The Empty Chair
—I built a chair for Liu Xiaobo, and left a seat for the freedom of China that has yet to arrive
作者：宋佳航 2025年7月13日
编辑：罗志飞 责任编辑：鲁慧文
2025年7月13日，圣莫尼卡海滩，我亲手搬来了一把沉重的木椅子——这是我做的，也是我献给刘晓波的“自由之椅”。
这不是装饰品，而是一种表达。
这张空椅，是为纪念那个被判十一年，牺牲在中共监狱里的诺贝尔和平奖得主，更是一张保留给“未完成的中国自由”的座位。
我叫宋佳航，江苏连云港人。
我曾经是个老板，开过七家公司，做过建筑、装修、广告，也曾是个普通的父亲、丈夫、纳税人。
直到我站了出来——说了几句真话，
参加了上海的白纸运动。
然后，我失去了所有。
警察上门、警告、威胁；
公司账被查，项目烂尾，三百万工程款无法追回；
抖音账号被封，社交平台全数清空；
妻子怕牵连，跟我离了婚。
但我不后悔。
国家都病了，还怕自己发烧吗？
2023年底，我踏上美国的土地，开始流亡生活。
在这片自由的土地上，我继续做我擅长的——动手，干活，造东西。
但我造的不只是招牌和广告，这一次，我造了特为自由而留的椅子。
这张“自由之椅”，没有靠垫，没有装饰，只有沉沉的实木和直角结构。
它是黑色，因为中国还在黑暗中。
椅子空着，因为那个人已经不在了；但我们还在，替他说话。
我现在在洛杉矶，靠做广告设计维生，没什么资本，也没后台。
但我参与了所有我能去的活动：
纪念白纸运动、六四游行、声援宗教自由、抗议中共海外渗透。
海报、横幅、灯箱、标语，都是我一刀一字做的。
我不是艺术家，也不是民运领袖，我只是一个不愿意跪下的中国人。
这次在圣莫尼卡的“自由之椅”行动，不是抗议，也不是表演。
它是一次沉默的抵抗，一种用木头写下的控诉。
它不需要口号，它站在那里，就已经是对极权的否定。
有人问我，你做这些有用吗？
我说：“中国的自由，还缺一把椅子。我要先摆好它。”
我不知道这张椅子什么时候不再空着，
但我知道，它不能永远空着。
这就是我，宋佳航。
一个从中共手里逃出来、还没放弃抵抗的中国人。
只要我还有一口气，我就会继续做事、发声、建椅子——
直到那一天，自由真正到场。
The Empty Chair
—I built a chair for Liu Xiaobo, and left a seat for the freedom of China that has yet to arrive
By Song Jiahang
July 13, 2025 – Santa Monica Beach
Edited by Luo Zhifei · Chief Editor: Lu Huiwen Translator: Lu Huiwen
On July 13, 2025, at Santa Monica Beach, I carried a heavy wooden chair with my own hands—a chair I built, dedicated to Liu Xiaobo.
This isn’t a decoration. It’s a statement.
This empty chair commemorates a Nobel Peace Prize laureate who was sentenced to eleven years and died in a Chinese prison. More than that, it’s a seat left for the unfinished cause of freedom in China.
My name is Song Jiahang, from Lianyungang, Jiangsu Province.
I used to be a business owner. I started seven companies in construction, renovation, and advertising. I was also an ordinary father, husband, and taxpayer.
Then I spoke up—just said a few honest words—
and joined the White Paper Movement in Shanghai.
After that, I lost everything.
The police came to my door with warnings and threats.
My business accounts were frozen, projects collapsed, and I lost over three million yuan in payments.
My Douyin account was banned, my social media wiped clean.
Fearing implication, my wife divorced me.
But I have no regrets.
If the whole country is sick, should I be afraid of getting a fever?
At the end of 2023, I arrived in the United States and began a life in exile.
Here on this land of freedom, I’ve continued doing what I do best—
working with my hands, building things.
But now, I no longer build signs and advertisements alone.
This time, I built a chair—for freedom.
This “Chair of Freedom” has no cushion, no decoration—only solid wood and right angles.
It’s painted black, because China is still shrouded in darkness.
It sits empty, because the one who should occupy it is gone. But we are still here—to speak in his place.
Today I live in Los Angeles, surviving on graphic and sign design. I have no capital, no backers.
But I take part in every action I can:
Commemorating the White Paper Movement, marching for June Fourth, standing for religious freedom, and protesting CCP infiltration overseas.
The posters, banners, lightboxes, and slogans—you name it, I cut and carved each one myself.
I’m not an artist, nor a political leader—just a Chinese man who refuses to kneel.
This action in Santa Monica with the “Chair of Freedom” is not a protest or performance.
It is a silent resistance.
A denunciation carved in wood.
It needs no slogans. Its presence alone is a rejection of tyranny.
Someone asked me, “Does what you do even matter?”
I said,
“Freedom in China is still missing a seat. I’m going to place it first.”
I don’t know when this chair will no longer be empty—
but I do know, it must not remain empty forever.
This is who I am. Song Jiahang.
A Chinese man who escaped the CCP and still hasn’t stopped resisting.
As long as I have breath in me,
I will keep working, speaking out, and building chairs—
until that day when freedom finally arrives.
