How Music Resists

Luna Tian

1. Can Karaoke Overthrow a Regime?—Carnivalesque Protest and the New Role of Music

In 2014, one night in Hong Kong looked like this: a few tents, some lanterns, and a group of young people sitting in a circle on the streets of Admiralty. Someone brought out a guitar, and someone else began to softly sing Boundless Oceans, Vast Skies. It was a melody of youth for many—familiar, quiet, perhaps a little romantically out of place. At that moment, someone next to me muttered, half-joking, half-biting: “Can karaoke overthrow a regime?”

That phrase later became a shorthand for a certain kind of critique. Carnivalesque protest—within the language of social movements, the term often carries a tone of disdain, as if to say: you’re not radical enough, not serious enough, not forceful enough. But is that really true?

By 2019, many of the things once dismissed as weak had been reassessed. Hong Kong in 2019 looked very different. Protests became mobile, anonymous, and elusive—and music was everywhere. It slipped into the everyday: a sudden burst of song in a shopping mall, a speaker on a street corner playing a choral recording, a citizen pointing a laser pen to the sky, someone humming, and then more voices joining in, layer upon layer, until the sound unfurled into the air.

This form of musical presence differed from our traditional understanding of “protest music.” It wasn’t like the classic folk song—written by a singer, made famous, then passed along. It was the reverse: emotion came first, then the song; the need came first, then the melody.

In this context, carnivalesque protest may not be a dilution, but a reinvention of resistance. Carnival is not merely celebration—it has historically been a way to reclaim space, to upend authority. When the city’s streets, malls, and public squares were sealed by layers of fear and force, song was one of the few things that could still slip through. It was light, non-threatening—but precisely because of that, it was everywhere.

That year, music wasn’t just karaoke. It was Sing with You; it was a breath on the street. It wasn’t meant to topple a regime, but to help people see one another before they were crushed. It wouldn’t change the world overnight, but it helped people survive the day.

Glory to Hong Kong became the most widely recognized musical emblem of the movement. It carried no explicit political slogans, yet every syllable was a declaration. Born from anonymous posts online, recorded and mixed by ordinary netizens, it eventually became a collective anthem sung in malls, on subways, and beneath footbridges—a “national anthem” of sorts. The song offered an outlet for silence, a place where muted voices could gather.

It wasn’t just singing—it was a reassembly of collective memory, a resonance of emotion and mutual recognition.More than a performance, it was a silent pact: We are still here. We have not given up.

2. What Is a Protest Song?—A Broader Definition Than You Might Think

For many people, the term “protest song” seems to come with certain conditions: it must be angry, it must be loud, and it must call out injustice directly. But if you’ve ever stood in a crowd, experienced a night of police clearance, or simply scrolled through YouTube comments in silence, you’ll realize—whether a song becomes a protest song has never depended on what it says, but rather when it is sung, and who is singing it.

In 2019, Denise Ho (Ho Wan-see) released a song titled I Always Imagine the Days After You Leave. It wasn’t written for the movement. There were no slogans, and the melody was unusually gentle. Yet this very song, after the protests had ebbed, just before the trials and reckoning began, was saved and shared by many. One comment read: “This song got me through those weeks. Listening to it every night made me feel less like crying.” “We haven’t cried in a long time,” Ho said. “Since June that year, everyone put on their gear and stepped into battle mode the moment they left home. But we forgot—we have the right to cry too.”

That sentence reveals another form of resistance: the acknowledgment of emotion. When every slogan demands that we “hold the line” and every rally insists on “no retreat, no surrender,” a song that allows tears to flow quietly becomes the most honest conversation in our hearts. That, too, is a form of protest.

A similar thing happened with Serrini’s (Fong Ho-man’s) You Are Your Own Legend. Released in 2018, the song was originally a personal encouragement to herself and a friend. By 2019, it began circulating in Telegram groups, printed on mask packaging, and slipped into envelopes sent to arrested protesters. They wrote: “No matter how the world tries to change you, remember—you are your own legend. Use your own hands to write your story.”

This song became a spiritual anchor for many. In a reality where everything could be distorted, erased, or consumed, those words were like a wall not yet covered by spray paint, reminding people: You still have your name. You still have your story.

What Is a Protest Song?—Broader Than You Think
“We haven’t cried in a long time,” Denise Ho said. “Since that June, everyone’s been geared up, going out as if heading into battle. But we forgot—we also have the right to cry.” That sentence revealed another form of resistance: the acknowledgment of emotion. When every slogan shouts “stand firm to the end,” when every rally insists “no retreat, no surrender,” a song that gently allows tears to fall becomes the truest dialogue in people’s hearts. That, too, is protest.

The same happened with Serrini’s You Are Your Own Legend. Released in 2018, it was originally written as an encouragement for herself and a friend. But in 2019, it started spreading in Telegram groups, printed on mask packaging, even tucked into envelopes sent to arrested protesters. They wrote: “No matter how the world pressures you to change, remember: you are your own legend. Use your own hands to write your story.” The song became a source of strength for many. In a world where everything could be erased, blurred, or consumed, those lyrics were like a wall not yet painted over—reminding people: You still have your name. You still have your story. It wasn’t a political song, but it moved between the streets and the prison walls. It upheld a sense of self that refused to be crushed. When a song becomes a belief, a silent embrace, a sentence whispered in defiance—before it even becomes a “song”—it is already part of resistance.

This kind of transformation has always been happening. Galactic Repairman was never written for the movement, yet when students sang it at a secondary school, it left behind a demerit, a memory, and a comment: “July 2021. In memory of Sun Yee Secondary. To every galactic repairman.” A poetic song about dreams and healing, used by youth to push back against rules that silenced them. Maybe they never set out to be “political figures,” but on that day, they stood and sang. That was enough.

Then there’s Hymn of Youth. It doesn’t chant slogans or speak of revolution. It simply sings about how youth is like light—impossible to hold. And because of that, it became a song for those we never got to hug again, those friends we never said goodbye to, or those who once stood in the crowd and never returned. It is a song for the young—not about grand narratives, but about remembering we once lived, even in repression.

Even What If the World Isn’t What You Expected deserves attention. It doesn’t say who or what it’s for. But in 2020, as the movement hit its lowest point, as more accounts fell silent and the streets quieted, this song about the gap between reality and hope quietly entered countless playlists. These songs never made the headlines, but they lived in people’s earbuds, getting them through the day.
You’ll realize: a song becomes a protest song not because it’s “fierce enough,” but because in that moment, it gave someone a little weight, a little strength—or just a little companionship.

Even classics like Glorious Years, once dismissed during the Umbrella Movement as “naïve” or “defeatist,” returned as a massive chorus in the anti-extradition protests. People might no longer believe it could “change the world.” But they still sang it. The willingness to sing—that, too, is resistance.

Protest songs have never belonged to a single genre. They may come from indie musicians, pop idols, street performers, or anonymous users posting a melody in an online forum. They may raise fists, or gently whisper, “It’s okay. You’ve done enough.” In an era where speech grows ever harder, simply being sung is already an act of courage.
So—what is a protest song?

Maybe it’s the one still playing in your headphones as you run. The melody someone quietly hums outside the courthouse. The lyrics your classmate copied onto the school demerit slip. The song you open on YouTube late at night and find the comments full of “Thank you for walking through this with me.”

It may not shout. But someone is listening.

It may not call you to the streets. But it lets you know—you are not alone.

3. Resisting Through Song: Taiwan — The Landscape of Emotion, the Action of Music

If you walked near Taiwan’s Legislative Yuan in the spring of 2014, you might remember a night like this—tents, bookshelves, lunch boxes, even a piano. It was a student-led occupation, later known as the Sunflower Movement. Amid the clamor and focus of that moment, a song quietly lit up like a lantern before dawn.

That song was Island’s Sunrise (島嶼天光).

It was written specifically for the movement by the band Fire EX., after students from the Taipei National University of the Arts asked lead singer Sam Yang to compose something. The recording was done live among the crowd outside the occupied legislature. It wasn’t perfect—some voices wavered in pitch, others jumped ahead of the beat—but it embraced everyone present with sincerity. It wasn’t a publicity anthem sung for the outside world; it was a song for each other—for the steadfast, the uncertain, and the future selves listening back.

“The sky is slowly brightening / Let’s sing out loud / Until the light of hope / Shines on every person on this island.”

In those lyrics, there is light, and waiting—a quiet piece of evidence that even in an uncertain struggle, we were not alone.

If Island’s Sunrise was written for a movement, other songs in Taiwan have been written for long-silenced pain. Jolin Tsai’s Womxnly (玫瑰少年) is one such song. It was inspired by a 2000 case of gender-based bullying in Kaohsiung: Yeh Yung-chih, a gentle, dance-loving boy, was ostracized and ultimately died after a fall in the school bathroom. Years later, Jolin Tsai sang of a boy rejected by a “normal” society, with the line:“Womxnly child blooming in my heart / A radiant legend / We have never forgotten.”

It isn’t a typical protest song, but it’s been sung by thousands during LGBTQ+ pride parades, and has accompanied countless young people navigating the hard question: Do I dare speak my truth? In this sense, it doesn’t resist a regime, but a world that makes people afraid to be themselves.

The same quiet power runs through Deserts Chang’s work. Her songs are restrained yet resolute. The Rose-Colored Youdoesn’t shout, but it’s like a quiet cloth placed over a wound—it doesn’t tell you what to do, but it stays with you through the days when there’s nothing to be done.

Musical resistance, at times, is not about changing the world, but holding people together before the world changes.

This form of resistance also lives in the work of indigenous Taiwanese singer ABAO (Aljenljeng Tjaluvie). Her 2020 Golden Melody Award-winning album kinakaian — Mother Tongue, sung in the Paiwan language, wasn’t just a revival of language, but a reclamation of culture and memory. For marginalized indigenous communities, singing in their own tongue on a mainstream stage is a powerful act—an unapologetic declaration of existence.

Her music does not shout or protest, but it exists. That alone is one of the most tender and determined forms of resistance we can imagine.

If we look further into the land and environment, musicians like Lin Sheng-xiang and LTK Commune (拷秋勤) have long engaged with rural and ecological issues. Lin’s songs, such as Planting Trees and At Dusk, tell stories of village decline, land disputes, and economic justice. His music moves slowly, like old soil—you have to kneel down to hear it. And when you do, there is quiet rage and longing. These songs are often played at anti-nuclear and anti-eviction rallies, offering not a shout but a slow-burning strength.

Some say Taiwan’s protests aren’t as fierce as Hong Kong’s. But in its sound, resistance has always been there.

Taiwan’s protest songs aren’t always about “what we oppose”—they’re often about “what we still believe in.” They are not just tools of street mobilization, but products of long cultural labor. Whether sung outside the legislature, in a pride parade, on mountain trails, or in someone’s living room—they all say the same thing:
We are still singing. Because we are still here.

Music Has Never Been Just Entertainment in This City

It’s what tells you, in the darkness, that you’re not the only one unwilling to give up.
It’s the harmony you hear around the corner, the lyrics someone scribbles in a courtroom notebook, the mp3 file you just managed to download before it got banned.
Sometimes it’s like stone. Sometimes like water. But it always finds a crack—flows into the hearts not yet shut.

4. What Can Music Do?—Memory, Connection, and Healing

There are many ways to remember a movement. Some recall the slogans, the timelines, the images in the news. But for others, it’s a song.
You don’t remember the first day you wore black. You don’t remember which protest it was when you got crushed in the subway crowd. But you remember walking home that night after the police cleared the area, earbuds in, and what song was playing. You remember how the lyrics slowly dissolved in your throat, and before you realized, you were crying.

That’s when music shows its true power. Not because it changed anything, but because just as the world was about to crush you, it reached out—not to pull you up, just to rest a hand on your back. To remind you: you are still alive. You still have the strength to move forward.

We used to think protest had only one voice: loud, slogan-filled, righteous. But we later learned—it could also be soft. It could tremble.

Music isn’t a tactic. It’s a way of existing.You can sing after a day of saying nothing.You can listen when you feel no one understands you.When all language becomes suspect, when truth becomes dangerous, music still lets you say, “I’m not okay.” It lets you say, “I remember.” It lets you say nothing at all.

And that permission—that alone—is a kind of salvation.

What exhausts us in resistance isn’t always external suppression. It’s the internal loneliness. Watching people around you drop out one by one. Watching failure repeat on the news. Watching yourself slowly shift from “believing” to just “enduring.” And then you ask: Does this still mean anything?

In that moment, if a song—even just one melody, one chorus—lets you pause, breathe, and find yourself again, then it has done enough.

Maybe you remember someone humming softly by a subway wall late at night—you stood and listened for a long time. Maybe you remember, after a protest ended, a friend said nothing but handed you an earbud. The song was You Are Your Own Legend.Or maybe you remember nothing at all, except how your hand clenched the steering wheel when that song came on the car radio.

Music is like that: it doesn’t tell you what to do. But it’ll pull you back—just a little—when you’re on the verge of giving up. Not back to the battlefield, but back to yourself.

We live in a world that wears us down. Sometimes, music is the only thing we have left to resist that fatigue.
It reminds you: Memory isn’t something others can declare into existence—or erase. Connection doesn’t need organization or leaders. It just needs someone to sing the first line, and someone else willing to sing the second. Healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It means walking forward with your wounds.
These three things—memory, connection, healing—aren’t slogans or utilities. They are proof that you are still alive. Proof that you are still singing.

Because as long as someone is still singing, it means the city hasn’t completely fallen.
And neither have you.

Epilogue: We Are Still Singing, Because We Are Still Here

Can a song change anything?
It can’t stop a bullet. It can’t uncoil a razor wire fence. It can’t prevent an arrest. It can’t rewrite a constitution. It can’t seal the cracks in the pavement. And still, someone chooses to sing.
Not because they think it will fix things, But because before the world grows too quiet, They refuse to become silent themselves.

We’ve all seen it: A shopping mall crowd falls still, phones raised, voices rising in song.A student hums a familiar tune in class, and the room hushes. Someone whispers before a press conference, “Do you still remember that song?”

This is a form of mobilization more subtle than slogans, A bond deeper than banners. You don’t need to know who that person is. You just need to know they’re singing too. And you know you are not alone.

In an era when cities forget how to dream, Music still teaches us how to remember.

It remembers what a park looked like before iron barricades surrounded it. It remembers the unreported glances, handshakes, and goodbyes. It remembers the nameless—the ones who never made it into history, But once left echoes in it with their voices.

A song might not change the direction of a whole society. But it might help someone make it through tonight.

It is a thread—stretching from one soul to another, Gently brushing against a corner of the heart in the dark. Not pulling. Just touching. So lightly it might go unnoticed. But enough—just enough—to hold us together.

That is the most primal human connection: You sing, I answer. No conductor. No script. No rehearsal. Yet in a breath—we sing in unison. Not because we practiced, but because we needed it. Because it proves something: I’m still here. You are too.

Someone once said: A city isn’t buildings. It isn’t transit maps. It’s the space between people who still dare to draw near. Music is what makes that distance possible.

The singer may not be brave. They might be terrified. But the act of singing is resistance. Not an outward strike—but an inward defiance. A way of saying to the part of you that wants to give up, That wants to forget, That wants to shut your eyes to everything:
No. Not yet.

Our generation has seen too many fractures— In society, in politics, in language, in love. We’ve learned to cut ourselves off, to protect, To avoid what hurts.

But music doesn’t avoid. It just sits beside you. Breathes with you.

Sometimes, it says nothing. Just a melody.Or silence.

And that’s enough. Because it doesn’t scold you for being slow, or soft, or scared. It just stays with you.

It doesn’t ask for outcomes. It doesn’t demand victory. It only asks:
“Are you okay?”

Maybe we can’t change anything. Maybe some moments will never return. Maybe some people will never sing again.

But those songs once shook our bodies. Their echoes live in our bones, in our memories, in our language.

That is what they leave behind.
Not flags. Not dogmas. Not glory.

But this:
When you ache, when you long to speak, when you hope someone is still there—
You remember the song.

Maybe one day, these songs will vanish from public spaces— Censored, forgotten, replaced. Maybe they’ll be labeled, punished, sealed away.
But until then, While we still remember—
They live.

As long as someone still sings, As long as someone still hears— These songs are not dead.
And neither are we.

We are still singing, because we are still here.