——“吹哨者的沉默，是危楼倒塌前最后的警钟。

作者：曹杰
编辑：钟然 责任编辑：李聪玲 校对：程筱筱 翻译：吕峰

前几天，参加雕塑家陈维明和中国民主党的“中国病毒美东巡游”凯旋活动，想起新冠疫情爆发前的一段往事。那些事让我更加确认：在独裁体制下，人民的沉默被当作“稳定”，吹哨者的勇气却被当作“威胁”。从李文亮的遭遇，到身边普通人面对被封舆论与被焊死的门的无声抗争，中国的疫情悲剧不是天灾，而是政治的必然。今天，我们必须记住那些在危楼倒塌前仍敢高喊“危险”的人——他们，是民族良知最后的守夜者。

在一个“党治高于一切”的社会里，真相不是用来拯救人的，而是用来维护权力的。当真相成为禁忌，人民的生命就沦为数字和草。

在全国哨声被压制的背景下，不只是李文亮，还有身边的普通人被卷入风暴。我——曹杰就是其中之一。在疫情最初爆发的日子，我通过海外与民间渠道分析病毒真实传染力，并在社交媒体上发出预警，提醒身边的人保护自身安全。

然而，我并未获得感谢，而是被警方以“造谣”、“扰乱公共秩序”的罪名拘留审讯。我唯一的“罪”，就是敢在真相被封锁的时刻发声。

那一刻，中国的“吹哨”成了罪行。

李文亮因为“传谣”被训诫，而我则因为“非官方身份”发出警醒，被当作“制造恐慌”的对象。这两件事虽然性质不同、影响力不可同日而语，却来自同一种体制反应：当真相被视为威胁时，发声者就成了“罪人”。

疫情不是突发的灾祸，而是一场早被制造的制度性悲剧——因为在中共的治理逻辑中，政治高于科学，稳定压倒真相，忠诚凌驾生命。

这就是为什么在病毒爆发的关键时期，医生被噤声，专家被驯化，媒体被控制。

体制的反应不是“警觉”，而是“掩盖”；不是“救人”，而是“维稳”。

结果，病毒在谎言中扩散，城市在命令中封锁，而数以百万计的普通人，在被焊死的铁门与断绝的医路之间，失去了呼吸的权利。

独裁的最大恶，不在于杀戮的频率，而在于它让人对死亡的反应变得麻木。

从封城、清零到“次生灾难”，每一次人祸都被包装成“人民战争”的胜利。

那些因延误治疗而死的老人、因封控自杀的青年、因隔离抑郁的母亲，都被统计成“可控范围”。

中共以数字掩盖痛苦，用口号压制悲伤。

一个把生命当作草芥的政权，不可能建立真正的安全，只会制造一场又一场新的危楼崩塌。

电影《危楼愚夫》里，一个破败危楼中，一个孤独的老人拒绝搬离，坚持为真相与尊严而战。周围的人早已麻木，习惯了沉默，甚至嘲笑他的“固执”。

但当那栋危楼真的倒塌时，人们才明白：他不是愚夫，而是最后一个记得“人”应有尊严的人。

从李文亮到方斌，再到无数像我这样只是出于本能提醒他人的普通人——我们或许没有相同的影响力，却都在那个危楼摇晃的时刻试图发出一声微弱的警告。

他们明知危险，却仍然开口；他们知道不被允许，却仍然选择说出真相。这是一个理性社会最后的哨声。

然而，极权体制最害怕的不是病毒，而是真相的自发传播。

在这样的政权眼中，人民不需要知道，只需要服从；社会不需要警钟，只需要宣传。

今天的中国，依旧是一栋正在裂开的“危楼”——表面光鲜，结构腐烂。

共产党可以强行封住每一个人的嘴，却无法封住历史的记忆。

每一个被迫沉默的公民，都是潜在的吹哨人；每一次被压抑的呐喊，终会化作新的回声。

身为一个普通人，我的经历并不特殊，却是这一代无数普通人的缩影——我们每个人都可能因为一句出于善意的提醒而付出代价。这场试炼，不属于某一个人，而属于整整一代人。

一个国家的真正危险，不是疫情，不是经济，而是当说真话的人越来越少、越来越怕。

当吹哨者被视为敌人，人民便成了被蒙眼的囚徒。

而当一个政权视人命为数字、以谎言为护墙时，它的命运，也终将在谎言的崩塌中走向终结。

我们不忘所有吹哨者，和他们遭受的打压，不是为了回望悲剧，而是为了守护未来的清醒。

真正的纪念，不是沉默的花，而是继续发声的勇气。

当权力以谎言筑楼，真相就是唯一的救赎；

当人民都成了“愚夫”，这个民族才能真正觉醒。

The Silenced Beneath the Crumbling Tower

—“The silence of whistleblowers is the final alarm before the tower collapses.”

Author: Cao JieEditor: Zhong RanExecutive Editor: Li ConglingProofreader: Cheng XiaoxiaoTranslation: Lyu Feng

Abstract:Under an authoritarian system, truth is sealed, and whistleblowers are punished. From Li Wenliang to Fang Bin and countless ordinary people who dared to speak out, their voices revealed that the tragedy of the pandemic was not an accident of nature but a political inevitability. The piece calls for safeguarding conscience and the courage to speak truth.

A few days ago, I attended the homecoming event of the “China Virus East Coast Tour,” organized by sculptor Chen Weiming and the China Democracy Party. It brought back memories from the early days of the COVID-19 outbreak. Those experiences convinced me even more: in a dictatorship, the silence of the people is mistaken for “stability,” while the bravery of whistleblowers is treated as a “threat.”From the persecution of Li Wenliang to the muted resistance of ordinary citizens locked behind welded doors, the pandemic tragedy in China was not a natural disaster—it was a political inevitability.Today, we must remember those who still dared to shout “danger” before the tower collapsed—they were the last sentinels of conscience.

In a society where “party rule overrides everything,” truth is not used to save people, but to preserve power. When truth becomes taboo, human lives sink to the level of numbers and weeds.

Under the nationwide suppression of early warnings, it wasn’t only Li Wenliang—many ordinary people were dragged into the storm. I, Cao Jie, was one of them.During the first days of the outbreak, I analyzed the virus’s real transmissibility through overseas and civilian channels and issued warnings on social media, urging people around me to protect themselves.

But I received no gratitude.Instead, police detained and interrogated me on charges of “spreading rumors” and “disrupting public order.”My only “crime” was speaking when truth was being blocked.

At that moment, “blowing the whistle” in China became a punishable act.

Li Wenliang was reprimanded for “spreading rumors,” and I, lacking any “official identity,” was labeled as “creating panic.”Though our situations were different and our influence incomparable, the regime’s reaction sprang from the same logic:When truth is seen as a threat, those who speak it become “criminals.”

The pandemic was not an unforeseen catastrophe; it was a long-engineered institutional disaster—because under the Chinese Communist Party’s governance, politics outranks science, stability outweighs truth, and loyalty eclipses life.

That is why, during the crucial early period, doctors were silenced, experts were tamed, and the media was muzzled.The state’s instinctive response was not alertness, but cover-up; not saving people, but maintaining stability.

As a result, the virus spread through lies, cities were locked down by command, and millions of ordinary people lost the right to breathe—trapped between welded iron gates and the collapse of medical access.

The greatest evil of dictatorship is not how often it kills, but how it numbs people to death itself.From lockdowns to “zero-COVID,” every man-made calamity was packaged as a triumph of a “people’s war.”The elderly who died because they could not receive timely care, the young people who took their own lives under confinement, the mothers driven to despair in isolation—all were absorbed into the category of “controllable.”The CCP hides suffering behind statistics and crushes grief with slogans.

A regime that treats human life as expendable can never create true safety. It can only erect one collapsing tower after another.

In the film The Fool Who Lives in the Dangerous Building, an elderly man refuses to leave a dilapidated, collapsing block. He insists on defending truth and dignity, while those around him—dulled by long habits of silence—mock him for his “stubbornness.”But when the tower finally collapses, people realize he was not a fool—he was the last person who remembered what human dignity meant.

From Li Wenliang to Fang Bin, and to countless ordinary individuals like myself who instinctively tried to warn others—we may not share the same level of influence, but we all attempted to send out a faint alarm when the building began to shake.They knew it was dangerous but still spoke; they knew speech was forbidden but insisted on speaking the truth.This was the final whistle of rational society.

Yet the authoritarian regime fears not the virus, but the uncontrolled spread of truth.To such a system, people do not need to know—only to obey.Society does not need alarms—only propaganda.

Today’s China remains a “crumbling tower”—glossy on the surface, rotten in its foundations.The CCP can seal every mouth, but it cannot seal the memory of history.Every citizen forced into silence is a potential whistleblower; every suppressed cry will eventually echo again.

As an ordinary person, my experience is not unique. It is a mirror of an entire generation—anyone may pay a price simply for offering a well-intentioned warning.This trial belongs not to one individual, but to an entire people.

The true danger to a nation is not a pandemic, nor the economy, but when truth-tellers grow fewer—and more fearful.When whistleblowers are seen as enemies, the people become blindfolded prisoners.And when a regime reduces human life to numbers and builds walls of lies around itself, it will ultimately meet its end beneath the ruins of its own deception.

We remember whistleblowers and the repression they faced not to revisit tragedy, but to protect the clarity of the future.True commemoration is not silent flowers—it is the courage to continue speaking out.

When power erects towers from lies, truth becomes the only salvation.And when the people all become “fools,” the nation will finally awaken.