——当正常生活被视为威胁，一个国家就出了问题。

作者：彭小梅
编辑：李晶 责任编辑：侯改英 校对：程筱筱 翻译：刘芳

三年前的那个冬天，我至今忘不了。那个时刻，中国几十个城市的年轻人站在寒风里，手里只举着一张白纸。没有口号、没有组织、没有计划，只是白纸。我后来在北京亮马桥的视频里看到，一个男生只是连说三句“我们只要正常生活！” 几秒后就被便衣警察拖走；在上海的乌鲁木齐中路，有人像赌命一样喊出那几个“不能说的字母”；在成都，一位女生举着白纸质问警察：“我拿空白的纸，你们也害怕吗？……” 那不是所谓的“境外煽动”，那是人被逼到忍无可忍后发出的最原始的声音。

这一切的核心，其实只有一句话：在那个时期，中国人想过正常生活都被视为是一种威胁。

疫情和封控是中国共产党对中国人民从个体到集体的双重伤害。它不是一句“防疫需要”能解释的。它是一扇扇被焊死的铁门，一条条被堵住的消防通道；是你站在电梯口按按钮，却不知道今天能不能走出小区大门的荒诞。

那三年，上班不是权利，而是审批；买药不是日常，而是靠组织安排；生病，不是意外，而是给社区添麻烦；红码，可以让你瞬间从一个公民变成失去自由的不可接触者。我们不仅没有自由，更是在请求——不要被当成牲畜一样管理。

乌鲁木齐那场火是一记砸在全国人的胸口的重锤。火焰烧到窗前，视频里求救声清晰到让人无法呼吸。但记者会上，官员们却轻描淡写地说：“居民自救能力太差。”那一句话，比火更令人窒息。那不是口误，不是表达不当，只是赤裸裸的侮辱。是一个独裁政权对人民的生命、尊严的彻底轻蔑。

人们压抑三年的情绪，就是在那一刻彻底裂开的。

白纸运动不是为了反，而是为了问。“为什么人民连问一句话都不行？”、“为什么不让消防通道保持畅通？”、“为什么我们不能决定什么时候出门？” 白纸上什么都没有，但它挡不住每个人的问题。这一点才是最让权力害怕的。你把白纸举起来，警察没法抓“内容”，但可以抓你的人。这个荒谬的现实本身，就是白纸存在的理由。

那几天，勇气像传染病一样迅速蔓延。不是因为年轻人突然变成英雄，而是因为恐惧本身被看穿了。原来不是我一个人在怕，是所有人都在怕。那就说明问题不在我。

现实是无比残酷。李康梦—19岁的学生，因为举白纸、喊口号，被判刑三年。黄雅玲，在参加重庆白纸运动后，至今失联没有任何公开消息。还有更多名字我们都不知道的人，被抓、被训诫、被挂档案、被学校劝退、被公司辞退。他们没有喊革命口号，他们只是在说：“我们不要再被封门；我们想看病；我们不想再有人被活活困死。” 如果这些表达都能被定罪，那这个国家的问题绝不来自她的人民。

白纸运动三周年纪念之际，我作为中国民主党的一员，参加了这次中国民主党全委会第765次茉莉花行动—“白纸未言 心声已传”。洛杉矶中国领事馆前没有中共便衣警察，没有红马甲防疫人员，没有大喇叭，但大家手里那张白纸却异常沉。参加活动的所有人头戴白头巾，有人读出被捕者名字，旁边有人录视频。

我在领馆前再次呐喊出：“不要核酸要吃饭、不要封控要自由、不要领袖要选票、不要奴隶要公民。” 此刻我心情澎湃，激动到不能自已。我们能在海外举白纸，是因为国内有人替我们付出了高昂的代价。我们今天能开口，是因为有人被迫闭上了嘴。白纸在海外不是象征而是证词。中国人不是不反抗，而是代价太高。

国家何时开始裂开的？不是起于从白纸运动，而是从“正常生活被视为威胁”的那一刻开始。政权把人的正常需求：出门、吃饭、看病都归为影响稳定的不安因素。把寻求真相的人视为麻烦；把表达意见的人视为敌人；把爱国和服从划成等号；把社会变成一个人人彼此警惕的大监狱。这不是人民在分裂中国，而是权力在把国家一寸寸掏空。

三年过去，街头安静了，视频没了，白纸的照片被删了。但那几天不是幻觉，也不是梦。它是一个国家的人民被压到极限后的集体觉醒。只要还有人肯举白纸、读名字、讲真相，白纸运动就不会被历史抹掉。

自由不会从天上掉下来。它永远是普通人一点一点推开的。推开的人里面有学生、有工人、有父母、有逃亡者——也有我们。

Reflections on the Third Anniversary of the White Paper Movement

— When Normal Life Is Seen as a Threat, a Nation Has Already Gone Wrong

Author: Peng Xiaomei
Editor: Li Jing Executive Editor: Hou Gaiying Proofreader: Cheng Xiaoxiao

Abstract: On the third anniversary of the White Paper Movement, the author, a member of the Chinese Democracy Party National Committee, joined a protest in front of the Chinese Consulate in Los Angeles to commemorate the brave individuals who spoke out three years ago.

Three years have passed, yet I still cannot forget that winter. At that moment, young people in dozens of Chinese cities stood in the cold wind holding nothing but a blank sheet of paper. No slogans, no organization, no plan—just white paper. Later, in a video from Liangmaqiao in Beijing, I saw a young man shout three times, “We just want a normal life!” only to be dragged away by plainclothes police within seconds. On Urumqi Road in Shanghai, someone shouted those “forbidden letters” as if gambling with his own life. In Chengdu, a young woman held up a blank sheet and asked the police: “I’m holding an empty paper—are you afraid of this too?”

This was not so-called “foreign instigation.” It was the most primal voice of a human being pushed to the limit.

At the core of everything, there was actually only one truth:

During that period, Chinese people wanting a normal life were treated as a threat.

The pandemic and the lockdowns were a double injury inflicted by the Chinese Communist Party on the Chinese people, both individually and collectively. It was never something that could be justified with the phrase “public health needs.” It was iron gates welded shut, and fire exits blocked one by one; it was you standing at the elevator pressing the button, unsure whether you would be allowed to step outside your own neighborhood that day.

For those three years, going to work was not a right but an approval process; buying medicine was not routine but something “arranged” by the authorities; falling ill was not an accident but a burden to your community; a red health code could instantly turn an ordinary citizen into an untouchable person deprived of freedom. We not only lost our liberty—we were even begging not to be managed like livestock.

The Urumqi fire was a hammer that crashed into the chest of the entire nation. Flames reached the windows, and the cries for help in the videos were so clear that they left people breathless. Yet at the press conference, officials dismissed it with one sentence: “The residents lacked self-rescue ability.” That sentence was more suffocating than the fire itself. It was not a slip of the tongue, nor an unfortunate phrasing—it was naked contempt, a regime’s total disdain for the lives and dignity of its people.

Three years of suppressed emotions cracked open completely at that moment.

The White Paper Movement was not a rebellion, but a question: “Why can’t the people even ask a question?”, “Why can’t fire exits be kept open?”, “Why can’t we decide when we are allowed to leave our homes?” There was nothing written on the white paper, yet it could not block the questions in everyone’s heart. This was what truly terrified the authorities. When you raise a blank sheet, the police cannot arrest the ‘content,’ so they arrest the person holding it. This absurd reality itself was the reason the white paper existed.

In those few days, courage spread like a contagion. Not because young people suddenly became heroes, but because fear itself was exposed. It turned out I was not the only one who was afraid—everyone was afraid. And that meant the problem was not me.

Reality, however, was brutally harsh. Li Kangmeng—a 19-year-old student—was sentenced to three years simply for holding a white paper and shouting slogans. Huang Yaling disappeared after joining the White Paper protest in Chongqing and has had no public updates since. And many more people whose names we will never know were detained, warned, recorded in political files, forced to leave school, or fired from their jobs. They did not shout revolutionary slogans. They simply said: “We don’t want our doors sealed again. We want to see a doctor. We don’t want more people dying trapped in their own homes.” If such expressions can be criminalized, then the country’s problem is certainly not its people.

On the third anniversary of the White Paper Movement, I, as a member of the Chinese Democracy Party National Committee, participated in the Party’s 765th Jasmine Action: “Silent Paper, Resounding Hearts.” In front of the Chinese consulate in Los Angeles, there were no CCP plainclothes officers, no red-vest COVID workers, and no loudspeakers. But the white paper in everyone’s hands felt incredibly heavy. Everyone at the event wore white headscarves. Some read out the names of the detained; others recorded videos.

In front of the consulate, I shouted once again: “We want food, not endless testing; we want freedom, not lockdowns; we want ballots, not a leader; we want citizens, not slaves.” In that moment, my heart surged, and I was too overwhelmed to contain my emotions. The reason we can raise white paper overseas is because people in China have paid an unbearable price. The reason we can speak today is because someone else was forced into silence. White paper abroad is not a symbol—it is testimony. Chinese people do not resist because they are unwilling, but because the cost is too high.

When did the country begin to crack? It did not begin with the White Paper Movement. It began the moment “normal life” was treated as a threat. When the regime classified basic human needs—going out, eating, seeing a doctor—as sources of instability; when truth-seekers were labeled troublemakers; when expressing opinions made you an enemy; when patriotism became synonymous with obedience; when society was turned into a vast prison where everyone feared everyone else. It is not the people who are splitting China apart—it is power hollowing the nation out inch by inch.

Three years have passed. Streets are quiet; videos are gone; photos of white paper have been erased. But those days were not an illusion or a dream. They were a collective awakening of a people pushed to their limit. As long as someone continues to raise white paper, read the names, and tell the truth, the White Paper Movement will not be erased from history.

Freedom does not fall from the sky. It is always pushed open little by little by ordinary people. Among those who push are students, workers, parents, exiles—and us.