作者：张 宇
编辑：钟然 责任编辑：刘芳 校对：王滨 翻译：刘芳
2025 年的冬天，香港再次进入世界视线。不是因为繁华的天际线，也不是因为曾经引以为傲的国际金融地位，而是一场原本只属于极权国家的审判——77 岁的媒体人黎智英，被再次押往没有陪审团的法庭。
在一个曾经以“亚洲最后的自由港”著称的城市里，一个记者、一个媒体人、一位企业家，被以“危害国家安全”的名义长期单独羁押，通讯被切断，会面被限制，审讯不断被延后。
这不是司法，而是司法外观的包装； 不是法律程序，而是政治目的的延续。
更荒诞的是，这场审判本身几乎不被允许看见。新闻报道受限制，法庭不对公众开放，外界只能从零碎片段中拼凑发生的一切——就连法律界都无法获取完整资讯。司法被蒙上一层厚布，而独裁者却在幕后悄然决定着一个人的命运。
黎智英的案件之所以震动世界，因为他成为了一个象征：当独裁者开始害怕一份报纸、害怕一个人的言论时，说明社会的自由空间已经被压缩到无法呼吸。
国际组织形容这是一场“典型的政治审判”； 外国政府指出这是“对新闻自由最直接的打击”； 人权观察者更担忧：“这是在以法律之名，行恐惧之实。”
然而最让人心痛的，是审判背后的沉默。
香港街头不再有人群呼喊，不再有记者追问，不再有人能公开讨论这场审讯的意义。沉默不是选择，而是压制的结果，是恐惧的后果，是独裁者的成功。
所以，当黎智英被押上法庭时，被审判的不是他一个人，而是香港曾经引以为傲的言论自由、新闻自由，以及属于全体市民的知情权。
一位老人站在被告席上，世界则在一旁，看着一座城市逐渐失去灵魂。
（图片提供：图为11月29日在洛杉矶总领馆门口举办的声援集会活动）
黎智英的“罪”，不是他做了什么，而是他拒绝成为中共希望他成为的那种人——沉默的、顺从的、乖巧的、不提问的媒体人。
在中共的世界里，新闻不是用来监督权力的，而是用来歌颂权力的；媒体不是用来揭露真相的，而是用来制造统一口径的谎言的。一个国家可以没有独立媒体，但绝不能允许自由新闻的存在。因为真相，是中共极权最害怕的武器。
《苹果日报》被封之前，做过什么“罪大恶极”的事？不过是挖掘中共的黑暗、发布抗争者的声音、报道警察暴力、质疑政府决策。在正常社会，这叫媒体的工作；在一党专政的体系里，这却变成“煽动”、“颠覆”、“危害国家安全”。
于是，中共要让黎智英消失——不是因为他犯了法，而是因为他犯了“不能沉默的罪”。
国安法出台后，香港的一切自由被迅速清理：记者被拘捕，社运者被判刑，学生领袖流亡，舆论平台被封杀。在这个被铁幕快速降下的城市里，《苹果日报》是最后一盏灯——所以中共一定要亲手把它熄灭。
如果说中共最擅长什么，那一定是把迫害伪装成法律，把打压包装成“国家安全”，把政治清算披上一层司法外衣，让暴力看起来像制度，让专政看起来像“依法办事”。黎智英的案件，就是一堂残酷而典型的示范。所谓的“国安法审讯”，从第一天开始，就不是审讯，而是一场预先写好的剧本。
没有陪审团——因为陪审团还有可能保留良知； 指定法官——因为独立法官无法保证替政权背书； 拒绝公开——因为害怕阳光照进黑暗； 无限期押后——因为拖延本身就是惩罚。
这些不是偶然，而是精准设计。极权政体从不会只用刀子解决问题，它更喜欢用“法律”——刀子太明显，法律更体面。刀子让世界谴责，法律让世界无奈。
在这种体制里，没有人是安全的，因为法律不是用来保护你的，而是用来对付你的。黎智英不是第一个被这样处理的人，也不会是最后一个。这套机制已经被应用在无数维权律师、记者、学生身上——抓捕、构陷、秘密开庭、无限羁押、逼迫认罪。香港只是将大陆那套黑暗体系原封不动搬了过来，关上门，把灯灭掉。
这场审判的真正目的，从来不是为了“定罪”，而是为了让所有人看到：只要你敢坚持真相，只要你不肯跪下，你就是下一个。
而黎智英没有闭嘴——这对极权而言，就是不能被允许的“最大罪行”。
今天的香港，看似被铁幕笼罩、被国安法封口、被审查制度窒息，但真正被囚禁的不是城市，而是共产党想象中的“绝对顺从的香港”。
中国共产党统治七十余年，依靠的从来不是正义，而是恐惧； 不是民意，而是暴力； 不是人民的选择，而是人民的沉默。
它怕媒体，因为媒体讲真话； 它怕记者，因为记者揭黑暗； 它怕黎智英，因为他代表着一种无法被改写、无法被收买、无法被吓倒的香港精神。
或许中共能够控制法庭、控制警察、控制香港政府，但它控制不了人心中对真相的追寻，控制不了世界对香港的关切与记忆，更无法控制历史如何记录它自己的行为。
中共可以继续审判、继续关押、继续拖延、继续制造黑暗，但它无法阻止黎智英的名字成为时代的见证，无法阻止世界看清这个政权的本质——一个害怕真相、害怕新闻、害怕自由的政体。
它害怕到连一张报纸都不能容忍； 它害怕到连一个七十几岁的老人都必须长期单独关押； 它害怕到连一句“光复香港”都要以刑罚去消灭。
只要有人记得香港曾经的样子，它就不是真的死去；只要有人继续发声，自由就不会真正被终结。
真正会被历史审判的，是那个用法律包装迫害、用法庭掩盖暴力、用国家机器打击媒体的政权。
黎智英的审判不是一个人的命运，而是这个时代对独裁的控诉。 真相不会被囚禁，自由不会被消灭。 而中国共产党以为它可以控制一切，却终将发现——它控制不了历史，更控制不了未来。
Zhang Yu: Speaking for Jimmy Lai, Bearing Witness to Freedom
Author: Zhang Yu
Editor: Zhong Ran Executive Editor: Liu Fang Proofreader: Wang Bin Translator: Liu Fang
Abstract:
Jimmy Lai has been held for an extended period under National Security Law proceedings conducted without a jury and lacking transparency, symbolizing the destruction of press freedom in Hong Kong. This case reveals how the Chinese Communist Party wraps political persecution in legal form; what is truly on trial is Hong Kong’s freedom and truth.
In the winter of 2025, Hong Kong once again enters the world’s view—not because of its glittering skyline, nor its once-proud status as an international financial center, but because of a trial that should belong only to totalitarian states: a seventy-seven-year-old media figure, Jimmy Lai, is once again escorted into a courtroom without a jury.
In a city once known as “Asia’s last free port,” a journalist, a media professional, and an entrepreneur has been placed under prolonged solitary detention in the name of “endangering national security,” with communications cut off, visits restricted, and hearings repeatedly postponed.
This is not justice, but justice dressed up as appearance;
not a legal procedure, but the continuation of political objectives.
Even more absurd is that the trial itself is scarcely allowed to be seen. News coverage is restricted, the courtroom is closed to the public, and the outside world can only piece together fragments of what is happening—so much so that even the legal community cannot obtain complete information. Justice is covered with a thick cloth, while dictators quietly decide a person’s fate behind the scenes.
Jimmy Lai’s case has shaken the world because he has become a symbol: when a dictatorship begins to fear a newspaper, to fear one person’s words, it means that society’s space for freedom has been compressed to the point where it can no longer breathe.
International organizations describe this as a “typical political trial”;
foreign governments point out that it is “the most direct blow to press freedom”;
human rights observers warn even more starkly: “This is fear carried out in the name of law.”
Yet what is most heartbreaking is the silence behind the trial.
There are no longer crowds shouting in Hong Kong’s streets, no reporters pressing for answers, no one able to publicly discuss the meaning of this prosecution. Silence is not a choice, but the result of suppression, the consequence of fear, and the success of dictatorship.
Thus, when Jimmy Lai is brought before the court, it is not him alone who is being tried, but Hong Kong’s once-proud freedom of expression, freedom of the press, and the public’s right to know.
An elderly man stands in the defendant’s dock, while the world watches from the side as a city gradually loses its soul.
(Image credit: The image shows a solidarity rally held on November 29 outside the Chinese Consulate General in Los Angeles.)
Jimmy Lai’s “crime” is not what he did, but what he refused to become—the kind of person the Chinese Communist Party wants him to be: silent, compliant, obedient, and unquestioning as a media professional.
In the CCP’s world, journalism is not meant to supervise power, but to praise it; media is not meant to expose truth, but to manufacture lies with a single approved narrative. A country may exist without independent media, but it must never allow free journalism to exist, because truth is the weapon most feared by CCP totalitarianism.
Before Apple Daily was shut down, what “heinous crimes” did it commit? Nothing more than exposing the CCP’s darkness, publishing the voices of protesters, reporting police violence, and questioning government decisions. In a normal society, this is called journalism; in a one-party dictatorship, it becomes “incitement,” “subversion,” and “endangering national security.”
Thus, the CCP sought to make Jimmy Lai disappear—not because he broke the law, but because he committed the “crime of refusing to remain silent.”
After the National Security Law was enacted, all of Hong Kong’s freedoms were rapidly purged: journalists arrested, activists sentenced, student leaders forced into exile, and public platforms shut down. In a city where the iron curtain descended at speed, Apple Daily was the last remaining light—so the CCP was determined to extinguish it with its own hands.
If there is one thing the CCP excels at, it is disguising persecution as law, packaging repression as “national security,” and draping political purges in judicial robes—making violence look like institution and dictatorship appear as “rule of law.” Jimmy Lai’s case is a brutal and textbook demonstration. From the very first day, this so-called “National Security Law trial” was never a trial, but a script written in advance.
No jury—because a jury might still retain a conscience; handpicked judges—because independent judges cannot be relied upon to endorse the regime; closed proceedings—because darkness fears light; indefinite delays—because delay itself is punishment.
These are not accidents, but precise designs. Totalitarian regimes never rely solely on knives; they prefer “law.” Knives are too obvious; law is more respectable. Knives invite condemnation; law breeds helplessness.
In such a system, no one is safe, because law is not there to protect you, but to be used against you. Jimmy Lai is not the first to be treated this way, nor will he be the last. This mechanism has already been applied to countless rights lawyers, journalists, and students—arrest, fabrication, secret trials, indefinite detention, coerced confessions. Hong Kong has simply imported the mainland’s dark system intact, closed the doors, and turned off the lights.
The true purpose of this trial has never been “conviction,” but intimidation—to show everyone that as long as you insist on truth, as long as you refuse to kneel, you will be next.
And Jimmy Lai did not keep silent—which, to a totalitarian regime, is the one “ultimate crime” that cannot be tolerated.
Today’s Hong Kong appears shrouded by an iron curtain, gagged by the National Security Law, and suffocated by censorship, but what is truly imprisoned is not the city—it is the Communist Party’s imagined vision of an “absolutely obedient Hong Kong.”
For more than seventy years, the Chinese Communist Party has relied not on justice, but on fear; not on public will, but on violence; not on the people’s choice, but on the people’s silence.
It fears the media, because the media speaks truth; it fears journalists, because journalists expose darkness; it fears Jimmy Lai, because he represents a Hong Kong spirit that cannot be rewritten, bought, or intimidated.
Perhaps the CCP can control the courts, the police, and the Hong Kong government, but it cannot control the human pursuit of truth, cannot control the world’s concern for and memory of Hong Kong, and cannot control how history will record its own actions.
The CCP may continue to try, to imprison, to delay, and to manufacture darkness, but it cannot prevent Jimmy Lai’s name from becoming a witness of this era, nor can it stop the world from seeing the true nature of this regime—a system that fears truth, fears journalism, and fears freedom.
It fears so deeply that it cannot tolerate even a single newspaper; it fears so deeply that it must hold a man in his seventies in long-term solitary confinement; it fears so deeply that even the words “Liberate Hong Kong” must be erased through punishment.
As long as someone remembers what Hong Kong once was, it is not truly dead; as long as someone continues to speak, freedom will not truly end.
What history will ultimately put on trial is the regime that wraps persecution in law, hides violence behind courtrooms, and uses the machinery of the state to strike at the media.
Jimmy Lai’s trial is not the fate of one man, but this era’s indictment of dictatorship.
Truth cannot be imprisoned. Freedom cannot be destroyed.
And the Chinese Communist Party, believing it can control everything, will ultimately discover that it cannot control history—nor the future.
