Lily Kuo, the Guardian’s Beijing bureau chief

The Hong Kong protests have been one of the most important stories I’ve covered this year. The outpouring from the public, the polarisation of society and the difficult situation Beijing finds itself in have been unprecedented.

The series of demonstrations began with the goal of withdrawing an extradition bill proposed by the Hong Kong government. If enacted, the bill would allow local authorities to detain and extradite people who are wanted in territories that Hong Kong does not have extradition agreements with, including mainland China and Taiwan. The goal of the protesters has since evolved beyond this original aim. It’s a story that deserves all the focus and energy we can give. Yet now, we are three months in and I don’t think anyone, even the protesters, expected this to go on so long.



For me, one challenge has been making sure we stay alert and fresh – that we don’t burn out. On big protest days, it’s not uncommon for us to work more than 13 hours. That could be a combination of attending a march, following protesters who have splintered off to other locations, then witnessing clashes with riot police that inevitably end in teargas, rubber bullets, beatings or, most recently, real guns being pulled out.



Because the protests have taken many forms, from road blockades to peaceful marches, the range of feelings while covering them has also been wide. Some moments have felt surreal, peaceful and contemplative; others chaotic and disorienting.



The protests have been one of the few times in my career that I have been so clearly identified as a journalist – we wear hi-vis vests and helmets with the word: PRESS. In the same way that the protesters and police have their uniforms, this traffic warden-like outfit also feels like one. Sometimes people try to give me food or water. Once, during an especially long day, a woman washing her hands next to me in a bathroom patted me on the shoulder and said: jia you – “add oil” or “keep going”.



When I ask protesters why they are still coming to the streets, some say they don’t want to see Hong Kong turned into another Chinese city. They cite the detention of Uighur Muslims in Xinjiang, activists imprisoned for years on trumped up charges, or the plan for a nationwide “social credit system”, which they see as the culmination of a digital police state. Because I’ve spent the last year reporting on many of these issues, this answer often makes the deepest impression on me.

Emma Graham-Harrison covered many of the earliest protests, including a vigil for a man who had fallen to his death after unfurling a protest banner, which was a turning point for many protesters. She profiled Hong Kong’s chief executive, Carrie Lam, who has been a major target of the protests and is seen as a puppet of Beijing. She has followed Beijing’s increasingly ominous warnings to Hong Kong and the possibility of a military intervention.

Helen Davidson, a reporter for Guardian Australia, captured protesters’ voices in one of the first major protests on 12 June. Before the protests kicked off, she reported on the details of the extradition law, shedding much-needed light on why the bill prompted such widespread anger. Davidson, along with other reporters in Australia such as Naaman Zhou and Ben Smee, have covered pro-Hong Kong protests there – some of which have resulted in clashes with mainland Chinese students.

From London and Hong Kong, Ben Quinn and I profiled a group of protesters launching an aggressive awareness campaign in the UK through social media and newspaper ad buys.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Riot police outside the British consulate in Hong Kong during a protest on 24 August. Photograph: Kin Cheung/AP

Tania Branigan, the Guardian’s foreign leader writer, who spent seven years as China correspondent

As China correspondent of the Guardian for seven years, I found reporting in Hong Kong was a breeze compared with working on the mainland – people were so ready to talk. When the “umbrella movement” erupted in 2014, protesters happily identified themselves in full. Some offered themselves on loan as interpreters. Others sought out reporters to have their say. What followed the movement – including the jailing of protest leaders and the disqualification of elected legislators – has made people much more cautious this time.



Attacks on protesters and sackings for participation in demonstrations have added to concerns. Even at approved protests, people are increasingly likely to at least cover their faces with masks (often adding sunglasses, hats and so on) and to take precautions such as using burner phones and single tickets rather than travel cards. People are more hesitant about talking, even anonymously. Yet others are still eager to speak to foreign media, seeing international attention as crucial to the prospects of their cause. (And, of course, reporting in Hong Kong is still incomparably more straightforward than on the mainland.)



Unlike five years ago, this is a leaderless movement. What’s striking is not only its scale and persistence, and the variation and escalation in tactics, but the degree of unity that it has maintained over two-and-a-half months. Even when they disagree over what actions to take, in particular the growing use of force, participants refuse to distance themselves from each other. What also unifies them is that no one pretends to know where this is heading.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Hong Kong’s chief executive, Carrie Lam, is seen by protesters as a puppet of Beijing. Photograph: Vincent Yu/AP

Verna Yu, freelance writer based in Hong Kong

Three months ago, no one would have expected Hong Kong, an Asian financial hub, to plunge into a prolonged and unprecedented political crisis.

Having covered the anti-extradition movement from the first protest on 9 June, I have been touched by the palpable sense of solidarity in numerous rallies and marches. From marching in massive downpours to standing for hours under the sweltering sun in extreme humidity, one cannot help but feel moved by the protesters who remain orderly and polite to one another. I am also impressed by the wide support for this movement. Among those I have interviewed are students, teachers, businessmen, flight attendants, architects and lawyers, construction workers and drivers. And they are from a broad age range, from young parents holding babies to grandmothers in their 80s who remember why they escaped communist China decades ago. But they are united by one thing: an overwhelming desire to defend Hong Kong’s core values and their existing rights.

But at the same time, as the movement escalates and some protesters adopt increasingly violent tactics, and dozens get beaten and arrested every week, I am also gripped by a perpetual state of anxiety. What will happen to these young radicals who see themselves as “death fighters” struggling for Hong Kong’s future? What will happen to this wonderful city where I grew up?

“Tell our story to the world” many have told me over the past 12 weeks, as they handed me biscuits and drinks, and offered me a hand to get up and down barriers and roadblocks. Their words sounded eerily similar to what Beijing residents told Hong Kong and foreign reporters during the Tiananmen crackdown 30 years ago. Just that this time, it is the Hongkongers who are fighting for their rights and freedom, even though they know there is little hope ahead of them.

“Hong Kong is dying anyway, so we might as well make a last struggle before we die,” many have said.

I feel humbled by their trust in me.