作者：张致君
编辑：李聪玲 责任编辑：钟然 校对：冯仍 翻译：戈冰
委内瑞拉的清晨，街头爆炸声尚未散去，民众的欢呼却已经填满了加拉加斯的天空。有的在街角高呼“自由来了！”，有的放声哭泣，恍惚之间好像终于走出了永无止境的夜晚。这一切并非闹剧，而是国家、政党和人民之间长期摩擦的浓缩图景。委内瑞拉的政权并非一夜之间建立，也不是一朝一夕崩溃。它像一杯苦到极致的咖啡，长期浸泡着国家的制度、政党的结构和人民的期望。
国家是什么？
如果硬要用一句话来概括，那便是：权力的统筹者。它可以是法律与秩序的守护者，也可以是压迫与剥夺的机器。
马杜罗被抓的消息像闪电劈开夜空，不仅仅是一个人被拘押，更是一个权力体系失控的象征。在冷兵器时代，权力来自土地和军队；在现代，权力来自党、来自对话语的控制权、来自对社会资源的分配。委内瑞拉长期以来，石油成为国家的血液，而政党机器则成为撑起国家机器的支架。政党不再是人民意志的载体，而是权力本身的代言。
如果说国家是一个大厦，那么政党往往是其中最坚硬的梁柱。当梁柱开始腐朽，大厦内部的缝隙便会迅速扩大。
政党是国家的根基之一，但它的存在应该寄托于人民的愿望。然而，当一个政党与人民的利益长期脱节，它便会变成一个自转的机器。
这种机器有时看起来无比强大。它掌握军队、传媒、教育、经济命脉，看似牢不可破。但它同样有一个致命的弱点：如果政党的合法性不再来自人民，它就沦为权力的自我复制者。
委内瑞拉曾经举办选举，但长期以来，反对声音被压制、选举结果受到质疑——当政党把选举当成橡皮图章时，它就已经把自己与人民分离。结果不是人民离开了政党，而是政党先离开了人民。
在这种分离之后，无论政党如何高谈国家尊严、如何在国际舞台上怒斥他国干涉，它都像孤岛上的独裁者，四周是水，内部是干涸的希望。
当马杜罗被活捉的消息在大街小巷传播开来，很多人松了一口气，甚至爆发出近乎庆祝般的反应——这并非对战争的狂热，而是对长期绝望的一种释放。人们欢呼的不是他国力量介入，而是长期被压抑的情绪在历史时刻的突然松绑。
历史的深处，人民的力量从来不在于惊天动地的一瞬，而在于日常的累积：从被孤立的声音、被禁止的集会、被封锁的言论，到街头那一句无意识的叹息。
当一个国家的政党形同独裁机器而不再代表人民意志时，人们其实生活在一种结构性的失语之中。权力的顶层高级官僚可以互相对峙、可以在议会辩论，可以对外强硬，但底层民众的意愿在权力结构中则往往是不可见的。民众的“庆祝”不是简单的喜剧式快感，而是对长期压抑后的一种心理解脱。
外力出现时，人们本能会分成两类：
一类欢迎它，因为它看起来终结了长期的压迫；另一类反对它，因为外力介入意味着国家主权受损。
这两种情绪都是真实的。
事实上，外力介入往往是矛盾的叠加体：它既可能终结一个腐朽的权力体系，也可能把新的外部意志强加给本已脆弱的国家结构。人民高呼自由的同时，理性的一部分会问：真正属于我们的自由从何而来？
当外界调侃“美国来就是为了石油”，这其实是对国际政治现实的一种冷嘲。权力总是带着利益而来，而国家、政党与人民的关系就在这利益与权力之间展开无声的战争。但是对于人民，谁来当政都是一样的，眼前的生活更为重要。顶层的权力对于日常生活是遥不可及又息息相关的事，追求更加幸福的生活是天赋人权。
历史上真正的强权，并非来自军队或财力，而是来自能否代表人民。一个政党如果只代表自我，就终将被人民抛弃；一个统治者如果只代表一己之私，那他被历史审判也是必然。
马杜罗事件是一出国际政治大戏中的一幕，它暴露了现代国家与政党之间的脆弱平衡，也提醒我们思考：国家为何而存在？政党与人民的契约意味着什么？人民的意志如何被听见与尊重？
权力不是象牙塔的奢侈品，而是对社会整体意志的集体回应。
失去了人民的权力，最终只是虚影一场。历史并不会因高墙和戒严而停滞，它只是在等待那个真正能够解读人民声音的人或力量出现。
权力、政党、人民之间的关系，不是简单的对立，而是一种持续的互动与平衡。历史不会因为一个独裁者被捕而结束，它不会因为外力介入而完成正义。
真正的黎明，不是庆祝的烟火，而是人民终于能够自主选择自身命运的那一天。
这件事让我想起诺贝尔和平奖刘晓波的一句话：“中国要想实现真正的现代化，可能需要被殖民三百年”，很多中国人听此就会勃然大怒，觉得这是“卖国”“自恨”“给帝国主义递刀子”。但他们愤怒的对象，往往不是这句话的真正含义，而是他们自己被灌输出来的“国家崇拜症”。
刘晓波并不是在请求外国军舰开进黄浦江，也不是在为殖民历史洗白。他在说一件更残酷的事：当一个社会内部没有自我纠错能力时，唯一可能改变它的，只能是外力。
这是一种政治悲观主义，却是被现实逼出来的悲观主义。
委内瑞拉的问题正是如此，并不是“马杜罗坏”，而是：它已经失去了通过内部政治机制更换坏人的能力。
选举被操控，媒体被压制，军队被党化，司法沦为橡皮图章。于是政权不再靠合法性生存，而靠恐惧。
中国的结构，本质上与之相同，只是更大、更复杂、更技术化。在这种体制里，人民不是公民，而是“人口”；政党不是工具，而是“命运”；国家不是公共空间，而是“权力容器”。
你可以骂，你可以忍，你可以逃，但你无法改变。
刘晓波那句“殖民三百年”的真正含义是：这个体系内部，已经没有产生自由与法治的制度土壤。
当人民被锁在体制里，外力就变成“撬棍”。很多中国人相信一个神话：“只要我们慢慢发展，专制会自然消失。”
但现实是：专制往往会随着经济增长而变得更强大、更精准、更难推翻。
委内瑞拉就是一个例子。中国也是。
当内部反对派被清洗干净，社会组织被摧毁，信息被垄断，人民就变成了沉默的多数，而不是政治主体。
在这种情况下，外力介入的意义不是“拯救人民”，而是：打断权力的自我复制链条。
这正是为什么马杜罗被抓时，委内瑞拉人不是抗议“主权被侵犯”，而是在街头跳舞。
他们太清楚：自己的国家早就不属于自己了。
其实“主权”在独裁国家，最终也只是统治者的盾牌。
专制者最爱说的一句话是：“这是我们的内政。”
但问题是——当一个国家的人民无法通过选票、媒体、法院、集会来表达意志时，这个“我们”还存在吗？
所谓“国家主权”，在独裁体制下，往往只是：少数统治者对多数人的占有权。
所以当中国的宣传机器高喊“反对外国干涉”时，翻译过来其实是：“反对任何可能削弱我们统治的力量。”
刘晓波看得很清楚，所以他才会说出那句被当成“叛国”的话。
殖民不是目的，破坏专制才是。
刘晓波不是要中国变成殖民地，就像今天委内瑞拉人不是要美国统治他们。
他们要的是一件更简单的东西：让这个不能被更换的权力，被迫松手。
在一个正常国家，政府下台靠选票；在一个极权国家，政府下台只能靠崩溃。
而崩溃，往往需要外力。
如果一个房子里的人被绑着、被堵着嘴、被没收钥匙，这时有人从外面把门踹开，你能说他“侵犯住宅权”吗？
中国与委内瑞拉的问题，从来不是“外国太坏”，而是：我们的门，早就被里面的人反锁了。
刘晓波的“殖民三百年”，不是对外国的跪拜，而是对本国权力结构绝望到极点后的冷静结论。
它的真正含义只有一句话：当一个民族失去了自我解放的能力，任何外力都可能成为历史的起爆器。
愿每一个国家的国家机器都不再是牢笼，而是舞台；愿每一个政党都不是权力的牢主，而是人民意志的代言；愿每一个人民，都不再被噤声，而是在历史的每一个拐点，拥有自己真实的名字。
The Triangular Relationship Between Power, Political Parties, and the People
Abstract: Using Venezuela’s political crisis as a case study, this article analyzes the imbalance among the state, political parties, and the people. Drawing on Liu Xiaobo’s ideas, it argues that when a system loses its capacity for self-correction, external intervention often becomes the only realistic possibility to break the cycle of authoritarian reproduction.
Author: Zhang Zhijun
Editor: Li Congling Managing Editor: Zhong Ran Proofreader: Feng Reng Translator: Ge Bing
At dawn in Venezuela, the echoes of street explosions lingered, yet the skies over Caracas were already filled with the cheers of its people. Some shouted “Freedom has come!” at street corners, others wept openly—as if, in a daze, they had finally emerged from an endless night. This was no farce, but a condensed tableau of the long-standing friction between state, party, and people. Venezuela’s regime did not emerge overnight, nor did it collapse in a single day. It resembles a cup of coffee brewed to extreme bitterness, long steeped in the nation’s institutions, the structure of its political parties, and the hopes of its people.
What is a nation?
If forced to summarize it in one sentence, it is this: the coordinator of power. It can be the guardian of law and order, or it can be a machine of oppression and deprivation.
The news of Maduro’s arrest split the night sky like lightning—it signified not merely the detention of an individual, but the collapse of an entire power system. In the age of cold weapons, power stemmed from land and armies; in modern times, it derives from parties, from control over discourse, and from the distribution of social resources. For Venezuela, oil has long been the lifeblood of the nation, while the party apparatus served as the scaffolding propping up the state machinery. The party no longer embodies the people’s will but speaks solely for power itself.
If the state is a building, the party is often its strongest beam. When that beam rots, cracks within the structure spread rapidly.
Political parties form one of the nation’s foundations, yet their existence should be anchored in the people’s aspirations. However, when a party becomes persistently disconnected from the people’s interests, it transforms into a self-perpetuating machine.
Such a machine may appear invincible at times. It controls the military, media, education, and economic lifelines, seeming impregnable. Yet it harbors a fatal flaw: when a party’s legitimacy no longer stems from the people, it degenerates into a mere self-replicating mechanism of power.
Venezuela once held elections, but for years, dissent was suppressed and election results were questioned—when a party treats elections as a rubber stamp, it has already severed its ties with the people. The outcome is not that the people abandon the party, but that the party abandons the people first.
After this separation, no matter how much the party rants about national dignity or denounces foreign interference on the international stage, it resembles a dictator on an island—surrounded by water, yet internally parched of hope.
When news of Maduro’s capture spread through the streets, many breathed a sigh of relief, even erupting in near-celebratory reactions—not out of war fever, but as a release from prolonged despair. The cheers were not for foreign intervention, but for the sudden release of long-suppressed emotions at a historic moment.
In the depths of history, the people’s power has never lain in earth-shattering moments, but in the accumulation of daily life: from isolated voices, banned gatherings, and blocked speech, to the unconscious sigh on the street.
When a nation’s political party functions as a dictatorial machine no longer representing the people’s will, citizens effectively live in a state of structural muteness. While high-ranking officials at the pinnacle of power may engage in confrontations, parliamentary debates, or projecting strength abroad, the will of the grassroots populace often remains invisible within the power structure. The people’s “celebration” is not mere comedic gratification, but a psychological release after prolonged suppression.
When external forces emerge, people instinctively divide into two camps:
One welcomes it, seeing it as an end to prolonged oppression; the other opposes it, viewing intervention as a violation of national sovereignty.
Both sentiments are genuine.
In reality, external intervention is often a layered contradiction: it may dismantle a corrupt power system, yet simultaneously impose new external will upon an already fragile national structure. As people chant for freedom, a rational voice within asks: Where does true freedom that belongs to us come from?
When outsiders quip that “America came for the oil,” it’s actually a bitter satire on international political realities. Power always arrives with interests, and the relationship between the state, political parties, and the people unfolds as a silent war between these interests and power. But for the people, who govern makes little difference—daily life matters more. Top-level power is both distant and intimately connected to everyday existence, and the pursuit of a happier life is a fundamental human right.
Throughout history, true power has never stemmed from military might or financial resources, but from the ability to represent the people. A political party that serves only itself will inevitably be abandoned by the populace; a ruler who acts solely for personal gain will inevitably face judgment by history.
The Maduro incident is a scene in the grand drama of international politics. It exposes the fragile equilibrium between modern states and political parties, prompting us to ponder: Why do nations exist? What does the covenant between parties and the people signify? How can the will of the people be heard and respected?
Power is not a luxury confined to ivory towers; it is the collective response to the will of society as a whole.
Power that loses the people is ultimately nothing but an illusion. History does not halt behind high walls or martial law; it merely waits for the person or force capable of truly interpreting the people’s voice.
The relationship between power, political parties, and the people is not simple opposition, but a continuous interplay and equilibrium. History does not end with the arrest of a dictator, nor is justice served by external intervention.
True dawn is not celebratory fireworks, but the day when the people can finally choose their own destiny.
This incident recalls Nobel Peace Laureate Liu Xiaobo’s words: “For China to achieve true modernization, it may need to be colonized for three hundred years.” Many Chinese react with fury, branding this as “treason,” “self-loathing,” or “handing imperialists a knife.” Yet their anger is often directed not at the statement’s true meaning, but at their own indoctrinated “state worship syndrome.”
Liu Xiaobo was not calling for foreign warships to sail up the Huangpu River, nor was he whitewashing colonial history. He was stating a harsher truth: when a society lacks the capacity for self-correction, the only force capable of changing it is external pressure.
This is a form of political pessimism—one born of harsh reality.
Venezuela’s predicament exemplifies this: the problem isn’t that “Maduro is bad,” but that the country has lost its capacity to replace bad leaders through internal political mechanisms.
Elections are rigged, media is suppressed, the military is politicized, and the judiciary reduced to a rubber stamp. Thus, the regime survives not on legitimacy, but on fear.
China’s structure is fundamentally the same, only larger, more complex, and more technologically sophisticated. Within this system, the people are not citizens but “population”; the party is not a tool but ‘destiny’; the state is not a public space but a “container of power.”
You can curse, you can endure, you can flee, but you cannot change it.
Liu Xiaobo’s phrase “three centuries of colonization” truly signifies: within this system, the institutional soil for freedom and the rule of law has been eroded.
When people are locked within the system, external forces become “crowbars.” Many Chinese cling to a myth: “As long as we develop steadily, authoritarianism will naturally fade away.”
But reality shows: authoritarianism often grows stronger, more precise, and harder to overthrow alongside economic growth.
Venezuela is one example. China is another.
When internal opposition is purged, social organizations dismantled, and information monopolized, the people become a silent majority rather than political actors.
Under such circumstances, the purpose of external intervention is not to “save the people,” but to break the chain of power’s self-replication.
This is precisely why, when Maduro was detained, Venezuelans didn’t protest “sovereignty violations”—they danced in the streets.
They knew all too well: their country had long ceased to belong to them.
In truth, “sovereignty” in dictatorships ultimately serves only as the ruler’s shield.
The dictator’s favorite refrain is: “This is our internal affair.”
But the question is—when a nation’s people cannot express their will through ballots, media, courts, or assemblies, does this “us” even exist?
So-called “national sovereignty” under dictatorship often boils down to: the minority rulers’ right to possess the majority.
Thus, when China’s propaganda machine shouts “Oppose foreign interference,” it translates to: “Oppose any force that might weaken our rule.”
Liu Xiaobo saw this clearly, which is why he uttered those words branded as “treason.”
Colonization is not the goal; dismantling autocracy is.
Liu Xiaobo did not want China to become a colony, just as Venezuelans today do not want American rule.
What they seek is something simpler: forcing this unaccountable power to relinquish its grip.
In a normal country, governments fall through the ballot box; in a totalitarian state, governments can only fall through collapse.
And collapse often requires external force.
If people inside a house are bound, gagged, and deprived of keys, and someone kicks the door open from outside, can you call that a “violation of residential rights”?
The issue between China and Venezuela has never been about “foreigners being too evil,” but rather: our door has long been locked from the inside.
Liu Xiaobo’s “three centuries of colonialism” was not a kowtow to foreign powers, but a sober conclusion born of utter despair at his nation’s power structure.
Its true meaning lies in a single sentence: When a nation loses its capacity for self-liberation, any external force may become the detonator of history.
May every nation’s state apparatus cease to be a cage and become a stage; may every political party cease to be a jailer of power and become a voice for the people’s will; may every citizen no longer be silenced, but possess their true name at every turning point of history.
