——要不要活下去
作者：谢文飞
编辑：张致君 责任编辑：罗志飞 校对：林小龙
题记：当利维坦这头怪兽肆无忌惮地吞噬我的自由与尊严时，要不要活下去，便成了我必须要做出抉择的命题。
“不自由，毋宁死”，这是我的座右铭，也将是我的墓志铭。——这是我在2019年3月1日出狱当天写下的《出狱宣言》里的一句话。2023年5月30日至6月13日，在被郴州监狱关在0.18平方米和0.7平方米的铁笼子里那半个月里，我曾以为我用生命书写自己的墓志铭的日子到了，不意竟苟活至今日。
苟活的痛苦，不经历绝望的人自然是无感的。而我之所以会绝望，正是因为我对自己、对我们的未来、对这片土地、对这片土地上的人们（身上的人性）寄予了太多的希望。宗萨蒋扬钦哲说：“我们之所以没能获得真正的自由，是因为我们没能善待自己的痛苦、希望和恐惧。”而我这几十年来，正是因为经历了太多的痛苦；对自己、对未来、对这片土地、对这片土地上的人们，寄予了太多不切实际的期望；而对于恐惧，我的天性让我从小就排斥它、无视它的存在。所以，以宗萨蒋扬钦哲的观点，我注定无法获得真正的自由。
其实，在我看来没那么复杂。世人所自以为的自由的状态，其实只不过是：思想上的苟且，灵魂的麻木，加上行动上的有限自由罢了。而我，如果注定只能拥有这样的“自由”的话，我情愿以自己的生命为自己写上墓志铭，摆脱这个无望得到我的自由的世界。
一. 看望带病打工的哥哥
2025年10月29日，是我再次回到大监狱一周年的日子。这一年来有一个心愿一直未了，我想去看看在东莞市中堂镇江南工业区打枣的哥哥。哥这几年来一直都是在带病打工，2019年肾结石手术，我照顾了他好几天。这几年肾结石越来越严重，动了三次手术都没能根除，一直在吃药。2020年10月29日，就是我再次入狱刚好4个月之后，他又得了更严重的脑梗塞，也没有治好。我担心他不能继续打工了。这几年我在里面，哥带病打工，还要负责为病了多年的母亲治病，真是难为他了。母亲的病最严重的时候半个月下不了床，在我去年10月29日回到县城给她打的第一个电话时她说：“老娘差一点就见不到你了。”这种情况下，哥哥的身体健康于我而言是多么的重要。所以我回到家第五天就在《暗夜独吟》里写下了那句“江湖友凋落，家中添病人”。
10月24日下午5点，我到了我哥打工的厂里。他所在的厂是个连名字都没有的牛仔服装加工厂，他在里面打枣，这道工序还是17年前我手把手教给他的，每天要重复同样的动作一万次以上，他一干就是17年没有中断过。我哥是个非常不自信的人，当年我教他时，他就说年纪大了学不会了，是我“逼”他学会的。
我原本打算帮我哥做点事，顺便看看我还能不能胜任这个我曾做了八年的工作。但我没想到他的工作环境比我12年以前的工作环境还差，他使用的机器比我12年前用的还要破旧。他正在做的裤子布料是又硬又厚最难做的复合布料，机子上的针孔都烧黑了，他的老板小器得很，连线油都没有给他提供。机子老是断线，我哥叫我帮他穿针，我穿了半天也没能穿进去，只好作罢。还是让我哥把针换了才穿上线的。12年前，我还在制衣厂上班时，我曾试过闭着眼睛也把线穿进去了，如今竟然睁着眼睛也半天穿不好针。
我哥没有提前买好菜，于是我叫他一起去吃快餐。我打电话给在同一条街上班的表弟，叫他过来一起吃饭，他说今晚要出货，自己吃点现成的饭就要去加班了，晚上可能要11点半才能下班。他这几年基本上晚上加班都要加到11点甚至更晚。我想表弟中秋还在我家里吃饭了，今天就随他吧。我又给一个认识了20年的老工友打电话，也没接通。这位工友比我大13岁，年初的时候，他和我表弟在一栋楼上班，听说我又坐了几年牢回来了，邀请我一起去打工，他说为了一个这么大的国家的事去坐牢，自己太吃亏了，不要再去吃那个亏了。这正应了亚里斯多德2350年前的论断：越是涉及到大多数人的利益的事务，越是少有人去关心。因此他认为，应该改变只为少数人服务的制度。我自己已故的舅舅，2013年在我从看守所回来后也对我说：你的想法是对的，你做的事情也是对的，但这种事情太危险了，还是让别人去做的好。我说其他人也都是这样想的。
我哥吃完晚饭，6:20就加班去了，到10:30才下班。他告诉我，派出所的人来对他进行了登记并拍照，我感到吃惊。我从2004年到2013年上半年期间，在新塘租房子住了8年，从来没有遇到过派出所上门登记拍照片的事情。我住的地方离我哥这里不过3公里而已。我问我哥，这几年有没有发生过这样的情况？他说去年有过一次。我正在狐疑，哥又说了一件令我更加吃惊的事情，他说这几年，在江南工业区，不时见到治安巡逻的民警在路上拦住人查看身份证并拍照。我没听错，这就是孙志刚因为没带身份证被带到收容所而被群殴致死22年后，离他被打死的广州天河区只有几十公里的江南，司空见惯的事情。我原打算在这里做几天临时工的念头顿时消失得无影无踪。
听了我哥说的种种，显然我晚上住旅店多有不便（住高端酒店应该没问题），加上囊中羞涩，我决定与我哥挤一张床将就一晚。
今年夏天我也是睡硬板床的，但9月一场秋雨过后，我就换上了床垫，并且盖棉被睡觉了。而我哥还是睡的木板床。怕我冷，给了我一床被套外加一块浴巾。凌晨才睡觉，3点半我哥起来上厕所，尽管他轻手轻脚，但还是把我惊醒了，并且再也没能睡着。好不容易挨到6点钟起来洗漱。由于睡眠严重不足，加上天生晕车受了点罪，我决定去吃一碗瘦肉粥。哥陪我走到早餐店门口，说什么也不进来一起早餐。他习惯性地散步去了。
二. 时隔六年重返广州
6年多没有到过广州了。这块南国的热土，曾经承载了我们太多的光荣与梦想。黄花岗上、黄埔军校、南周门口、车陂街头，广州有着太多将我们与历史连结在一起的印记，留下了我太多的或痛苦或美好的记忆。这一年来，从广州来看望我的朋友有10人之数，而其它外省的朋友，只在我6月底到四川时见过一些。如今广州近在咫尺，我怎能不去拜会广州的朋友呢！
9:30，我抵达广州。几乎同时，我哥发来微信，他说房东打电话给他，问我人在哪里，不让我住在我哥租住的房子里。我的不好的预感得到了证实。昨晚一位在广州照顾他哥哥的朋友打电话给我之后，他哥哥就接到广州有关部门的电话，问他人在哪里。这位朋友为了能留在广州照顾生病的哥哥，明确告知我不能跟我见面了。后来我告诉他我哥哥被登记拍照的事，我还在狐疑中，他却斩钉截铁地说，就是冲我来的。而那时候我见到我哥才5个小时而已。
10点半才见到广州的朋友，三五个朋友就近找了家饭店吃饭。几年不见的朋友聚在一起总是令人轻松愉悦的，尽管菜品略显寡淡无味，我的睡眠严重不足，前一天的旅途劳累，还有某些不快，统统都暂且抛开了。饭前朋友帮我约了几位老朋友下午见面，然后一起晚饭。饭后去拜访了一位久闻其名，却未曾谋面的浪漫主义诗人。坐在绿树掩映的小溪边喝咖啡，竟然有些许凉意。这是我第二次喝咖啡。
三. 电话不断，令我抓狂
15:40，我们到达约定的酒店与朋友见面。15:48，老家桂阳的国保就打电话来了。一开口就要我确定回家的时间，说是广东这边因为有个什么会，通知了湖南那边，又一再说我离开当地没有告诉他，让他不好交差。仿佛我还在监狱里，没有私自出行的权利。我说我就这两天回去，但还没确定。广州的什么会与我无关，我根本就没有留意到。可以将我的话告诉广州的有关部门。
过了半个小时，又用微信接二连三地打过来，说了十几分钟。一下叫我马上回去，我提出抗议，一下又说最迟后天让我回去，一下又说我明晚必须回去。还翻来复去要给我定位，给我开个房间。我实在是烦不胜烦，我说你们一定要把我当成一个犯人来对待的话，我就把手机丢了，你们爱怎样就怎样。打完微信才3分钟，16:48分，电话又打过来了。50分钟打了五个电话和微信电话了，硬要我答应住他们派过来的人开的房间，然后确定回去的时间和他们一起回去。我已经6年没有经历这样的恶梦了，本就睡眠不足，一下子头都大了。
晚上我们刚好聚齐了十个人，这是我6年来第一次见到这么多老朋友，自然心情放松了不少。没想到朋友们都说在广州都有几年没这么聚过了，又令我略微有些失望。但接着又有两个朋友说，今年还这样聚过两次。这可是有着近2000万人口的一线城市啊！
尽管我一再表示，不想在广州见到他们，19:19，我们晚饭才刚开始，电话又打过来了，一打又是十几分钟，已经影响到我和朋友们就餐了，我们老家的俗话说“雷公不打吃饭人”。换了一个人，说他已到广州了，必须要见到我。我问他见面之后要怎么做却闪烁其词。这时候我的头都快要炸裂了，真想把手机砸了，随他们去。但是没办法，谁叫我身处没有围墙的监狱呢。我还是答应了他们一个小时后见面。放下手机没几分钟，老家那边又打电话来了，不顾我如何抓狂，就是要确保我在他们掌控的范围之内。好像要千方百计阻止我趁着夜色去干坏事。但总算说好了，只是确定我住宿的地方，之后不干涉我的自由，明晚回到桂阳就可以了。谢天谢地。
四. 贾榀你在哪里
晚餐一再被打断，对我来说，这是很不好的人生体验。另外一件事情也令我感到有些遗憾，可能也是因为我一再被电话打断而造成的。事实上我接到的电话，也会影响到其他朋友的心情。我感到有些遗憾的是，今晚10个人聚在一起，没有人提到贾榀。贾榀几乎比我更早认识在坐的每一位朋友。我是2013年8月13日到广州认识贾榀之后，才认识这些朋友的。我有几次想说说贾榀的事，但是一直没找到合适的机会。大家也不常聚，似乎都有一些更重要的信息要分享。或许是贾榀失踪了三年了，大家早已在茶余饭后聊过无数次了，已经没有兴致再提起他了。或许是该逐渐淡忘他了。但我不能忘。在2013年8月13至2014年10月2日，一年多的时间里，大部分时间我都和贾榀、杨崇三个人住在一起。我们三个人，至少有300天几乎每天24小时都在一起。这20年来，我和我的家人都没有这样在一起过。贾榀1989年出生，1. 88米的身高，在2013年，他几乎是我们所有活动现场和聚会中，最年轻最高大的一个。说他是我们当年在广州乃至全国的一个形象代言人都不为过。虽然他后面攻击了我们身边的朋友，但那是在精神状态出了严重问题之后才有的事，我们应该原谅他。广州不应该将他遗忘。
五. 两个赏恶罚善使者到来
20:34，该来的人还是来了。一胖一瘦，恰似《连城诀》里面的赏善罚恶使者。一见面就说得好象比我还委屈，说什么周末想陪家人，不想来这么远的地方；还说晚饭都没吃一口，好像这都是拜我所赐似的。我说那你们去吃点东西吧，我陪你们坐一会。随便进了一家街边小店，我也没注意是饭店还是茶店咖啡店，反正给我们一人倒了一杯开水。与我见过两面的大胖子和我坐下来了，他胖得皮肤太好，我看不出他的真实年龄。那位据说刚毕业分到派出所工作的帅哥却站着。我万万没想到的是，一坐下来，水还没来得及喝上一口，又是喋喋不休地劝我今晚上与他们一起回去。我说不行，你来之前我们都说好了的，明晚再回去，在这之前你不能干渉我，你的上司也是这样对我说的。他说你要见你的朋友，叫他们晚上过来一起见了，见完我们就一起回去，不影响你呀！好像我拿着一块令牌，今晚就能把所有我想见到的人都召唤过来似的。甚至令人疑心他们早就布置好了，只要与我见面的人一出现，就要将我们一网打尽似的。我向来是个说句话掉在地上有个坑的人，如何受得了这样出尔反尔，三反五次戏耍于我？猴子尚且知道“人而无信 不知其可也”，而况人乎？顿时，连日来积压的情绪，和着严重睡眠不足的焦躁爆发了出来。
我把杯子狠狠地摔在地上，“我今晚上不回去！除非你们把我捆回去！”我倏地站起来，转身走了出去。他们几乎同时贴了上来。我简直就要疯掉了，这是一个多么荒谬的系统！我身处一个多么荒唐的世界！我来看望自己带病打工的哥哥，居然也触犯了他们的法律，我来见一见6年不见的朋友，竟然也需要他们的批准。一个有着近2000万人口的一线城市，为了一个什么“全运会”，竟然提前半个月就要将我赶出广州！好歹我在广州打工也足足有十年啊！一个以限制人的自由和侵犯人的人权尊严为职业的系统！难道我此生就不能独立于这样一个系统，作为一个真正自由的人而存在吗？太痛苦了！太痛苦了！我一拳狠狠地砸在墙上，歇斯底里地大吼：“你们弄死我吧！让我立刻去死！”这样声嘶力竭地吼了几句，又走了大概一刻钟，我感觉腿像灌了铅似的，再也走不动了。刚好路边有一条大概3米长的水泥凳，我坐了下来。他们也在两头坐了下来。胖子还在喋喋不休，仿佛比我更委屈。我再也不想听，我情愿立刻变成一个聋子，最好是让我立刻死去。我干脆躺了下来。谢天谢地，世界总算安静下来了。
秋深了，水泥凳有些冰凉，但比起我心底的悲凉似乎还有点温度。我仰头向天，天空中什么也没有，一如我空寂的心。我的思绪已完全停止，意识却仿佛还在，它好像在等待我的身体与水泥凳融为一体，以后不用再清醒地面对这个荒诞而令我感到痛苦的世界。
然而奇迹却没有发生。
六. 我没有从12楼跳下去
不知道躺了多久，持续的电话铃声将我的意识唤醒了。我本能地拿起了手机，老家打来电话说，让他的人给我开个房间休息，我木然地答应了。走了几百米，我看到了左前方巨大的“南方日报”招牌。然后过了天桥，在天桥左边的一栋高楼的公寓开了一个房间。我听到说9楼有房间，结果拿给我的却是1205的房卡。胖子说去买包烟，年轻人和我上了楼。
在我打开1205的一瞬间，我就把门反锁了，并且把门链也拴上了。胖子刚好上来，说要进来坐一会，我说累了，说完径直走向阳台。阳台的玻璃门没关，我走到阳台边，想往下跳，我想远离这个令我厌恶的世界。可是脑海里有个声音响起，我走了，妈妈怎么办？她是这个世界上唯一一直爱我的人，我就这样走了，对得起她吗？我靠着阳台的护栏往下望，下面怎么会有那么大一棵树，还是一小片树林？几乎覆盖了整个地面。万一我跳下去摔不死怎么办？万一我摔成半身不遂求死而不得怎么办？我又想到月初答应了一位朋友要写一些文字，今天上午还确认了的。写出一两本书来，一直是我这30年来的一个梦想。莎翁说，死亡也只不过是长眠，长眠了却还会思考，这可是个难题！我没去想死后会怎样，我只是在想要不要跳下去，万一跳下去死不了怎么办？我的头越来越痛，越来越沉重，越来越麻木。太沉重了，太累了，不想再去想了，只想睡觉了。
2022年5月28日，在郴州市看守所401监室，被七、八个人渣群殴了两轮，被打倒在地之后，头上被打得好几天没有消肿，连续几天头痛得特别厉害。连续报警四五天都没人理。之后每逢刮风下雨，气侯突变，或睡眠不足，我都会头痛。有很多次都是头痛欲裂。2023年5月30日，在郴州监狱，被打被关铁笼子后还连续几天头痛吃止痛药。2023年冬天，在长沙监狱，每次洗完冷水澡都会头痛。零下5、6度的时候洗个冷水澡，第二天至少头痛一整天。
我随便冲洗了一下，倒在了床上。几个月来，第一次睡前没有翻看手机。大概11点睡着吧，凌晨4点又醒了。醒来就再也睡不着了。什么也不想，动也不想动，全身乏力，就这样躺着。
7:28，阿飞兄弟发来信息，问我现在情况怎么样？打算怎么做？他这段时间没上班，每天都要睡到9点钟才起床，今天却这么早就给我发信息来了。他昨天10个小时一直与我在一起，亲眼目睹我接了无数个令我痛苦不堪的电话，显然是不放心我。我告诉他我昨晚差点从12楼跳下来了。他马上打视频电话过来，旁边还有一位律师朋友，他说他今天太忙了，不能和阿飞一起来看我。我穿好裤子，我让他们看了我阳台底下的那一片树林。我说如果没有阳台的护栏和下面的树丛的话，可能真的就见不到我了。他说马上就给我送包过来，然后一起吃午餐。但是有一点远，叫我先去吃个早餐。
七. 约好的朋友见不成了
昨天本来与一位前辈约好了的，今天下午4点钟去他家里拜访他。他因为组党被第二次判刑出来才几个月，我现在这样的处境和状态显然不太方便去他家里见他，免得给他增添麻烦。但我也不能跟这位我所敬重的前辈爽约，于是9点钟我上了一家茶楼，我点了一个及第粥，然后给他打电话说明情况。没想到他离我这里并不远，欣然答应前来一叙。他才不管什么赏恶罚善使者。
另外一位我所敬重的朋友，本来几个月前去看我时就说好了，等我来广州时一定要聚一下的，现在因为有赏恶罚善使者在，明确说不方便见面了。我也不打算联系任何人了。
我在广州工作、生活了整整10年，广州却不欢迎我。
9:56，胖子又打电话来，说中午一起吃饭。我没有答应。10:57，又打电话来说退房的事。又问我有什么安排，我说我和朋友在一起了。这时候阿飞兄弟和组党的前辈都先后来了，我们一起点了几个点心，算是午饭了。这是我6年来第一次在外地请朋友吃饭，吃的竟然是点心。我们边吃边聊了两个多小时，前辈说家里还有朋友在等他，于是起身告辞，我们后会有期。也算是了了一个小心愿，像我这样的人，这十几年来，不知道有多少朋友，如今想见也见不到了。
12:00，我以前的律师打电话过来问我在哪里。他因为代理包括我在内的很多人权案件，被吊销了执照，生活失去了重心，慢慢养成了半夜睡觉，很晚才起床的习惯。我曾尝试让他调节好睡眠，他说没办法调节了。他昨天第一个见到我，直到赏恶罚善使者到来我们才分开。他也是看到我昨天接到那么多令我抓狂的电话，又被人跨省追踪，很不放心，要来送送我。为了把我昨天落下的东西送过来，他花了一个半小时，到我这里的时候13:30了还没吃早餐。
14:07，老家又打电话来，说要给我订票回郴州了。我说我要去邵阳，他说邵阳那边不准我去。我说为什么不能去？他说谢阳的朋友都会去吊唁他的母亲，邵阳不会允许你们聚集。我说我不和任何人聚，我就是去拜一拜，烧一柱香就走了。无论我怎么说就是不行。阿飞兄弟也拿我的手机跟他说了几句，他听都不想听。总之，我现在就是在一所无形的监狱里，一切行动都是受到限制和监控的了。
八. 我面对的是什么生活
阿飞想起我说过，我们有12年没有在一起爬山了，于是提议我们去越秀公园爬山。我们就这样说定了。
14:30，胖子打电话过来要给我定票了，我只好同意订18:00以后的高铁票回去。
走进越秀公园随便走了走就走不动了，不想往山上爬了。就在博物馆转了转，他们俩兴致很浓，我一个人悄悄地到外面的石凳上坐了十几分钟。我看到旁边一个只有几平米的小水池里，有几尾锦鲤在快活地游来游去。它们想必从来没有见过江河湖海吧！池中的石头上，一只乌龟头昂得高高的，一只后掌还往后伸展，几乎要离地了，却是一直纹丝不动，我看不出它是活的还是死了，或者只是个摆件？等阿飞来找我了，我就问他你看那乌龟是活的还是死了？没想到它马上就动了一下。我深恶这乌龟王八蛋居然也欺负我好骗。原来世上真有这么能忍的乌龟王八蛋。
出了博物馆，我提议我们上“光复纪念亭”去看看。今天是星期日，公园里到处游人如织。还好，这里是我们三个人的专场。整个公园里，或许没有人像我们这样钦佩一百年前的那些革命志士。正门“光复纪念”隶书牌匾和里面陈少白的行书“革命之源”都是书法艺术中的瑰宝，世人只知道他们对中国革命的贡献，却少有人知道，他们在书法上的造诣，我们这辈子都是无法企及的了。正门对联写的是
“此日河山光复义旗曾向港侨来，何时世界大同宪法先从民主立”
原来这也是纪念赞助革命的海外侨胞的。我们都认为一百年前那些赞助革命的华侨同样是了不起的英雄。阿飞说现在也还有那样的人，我说时代不一样了，像当年的陈其美那样变卖家产，不遗余力地赞助革命的人是不太可能有了；同样，像谭嗣同那样以自己的生命照耀前行者的慧星也不会有了。不但如此，更有越来越多的人崇尚效仿起康有为来。
回到家两天都没有缓过劲来，只是本能地木然地活着。到28日下午，接到了一位遥远的朋友的电话，还是在担心我陷入那种情绪的死胡同里走不出来。我何尝不知道，这份关心远隔万水千山而难能可贵。可是正因为物理上的远，如同我今天所生活的我所出生的地方的人们，与我观念上的距离一样无法弥合。我为什么会深恶我们今天的处境，以至于随时随地都可能与之决别，是很难遇到一个能懂的人了。
王国维如果不是遇上了陈寅恪，死了也就白死了。尼采说，一个人如果能明白自己活着的使命，他就能面对任何一种生活。那是因为他没有谭嗣同横刀向天笑的历史感召力和陈天华蹈海的勇气；他也没有活到茨威格夫妇那个时代，他也没有茨威格那样的以民族情怀和为人类尊严而活着，同时也愿意为了剩存者活得更有尊严而去死的使命感。
否则，他就不会说能面对任何一种生活了。
2025年11月3日
编者按：
谢文飞，自2013年8月起，他在广州参与“南方街头运动”，在街头拉起“废除一党专政，建立民主中国”等横幅，积极推动言论自由、集会自由与公民权利。多次因“声援香港民主运动”“纪念六四”等活动被拘捕。2014年5月，他因参与广州公民李维国申请六四游行被以“寻衅滋事罪”刑拘。2014年10月他再因街头拉横幅支持香港“占中”而被控“煽动颠覆国家政权罪”。 他因上述案被判处有期徒刑4年6个月，并剥夺政治权利3年。2019年3月1日刑满释放。出狱后，他公开宣言“不自由，毋宁死”，将自由与尊严置于生命之上。在2020年4月29日左右，他再次在湖南被警方带走，后因言论与异见活动被以“寻衅滋事罪”起诉。据报其在监禁期间受到严酷条件对待，包括被关押在极小空间的铁笼内等。他曾获得美国民间组织“全美中国学生学者自治联合会”（全美学自联）颁发的“自由精神奖”，以表彰其为民主自由所作的贡献。
本篇纪实文字，是谢文飞在长期被监控、迫害与身心困顿中，仍坚持记录自我经历与内心世界的真实写照。作者以自由为座右铭，也以自由为墓志铭，从2019年出狱至今，他的人生多次面临生死抉择，却依然以文字与行动表达对尊严、对亲情、对友情、对理想的执着守护。
文章记录了他探望带病打工的哥哥、重返广州与朋友相聚、面对来自家乡和地方官员的重重干预以及内心的绝望与挣扎。文字间不仅呈现了现实的严酷与荒谬，也折射出作者对生命意义的深切思考：在高压、监控和制度桎梏之下，如何守住自我、保持尊严、追求自由，是他始终未曾放弃的课题。
从哥哥的病痛与劳作，到对多年朋友的关怀与思念，再到面对生命的脆弱与死亡的思索，作者展现了一个在压迫中依然保持敏感与思考的个体，他的文字直击人心，让读者感受到自由的珍贵与制度暴力的沉重。
在今天，这篇文字不仅是一份个人回忆录，更是一面镜子：它折射出社会、制度与人性的冲突，也提醒我们——自由与尊严的守护，从来不是轻而易举的事情。
One Year After Release — To Live or Not to Live
Author: Xie Wenfei
Editor: Zhang Zhijun Executive Editor: Luo Zhifei Proofreader: Lin Xiaolong Translator: Liu Fang
Abstract
On the first anniversary of his release from prison, Xie Wenfei reflects on the pain of survival under tyranny. When Leviathan, that monstrous state, devours his freedom and dignity without restraint, the question of whether life is still worth living becomes an unavoidable choice.
Epigraph
When Leviathan, that monstrous beast, devours my freedom and dignity without restraint, the question of whether to live becomes a question I must face.
“Give me liberty or give me death.” This is my motto—and it will also be my epitaph. I wrote this line on March 1, 2019, the day I was released from prison. From May 30 to June 13, 2023, when I was confined inside two iron cages—one 0.18 square meters, the other 0.7—in Chenzhou Prison, I thought the day had come when I would write my own epitaph with my life. Unexpectedly, I have survived till today.
The pain of mere survival cannot be understood by those who have never faced despair. And my despair came from having placed too much hope in myself, in our future, in this land, and in the people who live upon it. Dzongsar Jamyang Khyentse once said, “We fail to find true freedom because we fail to be kind to our own pain, hope, and fear.” But I have endured too much pain in my life; I have burdened myself with too many unrealistic hopes for myself, for the future, for this land and the people upon it; and as for fear, I was born with a nature that rejects it, that refuses to acknowledge its existence. By Khyentse’s reasoning, I am destined never to achieve true freedom.
To me, it is not so complicated. What most people call “freedom” is merely a convenient compromise of thought, the numbness of the soul, and a narrow space of limited physical action. If this is all that freedom means, then I would rather write my own epitaph with my life—escaping this world that denies me my freedom.
一. Visiting My Sick Brother Who Still Works Through Illness
October 29, 2025 marked one year since I returned to the great prison that is China. Throughout this year I had one unfulfilled wish—to visit my older brother, who has been working in the Jiangnan Industrial Zone of Zhongtang Town, Dongguan City.
He has been working despite his illness for many years. In 2019, after his kidney stone surgery, I took care of him for several days. Over the years, his kidney stones worsened; three operations failed to remove them, and he had to rely on medication. On October 29, 2020—exactly four months after I was imprisoned again—he suffered a more serious cerebral infarction that also remained uncured.
I feared he could no longer continue working. During those years while I was imprisoned, my brother, though sick himself, kept working and paying for the treatment of our chronically ill mother. I truly owe him much. At the worst of her illness, Mother was bedridden for half a month. When I called her for the first time after returning to my hometown last year on October 29, she said to me, “I almost didn’t live to see you again.” Under such circumstances, my brother’s health means everything to me. So on the fifth day after returning home, I wrote in Solitary Song in the Dark Night: “Friends of the past have withered away; in the family, illness has found its place.”
At 5:00 p.m. on October 24, I arrived at the factory where my brother works. It’s a nameless denim workshop where he stitches buttonholes—a process I taught him by hand seventeen years ago. He has been repeating the same motion over ten thousand times a day, every day for seventeen years without a break.
My brother is a man of little confidence. When I taught him the skill years ago, he kept saying he was too old to learn—it was only because I insisted that he finally mastered it.
Originally, I planned to help him with his work and test whether I could still manage the job I had once done for eight years. But I didn’t expect his working conditions to be even worse than mine twelve years ago. His sewing machine was more worn out than the one I used back then. The fabric he was sewing—thick, hard composite cloth—was the most difficult kind to work with. The needle holes on the machine were scorched black. His boss was so stingy he didn’t even provide sewing oil. The thread kept breaking. My brother asked me to help thread the needle; I tried for half a minute but failed. I had to give up until he replaced the needle and managed to get it through himself.
Twelve years ago, when I still worked at a garment factory, I could thread a needle with my eyes closed. Now, even with eyes wide open, I could barely do it.
My brother hadn’t prepared dinner, so I asked him to eat with me at a small restaurant. I called our cousin, who worked on the same street, to join us. He said he had to work overtime until 11:30 p.m. because a shipment was due tonight. He often worked that late or later. Since he had come to my house for the Mid-Autumn Festival dinner not long ago, I let it go.
Then I called an old coworker of twenty years, but he didn’t pick up. That coworker, thirteen years my senior, had earlier invited me to work with him again, saying, “You’ve already paid too high a price for this big country’s affairs. Don’t take that loss again.”
His words reminded me of Aristotle’s observation 2,350 years ago: The more something concerns the public good, the fewer people care about it. Therefore, Aristotle argued, systems serving only a few must be changed.
My late uncle had told me something similar in 2013 when I returned from detention: “You’re right about what you believe and what you’ve done, but it’s too dangerous. Let others do it instead.” I told him, “But everyone else says the same thing.”
After dinner, my brother went back to work at 6:20 and worked until 10:30 p.m. He told me the police had come to register and photograph him. I was stunned.
From 2004 to mid-2013, I rented in Xintang for eight years and never once had police come to my door for registration or photos. The place I used to live was only three kilometers from my brother’s. I asked if this had happened before. He said it had happened once last year.
Then he told me something even more shocking—police patrols in the Jiangnan Industrial Zone routinely stop people on the street to check IDs and take photos. I could hardly believe it. This was just a few dozen kilometers from Guangzhou’s Tianhe District, where Sun Zhigang was beaten to death twenty-two years ago for lacking ID.
So the idea of working here for a few days vanished instantly.
Knowing the risks of staying at a hotel (especially with little money, since only high-end hotels would be safe from scrutiny), I decided to share my brother’s narrow bed for the night.
That summer, I had also been sleeping on a wooden board. But after a September rain, I switched to a mattress and blanket. My brother still slept on bare planks. Worried I might feel cold, he gave me an extra sheet and a towel.
I didn’t fall asleep until after midnight. At 3:30 a.m., he quietly got up to use the bathroom, but even his light steps woke me—and I couldn’t sleep again. Exhausted and dizzy from motion sickness, I decided to get up at six and eat a bowl of lean-pork congee.
He walked me to the breakfast shop but refused to join, saying he preferred to take a walk.
二. Returning to Guangzhou After Six Years
It had been more than six years since I last set foot in Guangzhou. This southern land had once carried so many of our dreams and glories. From Huanghuagang to Huangpu Military Academy, from the Southern Weekly office to Chebei Street—Guangzhou holds countless traces linking us to history, and memories both painful and beautiful.
Over the past year, ten friends from Guangzhou had come to visit me. From other provinces, I saw only a few when I went to Sichuan in late June. Now that I was so close to Guangzhou, how could I not go to see my friends there?
At 9:30 a.m., I arrived in the city. Almost immediately, my brother messaged me: his landlord had called, asking where I was and forbidding me to stay in my brother’s rented room. My bad feeling was confirmed.
The night before, a friend in Guangzhou who was caring for his ill brother had phoned me. Shortly afterward, his brother received a call from local authorities asking where I was. That friend, anxious to remain in Guangzhou to care for his sibling, told me he could not meet me. When I mentioned the police photographing my brother, he replied firmly, “They’re targeting you.” And I had only been with my brother for five hours!
At 10:30, I finally met several friends in a nearby restaurant. Reuniting after years was joyous—though the food was plain, and I was exhausted from travel and sleeplessness, we pushed all worries aside for a while.
Before lunch, one friend arranged meetings with a few others for the afternoon and dinner. After lunch, I visited a romantic poet I had long admired but never met. We sat by a small stream shaded by green trees, drinking coffee in the cool breeze—it was only the second cup of coffee I’d ever had.
三. Phone Calls Without End, Driving Me Insane
15:40, we arrived at the hotel where we had arranged to meet friends. At 15:48, a call came from state security in my hometown of Guiyang, Hunan. He opened by demanding I confirm my time of return, saying that because of “some meeting” in Guangdong, a notice had been sent to Hunan. He kept repeating that I had left my local area without informing him, making it hard for him to “account” to his superiors—as if I were still in prison with no right to travel on my own. I told him I would go back in the next couple of days, but I hadn’t decided exactly when. Whatever meeting Guangzhou had, it had nothing to do with me; he could pass my words along to the relevant authorities there.
Half an hour later he called again on WeChat, and then again, in a string of back-to-back calls that went on for more than ten minutes. First he ordered me to go back immediately; when I objected, he said I must return by the day after tomorrow at the latest; then he changed it to “tomorrow night you must be back.” He kept insisting on turning on location sharing for me and booking a hotel room “for my safety.” Exasperated, I said: if you insist on treating me like a criminal, I’ll throw my phone away and you can do whatever you like. Three minutes after I hung up, at 16:48, the phone rang again. In fifty minutes they had called five times—regular and WeChat calls—forcing me to agree to stay in a room opened by the personnel they were sending, and to confirm a return time so that we could go back together. It had been six years since I last lived this nightmare. Running on almost no sleep, my head was pounding.
That evening ten of us finally managed to gather—my first time in six years seeing so many old friends together—so my mood eased a little. Unexpectedly, everyone said they hadn’t gotten together like this in Guangzhou for years, which disappointed me; then two of them added that there had been two such gatherings this year. This is a first-tier city of nearly twenty million people, after all.
Despite my repeated requests not to see them in Guangzhou, at 19:19, just as dinner began, my phone rang again. The call lasted more than ten minutes and was already interfering with our meal. Back home we have a saying: “Even the thunder god doesn’t strike people while they’re eating.” A different officer was on the line now; he said he had already arrived in Guangzhou and had to see me. When I asked what would happen after we met, he dodged the question. My head felt ready to split. I truly wanted to smash my phone and let them do what they pleased—but how could I, living in a prison without walls? I agreed to meet them in an hour. Within minutes, my hometown office called again, determined to keep me within their control—as if they had to prevent me from using the cover of night to commit some great evil. At last we settled the matter: they would confirm my lodging for the night and then “not interfere” with my freedom; I was to return to Guiyang tomorrow night. Thank heaven.
四. Jia Pin, Where Are You?
Repeated interruptions ruined dinner; to me, it was a deeply unpleasant human experience. Another thing left me regretful—probably because the constant calls ruined the atmosphere for everyone. I felt bad that among the ten of us, no one mentioned Jia Pin that night. He had known almost everyone at the table longer than I had. It was only after I met Jia on August 13, 2013, in Guangzhou that I got to know these friends. Several times I wanted to bring him up, but never found the right moment. We so rarely gather that it seemed everyone had more “pressing” updates to share. Perhaps because Jia has been missing for three years now, they had discussed him countless times over tea and meals, and lacked the heart to mention him again. Perhaps he should be allowed to fade from memory. But I cannot forget.
From August 13, 2013, to October 2, 2014—over a year—most of the time I lived together with Jia and Yang Chong. For at least three hundred days, the three of us were together almost twenty-four hours a day. In the last twenty years, even my own family and I have not spent so much time together. Born in 1989 and standing 1.88 meters tall, Jia was, in 2013, the youngest and most striking figure in nearly every event and gathering we held in Guangzhou. It is no exaggeration to say he was a kind of emblem for us then—in Guangzhou, even nationwide. Later he lashed out at friends around us, but that was after his mental health had seriously deteriorated; we ought to forgive him. Guangzhou should not forget him.
五. Two Envoys Who Reward Evil and Punish Good Arrive
20:34, the men still came. One fat, one thin—like the “reward-good, punish-evil” envoys in A Deadly Secret. They acted as though they were more aggrieved than I was: complaining about wanting to spend the weekend with family; saying they hadn’t even had a bite of dinner—as if I were to blame. I told them to grab something to eat; I’d sit with them a bit. We ducked into a little place by the street—I didn’t even check whether it was a restaurant or a tea/coffee shop. They poured each of us a glass of hot water. The older, heavy-set one—whom I’d met twice—sat down with me; his skin was so smooth I couldn’t tell his real age. The handsome young man, just assigned to a police station after graduating, stayed standing.
What I didn’t expect was that, before we even sipped the water, he resumed the harangue: I had to return with them tonight. I said no—we had already agreed before you came: I will leave tomorrow night, and before then you will not interfere; your superior told me the same. He said: If you want to meet your friends, have them all come tonight; once you’ve seen them, we’ll go back together—it won’t affect you! As if I held some talisman to summon everyone I wished to see with a single command. It made one suspect they had already set the nets—anyone who came to meet me would be swept up together. I am someone whose words hit the ground and make a dent; how could I endure such duplicity—going back on their word again and again, toying with me? Even a monkey knows the saying, “If a person has no trustworthiness, I do not know what can be made of him.” How much more a human being!
All at once, the feelings piled up over the past few days burst forth, mingled with the irritability of severe sleep deprivation. I smashed the teacup hard on the floor: “I am not going back tonight! Unless you tie me up and carry me!” I sprang to my feet and walked out. They flanked me immediately. I was on the verge of going mad. What an absurd system! What a ludicrous world I inhabit! I had come to visit my ailing brother, and somehow that violated their “law.” I wanted to see friends I hadn’t met in six years, and that too required their permission. In a first-tier city of nearly twenty million people, they were already trying, half a month before a so-called “National Games,” to drive me out of Guangzhou. And I had worked in Guangzhou for a full ten years! A system whose profession is to restrict freedom and trample human dignity—must I spend my entire life unable to stand apart from it and exist as a truly free person? The pain was unbearable—unbearable!
I slammed my fist against the wall and shouted hysterically, “Just kill me! Let me die right now!” I screamed a few more hoarse lines and walked on for about fifteen minutes, until my legs felt weighted with lead and I could go no farther. By the roadside stood a long cement bench, perhaps three meters in length. I sat down. They sat, one at each end. The fat one kept talking, as if he were the wronged party. I didn’t want to hear another word. I would rather turn stone-deaf, or best of all, die on the spot. I lay down. Thank heaven—at last the world was quiet.
Autumn had deepened; the cement bench was cold, but compared to the chill in my heart it felt almost warm. Staring up, I saw nothing in the sky—like the emptiness inside me. My thoughts had stopped completely; only a thin thread of awareness remained, waiting, it seemed, for my body to merge with the cold cement so I would no longer have to face, in full consciousness, this absurd, tormenting world.
But the miracle did not happen.
六. I Did Not Jump from the Twelfth Floor
I don’t know how long I lay there before the relentless ringing of my phone recalled me to myself. Reflexively, I answered. A call from home: they would have “their people” open a hotel room for me to rest. Numbly, I agreed. I walked a few hundred meters and saw, on my left ahead, the huge sign of Southern Daily. Then I crossed a pedestrian bridge and checked into a serviced apartment in a tall building on the left of the overpass. I heard them say there was a room on the ninth floor, but the keycard handed to me was for 1205. The fat one said he was going to buy cigarettes; the young man rode the elevator up with me.
The moment I opened 1205, I locked the door from inside and secured the chain. The fat one had just arrived upstairs and asked to come in and sit for a while. I said I was exhausted, then walked straight to the balcony. The glass door was ajar. I stepped out and looked over the edge. I wanted to jump—wanted to leave this world that repulsed me. But a voice in my head spoke: If I go, what about Mother? She is the one person in this world who has always loved me. If I leave like this, how can I face her?
Leaning on the balcony rail, I looked down. Why was there such a big tree below—a small grove, even—almost covering the ground? What if I jumped and somehow didn’t die? What if I were paralyzed and trapped in a living death? Then I remembered the promise I’d made earlier this month to a friend—that I would write some things. That morning I had reconfirmed it. Writing a book or two has been my dream for thirty years. Shakespeare says death is but a long sleep—yet even in that sleep one still thinks; that is a knot indeed. I didn’t think about what comes after death; I only thought about whether to jump in that moment—and if I jumped and didn’t die, what then? My head hurt more and more, growing heavier, more numb. Too heavy. Too tired. I didn’t want to think anymore. I only wanted to sleep.
On May 28, 2022, in Cell 401 of the Chenzhou City Detention Center, seven or eight scum beat me in two rounds. After they knocked me to the ground, my head stayed swollen for days; the headaches were intense for several days. I reported it for four or five days in a row, and no one responded. Ever since, whenever wind or rain came or the weather swung suddenly—or whenever I slept too little—I would get headaches, often splitting ones. On May 30, 2023, after being beaten and locked in iron cages in Chenzhou Prison, I had several days of headaches and took painkillers. In the winter of 2023, in Changsha Prison, every cold-water bath left me with a headache. When it was five or six degrees below zero, a cold bath meant a full day of pain afterward.
I rinsed off briefly and collapsed on the bed. For the first time in months, I did not scroll through my phone before sleep. I probably drifted off around eleven and woke at four. After waking, I couldn’t sleep again. I didn’t want to think, didn’t want to move; my whole body was weak. I just lay there.
At 7:28, Brother A-Fei messaged: How are you now? What’s the plan? He hadn’t been working lately and slept until nine every day, but this morning he wrote to me so early. He had been with me for ten hours the day before, witnessing the barrage of calls that drove me to the edge; of course he was worried. I told him I had almost jumped from the twelfth floor last night. He immediately started a video call, with a lawyer friend beside him, who said he was too busy to come with A-Fei today. I pulled on my trousers and showed them the small grove beneath my balcony. I said if not for the railing and the trees, perhaps you’d never see me again. He said he would bring over a care package at once and we’d have lunch. It was a bit far, though—so he told me to get some breakfast first.
七. The Friend I Was Supposed to Meet
Yesterday I had made an appointment with a senior friend—at 4 p.m. today I was to visit him at his home. He had just been released a few months earlier after a second prison term for organizing a political party. Given my situation, it clearly wasn’t appropriate to visit him at home and cause him more trouble. Yet I couldn’t break my promise to someone I respected.
At 9 a.m., I went into a teahouse and ordered a bowl of “Successor’s Congee.” I called him and explained. To my surprise, he was nearby and happily agreed to come meet me. He couldn’t care less about those so-called “envoys of rewarding evil and punishing good.”
Another friend I deeply respected had told me months ago, when he came to see me, that once I came to Guangzhou we must meet. But now, with the “envoys” watching, he made it clear he couldn’t. I didn’t plan to contact anyone else either.
I had lived and worked in Guangzhou for ten full years, yet Guangzhou no longer welcomed me.
At 9:56 the fat man called again, asking to have lunch together. I refused. At 10:57 he called again, about checking out of the hotel, and asked what plans I had. I said I was with friends.
By then Brother A-Fei and the senior comrade had both arrived. We ordered a few dim sum dishes—this was my first time in six years treating friends to a meal outside my hometown, and it turned out to be just dim sum. We ate and talked for over two hours. The senior said he still had guests waiting at home, so we said goodbye. At least one small wish was fulfilled. For someone like me, there are countless friends I may never see again.
At noon, my former lawyer called asking where I was. He had lost his license for defending rights cases—including mine—and his life had fallen apart. He had developed the habit of sleeping late, since he could no longer adjust his schedule. Yesterday he was the first person I met; we stayed together until the two “envoys” came. Seeing how I’d been harassed by endless calls and chased across provinces, he was worried and wanted to bring me something I had left behind. It took him an hour and a half to reach me, and he hadn’t even eaten breakfast when he arrived at 1:30 p.m.
At 2:07, the officer from home called again, saying he wanted to book me a ticket back to Chenzhou. I said I was going to Shaoyang. He said Shaoyang wouldn’t allow it.
“Why not?” I asked. He said, “Xie Yang’s friends will all be there to mourn his mother. Shaoyang will not permit you to gather.”
“I won’t gather with anyone,” I said. “I just want to bow once, light one stick of incense, and leave.”
No matter what I said, it was no use. Brother A-Fei even took my phone and tried to reason with him, but the man refused to listen.
In short, I was living inside an invisible prison again—every move monitored, every decision restricted.
八. The Life I’m Facing
A-Fei remembered that I once said we hadn’t climbed a mountain together in twelve years. So he suggested we go climb the hill in Yuexiu Park, and I agreed.
At 2:30, the fat man called again, insisting on booking my train ticket. I had no choice but to agree to a high-speed rail train after 6 p.m.
We entered Yuexiu Park and walked for a bit, but soon I was too tired to go uphill. I lingered around the museum instead. The two of them were still energetic; I slipped out and sat on a stone bench for ten minutes.
Beside me was a small pond only a few square meters wide, with a few koi swimming merrily. They had probably never seen a river, a lake, or the sea. On the rock in the middle stood a turtle, head raised high, one hind leg stretched back almost off the ground, motionless. I couldn’t tell whether it was alive, dead, or just a decoration. When A-Fei came looking for me, I asked him, “Do you think that turtle is alive or dead?” No sooner had I asked than it moved slightly. I laughed bitterly—so even this turtle bastard was mocking me for being easy to fool. So there really are creatures in this world that can endure endlessly, like that turtle.
We left the museum, and I suggested we go up to the Guangfu Memorial Pavilion. It was Sunday, and the park was crowded. Still, at that moment it felt as if the place belonged only to the three of us. Probably no one else in the park admired those revolutionaries of a hundred years ago as we did.
The calligraphic plaque at the gate reads “Guangfu Memorial” in clerical script; inside, the inscription “The Source of Revolution” by Chen Shaobai—both masterpieces of Chinese calligraphy. The world knows their contribution to China’s revolution, but few know their artistic accomplishments. In calligraphy, none of us could ever reach such a level.
The couplet at the gate reads:
“On this day our rivers and mountains were restored; the righteous banner rose among the overseas Chinese. When will the world achieve Great Unity? Let our constitution begin with democracy.”
It commemorates the overseas Chinese who sponsored the revolution. We all agreed that those benefactors were true heroes as well.
A-Fei said there are still people like that today. I said, “The times have changed. People who would sell their family property like Chen Qimei to support the revolution no longer exist. Nor do those like Tan Sitong, who illuminated the path for others with their own lives. Worse, more and more now admire Kang Youwei instead.”
Back home, for two days I couldn’t recover. I lived mechanically, moving by instinct. On the afternoon of the 28th, I received a call from a distant friend, still worried that I might be trapped in a dead end of despair. I knew how precious that concern was, reaching me across mountains and seas. Yet physical distance mirrors the distance in ideas between me and the people of my birthplace—it cannot be bridged.
Why do I detest the reality we live in so deeply, to the point that I could sever myself from it at any moment? Because there are almost no people left who can truly understand.
If Wang Guowei had not met Chen Yinke, his death might have been meaningless. Nietzsche said that a man who understands the purpose of his life can endure any kind of life. That is because he lacked the historical call of Tan Sitong, who smiled at death with his sword raised to the sky, and the courage of Chen Tianhua, who leapt into the sea. He never lived to see the time of Stefan and Lotte Zweig, nor possessed that couple’s sense of mission—to live for human dignity and national conscience, and to die so that those who remain might live more nobly.
Otherwise, Nietzsche could never have said that a man can face any kind of life.
November 3, 2025
Editor’s Note
Since August 2013, Xie Wenfei has been active in Guangzhou’s Southern Street Movement, unfurling banners that read “Abolish One-Party Dictatorship, Establish a Democratic China,” and advocating freedom of speech, assembly, and civil rights. He was repeatedly detained for supporting Hong Kong’s democracy movement and commemorating June Fourth. In May 2014 he was arrested for helping citizen Li Weiguo apply to hold a June Fourth march, charged with “picking quarrels and provoking trouble.” In October 2014 he was again arrested for holding banners in support of Hong Kong’s Occupy Central movement, and was convicted of “inciting subversion of state power.”
He was sentenced to four and a half years in prison and deprived of political rights for three years. Released on March 1, 2019, he publicly declared: “Give me liberty, or give me death,” placing freedom and dignity above life itself. Around April 29, 2020, he was again detained in Hunan and later indicted for his speech and dissenting activities. Reports indicate that during imprisonment he endured severe mistreatment, including confinement in iron cages barely large enough to stand in.
He was awarded the Spirit of Freedom Award by the Independent Federation of Chinese Students and Scholars (IFCSS) in the United States for his dedication to democracy and human rights.
This essay—written under long-term surveillance, persecution, and physical and mental exhaustion—is a faithful record of a man’s inner struggle to remain human. With freedom as both his motto and his epitaph, Xie Wenfei has faced life-and-death choices again and again since 2019, yet continues to express through words and actions his steadfast defense of dignity, affection, friendship, and ideals.
Through the story of visiting his sick brother, revisiting Guangzhou, confronting endless interference, and wrestling with despair, the piece portrays not only the cruelty and absurdity of reality but also his profound meditation on the meaning of life. Under oppression, monitoring, and systemic shackles, how does one preserve the self, uphold dignity, and pursue freedom?—that remains the question he refuses to surrender.
From his brother’s pain and labor, to his remembrance of lost friends, to his contemplation of death and survival, Xie Wenfei reveals a man who, even amid suffering, keeps his sensitivity and thought alive. His words strike the heart, reminding readers of the preciousness of freedom and the weight of state violence.
Today, this text stands not merely as a personal memoir, but as a mirror reflecting the conflicts between society, power, and humanity. It reminds us that the defense of freedom and dignity has never been easy—and yet, it is what gives life its meaning.
