——从流亡藏人选举看民主政治的真正根基
作者：张致君
编辑：李聪玲 校对：王滨 翻译：吕峰
一个“没有国家的议会”，正在用最直接、也最刺眼的方式，拷问拒绝民主的中共政权：权力到底从哪里来？
2026 年 2 月 1 日，分布在全球 27 个国家的流亡藏人，用选票选出了自己的议会。他们没有主权国家、没有领土、没有军队、没有国际法承认的政权架构，却依然坚持用选举和议会来组织政治生活。这是一种极其清醒的政治判断：如果一个群体还想作为“人”存在，而不是作为被安排、被管理、被代表的对象存在，那它就必须掌握决定自身命运的权利。
他们的实践本身，就是对一切专制政治的讽刺。
中共国不让人民投票；而没有国家的人却坚持让人民投票。
中国官方将西藏流亡议会称为“闹剧”“非法组织”，真正荒诞的恰恰是一个拥有十四亿人口、拥有完整国家机器、拥有全球影响力的政权，至今仍然不允许人民用自由选举产生真正的立法机关，不允许人民通过选票决定最高权力的归属，不允许人民用制度性方式持续监督和制衡权力。
我们有“人民代表大会”，却没有人民选择代表的权利；我们有“协商会议”，却没有公开、自由、平等的协商；我们有无数会议，却没有一次真正让人民说“同意”或“不同意”的机会。
在中国，权力不是从人民那里来，而是从体制内部循环中来；不是对选民负责，而是对上级负责；不是接受监督，而是被保护起来。人民在这个结构中，始终只是“治理对象”，而不是“政治主体”。
而民主议会的逻辑恰恰相反。它的核心不是“稳定优先”，不是“集中统一”，不是“正确路线”，而是三个简单却致命的问题：
谁授权你掌权？
你凭什么继续掌权？
你出了问题，谁能让你下台？
没有议会，这三个问题永远不能公开提出；没有选举，这三个问题永远没有制度答案。
流亡藏人用最不利的条件，做了最标准的民主动作：选举、授权、监督。他们没有等“形势成熟”，没有等“国际承认”，没有等“条件允许”，他们只认一个原则：只要我们还是人，我们就有权参与决定自己的命运。选票不是国家发给人民的奖励，而是人民对权力发出的许可。
反观中国，政治从来不是让人民参与，而是让人民“理解”“配合”“执行”。政策可以一夜之间改变一个行业、一个群体、几代人的命运，却从来不需要经过人民授权；法律可以决定一个人一生的边界，却从来不需要经过真正代表民意的立法机关讨论。人民被当成治理对象，而不是政治主体；被当成统计数据，而不是权力来源。
这不是技术问题，这是文明层级的问题。
一个社会如果长期不允许人民通过制度表达意志，最终只会得到两样东西：表面稳定与内部空心。权力越集中，社会越沉默；沉默越久，爆裂越不可控。压制不是消灭问题，而是把问题推向地下；控制不是解决矛盾，而是把矛盾延迟到更剧烈的形式爆发。
西藏流亡议会给中国最刺眼的启示是：民主不是国家给的，是人民要的。他们用选票维系政治共同体，而我们却用沉默换取表面秩序。一个靠人民投票维系的共同体，哪怕没有国家；一个靠人民沉默维系的国家，终究会失去人民。
中国若要真正成为一个现代政治文明国家，唯一的路径不是继续强化控制，而是建立真正意义上的民主议会制度。不是象征性的“代表机构”，而是实质性的权力来源；不是对上负责的官僚结构，而是对选民负责的政治结构；不是密室政治，而是公开辩论。
民主议会的意义，不在于它多热闹，而在于它让权力不得不回答人民的问题。议会存在的真正价值，是让权力失去“天生正确”的特权，让任何决定都必须接受质询、审查和否决。
没有这一套制度，中国就永远只能是“被管理得很好的社会”，而不是“由人民自己管理的国家”。
很多人说，中国太大、太复杂、不适合民主。这是对人民的侮辱。世界上没有哪一个民族天生适合被统治、不适合自治。真正的问题不是人民“能不能民主”，而是权力“肯不肯让步”。
流亡藏人用一个“没有国家的议会”，向中国人展示了一种政治可能性：即便在最不利的条件下，只要人民不放弃对尊严与参与的坚持，民主就不会死亡。他们用制度对抗流亡，用选票抵抗消失，用议会证明自己还活在政治意义上。
而中国的问题正好相反：国家还在，机器还在，权力还在，但人民在政治上越来越“消失”。不消失在物理意义上，而是消失在制度中。没有选票，没有议会，没有授权，没有制衡，人民只剩下服从和忍耐。
一个没有人民授权的国家，终究只是一套运转良好的管理系统，而不是一个真正的政治共同体。管理系统需要效率，政治共同体需要尊严。管理系统追求秩序，政治共同体追求正当性。
中国现在的问题，不是发展够不够快，而是政治是否够正当；不是经济够不够大，而是权力是否来自人民。
流亡藏人的选举提醒我们：民主不是疆界的产物，而是人的权利；不是国家赐予的装饰，而是人民争取的根基。一个政治文明是否成熟，不取决于权力多强，而取决于人民是否拥有制度性发声权。
对中国这样一个拥有悠久历史与深厚文明积淀的国家来说，建立真正意义上的民主议会，不仅是制度改革，更是一场文明跃迁。它意味着人民从“被管理者”变成“政治主体”，意味着权力从“自我合法”变成“人民授权”，意味着国家从统治结构变成公共共同体。
流亡藏人用一个“没有国家的议会”，为这个时代留下了一句极其沉重的话：国家可以没有，尊严不能没有；政权可以被剥夺，参与权不能被取消；土地可以失去，政治主体性不能放弃。
而对中国来说，问题只剩下一个：
什么时候，十四亿人，才能像那九万名流亡者一样，真正拥有一张决定国家方向的选票？
A Democratic Practice Without a State— What the Tibetan Exile Elections Reveal About the True Foundation of Politics
Author: Zhang ZhijunEditor: Li ConglingProofreader: Wang BinTranslator: Lyu Feng
Abstract: By maintaining elections and a parliamentary system despite lacking a state, territory, or sovereignty, the Tibetan community in exile demonstrates that democracy is not bestowed by a state but originates from the people. In contrast to China’s political reality, the absence of ballots and a real legislature strips power of its legitimacy.
A “parliament without a state” is confronting, in the most direct and piercing way, a regime that rejects democracy: where does power truly come from?
On February 1, 2026, Tibetans in exile, spread across 27 countries, elected their own parliament. They have no sovereign state, no territory, no army, and no internationally recognized governmental structure. Yet they still insist on organizing political life through elections and a legislature. This reflects an extraordinarily lucid political judgment: if a community wishes to exist as human beings—rather than as objects to be arranged, managed, or represented—then it must hold the right to determine its own destiny.
Their practice is, in itself, a satire of all authoritarian politics.
In China, people are not allowed to vote; those without a state insist on voting.
Chinese authorities describe the Tibetan parliament-in-exile as a “farce” or an “illegal organization.” The real absurdity, however, is that a regime governing 1.4 billion people, possessing a complete state apparatus and global influence, still does not permit its citizens to freely elect a genuine legislative body, to determine the ultimate holder of power through ballots, or to supervise and check authority through institutional means.
We have “people’s congresses,” yet no right for the people to choose their representatives.We have “consultative conferences,” yet no open, free, or equal consultation.We have countless meetings, yet not a single occasion where the people can truly say “yes” or “no.”
In China, power does not come from the people; it circulates within the system itself. Officials are not responsible to voters but to their superiors. Power is not subjected to oversight; it is shielded. Within this structure, the populace remains merely the object of governance, never the subject of politics.
The logic of a democratic parliament is the opposite. Its core is not “stability first,” not “centralized unity,” not the “correct line,” but three simple—and fatal—questions:
Who authorized you to rule?Why are you entitled to continue ruling?If you fail, who has the power to remove you?
Without a parliament, these questions cannot be publicly raised.Without elections, they have no institutional answer.
Under the most unfavorable conditions, Tibetans in exile have performed the most standard democratic acts: election, authorization, supervision. They did not wait for “maturity,” international recognition, or permission. They recognized only one principle: as long as we are human beings, we have the right to participate in deciding our fate. The ballot is not a reward granted by the state; it is a license issued by the people to power.
By contrast, politics in China has never been about participation; it is about asking the people to “understand,” “cooperate,” and “execute.” Policies can alter the destiny of entire industries, social groups, and generations overnight, without public authorization. Laws can define the boundaries of a person’s life without ever being deliberated by a truly representative legislature. People are treated as data, not as the source of authority.
This is not a technical issue. It is a matter of civilizational level.
If a society long forbids institutional expression of the popular will, it will ultimately produce only two things: superficial stability and internal hollowness. The more concentrated power becomes, the more silent society grows; the longer the silence lasts, the more uncontrollable the eventual rupture. Suppression does not eliminate problems—it drives them underground. Control does not resolve contradictions—it postpones them until they erupt in more violent forms.
The most striking lesson offered by the Tibetan parliament-in-exile is this: democracy is not something a state gives; it is something people demand. They sustain a political community through voting, while we trade silence for the appearance of order. A community maintained by ballots can endure even without a state; a state maintained by silence will eventually lose its people.
If China wishes to become a truly modern political civilization, the only path is not tighter control but the establishment of a genuine parliamentary system: not symbolic representation but real sources of authority; not a bureaucracy responsible upward but a structure accountable to voters; not politics behind closed doors but open debate.
The meaning of a parliament lies not in its liveliness but in its ability to force power to answer the people’s questions. Its true value is to strip authority of the privilege of being “naturally correct,” to require every decision to withstand inquiry, scrutiny, and rejection.
Without such a system, China can at best remain a “well-managed society,” not a country governed by its own people.
Many argue that China is too vast and complex for democracy. That is an insult to the people. No nation is born suited to be ruled and unsuited to self-government. The real issue is not whether people are capable of democracy, but whether those in power are willing to yield.
Through a parliament without a state, Tibetans in exile demonstrate a political possibility: even under the harshest conditions, as long as people refuse to relinquish dignity and participation, democracy does not die. They use institutions to resist exile, ballots to resist disappearance, and a legislature to prove their political existence.
China faces the opposite predicament: the state remains, the machinery remains, power remains, yet the people are increasingly disappearing politically—not physically, but institutionally. Without ballots, legislatures, authorization, or checks, what remains is obedience and endurance.
A state without the people’s authorization is merely an efficient management system, not a true political community. Management systems seek efficiency; political communities seek dignity. Management systems pursue order; political communities pursue legitimacy.
China’s challenge today is not whether development is fast enough, but whether politics is legitimate; not whether the economy is large enough, but whether power comes from the people.
The Tibetan exile elections remind us: democracy is not a product of borders but a human right; not decoration granted by the state but a foundation fought for by the people. The maturity of a political civilization is measured not by the strength of power, but by whether citizens possess institutionalized voice.
For a country with China’s long history and deep cultural heritage, establishing a genuine parliamentary system would not merely be reform; it would be a civilizational leap. It would mean transforming people from the governed into political subjects, turning power from self-justifying into authorized by the people, and reshaping the state from an apparatus of rule into a public community.
With their parliament without a state, Tibetans in exile leave the era a heavy sentence: a state can be lost, but dignity cannot; a regime can be stripped away, but the right to participate cannot; land may vanish, but political subjectivity must not.
For China, only one question remains:
When will 1.4 billion people, like those ninety thousand exiles, truly hold a ballot that determines the direction of their country?
