——我的“六四”纪念与民主传承之路

作者：卢超
编辑：王梦梦 责任编辑：罗志飞 校对：程筱筱 翻译：刘芳

本文以第一人称叙述作者从中国大陆“墙内觉醒”到美国自由土地上持续纪念“六四”的心路历程。作者回忆了最初通过“翻墙”接触天安门真相的震撼与愤怒，描写了觉醒后的精神挣扎与行动转变，并讲述他在海外加入民运、参与纪念活动、延续民主火种的经历。文章以真挚的情感和细腻的叙事，展现出一位普通中国人从沉默到发声、从恐惧到坚持的灵魂觉醒与信念传承。

夜色在窗外漫开，电脑屏幕是我唯一的光源。那一年，我二十多岁，一个在体制内长大的普通青年。那时的我，从未听过“六四”这两个字。我们在课本里学“改革开放”，在电视里看“盛世中国”，而“真相”似乎从不属于我们。

可那天，我出于好奇，打开了一个陌生的窗口——翻墙。 屏幕那一端的世界，与我熟悉的一切格格不入。 嘈杂的喊声、飘扬的横幅、年轻的面孔、坦克的轰鸣。 我看见人群在天安门广场上高唱《国际歌》，看见学生代表举着请愿书跪在人民大会堂前，也看见午夜的枪声与血迹。

我呆坐在那张旧木桌前，手心渗出冷汗。 原来，我被教育去“爱”的国家，曾经这样对待他最纯洁的孩子。 那一刻，我心底的某种秩序塌陷了。 我意识到，真正的“爱国”，不是沉默的服从，而是敢于说出真相。

那一夜之后，我的人生彻底改变。 我开始悄悄阅读被禁的书，偷偷保存那些视频。每当看到有人在社交媒体上谈“自由”或“人权”，我都会去留言、去辩论——哪怕账号被封、手机被查、朋友劝我“别惹麻烦”。 但我知道，我已无法回到从前。 那是一种“醒来”之后的痛苦，也是一种不可逆的召唤。

一、从沉默到发声

后来，我来到了美国。初到洛杉矶的那一年，我在唐人街的超市打工，夜里住在一间狭小的出租屋。 但我终于能自由地上网，能在公共广场举起标语，不必担心第二天就消失。

记得第一次参加“六四”纪念集会，是在中领馆门前。那天阳光炙热，我和一群陌生的华人站在一起。有人拿着扩音喇叭高喊口号，有人默默举着写着“悼念六四”的牌子。 一位白发老人颤抖着举起蜡烛，对我说：“孩子，我当年就在广场上。”那一刻，我喉咙发紧。那不是一句口号，而是一个活着的见证。

从那以后，我加入了中国民主党，开始写文章、组织活动。我用文字记录真相，用行动纪念死难者。我们在洛杉矶、在旧金山、在华府举行集会。每当我看到有人停下脚步、伸手接过传单，我就知道——记忆仍在传递。

二、烛光与誓言

每年六月四日，我都会穿上那件印有“64”的T恤。 在自由雕塑公园的夜里，风轻轻拂过烛光，我与来自香港、台湾和大陆的同胞并肩而立。有人高唱《自由花》，有人在祷告。烛光在夜色里微微颤动，就像那些逝去的灵魂在回应。

我常常抬头看那片星空，想着：三十多年前，北京的夜空下，也曾有同样的星星，只是被烟雾与火光遮蔽。如今，我们在这片自由的土地上，把那盏烛光重新点亮。

有时我会想到，如果那些年轻人还活着，他们今天也许已是教师、记者、工程师、父亲、母亲。而他们的理想：公平、法治、尊严，仍在召唤我们。那是一种跨越时间的力量。

三、自由的道路

民运不是浪漫的诗，它是流亡者的血泪，是被审问、被放逐、被误解的坚持。但我没有后悔。我相信，每一次发声，都是一次唤醒；每一场纪念，都是一次延续。

我们这一代人，生于谎言，却在真相中重生。“六四”的烛光点燃了我心中的火，也照亮了前方的路。

有时我在深夜写作，电脑屏幕上的光映在墙上，我仿佛又回到了那间狭小的屋子。 只是这一次，我不再害怕黑暗。

因为我知道，有无数个我，正在世界的不同角落，守护着同一份信念。有一天，当自由真正降临那片土地，当我们能在天安门广场上，公开为那段历史默哀、为那群青年献花，我会告诉自己—— 这一声声的呐喊，值得。

From Waking Up Behind the Great Firewall to Crying Out Overseas

——My Road of June Fourth Commemoration and Democratic Inheritance

Author: Lu Chao
Editor: Wang Mengmeng Managing Editor: Luo Zhifei Proofreader: Cheng Xiaoxiao Translator: Liu Fang

This first-person essay traces the author’s journey from “waking up behind the Great Firewall” in mainland China to continually commemorating June Fourth on free American soil. It recalls the shock and anger of discovering the Tiananmen truth via circumvention tools, depicts the inner struggle and turn to action after awakening, and recounts joining the pro-democracy movement overseas to keep the flame alive. With sincere emotion and fine-grained narration, it shows an ordinary Chinese person’s passage from silence to speech, from fear to perseverance.

Night spread beyond the window; the computer screen was my only light. I was in my twenties, an ordinary youth raised within the system. I had never heard the words “June Fourth.” Textbooks taught “reform and opening,” TV showed a “prosperous China,” and “truth” seemed never to belong to us.

But that day, out of curiosity, I opened a strange window—I scaled the firewall.

The world on the other side of the screen clashed with everything I knew.

Shouts and chants, fluttering banners, young faces, the roar of tanks.

I saw crowds in Tiananmen Square singing “The Internationale,” student delegates kneeling with petitions before the Great Hall of the People, and I saw midnight gunfire and blood.

I sat frozen at that old wooden desk, cold sweat beading in my palms.

So the country I was taught to “love” had once treated its purest children like this.

In that moment, some inner order collapsed.

I realized that true “patriotism” is not silent obedience but the courage to speak the truth.

After that night, my life changed completely.

I began quietly reading banned books and secretly saving those videos. Whenever I saw “freedom” or “human rights” discussed on social media, I would comment and debate—even if my accounts were banned, my phone searched, and friends urged me not to “make trouble.”

Yet I knew there was no going back.

It was the pain after awakening—and an irreversible calling.

I. From Silence to Speech

Later, I came to the United States. In my first year in Los Angeles, I worked at a supermarket in Chinatown and slept in a cramped rented room.

At last I could go online freely and raise a placard in a public square without fearing I would vanish the next day.

I remember my first June Fourth vigil, held in front of the Chinese consulate. The sun was blazing as I stood with strangers from the Chinese community—some shouted slogans through megaphones, others held signs that simply read “In Memory of June Fourth.”

A white-haired elder lifted a candle and said to me, “Child, I was in the Square that year.” My throat tightened. That was not a slogan but a living witness.

After that, I joined the China Democracy Party and began writing and organizing. I used words to record the truth and actions to honor the dead. We held rallies in Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Washington, D.C. Each time someone paused to take a flyer, I knew the memory was being passed on.

II. Candlelight and Oaths

Every June Fourth, I put on the T-shirt printed with “64.”

At night in Liberty Sculpture Park, the wind brushes the candles as I stand shoulder to shoulder with compatriots from Hong Kong, Taiwan, and the mainland. Some sing “Glory to Hong Kong,” others pray. The candlelight quivers in the dark, as if the departed souls were answering.

I often look up at the stars and think: more than thirty years ago, the same stars hung over Beijing, only shrouded by smoke and fire. Today, on free soil, we relight that candle.

Sometimes I think: if those young people were alive, they might now be teachers, journalists, engineers—fathers and mothers. Their ideals—fairness, rule of law, dignity—still call to us. It is a force that spans time.

III. The Road to Freedom

The pro-democracy movement is not a romantic poem; it is the blood and tears of exiles—being interrogated, banished, and misunderstood—yet persisting. I have no regrets. I believe every voice awakens someone; every commemoration extends the memory.

Our generation was born into lies yet reborn in truth. The candle of June Fourth lit a fire in my heart and illuminated the road ahead.

Sometimes, writing late at night, the screen’s glow on the wall takes me back to that cramped room.

Only this time, I am no longer afraid of the dark.

Because I know there are countless versions of me, in different corners of the world, guarding the same conviction. One day, when freedom truly comes to that land—when we can openly mourn in Tiananmen Square and lay flowers for those youths—I will tell myself—

Every cry was worth it.