作者：张宇
编辑：李聪玲 责任编辑：罗志飞 校对：程筱筱 翻译：吕峰
张宇，一名经历武汉疫情的医护人员，讲述了在疫情封控期间的遭遇，以及来到美国后的感受。
余谨以至诚
于上主及会众面前宣誓，
终身纯洁
忠贞职守
尽力提高护理专业标准，
勿为有损之事，
勿取服或故用有害之药，
慎守病人及家务之秘密，
竭诚协助医师之诊治，
务谋病者之福利。
——南丁格尔誓言
我常常梦见那座城市。
梦里的天空灰白一片，街道空无一人，只有救护车的警笛声在空气里盘旋。那是我工作了十年的地方，武汉市某著名的三甲医院，曾经充满了忙碌与希望。可那一年，空气里弥漫的不是消毒水的味道，而是一种看不见的恐惧。
我常常梦见那段日子。
我们穿着厚重的防护服，一天又一天地奔走在病房与走廊之间。脸上的口罩勒出深痕，眼睛干涩到流泪。每一位倒下的病人，都是一个家庭的崩塌。我们用尽全力去救治，可有时连告别的机会都没有。
我记得那时的自己还相信——只要竭尽所能，总会有光。但慢慢地，我发现有些东西比病毒更毒。有些问题不能问，有些真相不能说。人们要学会沉默，学会服从，学会用忙碌掩盖内心的不安。从那一刻，我第一次感到一种深深的背叛——不是别人背叛我，而是我所信仰的誓言，被现实一点点侵蚀。
那一天的风很冷，我在急诊室里看到窗外的光一点点暗下去，那是2020年1月23日，武汉，这座拥有着1100万人口、拥有“九省通衢”与“东方芝加哥”称号的超大城市，正式向世界宣布从上午十点开始“封城”，限制市内公共交通关闭并离境通道，下午两点开始关闭高速公路。就此，这座城市开始了史无前例的封锁。
以下是我的爱人写的随感二段节选：“2020年1月26日，也是卷卷妈妈（我的孩子小名卷卷）支援前线的第二天。当护士长在微信群里说自愿报名的时候，她问我的意见，而我说这个时候你最应该打个电话给你爸妈。其实他们早已经做好了心理准备，挂电话她哭了，哭的像一个孩子。我问“你怕吗”？卷妈看看还趴在地上玩积木的卷卷说：“对于这个病我不怕，我哭是因为我可能几个月的时间看不到我的孩子”。听着我也红了眼睛。“别人都说离别的时候说再见要用力一点，因为有些人就真的再也见不到了。我们的离别没有再见。“自己注意身体’‘谢谢你”都不能哭，因为这不是生离死别”。如今我这篇随感文章依然带在身边，仿佛在告诉我那段充满了恐惧，无力，脆弱的日子就在昨天。
（图片提供：张宇；图为新冠病毒疫情期间，张宇在武汉医院尽力救治病人）
但渐渐我发现疫情有些变味了，有些问题不能问，有些真相不能说。人们要学会沉默，学会服从上级安排指示。从疫情的第一天开始，湖北省中医院，武汉大学中南医院，武汉市中心医院等8家医院发出公告，向社会各界征集防护物资。其中多家医院证实，外科口罩、防护服、手术衣、防护面具等物资只能再撑三到四天。以至于领导要求我和我的战友们为了节约防护服和面具等物资的消耗，本应该六个小时在污染区的轮岗变为了十二个小时，不能吃饭、不能喝水、也不能上厕所，每个人都在防护服内穿好成人纸尿布，有时缺少防护装备只能无奈用塑胶袋制品代替，用我们的身体和生命筑起高墙，抵挡病毒一波又一波的袭击。有时还是腹背受敌，还要遭受病人家属殴打、谩骂，医护人员的防护服被扯开，导致严重职业暴露，需要马上隔离。我们也会心寒，我们不是败给了疾病而是败给了人性。
那是一段没有昼夜的日子，累了就在地上随便找个位置睡一会，防护服成了第二层的皮肤，口罩背后的呼吸总是混杂着汗水和消毒液的味道。每一次推开病房的门，都像走进一场不确定的赌局——你不知道下一秒会遇见希望，还是绝望。
严密封控下，一些武汉年轻人经历了政治观念的转变。
我从网上视频看到有居民的门窗被焊死，一些执行封控人员强行进屋检查和消毒，推搡、殴打居民甚至是老人，也有封控人员涉嫌擅自扣留本应分发给居民的食品物资，视频里那些封控人员像黑社会一样。小区设立了蔬菜食品供应点，每次到那里购物都需要排一、两个小时的长队，很不方便，价格比封城前贵许多。但是有关疫情的批评和质疑之声遭到大量删除。
公权力与个人权力的冲突不断浮现，武汉市中心医院眼科医生李文亮之死更是震撼了整座城市。作为新冠疫情的重要“吹哨人”，李文亮因向大众提醒不寻常疫情，而遭地方警方以“传播谣言”为由训诫，其后在当值期间感染新冠病毒。最终2020年2月7日，武汉市中心医院宣布李文亮于当天凌晨不治逝世，终年34岁。如今五年过去了，李文亮生前发布确诊感染的最后微博，被网友称为“中国哭墙”。现超过百万条悼念与申诉的言论持续涌入，至今仍未停息。
那天夜里，我脱下防护服的时候，双手已经抖的拿不稳东西。镜子里的我眼神空洞、嘴唇干裂，像一个被抽空灵魂的人。我想起自己刚成为护士时的样子——那时我相信医学能拯救一切，相信真诚，努力和同情心总会被理解。我一直以为，信仰崩塌会是一场轰烈的爆炸。可后来我发现，它更像是一种缓慢的塌陷。它从一次次的妥协开始，从一次次闭嘴开始。直到有一天，你忽然发现自己也成了那个沉默的人。我不愿意变成这样，我站在天台上，看着远处的万家灯火。感觉上帝的声音告诉我：救死扶伤的誓言，不只是救身体的命，也是守护那一点点不肯麻木的心。
2020年4月8日，武汉解封，但封控模式被推广至中国各地。全国各地在接下来的三年间，一直执行“动态清零”政策。
2022年11月24日，新疆乌鲁木齐的一场住宅火灾造成10人死亡，成为了转折点，严格的封控措施阻碍了居民逃生，群众陆续走上街头，举起白纸示威，掀起“白纸运动”。其间北京、上海等地抗议民众喊出“自由民主法治”、“不要文革要改革”、“不要独裁、不要个人崇拜”、 “习近平下台”、“共产党下台”、“平反六四”等政治口号。在强大抗议声浪中，中共当局几天之后被迫仓促废弃了动态清零政策。这是中共自建政后首次在民众抗议声浪中被迫改变了强制推行的政策。
这次活动能够发生，说明人们心中的怒火已经被点燃了。因为各地封城导致的一系列的经济的问题。引起大量失业的问题，所以才会发生这样的抗议。但是我觉得虽然没有取得很大的实质性进展，但也可以在历史上留下一个缩影。
疫情五年后的今天，我跟随家人来到了美国，离开武汉的那天，我没带多少东西，只有一台笔记本，还有一身还没散尽消毒水味的衣服。飞机升空时，我回头望了一眼——灯火依旧密集，城市看起来平静而辽阔，可我知道那里埋着太多无法言说的故事。
来到美国已经半年了。这里的医院不大，但空气里有种我很久没感受到的东西——自由与轻盈。医生之间会争论，护士会质疑上级的决定，病人有权选择、拒绝，甚至可以质问医生的方案。起初我不习惯，总觉得这样会“惹麻烦”，现在我明白了：讨论不是冲突，表达不是冒犯。那是信任的另一种形式，是职业伦理真正的根。
在这里医生护士的工作不再只是执行上级的命令，而是一场关于“倾听”的修行。我学会了问：“你感觉还好吗？”“我知道你很痛苦”“我有什么可以帮助你的？”这些在过去都显得奢侈的句子，如今成了日常，原来，尊重不需要勇气，只需要习惯。
我又记起我的职业启蒙老师写在黑板上的那句话：医学的意义，是让人重新相信生命值得被尊重。
（图片提供：张宇；图为张宇参加10月4日活动）
如今我可以自由的站在这里对全世界宣告：我对中国共产党恶政统治下的社会充满了绝望，深深感受到中国共产党打着“以人为本”的旗号长期奴役压迫中国人民，中共政权疯狂收割民脂民膏、严控言论，对异议者进行残酷的镇压。
在中国，权力凌驾于法律之上，政府就像强盗无法无天，中国共产党以谎言及暴力对中国人民进行铁腕高压恐怖统治，中共政权就像邪教黑社会组织，中国共产党宣扬所谓的“人类命运共同体”和“以共产主义解放全人类”，严重违背人类文明和普世价值，使世界越来越多的人民深受其害。
所以中国只要存在共产党的统治，是绝不可能有民主的，人民也绝不可能获得自由。如果我们每一个中国人都想取得自己的人权，获得民主，获得自由，我们走不了近路，也回避不了这个巨大的困难，必须推倒中国共产党的独裁统治，才有可能得到民主自由的福祉。
A Medical Witness of Our Time
Author: Zhang Yu
Editor: Li Congling Chief Editor: Luo Zhifei Proofreader: Cheng Xiaoxiao Translated by: Lyu Feng
Zhang Yu, a medical worker who experienced the Wuhan pandemic, recounts her encounters during the lockdown and her reflections after arriving in the United States.
With utmost sincerity, before God and the congregation, I swear lifelong purity, loyalty to my duties, to strive to improve the standards of nursing, to do no harm, to take or administer no harmful drugs, to guard the secrets of my patients and their households, to assist physicians wholeheartedly in treatment, and to seek the welfare of the sick. — The Nightingale Pledge.
I often dream of that city. In my dreams, the sky is gray and pale, the streets are empty, and only the sirens of ambulances echo through the air. That was where I worked for ten years — a renowned tertiary hospital in Wuhan — once full of life and hope. But that year, the air was filled not with the smell of disinfectant, but with invisible fear.
I often dream of those days. We wore thick protective suits, running back and forth between wards and corridors day after day. The masks left deep marks on our faces; our eyes were dry and stung with tears. Every fallen patient meant a collapsed family. We did everything we could, but sometimes, there wasn’t even a chance to say goodbye.
I remember believing then — that as long as we tried our best, there would always be light. But gradually, I realized there were things more toxic than the virus. Some questions could not be asked; some truths could not be told. People had to learn silence, obedience, and to hide their unease with busyness. That was the first time I felt a deep betrayal — not by others, but by the ideals I once swore to uphold.
The wind was bitter that day. I watched the light outside fade as I stood in the emergency room. It was January 23, 2020 — Wuhan, a megacity of 11 million known as the ‘Chicago of the East,’ officially announced its lockdown. Public transport was halted, outbound travel banned, and highways closed. From that moment, the city entered an unprecedented state of isolation.
The following is an excerpt from my husband’s journal: ‘January 26, 2020, the second day that Juanjuan’s mother (my wife) volunteered on the front line. When the head nurse asked for volunteers, she sought my opinion. I told her she should call her parents. They had already prepared themselves mentally. She hung up and cried like a child. I asked, “Are you afraid?” She looked at our daughter playing on the floor and said, “I’m not afraid of the virus. I’m crying because I might not see my child for months.” I couldn’t hold back my tears either.’
[Photo: Zhang Yu treating patients in Wuhan during the COVID-19 outbreak.]
Gradually, I realized that the pandemic had taken on another meaning. Some questions could not be asked; some truths could not be told. From the first day, hospitals like Hubei Provincial Hospital of TCM, Zhongnan Hospital of Wuhan University, and Wuhan Central Hospital publicly called for donations of medical supplies. Many hospitals confirmed that surgical masks and protective gear could only last three to four more days. Our supervisors told us to stretch our limited resources: six-hour shifts in contaminated areas became twelve-hour ones — no eating, no drinking, no bathroom breaks. Everyone wore adult diapers under their suits. Some even had to use plastic bags as makeshift protection. We used our bodies and lives to build a wall against wave after wave of infection. Sometimes we also faced hostility — verbal abuse or even physical attacks from patients’ families, tearing our suits and causing occupational exposure. It wasn’t the disease that defeated us, but humanity’s darkness.
Those were days without distinction between day and night. Exhausted, we’d sleep wherever we fell. The protective suit became a second skin. Every breath behind the mask reeked of sweat and disinfectant. Opening a patient’s room was like entering a gamble — we never knew if we’d find hope or despair.
Under the tight lockdown, many young people in Wuhan underwent a political awakening. I saw online videos of residents’ doors being welded shut, of enforcers storming into homes for inspections, pushing, hitting even the elderly. Some hoarded food meant for residents. The community markets had long lines and inflated prices. Criticism of the pandemic response was swiftly censored.
The conflict between public authority and personal rights grew more evident. The death of Dr. Li Wenliang, the ophthalmologist who warned of the novel coronavirus, shocked the nation. Detained for ‘spreading rumors,’ he later died from the infection on February 7, 2020, at age 34. His final Weibo post announcing his diagnosis became known as ‘China’s Wall of Tears.’ Millions have since left comments of grief and protest — still ongoing to this day.
That night, as I removed my protective suit, my hands trembled. My reflection looked hollow and drained. I thought of the young nurse I once was — believing medicine could save everything, believing sincerity and compassion would always be understood. I used to think losing faith would be like an explosion; instead, it was a slow collapse — compromise by compromise, silence by silence — until one day you realize you’ve become the quiet one. I didn’t want that. I stood on the rooftop and looked at the distant city lights. It felt as if God was whispering: the pledge to heal isn’t just about saving bodies, but about guarding the part of the heart that refuses to go numb.
On April 8, 2020, Wuhan reopened, but its lockdown model spread nationwide. Over the next three years, China enforced its ‘Dynamic Zero-COVID’ policy.
On November 24, 2022, a fire in a Urumqi apartment killed ten people. The strict lockdown had blocked their escape. Protests erupted — the ‘White Paper Movement.’ People in cities like Beijing and Shanghai shouted, ‘Freedom, democracy, rule of law,’ ‘No more Cultural Revolution,’ ‘Down with dictatorship,’ ‘Xi Jinping, step down,’ ‘Communist Party, step down,’ and ‘Rehabilitate June Fourth.’ Within days, the government abruptly abandoned the zero-COVID policy — the first time in PRC history that mass protests forced a policy reversal.
This showed the anger in people’s hearts. Lockdowns had crushed the economy and led to mass unemployment. Though the protests achieved little concrete change, they left a lasting mark on history.
Five years after the pandemic began, I moved to the United States with my family. I didn’t bring much — just a laptop and clothes still smelling faintly of disinfectant. As the plane took off, I looked back — the city lights glowed, serene and vast, but I knew it hid countless untold stories.
I’ve been in America for six months now. The hospitals here are small, but the air feels lighter — filled with freedom. Doctors argue, nurses question superiors, patients choose or refuse treatment, even challenge doctors’ plans. At first, it felt wrong, like trouble. Now I understand: debate isn’t conflict; expression isn’t offense. It’s trust — the core of medical ethics.
Here, the work of doctors and nurses is no longer blind obedience, but a discipline of listening. I’ve learned to ask: ‘Are you okay?’ ‘I know you’re in pain.’ ‘What can I do for you?’ Once luxuries, these words are now routine. Respect doesn’t require courage — only habit.
I recall what my mentor once wrote on the blackboard: The meaning of medicine is to help people believe that life deserves respect.
[Photo: Zhang Yu participating in the October 4th event.]
Now I can freely stand here and tell the world: I have lost all hope in the Chinese Communist Party’s tyrannical rule. I’ve seen how it enslaves and oppresses people under the guise of ‘serving the people,’ how it drains the nation’s lifeblood, censors speech, and brutally suppresses dissent.
In China, power stands above law; the government acts like bandits without restraint. The CCP governs through lies and violence, wielding fear and control like a cult. Its slogans about a ‘community of shared future for mankind’ and ‘communist liberation of humanity’ violate human civilization and universal values, harming people worldwide.
As long as the CCP exists, democracy and freedom are impossible in China. If every Chinese person truly wishes for human rights, democracy, and liberty, there are no shortcuts, no detours — only the hard path of toppling dictatorship. Only then can we attain the blessings of freedom and democracy.
