?
Xu Jiatun was not entirely without personnel. The CCP had been operating underground networks in Hong Kong for decades. According to his recollections, the underground party in Hong Kong had previously been divided into two separate, independent systems: one responsible for local Hong Kong affairs, and the other undertaking tasks assigned from the mainland. After taking office, he unified the two lines, and another group of party members whose identities had never been exposed were re-screened to form an absolutely secret new organization operating on single-line contacts.
Xu Jiatun later summarized the CCP's past work in Hong Kong as 'too left-leaning and too narrow-minded'—the stance was too far to the left, and the scope of contact was too narrow. He demanded an expansion of the united front to bring in capitalists, professionals, regional associations, and people who had previously been unwilling to contact them. The other party did not need to believe in socialism, nor did they need to like the Communist Party; the threshold had only two criteria: patriotism and loving Hong Kong.
This change sounded very loose, but it was actually a new ruler. Once political loyalty became the minimum standard, an individual's profession, reputation, or even whether they lived in the legitimate world no longer needed to be scrutinized.
A little over a month after taking office, Xu Jiatun took this "ruler" to the place in Hong Kong closest to being outside the law. On August 7, 1983, Xu Jiatun set off from his office for the Kowloon Walled City. It was difficult for the British Hong Kong government's law enforcement and licensing systems to penetrate this area, where unlicensed clinics, cheap factories, gambling dens, and other gray-market businesses were crammed into the same narrow space.
Huang Wenfang, the deputy secretary-general of the Xinhua News Agency Hong Kong Branch who had worked in Hong Kong for many years, was the one who helped Xu Jiatun get the lay of the land. When Xu Jiatun proposed visiting the Walled City, Huang first put his mind at ease. He said that the influence of triad forces in the Walled City had weakened, and that gambling, prostitution, and drug-related activities were less prevalent than in the past. The Walled City's Neighborhood Welfare Promotion Association was a self-governing organization run by the residents themselves, and it included several members of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) who had good personal relationships with the secretary of the self-governing organization—the actual person in charge. Therefore, Xu Jiatun would have no safety issues if he went inside.
That same day, Xu Jiatun arrived at the Walled City. Xu later wrote that the buildings on both sides of the Walled City were dilapidated, and the sky was completely obscured by eaves and corridors, making it impossible to see even a sliver of the sky. Afterward, Xu Jiatun went to the Neighborhood Welfare Promotion Association. As he walked along the perimeter of the Walled City, Xu Jiatun saw dentist signs everywhere. It turned out that most of these people did not have Hong Kong licenses, but since the British Hong Kong government could not regulate them, their fees were cheap.
This so-called "place outside the law" was not just about the gambling dens and gangs seen in movies. It also accommodated a group of mainland dentists who could not obtain professional qualifications in Hong Kong. Legal and illegal, along with the necessities of life, were difficult to separate here with a single stroke.
This visit was originally agreed to be written up only as an internal reference and not released as news. After Xu Jiatun spoke at the neighborhood association, someone suggested that it could be reported publicly, arguing that it could reassure those who had come from the mainland to Hong Kong and were deeply anxious about their future, so Xu Jiatun agreed.
The next day, several Hong Kong newspapers placed the news in prominent positions. The British Hong Kong government immediately issued a statement emphasizing that the Neighborhood Welfare Promotion Association was not a registered group, that its membership numbers and election procedures were unrecorded, and specifically pointed out that Xu Jiatun had not notified the Hong Kong government before his visit.
Xu Jiatun was unconvinced. In his memoirs, he repeatedly asked: The Walled City belongs to a Chinese local organization, why should it register with you, the British? A few months later, when he returned to Beijing to report on his work, President Li Xiannian asked about the incident, and Xu Jiatun replied that he had indeed been there. Li Xiannian only said one thing: Why can't one visit one's own son?
Later, Xu Jiatun learned that both the Hong Kong and Macao Affairs Office and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs had written reports on this visit. A trip to the Walled City lasting less than half a day had actually alarmed the highest levels of leadership in both Beijing and Hong Kong.
This controversy exposed more than just who had jurisdiction over a piece of land. The British Hong Kong government emphasized the lack of registration, while what Xu Jiatun saw was another set of effective order: a few underground party members, an actual person in charge who had good relations with them, and a community network capable of ensuring the safety of Beijing's highest-ranking official in Hong Kong. Nominally lacking legal status did not prevent him from exercising governance functions within the Walled City.
Huang Wenfang later admitted that Beijing's contact with gangs was more direct and earlier than this visit to the Walled City. As early as before the signing of the Sino-British Joint Declaration in 1984, he had met with leaders of Hong Kong's triads to explain China's intention to take back Hong Kong and to express the hope that no riots would occur.
Beijing's intention was already very clear: rather than waiting until after the handover to find ways to clear out these organizations, it was better to first find people who could control them. The united front did not require the other party to become a communist, only that they not stand on the side of the enemy at critical moments.
However, secret meetings could only explain that Beijing wanted to stabilize the gangs; they could not explain why the gangs were willing to trust Beijing. Some of these Hong Kong triads had long been close to the Kuomintang (KMT) and even prided themselves on being anti-communist. To get these people to change direction, a bit of patriotic preaching was far from enough. Beijing had to let them see what benefits obedience could bring and what would be lost by refusal.
A typical example of completing this shift was the Sun Yee On, one of the most powerful and family-oriented gangs in Hong Kong. The story of the Sun Yee On begins with a man named Heung Chin.
Around 1919, this Heung Chin established the organization that would later be known as the Sun Yee On in Hong Kong. The Sun Yee On was long regarded as a pro-KMT gang. In the 1950s, the British Hong Kong government deported Heung Chin for political and public security reasons. He eventually settled in Taiwan, but did not lose his influence over the organization in Hong Kong because of this.
This made the Sun Yee On different from many loose gangs. It was not just maintained by rituals and territory, but also carried a distinct family character. Heung Chin had more than a dozen sons, and family members entered the gang, film, and business sectors respectively. By the 1980s, police believed that Heung Chin's eldest son, Heung Wah-yim, had already taken over the highest position in the organization.
When the British Hong Kong government decided to take action, this was exactly what they targeted. In February 1987, Hong Kong police arrested Heung Wah-yim and others. The trial brought terms that some Hong Kong people had only heard of in rumors into the courtroom. Gang positions did not use modern corporate titles like manager or supervisor, but rather terms like "Dragon Head," "Red Pole," and "White Paper." Numerical codes indicated seniority and were also used to confirm identity. When new members joined, they had to swear allegiance to the organization, receiving protection and livelihood opportunities in return. It was not that every matter was ordered by the Dragon Head personally, but rather that it required a group of localities bound by a common identity.
The core of the prosecution's case was that Heung Wah-yim was not an ordinary member, but the leader of the Sun Yee On. On January 20, 1988, he was sentenced to seven and a half years in prison. The British Hong Kong government seemed to have finally caught the head of this behemoth. An organization with tens of thousands of followers, deeply embedded in the film, entertainment, and street-level businesses, had its contours outlined in court for the first time.
But in less than two years, the situation reversed. In December 1989, Heung Wah-yim's appeal was successful. The court ruled that there were issues with the handling of prosecution witnesses, expert evidence, and jury instructions in the original trial, and the conviction was quashed. The police had obtained the triad's membership lists and witnesses, but they had no way to prove the command relationship between a family member and the entire underground organization.
When Heung Wah-yim walked out of prison, it had been five years since the signing of the Sino-British Joint Declaration, and the countdown to Hong Kong's handover was underway.
Two other brothers of the Heung family took a different path. In 1984, Charles Heung and Jimmy Heung founded Win's Entertainment. That was the golden age of Hong Kong cinema. Overseas distribution of videotapes and dramas could quickly turn a film into cash, while actor schedules, filming locations, and theater chain relationships required coordination. The film industry had fast capital flow and contracts relied on personal connections, making it a business tailor-made for existing local networks.
Charles Heung rarely appeared in public as a gang figure. He was an actor, producer, and company boss, appearing at premieres in sharp suits. He also played roles like the taciturn Lung Ng in films such as God of Gamblers. But in 1992, a U.S. Senate subcommittee investigating organized crime in Asia listed him as a key leader of the Sun Yee On.
Charles Heung himself always denied being involved in the triad, admitting only that his family had gang backgrounds. The Hong Kong film industry at the time lived under the shadow of real violence. News of actors being forced to take roles, producers being threatened, and offices being attacked was heard from time to time. Many cases never resulted in convictions, but industry insiders knew that film was not just art; it was a means for money laundering, distribution channels, and control over stars.
While the Heung brothers were feared, they also became objects of protection sought by those in the industry. As more gang capital flooded into the film industry, the family with the largest network was able to provide a form of order.
What truly changed the direction of the story was when the Heung brothers began to look north. In August 1993, Charles Heung and Jimmy Heung opened a film production base of about 200,000 square feet in Shenzhen, in partnership with the Shenzhen Donglong Group. A very important guest appeared at the opening event: Ye Xuanping, former Governor of Guangdong Province and then Vice Chairman of the CPPCC National Committee. He was the son of the old marshal Ye Jianying.
One year earlier, Ye Xuanping's eldest son, Ye Xinlong, had gone to Hong Kong. By 1993, Ye Xinlong and Charles Heung were both serving as directors of a Hong Kong investment company. A member of a gang family once pursued by British Hong Kong police was now building a film studio in Shenzhen with a local company, appearing on the same business relationship map as a powerful Guangdong family.
This was not a simple whitewashing, but represented a rare political pivot completed by the Heung family. He did not publicly announce his abandonment of the Kuomintang, nor did he hold a defection ceremony for the Communist Party, but his sons could enter Shenzhen to invest, do business with powerful families, and operate entertainment venues in Beijing. The old anti-communist lineage was no longer an obstacle; accepting the new power's co-optation gave the Heung family a pass to Beijing.
An even more eye-catching detail appeared in Beijing. In 1997, an investigative report by an American journalist stated that Charles Heung was a co-owner of the luxury Beijing entertainment venue TOP Ten, and the other owner was the then-Minister of Public Security of China, Tao Siju. TOP Ten was a nightclub that included a restaurant and karaoke rooms. Just days after they opened for business, this Minister of Public Security, Tao Siju, spoke to Hong Kong reporters about the triads.
That interview was originally about public security in China. After Tao Siju answered other questions, the topic turned to Hong Kong's triads. Instead of using the common term for criminal groups used by Chinese public security organs, he first told a personal story.
Tao Siju said that once, when he was accompanying national leaders on a visit abroad, an organization similar to a triad appeared in that country, and the other side immediately mobilized more than eight hundred people to protect the Chinese leaders. He continued that while one must certainly oppose crimes like murder, arson, and robbery, there were also people in these organizations who had turned over a new leaf and done good deeds. The later widely circulated saying that "there are also patriots among the triads" was condensed from this very answer.
He then clarified the standard. He said that for organizations like the triads in Hong Kong, as long as these people are patriotic and care about the prosperity and stability of Hong Kong, we should unite them.
This was not the idle chatter of a retired official. Tao Siju was in charge of the national public security system at the time, and there were only four years left until Hong Kong's handover. What Beijing had previously done in secret rooms was, for the first time, turned into open policy by the Minister of Public Security in front of television cameras.
This line of thinking did not appear suddenly. During the Sino-British negotiations, Deng Xiaoping had already indicated to Hong Kong figures that there were good people and patriots among the triads. Around 1984, the CCP's secret contacts with them were based on the hope that the gangs would not create disturbances during the handover.
However, after June Fourth, the Hong Kong gangs provided help for the escape of student leaders, which reminded Beijing: having contacted them did not mean having controlled them. After the June Fourth crackdown, CCTV repeatedly broadcasted wanted lists, and student leaders, intellectuals, and former subordinates of Zhao Ziyang were hiding everywhere.
Right at this moment, a Hong Kong businessman in Shenzhen suddenly received a request: could he hide a few people in his warehouse? This businessman would later only allow journalists to refer to him as Tiger. At first, he thought he was merely lending out a warehouse, but before long, he found that he also had to deal with another matter: how to transport the people hidden inside across the border.
While Hong Kong's pro-democracy figures could raise funds to find fugitives, they had no boats and were unfamiliar with the secret waterways along the Guangdong coast. Those who truly knew which coast could be landed on, which paths could avoid inspections, and how to pick people up in the dark of night were the smugglers and triad networks who had traveled back and forth between Guangdong and Hong Kong for years.
Organizers thus approached these professionals, asking them to convert the channels previously used to transport electronics, cars, and illegal migrants into a rescue route. The funds were donated by the Hong Kong Alliance in Support of Patriotic Democratic Movements of China and businessmen, while Tiger was responsible for handing the money over to the smugglers. To prevent the other party from raising prices on the spot, the smugglers usually did not know who the passengers were; they only knew to pick people up at an agreed-upon location and transport them to Hong Kong. A single operation often cost forty to fifty thousand Hong Kong dollars, and the fees would be even higher for individuals with particularly sensitive identities who needed to be repeatedly transferred.
Upon arriving in Hong Kong, the fugitives were first taken to remote hiding places and managed by designated personnel. These guests who suddenly appeared in Hong Kong were not allowed to go out casually, nor were they allowed to drink alcohol or smoke. Tiger later recalled with a smile that it was simply too difficult to ban writers and artists from smoking and drinking, so he had to secretly smuggle those items in for them.
This route was later called Operation Yellow Bird. Wuerkaixi, Chai Ling, Yan Jiaqi, Chen Yizi, and Su Xiaokang, among others, all entered Hong Kong through these different routes before moving on to Europe and the United States.
This did not initiate contact between Beijing and the triads, but it made the ongoing co-optation more urgent. It was not enough to merely have the bosses guarantee that they would not cause trouble upon the handover; Beijing also wanted to sever their ties with Taiwan and the pro-democracy camp, and then anchor them to the new power center using mainland business.
By the spring of 1993, this process had moved from secret contacts to public statements. The South China Morning Post cited Hong Kong police sources as saying that multiple senior figures of the Sun Yee On visited Beijing at the end of March and were believed to have met with Tao Siju. A few days later, Tao Siju stood before Hong Kong television reporters and announced that as long as the triads were patriotic and cared about Hong Kong's prosperity and stability, Beijing should unite with them. Meanwhile, the underground routes used in the operations now had to choose a new object of allegiance.
When the news reached Hong Kong, the most uneasy people were not ordinary citizens, but the police officers responsible for investigating those gangs every day. While the Hong Kong police force was gathering membership rosters of Sun Yee On, monitoring contact points, and planting undercover agents to join initiation rituals, their colleagues heard that senior figures of this organization might have already crossed the border to become guests of honor of the Minister of Public Security of the CCP.
Faced with pressure, the Hong Kong police soon confronted a question: after the handover, could these gang members and patriotic bosses still be investigated? More than a year later, this question was brought into the Legislative Council of Hong Kong.
On the evening of October 20, 1994, the meeting had already lasted until eight o'clock. Legislator James To Kun-sun discussed the Hong Kong government's security policy, saying that the government planned to add 45 anti-triad police officers. On the surface, this was to strengthen the crackdown on triads, but he worried that what truly affected the police was not the number of personnel, but whether they knew how far they could go when investigating cases.
James To reiterated Tao's remarks in the legislative chamber. He said that the Minister of Public Security's remarks regarding patriotic triads had never been officially denied by the Chinese government, which had already dealt a blow to the morale of Hong Kong's law enforcement personnel. What worried him even more was that some gang figures crossed the border to make investments, traded political donations for preferential treatment, and returned to Hong Kong in the capacity of patriotic businessmen.
He then described a very specific picture: when future Hong Kong police officers investigated triad bosses, would they constantly have to look back to confirm who was standing behind that person? If police officers could still arrest street-level thugs, but were asked not to touch certain bosses, then no matter how many laws Hong Kong enacted to combat organized crime, it would be useless.
Tao Siju did not declare the triads legal, nor did he ask the Hong Kong police to stop raiding gambling dens. However, on top of the identity of gang bosses, Beijing added another layer of political identity. The rules on paper seemed unchanged, but they left Hong Kong police worried about whether certain gang members had powerful backers above them.
In the years leading up to the handover, Hong Kong gang bosses successively went to Guangdong to invest in entertainment, catering, real estate, and transportation. Some obtained opportunities to meet with mainland officials, and some packed their original underground businesses into legal companies. Beijing did not demand that they hand over all their followers; it only required them not to cause trouble during the handover period and to stand on the right side when the state needed them.
This was the initial contract of the patriotic underworld: crimes could still be selectively handled by public security, but loyalty had to be tested at any time.
Chan Wai-man had played many gang bosses in Hong Kong films, and his performances were convincing not entirely due to acting skills. After leaving school at the age of sixteen, he first worked as a prison guard, later joined 14K—a Hong Kong triad organization—and then passed the exams to join the police force. After the police discovered his past gang background, he left police work and carved out a reputation in the Tsim Sha Tsui underworld. Years later, he openly admitted that he had joined 14K and had never held a so-called exit ceremony.
In 2014, the Occupy Central movement in Hong Kong was still ongoing, which later came to be commonly known as the Occupy movement or the Umbrella Movement. The controversy was triggered by the universal suffrage proposal for the Chief Executive of Hong Kong. Student boycotts and the police use of tear gas pushed even more citizens into the streets. Protesters successively occupied major streets in Admiralty, Causeway Bay, and Mong Kok, demanding genuine universal suffrage with a real choice. While this political crisis was unfolding, Chan Wai-min accepted an interview with a mainland program. When the host asked about Hong Kong triads after the handover, he did not use terms like "state co-optation" or "informal governance" used by scholars, but put it very bluntly: "Now Hong Kong's triads are all very patriotic, and it is impossible for them to confront the state security forces. When the state gives an order, it must be carried out. Triads that dared to rise up earlier wouldn't dare now; opposing the state security (MSS), if you oppose the state, there is no one left, regardless of what triad you are." He also specifically stated that this was not called cooperation, as cooperation sounded like both sides could bargain, whereas his meaning was actually closer to obedience.
This interview translated Tao Siju's policy into the survival common sense within the triads. Beijing does not need to pay a salary to every member, nor does it need to enroll gang leaders in government rosters. It only needs to control a few key switches: who can enter the mainland, who can obtain land and licenses, whose company can operate, and whose old cases will not be investigated. So-called patriotism is like a license that needs to be renewed repeatedly. What the triads obtained was not just money, but also prestige. A gang leader who could previously only appear at the back door of a nightclub could become a businessman, an association president, or a philanthropist, able to attend National Day events, take photos with officials, and send their next generation into entirely legitimate industries. The name of the organization receded into the background, while family, capital, and community influence were preserved.
What Beijing got was a very low-cost force. The triads are familiar with neighborhoods and can quickly find transport locations and manpower. The actors may not know who is at the very top, only that an acquaintance told them where to gather. After the incident, the government could say it was a spontaneous action by residents, and the triads could deny organizing or participating in the action. During the 2014 Occupy movement, incidents of opponents of the occupiers attacking camps and destroying tents had already appeared in places like Mong Kok, and some of the arrested individuals were reported to have triad backgrounds. Of course, a single case is difficult to prove a direct chain of command from Beijing to the streets, but Chan Wai-min's statement revealed a more important rule: the triads do not need to receive a phone call from the central authorities every time; as long as they know what the state wants and the cost of refusal, local leaders will make their own choices.
In this relationship, Beijing always holds the upper hand. A triad can get opportunities today because of patriotism, and can be cracked down upon tomorrow for disturbing public security. It is not an equal ally of the state, but merely a temporarily useful tool. Chan Wai-min's remark, "When the order comes down, it must be carried out," laid bare the predicament of this tool.
After the handover, traditional triad rituals on the streets of Hong Kong became increasingly rare, and the scenes of openly paying homage at ancestral halls and fighting for the dragon head in movies gradually faded. Many people therefore believed that the underworld had been eliminated by the powerful state apparatus, but the reality is closer to another change: triad identities hid in the backstage, while businessmen, association heads, village heads, and fortune-teller leaders walked to the front stage.
While Hong Kong law defines triads very clearly, organizations in reality are not actually that neat and orderly. Under names like 14K and Sun Yee On, there are often many self-managed factions and local leaders. This is also where the underworld is most easily misunderstood. A person does not walk around swaggering every day in clothes bearing the triad's name; he may have an external identity, such as being the owner of a transport company, a restaurant manager, a parking lot operator, or participating in clan associations, athletic associations, or neighborhood welfare associations. These are all public organizational identities, and their purpose is to provide venues, rosters, prestige, and reasons for assembly for the non-public underworld.
The neighborhood welfare association of Kowloon Walled City was an early example, handling water supply disputes and property transactions for residents, and capable of negotiating with the British-Hong Kong government. Xu Jiatun saw that CCP members were hidden within it and maintained a certain relationship with the actual persons in charge. In places like the New Territories, organizations have deeper land and clan foundations. Indigenous New Territories villages have their own village representatives, and a number of villages form a rural committee, which in turn is responsible for reflecting land, road, and village affairs issues to the government. This system was able to be retained because the government could not handle land and clan issues for hundreds of villages door-to-door, so the government also needed these village representatives and rural committees as local intermediaries and regulators.
After the handover, this framework was basically preserved. Village heads could speak on behalf of the government and mobilize villagers to pressure the government. At the same time, these village heads might also have intricate ties with the triads. In 2012, Hong Kong police launched operations at 21 locations in Yuen Long, arresting more than 100 people. The items investigated by the police included illegal gambling, brothels, illegal fuel, and money laundering, with involved funds allegedly reaching hundreds of millions of Hong Kong dollars. The police claimed that the daily income of some illegal casinos could reach 100,000 Hong Kong dollars. Millions of Hong Kong dollars in cash, luxury watches, and luxury cars were picked up at the scene. What is presented here is no longer petty thugs collecting protection money on street corners, but a local economy capable of converting underground income into property, vehicles, and normal bank cash flow.
The most notable person on the arrest list was Guo Yonghong, nicknamed "Shanghai Boy." Media and police sources had long referred to him as a heavyweight figure in the Wo Shing Wo triad. Also taken away in the same operation were Tang Lap-tung, chairman of the Ha Tsuen Rural Committee, and Tsang Shu-wo, chairman of the Ping Shan Rural Committee. The police did not announce that these two rural committee chairmen were triad leaders, nor did they clarify whether they were involved in pornography or gambling businesses. However, an operation targeting gang crime that simultaneously swept up two rural committee chairmen had already caused the identities of rural leadership and the underworld to overlap.
Years later, this relationship was articulated more explicitly in court. In 2024, Wong Wai-yin, who had served as a Yuen Long District Councilor for over 30 years, testified in court. When asked by the defense whether anyone in the rural committees had a triad background, Wong replied that during his decades in office, he had always known that some rural committee members or village heads had such backgrounds. Before 1997, these individuals would claim they had "washed their hands" of the underworld. After 1997, he observed that it seemed there were still active triad leaders among them.
Wong Wai-yin also described a daily chain of contact: the police public relations department would discuss public order with councilors, and district councilors would frequently communicate with rural committees and village heads. In daily life, this is a normal mechanism for the government to engage with the community. But once political conflict enters the community, this same chain can quickly become a channel for transmitting stances, messages, and warnings. Therefore, the triads did not simply disappear after the handover; they merely shifted from an overt identity to a callable relationship. Whether a traditional dragon head issues an order is no longer important; what matters is who can convince the local network that this action aligns with the direction of power.
In July 2019, this direction was personally articulated by an official from the Liaison Office of the Central People's Government in the Hong Kong S.A.R. The venue was not a secret club, but the inauguration ceremony of the Shap Pat Heung Rural Committee. On July 11, 2019, the Shap Pat Heung Rural Committee held its new term inauguration ceremony. Hundreds of villagers and rural figures sat in the banquet hall, and officials from the Hong Kong government, the Yuen Long District Officer, and pro-establishment councilors were also present. Taking the stage was Li Jiyi, Director of the New Territories Work Department of the Liaison Office, who was responsible for the liaison between Beijing and local forces in the New Territories.
Reuters later obtained a recording of the scene. Speaking about the anti-extradition bill movement that had been ongoing for over a month, he asked the people of Yuen Long to have confidence in their territory. He said: "We cannot allow protesters to enter Yuen Long to cause trouble; we must drive them out. Even if the other side is trained, Yuen Long residents must still maintain the persistence and courage to uphold social tranquility and protect their homes." The room immediately erupted in applause. The recording is significant because this passage did not appear in the Liaison Office's official press release. The banquet was a local celebration, and the speech used the tone of community mobilization; it was only after the attack occurred that journalists looked back for precursors, and these words took on new meaning.
Reuters asked the Liaison Office for comment, but the office did not respond immediately. Li Jiyi himself did not publicly explain who exactly he hoped would execute the "driving out." Li did not mention attacking subway passengers, nor did he name any gang; he used terms like "protecting homes" and "not letting outsiders cause trouble." But in the context of a rural committee, these words had a clear audience who knew how to translate this political stance into community action.
Shap Pat Heung Chairman Chan Ching-ming later admitted that Li Jiyi had said these things but denied it was a mobilization. He explained that Li's speech had no malicious intent and was mainly hoping that Hong Kong could continue to be prosperous and stable. Over the next ten days, the atmosphere in Yuen Long gradually changed. Information began to circulate online that people were planning to enter Yuen Long to protest, and messages like "Gather in Yuen Long again" appeared. In interviews, protesters had not originally announced a march into Yuen Long on July 21, but whether a team was truly preparing to enter the village gradually became irrelevant. As long as enough people believed their homes were about to be violated, the call to action itself had a justification.
Legislative Councilor Junius Ho said in a social media livestream: "Some people intend to cause trouble in Yuen Long, and the Yuen Long villagers will naturally greet them." Meanwhile, traces of organization began to appear in local networks. Yuen Long District Councilors had heard rumors of potential conflict before the event and had issued warnings to the police. The men in white did not set out from the same headquarters at the same time; rather, they gathered successively at Fung Yau Street North and various village locations. RTHK's "Hong Kong Connection: Post-Mortem" examined CCTV footage and found vehicles transporting men in white to and from different locations. Journalists checked license plates and found that some of the vehicle owners were village representatives, including individuals from Ping Shan and San Tin villages. Some of the men in white had the characters "Ha Tsuen" and patterns printed on their shirts, similar to the logos used by local organizations in Ha Tsuen.
From the speech on July 11 to the assembly on July 21, not a single piece of paper with a clear order was found. But orders do not need to appear in the form of an order. The Liaison Office official defined who was causing trouble, and the rural figures understood: hold the territory. Local organizations then translated this into meeting points and assembly locations. Each layer was only responsible for the part it was familiar with, and each could deny it afterward. They knew what the next layer would be doing.
By July 21, the white-clad men had arrived, vehicles were already moving through, and the police had already received early warnings. The only remaining question was: when these people began their actions, would the police stop them? On the night of July 21, the protests on Hong Kong Island had not yet fully concluded, and white-clad men had already appeared in Yuen Long. CCTV recorded them gathering in the area of Fung Yau Street North, with some holding stick-like objects. The police passed by the scene at least several times without getting out of their vehicles to conduct large-scale assembly control. The police later explained that they did not see any illegal acts sufficient to warrant intervention at that time.
At 9:52 PM, a Yuen Long District Councilor reported to officers at the police station that people were gathering on the street and an attack might occur. Around 9:55 PM, the police received the first report of a related attack that night. Thereafter, from 10:00 to 10:39 PM, emergency calls increased continuously. Some said white-clad men were chasing passersby, and some demanded that police arrive as soon as possible. In fact, as early as the daytime, warnings of conflict were already circulating online, and after nightfall, the content of the reports escalated from people gathering to people being attacked. The command center had to judge which reports were true and how many people to dispatch. But every moment of waiting gave the white-clad men more time to complete their assembly.
Around 10:42 PM, the white-clad men entered the Yuen Long station area. Passengers inside initially thought that as long as they entered public transport facilities with CCTV and staff, the situation would be under control. But there was insufficient police presence on site. The white-clad men and passengers confronted each other on both sides of the turnstiles, and the conflict subsequently spread to the concourse and platforms, leaving many injured. Reporters and ordinary passengers were also unable to stay out of it. We do not need to repeat the direct footage that has been circulating for years; what truly determines the nature of this incident is time.
About an hour after the first call to the police, there was still insufficient police force on site to separate the crowds. The white-clad men had already entered the station from the streets, yet the police command system was still dispatching personnel. Around 10:52 PM, two patrol officers arrived at the concourse, and citizens on site sought their help. The two officers assessed the number of people and left, claiming they were waiting for reinforcements. This action later became the most difficult scene of the Yuen Long incident to explain. The police were not completely unaware of what was happening; they had been to the scene and seen the situation, yet they did not stay to establish a defensive line.
The police later emphasized that the two officers were facing a group far outnumbering them, and if they had intervened rashly, it might have made the situation more dangerous. This is a tactical judgment that can be understood, but it also exposes why earlier deployment was critical. If the police had dispatched sufficient personnel before the white-clad men entered the station, these two patrol officers would not have had to make decisions alone at the most dangerous moment. After the officers left, the white-clad men entered the station again. Callers kept phoning the police, and some operators left responses like "if you are afraid, don't go out," which sparked huge controversy. It was not until after 11:15 PM that the Quick Reaction Force gradually took control of the station. The police later admitted that the deployment could have been earlier. It was confirmed that existing materials were insufficient to prove collusion, but there was another set of CCTV footage outside the timeline.
An RTHK investigation found that the police had passed by the gathering point of the white-clad men multiple times before the attack. The police later denied intentional indulgence, emphasizing that there were conflicts in many places across Hong Kong that night and police resources were stretched thin. After midnight, some white-clad men retreated to the south. A large number of riot police finally entered the village entrance. The police talked with the white-clad men, and some officers were filmed patting them on the shoulder, yet they did not immediately conduct large-scale arrests that night. The police explained that one could not conclude that someone participated in the attack just because they were wearing white or were at the village edge; time was needed to identify images and collect evidence.
Later, the police arrested many people one after another, and some defendants were convicted of rioting and wounding by the court. Initial trial footage confirmed that some white-clad men were not simply standing at the scene, but were jointly advancing, chasing, and blocking passengers. The convictions proved that there was indeed organized group action that night, yet it still did not answer the higher-level questions: Who initiated it? Who arranged the gathering of vehicles and meeting points? Why did the police not cut off the network before the action began?
Anti-triad operations in 2012 had long shown the potential relationship between triad figures and rural committee chairmen, and Yuen Long in 2009 allowed vehicles, venues, manpower, and political slogans to operate on the same night. There may not necessarily be a closed-door meeting like in the movies, for example, a high-ranking official sitting at a table ordering a triad leader to gather thugs. A more effective system actually does not need such operations.
Looking for people who could control gangs before the handover, the authorities declared that "patriots can unite the mainland market and reward gang leaders who are willing to obey." The rural network preserved the ability to mobilize locally, and the political signals guarding Yuen Long were sent to the banquet halls. By July 21, everyone only needed to complete their own small part. This is exactly what makes the investigation most difficult. Traditional criminal cases look for clear instructions, while layered networks do not have complete written orders, and responsibility is fragmented. By the time of the court trial, what can be proven is often only what a certain person did in the station, not why the entire machine was started that night.
We return to the opening question: Why would Hong Kong gangs, which have always only cared about profits and territory, listen to the command of the Communist Party? Because this command is not just a phone call; it is a reward and punishment system formed over more than thirty years. Obedience allows one to enter the world of mainland business, associations, and political acceptance, while refusal may mean losing licenses, markets, and living space. Once this set of rules is understood by everyone, the central authorities do not even need to issue a complete order.
After Yuen Long station returned to quiet, the debate truly began. The police said they needed time to investigate, the Linxiang organization said all villagers should not be stigmatized, the Liaison Office denied instigating violence, and Heyao said he was just passing by. Everyone severed their connection to the next link in the chain. No one admitted to organizing the group of men in white, nor was there a single document telling the public who should be responsible for the entire night. But if we rewind more than thirty years, many things have already been made clear enough.
Huang admitted that Beijing actively met with Triad leaders before the handover. The Taosi Bureau publicly announced that as long as they were patriotic and cared about prosperity and stability, they should be united. It was like a family transitioning from a Kuomintang-backed criminal underworld background into Shenzhen and Beijing. Chen Huimin always put it most bluntly: "When the state issues an order, the underworld must execute it." Beijing's initial contact with Hong Kong's underworld was out of fear of unrest on the eve of the handover; it did not eliminate this force, but rather divided and co-opted it, turning political loyalty into a license for business and survival. The underworld did not truly become a government department; it simply became businessmen, rural gentry, association leaders, and patriots in public identity, keeping their original relationships hidden behind legal society.
On July 21, 2019, what the people of Yuen Long saw was precisely this set of relationships briefly breaking the surface. When power needs violence but is unwilling to put its name to it, the criminal underworld is no longer the enemy of the state—it is simply the state's out-of-uniform hand.
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