Eighth Anniversary of Liu Xiaobo’s Passing — Memorial Speech at the Sea
2025年7月13日 海祭活动 田永德先生发言稿
编辑：胡丽莉 责任编辑：罗志飞 鲁慧文 翻译：鲁慧文
去年，我们中国民主党全委会在圣莫妮卡海滩祭奠了刘晓波先生去世七周年。今年，我们又来了。我们的纪念和祭奠，是为了不被遗忘，是为了能够更好地知道我们应该如何与中共抗争下去。
我曾与刘晓波先生有过几次交往，2008年2月，我第一次见到刘晓波先生给我的印象特别深刻。当时，朋友们去点餐，只有我们两个在单独交流。因为那几年我和高智晟律师交往密切，达到了每个星期至少通一次电话的频率，所以我们自然而然地聊起了高智晟律师发起的全国绝食维权的事。关于这件事，刘晓波先生是持不同态度的。他说；“高律师做的事，太强硬了，我们现在的抗争环境，比文革和八九时期，要好很多。他现在这么做，是在和共产党硬钢，并不是说不可以硬钢，而是中共太强大太无耻，硬钢，他肯定会把你整的死去活来，对理性抗争来说，并不是最好的。”，虽然他讲的是理性抗争，但他的这番话让我很不舒服，因为我自参与民运以来，一直在寻找合理有效的方法，这个方法既符合非暴力抗争不合作思想，也是一种新的方法，尝试一下有何不可呢？所以我竭力反驳，但刘晓波先生耐心地给我解释，可我始终不肯让步，甚至有点脸红脖子粗，正好朋友点完菜过来，看到这个情形，怕我们不欢而散，岔开了话题。为此，我愤愤不平。直到后来传出高律师受虐待的消息，我开始了反思。
刘晓波先生是亲身经历过文革并在八九学运中产生过重大影响的人，所以，中共政府的强大，无耻，残暴，卑鄙，他是有亲身体验的。这种体验让他一直在思考，一直在总结。事实证明，他的观点是正确的，是我肤浅了。而正是后来的思考，让我在后来的活动中更加理性更加温和，因为中共政府太强大太无耻！我想，我的无力感和刘晓波先生是一样的。我们的温和，并不是自愿的，而是被迫的，很无奈但很现实。
去年，陈闯创律师提到《零八宪章》，我是第一批签署者，我知道一些陈律师去年没提到过的事。整个文本，张祖桦老师是主要起草者，刘晓波先生是主要修改和联络者。当时，我在张祖桦老师主持的维权网做信息员，2008年十一月中旬，张祖桦老师给我看了经过刘晓波先生修改的零八宪章文稿，让我提出修改意见，并告诉我，初步原本打算只找一百个人以内联署就发出的。但因为刘晓波先生把文稿转发给了不少社会各阶层人士进行意见征集，所以现在超过一百人了，既然超过了，那就由你们再找人，看谁愿意联署，有多少人算多少人。我水平有限，无法提出更多修改意见，所以又带了几个朋友一起参加联署，打算在2008年12月10日世界人权日公开发表。
谁知道，2008年12月6日，张祖桦老师和刘晓波先生就被抓了。张老师曾经是团中央委员，比李克强和刘延东还要高半级，所以他很快被放回家，严密监控。我们曾经可以从他家的地下二层停车场能进去他家，零八宪章过后一段时间，进不去了，地下停车场的小铁门被锁上了。而刘晓波先生，先是在指定的地方被监视居住，后又被判十一年。在他被监视居住期间，很多人不乐观，担心他会被判刑，唯有我是乐观的。我的理由很简单，《零八宪章》是被不少人骂成是新时代公车上书的举动，是在向中共政府跪求，是没有骨气的东西。我说：“刘晓波先生的温和理性，当局是知道的，所以既然张老师被释放了，那么按照这个逻辑，刘晓波先生是应该很快就会被释放的。”，事实证明，我还是太天真了，低估了中共政府当局的无耻和残暴。他们害怕的是刘晓波先生能够沟通全社会的能力和影响力，更觉得这样的人，可以随意拿捏，所以，直到把他迫害致死。但刘晓波先生也被中共成就了他的英名。可是，我更希望他不要有这个名声，只要好好活着，哪怕没有任何更大的名声。
去年陈闯创执行长提到一个事，就是六四后，刘晓波先生曾经在电视上公开证明说，他没看到过尸体。从刘晓波先生的角度讲，并没有错，因为不管是从时间、地点来看，相信他确实没有看到尸体。
这是一种解读，而我曾看过一本书，讲述了刘晓波先生为什么会这么说的原因。那就是刘晓波先生被抓后，中共政府当局把他的老父亲带到监狱，并让他老父亲跪在他面前求他这么说，因为中共当局威胁他父亲，说刘晓波先生如果不这么说，就会被判死刑，说了，很快就被释放。他的父亲是个老共产党员，也是个知识分子，护子心切的他相信了这个政党，看着跪在地上痛哭流涕哀求自己的白发苍苍的老父亲，刘晓波先生做了他认为那是他一生的耻辱的事，在电视上证明他没在天安门广场看到尸体。
为此，他经历了人生至暗时刻，直到死亡，都在为这件事赎罪。他有一本书，书名叫幸存者手记，我还看过一个成都老右派曾伯炎老先生写的幸存者手记，那本小册子里都是控诉。但刘晓波先生这本书，不仅仅是控诉，更多的是反思。所以我推荐大家去读一读这本书，以方便更多更好地去了解刘晓波先生。
刘晓波先生说过一句让我感到很心酸的话，活着我都不怕，还怕死吗？坚持，容易吗？刘晓波先生给我们启示是：由苦痛滋生出来的平和，会更加稳定深邃，由爱滋生出来的包容，会更加真实长久。不论你是否相信，它确实如此。因此，不要排斥苦痛和爱的体验，如此，你的生命会更加厚重。
就是那次作证，刘晓波先生为了赎罪，放弃了出国的机会，留下来抗争。为此，献出了生命。所以，我后来和朋友说起他的时候，我把他视为与美国国父之一，写出《常识》这本书的托马斯·潘恩同类的人的。同样是一生都在同政府抗争，同样都是一生处于争议中，但同样都是一生都在不断付出，直到生命结束。他们是悲剧和悲情人物，他们是人类文明进程中永远无法绕开的人物。所以，刘晓波先生配得到诺贝尔和平奖这样的奖项。
刘晓波先生的诺贝尔和平奖颁奖那天，我在广州，作为独立中文笔会会员之一，应美国领事馆副领事邀请，在一家饭店观摩电视颁奖仪式。那天，有美国领事馆副领事，有香港有线电视台的记者，还有在广州的独立中文笔会会员和几个异议人士。颁奖仪式上，因为刘晓波先生无法亲自到场，所以颁奖仪式活动组织者在正中央放了一把椅子。在回头看到电视上空椅子的时候，我无意中看到窗外数不清的国家安全人员的身影。那一刻，望着空椅子，我感慨万千。后来，我出来后大致看了一下，饭店周围可能得有二三百个安全部门的人。可见，还在监狱里的刘晓波先生，让他们产生了多么大的恐惧心理。
坚持，是一个说起来和做起来都不容易的事情。我曾被我老家的国保威胁说，我弄死你就像捏死一只蚂蚁，别说你了，刘晓波来了也一样。我不知道刘晓波先生在北京是否也同样被威胁过，但我知道，精神的痛苦远超肉体的痛苦。
经历了八九的刘晓波先生，把与中共抗争写进自己骨子里，在高压下一次次冲击着中共的残暴和无耻。为我们这些后来人拓展着空间。
今天，我们又一次来到了这里，为了继承他的遗志，为了推翻残暴无耻和强大到看似不可动摇的中国共产党政府而努力。然而，我也看到有些人说我们在消费刘晓波先生，这种说法无耻至极！一个被中共政府在监狱里迫害致死的人，我们不去纪念他，那么中共政府的残暴无耻就无人去揭露；我们不去纪念他，那么就还会有更多的被中共在监狱里迫害致死的人也不会被记住。比如曹顺利、杨天水、彭明以及光我自己就认识的十几个出狱一年左右就去世的前辈们。如果我们不去纪念，将来还会有人在监狱里被迫害致死！
我们的纪念，是能够让世界知道中共政府的残暴无耻的。我只希望，我们的纪念会让中共政府能够有所收敛，不要再肆无忌惮地如此迫害中国持不同政见者。如此，怎么会是消费刘晓波先生？
只要有人在做事，总会有不同的声音出现。合理的我们虚心接受，不合理的则无需理会。希望我们今后能够作出更多的事，让中共政府的残暴和无耻，暴露在全世界的目光下。
谢谢大家！
Eighth Anniversary of Liu Xiaobo’s Passing — Memorial Speech at the Sea
Speaker: Mr. Tian Yongde
Delivered on July 13, 2025
Edited by: Hu Lili | Chief Editors: Luo Zhifei, Huiwen Lu | Translated by: Huiwen Lu
Last year, the China Democracy Party National Committee held a memorial ceremony for Liu Xiaobo on Santa Monica Beach. This year, we are here again. Our commemoration is not merely a ritual—it is a conscious act against forgetting, a reaffirmation of how we must continue resisting the Chinese Communist Party.
I had the chance to interact with Mr. Liu Xiaobo on several occasions. Our first meeting was in February 2008, and it left a profound impression on me. Friends had stepped away to order food, leaving just the two of us in conversation. At the time, I was in close contact with lawyer Gao Zhisheng—we spoke at least once a week—so naturally, we discussed the national hunger strike movement initiated by Mr. Gao. Liu Xiaobo took a different view. He said:
“What lawyer Gao is doing is too confrontational. Compared to the Cultural Revolution and 1989, our environment for protest is much better now. If he takes this head-on approach, the CCP will crush him. It’s not that we must never confront them, but the CCP is so powerful and shameless that direct confrontation will leave you broken. It’s not the best strategy for rational resistance.”
Although he was advocating for rational, nonviolent resistance, his words made me uncomfortable. Since entering the democracy movement, I had been seeking effective and principled means of resistance—methods that embraced non-cooperation without violence, methods worth trying. So I argued back forcefully. Liu Xiaobo responded patiently, but I was unwilling to yield—my face flushed, voice raised. Just then, our friends returned with the food and, seeing the tension, quickly changed the subject. I remained indignant. It wasn’t until later, when news broke of Gao Zhisheng’s brutal mistreatment, that I began to reflect deeply.
Liu Xiaobo had lived through the Cultural Revolution and played a key role in the 1989 Tiananmen movement. He had first-hand knowledge of the CCP’s might, its shamelessness, its cruelty, and its treachery. These experiences made him cautious and strategic. In hindsight, he was right. I was the naïve one. My later growth into a more measured, more restrained activist came from this realization: the CCP’s brutality and dominance compel us to choose moderation—not out of willingness, but from necessity.
Last year, attorney Chen Chuangchuang spoke about Charter 08. I was one of its first signatories, and I know some details that weren’t mentioned. The charter was primarily drafted by Professor Zhang Zuhua, while Liu Xiaobo was responsible for editing and coordination. At the time, I worked as an information officer for Zhang’s Civil Rights & Livelihood Watch. In mid-November 2008, Zhang showed me the draft—already revised by Liu—and asked for my feedback. Originally, they planned to release the charter with fewer than 100 signatories. But Liu Xiaobo, eager for broader input, had circulated the draft widely across society. By then, signatures had exceeded 100. Zhang told me to find more people willing to sign on. I lacked the expertise to offer substantial revisions, but I did recruit a few friends to join. The plan was to release it on December 10—International Human Rights Day.
But on December 6, both Zhang and Liu were arrested. Zhang, a former member of the Communist Youth League’s Central Committee, actually ranked higher than Li Keqiang or Liu Yandong back in the day. He was quickly released under strict surveillance. We used to access his home through the basement garage, but after Charter 08, even that door was locked. Liu Xiaobo was placed under residential surveillance at a designated location, and later sentenced to 11 years in prison.
During Liu’s initial detention, many were pessimistic—fearing he would be imprisoned long-term. I, however, remained optimistic.
My reasoning was simple: many had mocked Charter 08 as a modern-day petition to the emperor, a naive plea to the regime. I said:
“Liu Xiaobo is known for his moderation. Since Zhang was released, surely Liu will be as well.”
But once again, I was too naïve. I underestimated the CCP’s shameless cruelty. What they truly feared was Liu Xiaobo’s ability to bridge different sectors of society—his power to connect. They thought he could be manipulated. So they persecuted him until death. Yet in doing so, they immortalized his name. Personally, I would have preferred he lived on in peace—even without fame.
Last year, Executive Director Chen also mentioned the moment Liu Xiaobo publicly claimed on television that he “saw no corpses” after June Fourth. From Liu’s perspective, it may have been factually accurate—depending on time and location. But I later read a book that revealed the deeper reason for that statement: after his arrest, the CCP brought his elderly father into the prison. They made the old man kneel before his son, pleading with him to say he had seen no deaths in Tiananmen. They told the father that if Liu didn’t comply, he would be sentenced to death—but if he did, he’d be released soon. Liu’s father, a loyal Party member and an intellectual, believed them. Faced with his weeping, kneeling father, Liu gave in and made that statement—an act he would later describe as the greatest shame of his life.
From that moment until his death, he lived in atonement. He even gave up the chance to go into exile, choosing instead to stay and resist. He paid for it with his life.
There is a book he wrote titled Survivor’s Notes. I’ve also read a booklet by Chengdu’s old rightist Zeng Boyan with the same title, filled with fierce accusations. But Liu’s Survivor’s Notes is more than indictment—it is a profound work of self-reflection. I highly recommend it for anyone wishing to truly understand Liu Xiaobo.
Liu once said something that has haunted me ever since:
“If I’m not afraid of living, why should I fear dying?”
Persistence is never easy. But Liu showed us that peace born from pain is deeper, and tolerance born from love is more enduring. Whether or not you believe it, it’s true. Don’t reject the experiences of pain and love—these are what make a life profound.
In private conversations, I’ve compared Liu Xiaobo to Thomas Paine—one of America’s founding fathers and the author of Common Sense. Both men resisted their governments throughout their lives. Both were controversial. Both gave everything until their final breath. Tragic and stirring figures, they are pillars in the ongoing story of human civilization. Liu Xiaobo deserved the Nobel Peace Prize. But I wish he didn’t need to earn it that way. I wish he were still alive.
On the day of the Nobel ceremony, I was in Guangzhou. As a member of the Independent Chinese PEN Center, I had been invited by a U.S. consulate official to watch the ceremony at a restaurant. There were consular staff, Hong Kong journalists, fellow PEN members, and dissidents. When Liu couldn’t attend, the organizers placed an empty chair at the center of the stage. As I turned to look at the television, I noticed through the window dozens—maybe hundreds—of state security officers surrounding the area. That empty chair on the screen mirrored the fear in the regime’s heart. Even in prison, Liu terrified them.
Persistence is not easy. A state security agent once told me:
“Killing you would be as easy as squashing an ant. Even Liu Xiaobo would be no exception.”
I don’t know if Liu ever received the same threat in Beijing. But I do know that spiritual torment is worse than physical pain. He, having survived 1989, carried the resistance deep into his bones. He pushed back against tyranny time and again, carving out space for those who followed.
Today, we gather once more—not just to mourn, but to carry on his legacy. To fight against the powerful, shameless, seemingly immovable CCP. And yet, some accuse us of “exploiting” Liu Xiaobo. Such accusations are despicable.
If we don’t remember a man persecuted to death by the CCP, then the regime’s crimes go unchecked. If we don’t speak his name, then those who die in prison—like Cao Shunli, Yang Tianshui, Peng Ming, and many others I personally knew—will also be forgotten. And more will surely die.
Our commemoration is a testimony. It shows the world the CCP’s brutality. I only hope our remembrance can bring even the slightest restraint upon their cruelty.
As long as people act, there will be voices of doubt. We accept fair criticism with humility, but we reject malicious slander. Let us strive to do more, to expose the CCP’s barbarity to the eyes of the world.
Thank you all.
