作者：张致君
编辑：李聪玲 校对：林小龙 翻译：吕峰

世上最怕鬼的，不是病弱之人，不是孤魂野宿的孩子，而是手里握着刀子、腰上挂着印章的那些“大人”。

他们说自己无所畏惧，铁腕而威严，号称一声就能让千万人肃立如僵。但只要一个死人名字被人低声提起，他们就如同看见了厉鬼：眉毛竖起，耳朵发抖，腿脚不由得发软，急急忙忙把嘴堵上，把海边封了，把花束扔走。

奇怪么？不奇怪。

因为鬼不可见，所以最难防。活人你可以关，报纸你可以删，手机你可以查，但死人呢？死人什么都不做，却偏偏什么都能做。一个死人若活在记忆里，便比千军万马还要厉害。于是他们怕死人，怕得比怕活人还厉害。

我听说好些名字不能提，提了就是“寻衅滋事”。寻衅？谁寻谁的衅？一个躺在海里的骨灰，如何去寻活人的衅？倒像是活人自己寻着鬼，日日夜夜不让它安息。

古时候，人们敬鬼神，祭之以酒肉，图个心安。如今政权怕鬼魂，见之如仇敌，怕得要把海封上，把风管住，把浪也圈起来。仿佛风若呼一声，浪若翻一下，就会喊出那个名字。

于是出现了奇观：世上最强大的政府，拥有最庞大的警察队伍，最尖锐的机器，却要耗费千百人力去对付一把纸灰，一束花，一声低语。

有人在海边轻轻放下一朵花，转身就走。

花没开口，海没作声，只有浪一层一层打过来。过后几个人半夜冲到他们家里，紧张得像大战之前，把放花的人投入监狱，想把记忆踩进暗无天日的深渊中。我心里忽然明白：原来他们不是在踩记忆，他们是在踩自己心里的影子。

这影子是什么？是怕。

怕一个死人被记起，怕一个名字传下去。怕久了，就连空气里都充满那名字。你越怕，它越近。你越压，它越响。于是，他们像和空气打仗。手里拿着刀，却砍不着空气；砍不着，就只好乱砍活人。

我笑他们像夜里怕鬼的孩子。孩子怕鬼，拉着被子捂头，还要喊“我不怕我不怕”。喊得多了，正好证明他就是怕。

他们也一样：号称强大，偏要天天警惕一个死人；口口声声稳定，偏要四处捕人；整日嚷嚷信心，偏要删帖删得手忙脚乱。这不就是捂头喊的孩子么？只不过孩子丢的是觉，这些“大人”丢的是脸。

死人本无害。死人若真有害，那只能说明活人的心亏。你若心正，他就是灰；你若心虚，他就是鬼。

可惜他们宁肯把死人当鬼，也不敢让死人当人。

于是海不能望，碑不能立，花不能放，名字不能说。一个国家几亿人，竟然要与一个名字决斗。斗来斗去，名字还在，人心也还在。到最后，只剩他们自己被名字逼得发狂。

“中国人的脊梁，总是从死人那里长出来的。”——这话怕是真的。

因为活人弯腰，死人反而直立。死人直立着，便成了镜子。镜子照见谁低头了，谁弯腰了，谁在替权力磕头。

所以他们最怕镜子。怕死人立着。怕死人在记忆里站直。怕活人看见后，心里也要试着直一回。

他们可以堵嘴，却堵不了心思；他们可以删字，却删不掉回声。名字被禁，名字反而更响。就像一口井被板子盖住，底下的水声反而闷得更沉。时间一长，板子还是要烂开，水要冲出来。

怕鬼的政权，其实早就是鬼。

他们活着，却日日担心阴魂，夜夜检查墓碑，连死人都不敢让人去祭。活人怕死人，死人却让活人失眠。若真有鬼，鬼大约也是笑的。笑活人劳师动众，弄出一个笑话：生人怕死鬼，死鬼反成主人。

我在心里冷冷地想：连死人都怕的统治者，还能怕谁呢？他们怕的是影子，怕的是空气，怕的是自己。

终有一日，他们要被自己吓死。到那时，也要进墓地。他们到那边去，大约还得继续抓鬼。

A Ruler’s Word Is No Jest: A Regime Afraid of Ghosts

Author: Zhang Zhijun
Editor: Li Congling Proofreader: Lin XiaolongTranslator: Lyu Feng

The ones most afraid of ghosts are not the sick or the weak, nor the children wandering alone in the dark.They are the “adults” who hold knives in their hands and official seals at their waists.

They claim to fear nothing — strong, iron-fisted, and awe-inspiring — boasting that a single command of theirs can make millions stand still like statues.But when a dead person’s name is whispered, they tremble as if seeing a vengeful spirit:their brows shoot up, ears twitch, legs go weak; they rush to shut mouths, seal the shore, and throw away the flowers.

Is that strange? Not at all.Because ghosts are unseen, and what is unseen is the hardest to guard against.The living can be jailed, newspapers censored, phones searched —but the dead? The dead do nothing, yet they can do everything.Once a dead person lives in people’s memory, he becomes mightier than an army.And so, they fear the dead — more than they fear the living.

I have heard that certain names must not be mentioned, or it becomes “picking quarrels and provoking trouble.”Trouble? Who provokes whom?How can a handful of ashes lying in the sea provoke the living?It seems more like the living are the ones haunting the dead, refusing to let them rest in peace.

In ancient times, people revered spirits, offering them wine and meat for peace of mind.Now, the rulers fear ghosts as enemies.They seal off seas, hold back winds, and try to fence in the waves —as if a gust or a ripple might cry out the forbidden name.

Thus we witness a grotesque spectacle:the most powerful government on earth, with the largest police force and the sharpest machines,mobilizing thousands to fight against a handful of ashes, a bouquet, a whisper.

Someone lays a flower gently by the sea and walks away.The flower says nothing. The sea says nothing. Only the waves keep rolling in.Yet a few men burst into the house that night, nervous as soldiers before battle,dragging the one who laid the flower into prison — as if they could stomp memory into a sunless pit.

Then I understood: they are not trampling on memory — they are trampling on their own shadows.

And what is that shadow? Fear.Fear that a dead person might be remembered.Fear that a name might endure.Fear, until even the air hums with that name.The more they fear, the closer it comes; the more they suppress, the louder it resounds.They are fighting against air — slashing at nothing.And when their blades strike nothing, they turn to slash the living.

I laugh at them, like children afraid of ghosts.A child pulls a blanket over his head and cries, “I’m not afraid, I’m not afraid!”The louder he shouts, the clearer it shows that he is.

They are the same.Proclaiming strength, yet living in dread of the dead;declaring stability, yet arresting people everywhere;boasting confidence, yet deleting posts in panic.A child loses sleep — but these “adults” lose their dignity.

The dead are harmless.If the dead truly frighten you, it only proves your heart is guilty.When your heart is upright, the dead are but ashes;when your heart is corrupt, the dead become ghosts.

Sadly, they would rather treat the dead as ghosts than allow the dead to remain human.

And so: the sea cannot be gazed upon, monuments cannot stand, flowers cannot be laid, names cannot be spoken.A nation of hundreds of millions has made an enemy of a single name.They fight and fight, but the name remains — and so does the conscience of the people.In the end, it is they who are driven mad by that name.

“The backbone of the Chinese people has always grown from the dead.”

Perhaps that is true.For when the living bend, the dead stand tall.And when the dead stand tall, they become mirrors —mirrors that show who has bowed, who has knelt, who worships power.

Thus, they fear mirrors most of all.They fear the dead standing upright.They fear the dead standing tall in memory.They fear that when the living see it, they too might try to stand straight.

They can silence mouths, but not thoughts;erase words, but not echoes.A banned name rings louder — like water under a boarded well,its sound deep and muffled, until the planks rot and the water bursts forth.

A regime that fears ghosts has already become one.It lives, yet spends its days dreading spirits, its nights checking gravestones.The living tremble before the dead; the dead rob the living of sleep.

If ghosts truly exist, they must be laughing —laughing at the living for their panic, for turning the world into farce:the living fear the dead, and the dead rule over the living.

And I think coldly to myself:A ruler who fears the dead — whom else could he fear?He fears his own shadow.He fears the air.He fears himself.

One day, he will be frightened to death by his own fear.And when he goes to the grave, he will probably go on hunting ghosts there, too.