作者：张致君

编辑：钟然 责任编辑：罗志飞 翻译：吕峰

2025年7月26日，上海浦东机场的门口走过无数旅客。他们推着行李箱，怀里抱着孩子，神情疲惫，却满心期待着家里的饭菜和床。胡洋也是其中之一。他从荷兰飞回来，准备探亲。警察把他带走。罪名叫“寻衅滋事”。行李箱还没来得及打开，钥匙还揣在兜里，给朋友买的礼物也没有送到，他的旅行就结束了。他的妈妈在胡洋被羁押35天后在推特上发帖求助，没有一天就被强制删帖。

四天之后，2025年7月30日，英国留学的张雅笛也回国。她的罪名比胡洋更重，叫“危害国家安全”。她甚至没有机会把在伦敦买的纪念品送给父母，就消失了。她的妈妈约见了709律师汪天勇寻求法律援助，会面时，律师汪天勇就被三名不明人士带走。

两个年轻人，一个男生，一个女生，他们的未来像机场的玻璃一样，被轻轻一敲，碎成无数片。

胡洋的“罪行”或许是写下几句话。张雅笛的“罪行”或许是编辑几篇文章。

他们没有杀人，没有放火，没有贪污，也没有诈骗。他们做的事情，是最轻的，却被赋予最重的罪名。

在中共的字典里，说话是一种危险。说错话是犯罪，不说话是安全。

于是一个国家里，语言像石头一样沉重。一个眼神、一句玩笑、一个词语，都可能变成铁镣。

古代的文字狱是诗里的一个字，史书里的一个典故。今天的文字狱是推特上的一条帖，是微信群里的一句话。

过去，皇帝怕文人讽刺。现在，中共怕留学生说话。

过去，宫廷里的人噤若寒蝉。现在，海外的留学生也开始自我审查。

中共文字狱的范围，不再是皇宫，也不再是长城以内，而是扩展到整个地球。

极权最大的本领，是制造恐惧。恐惧不在监狱里，它在机场的大厅，在留学生的课堂，在家庭的电话那头。恐惧不在警察的手里，它在父母的叮嘱里：“别乱说话，回来小心点。”恐惧不在法律条文里，它在聊天记录的删除键里，在朋友圈的沉默里。

胡洋和张雅笛被抓，不只是抓了两个人，而是把恐惧推给了无数人。每一个海外留学生甚至旅居海外的人都明白：你随时可能成为下一个。

一个政党强大时，不会害怕几句话。一个政党脆弱时，才会把几句话当成威胁。

中共害怕的不是胡洋，也不是张雅笛，而是他们背后的自由世界。害怕他们在荷兰的课堂里学到什么，在英国的社团里讨论什么。害怕他们的声音穿过国界，带回给国内的朋友，撕开一条小口子。

真话就是这样的东西，一旦漏进来，再多的铁墙也挡不住。

在自由的世界里，人们难以理解这种恐惧。为什么一个留学生说句话，就能让一个政府颤抖？

这是因为，中共的权力不是靠选票赢得的，而是靠控制语言维系的。一旦语言失控，政权就会摇晃。

所以他们要跨国镇压，把海外的声音也堵住。这不是他们的自信，而是他们的虚弱。这不是他们的力量，而是他们的恐慌。

罗岱青与张冬宁的被捕并不是开始，胡洋与张雅笛的被捕也非结束。

中共的长臂管辖想让越来越多的留学生不再敢说话。每当课堂上涉及中国问题，他们要低头做笔记；饭桌上朋友聊到政治，他们要笑笑不接话。中共想让他们因为害怕而沉默，让他们害怕手机里的记录，害怕回国的路。

沉默像传染病一样蔓延，会把一个个鲜活的灵魂，变成灰色的影子。

一个政权手里有枪炮，却害怕几个学生的笔。一个国家拥有核武器，却害怕几个年轻人的推文。一个党统治十四亿人，却容不下两名留学生的声音。

荒诞吗？是的，但这就是现实。

现实荒诞到，我们笑的时候，笑声里有泪。现实荒诞到，我们哭的时候，眼泪里有怒。

胡洋和张雅笛的消失，不是结束，而是开始。

他们的名字被写下，他们的故事被讲述，他们的遭遇被传播。每一次讲述，都是一次抵抗。每一次传播，都是一次共鸣。

自由的力量，不在于一个人，而在于无数个声音的叠加。声音可以被堵住一时，却永远不能被消灭。

在黑暗中说话，是需要勇气的。在恐惧中坚持，是需要信念的。

胡洋无罪，张雅笛无罪。言论无罪，自由无罪。我们要让他们知道，他们不是孤单的。我们要让中共知道，我们不会沉默的。

声音要穿越国界，像风一样。风吹过围墙，吹过铁窗，吹进每一个心里。

当无数声音汇聚在一起，就会形成共鸣。这共鸣，将比恐惧更强大。

我们和自由同在。

我们是他们中间的一个。

On the Arrests of Hu Yang and Zhang Yadi: The CCP’s Surveillance of Overseas Speech

Author: Zhang ZhijunEditor: Zhong RanChief Editor: Luo ZhifeiTranslator: Lyu Feng

On July 26, 2025, countless travelers walked through the gates of Shanghai Pudong Airport. They pushed luggage carts, carried children in their arms, their faces weary yet filled with anticipation for a home-cooked meal and their own bed. Among them was Hu Yang, returning from the Netherlands to visit family. The police took him away. The charge: “picking quarrels and provoking trouble.”

His suitcase was still unopened, the keys still in his pocket, the gifts he had bought for friends undelivered—his journey ended before it began. After Hu Yang had been detained for 35 days, his mother posted an appeal for help on Twitter. It was forcibly deleted within a day.

Four days later, on July 30, 2025, Zhang Yadi, a student returning from the UK, was also arrested. Her charge was even graver: “endangering national security.” She didn’t even have the chance to give her parents the souvenirs she had brought from London before she vanished. Her mother sought help from lawyer Wang Tianyong, known for defending rights activists from the “709” crackdown. But during their meeting, Wang himself was taken away by three unidentified men.

Two young people—one male, one female—their futures shattered like airport glass with a single tap.

Hu Yang’s “crime” might have been writing a few sentences.Zhang Yadi’s “crime” might have been editing a few articles.

They did not kill, they did not commit arson, they did not embezzle, they did not defraud. What they did was light, yet the punishment was heavy.

In the CCP’s dictionary, speaking is dangerous. Speaking wrongly is a crime. Not speaking is safety.

Thus, in this country, language weighs like stone. A glance, a joke, a single word can become chains of iron.

In ancient times, “literary inquisition” meant a character in a poem, a reference in a chronicle. Today, it is a tweet on Twitter, a sentence in a WeChat group.

In the past, emperors feared scholars’ satire. Today, the CCP fears students studying abroad.

In the past, those in the imperial court fell silent. Today, even overseas students practice self-censorship.

The boundaries of the CCP’s literary inquisition are no longer the imperial palace, no longer confined within the Great Wall. It now extends across the globe.

The greatest skill of totalitarianism is manufacturing fear. Fear is not confined to prisons; it lurks in airport halls, in classrooms abroad, in phone calls home. Fear is not only in the hands of police; it is in the warnings of parents: “Don’t say too much, be careful when you come back.” Fear is not just in legal codes; it is in the delete button of chat logs, in the silence of social media feeds.

The arrests of Hu Yang and Zhang Yadi were not just about two individuals; they pushed fear onto countless others. Every overseas student, every member of the diaspora, understands: you could be the next.

A strong political party does not fear a few words. Only a weak one treats words as threats.

The CCP is not afraid of Hu Yang or Zhang Yadi. It fears the free world behind them. It fears what they learn in classrooms in the Netherlands, what they discuss in societies in the UK. It fears their voices crossing borders, bringing back truths to friends at home, tearing open small cracks.

That is the nature of truth: once it slips in, no iron wall can keep it out.

In the free world, it is hard to understand this fear. Why would a government tremble at the words of a student abroad?

Because CCP power is not won through votes—it is maintained through controlling language. Once language slips from its grasp, the regime begins to shake.

That is why it reaches across borders, to silence voices overseas. Not out of confidence, but out of weakness. Not out of strength, but out of fear.

The arrests of Luo Daiqing and Zhang Dongning were not the beginning. The arrests of Hu Yang and Zhang Yadi are not the end.

The CCP’s long-arm control aims to silence more students. In classrooms, when China is discussed, they must lower their heads and take notes. At dinner tables, when friends mention politics, they must smile and stay quiet. The Party wants them to fall silent out of fear—afraid of the records on their phones, afraid of the road home.

Silence spreads like a contagion, turning vibrant souls into grey shadows.

A regime with cannons fears a student’s pen.A state with nuclear weapons fears a young person’s tweet.A party ruling 1.4 billion cannot tolerate the voices of two students.

Absurd? Yes. But this is reality.

Reality so absurd that our laughter carries tears.Reality so absurd that our tears contain rage.

The disappearance of Hu Yang and Zhang Yadi is not the end—it is the beginning.

Their names are written down, their stories told, their experiences shared. Each telling is an act of resistance. Each sharing is an act of solidarity.

The power of freedom does not lie in one person, but in the accumulation of countless voices. A voice may be silenced for a time, but it can never be erased.

To speak in darkness requires courage. To persist in fear requires conviction.

Hu Yang is innocent. Zhang Yadi is innocent. Speech is not a crime. Freedom is not a crime.

We must let them know: they are not alone. We must let the CCP know: we will not be silent.

Voices must cross borders, like the wind. The wind blows over walls, through prison bars, into every heart.

When countless voices converge, they form a resonance. And this resonance will be stronger than fear.

We stand with freedom.We are one among them.