作者：张 宇
编辑：黄吉洲 校对：王滨 翻译：戈冰
二十年监禁。
当这个判决被宣读时，它已经不再只是一个司法数字，而是一种政治宣言：一个政权向所有仍试图坚持真相、捍卫新闻自由的人发出的公开警告。
黎智英，七十多岁的媒体人，《苹果日报》的创办者，没有暴力行为、没有武装组织、没有秘密行动，却被以“国安”之名判处二十年徒刑。这不是法律对犯罪的裁决，而是权力对异议者的惩罚；不是司法的终点，而是恐惧统治的展示。
在任何正常法制社会中，新闻报道、政治评论、公开表达立场，都是公民权利的一部分；而在中国共产党统治下，这些行为却被重新定义为“威胁国家安全”。这一逻辑本身已经揭示了真相：真正感到不安全的，从来不是国家，而是政权本身。
这二十年刑期，表面上是判给黎智英，实际上却是判给整个社会——判给记者、学者、出版人、企业家，判给所有仍然相信言论自由不是恩赐而是权利的人。它的目的并不在于“伸张正义”，而是在于制造寒意：让每一个人明白，说真话是有代价的，而且代价可以大到摧毁一生。
中国共产党一再宣称“依法治港”、“审判独立”，但黎智英案恰恰揭示了这种宣称的虚伪性。当法律被用来服务政治目标，当罪名可以被无限延展，当审判程序被系统性地去监督化，“法律”便不再是保护公民的工具，而是压制公民的武器。
二十年监禁，对一位高龄老人而言，几乎等同于终身监禁，这不是偶然的严苛，而是精心计算的震慑。中共需要一个足够重的判决，来证明它对新闻自由的零容忍；需要一个足够残酷的结局，来告诉世界和香港社会：在这个体制下，真相不被允许长期存在。
因此，黎智英案不应被理解为一起“个案”，而应被视为一个制度样本：一个展示极权如何通过法律外壳消灭异议、通过司法程序包装政治迫害的完整示范。
讨论这二十年，不只是为了一个人的公正，更是为了回答一个更根本的问题：当新闻被判刑，一个社会还剩下什么？
在讨论任何刑罚之前，一个最基本、却被刻意回避的问题必须先被摆上台面：黎智英究竟犯了什么罪？
如果剥离政治语言、剥离“国安”这一高度模糊的标签，剩下的事实其实异常清楚：黎智英是一名媒体人，是《苹果日报》的创办者，是一个公开表达政治立场、坚持新闻自由、拒绝自我审查的人。他所做的一切，都发生在公开空间，都可以被社会检视，都不涉及任何暴力、武装或秘密行动。
他没有组织武装力量，没有煽动暴力冲突，没有从事间谍行为，更没有对任何的生命安全构成直接威胁。相反，他所做的，是发表社论、接受采访、与国际社会沟通香港局势，持续通过媒体报道批评当权者。这些行为，在任何民主社会中，都是再正常不过的公民行为；而在中共统治逻辑下，却被重新包装成“危害国家安全”的重罪。
这正是黎智英案最荒谬、也是最危险的地方。
所谓罪行，并不是行为本身的危险性，而是行为的立场属性。
在中国共产党构建的政治语境中，“罪”不再取决于你做了什么，而取决于你站在哪一边。只要你的言论挑战权利、你的报道不受控制、你的影响力无法被收编，那么即便你只是写字、说话、办报，也可以被无限上纲，最终被定义为国家敌人。
《苹果日报》的存在，本身就是对极权逻辑的挑战。它拒绝使用官方语言，拒绝重复统一口径，拒绝把复杂的社会现实简化为宣传口号。在一个依赖信息垄断维持统治的政权眼中，这种媒体不是“不同声音”，而是“系统性威胁”。
因此，黎智英案并不是司法系统发现犯罪、依法惩处的结果，而是政治权力先认定立场、再寻找罪名的过程。所谓“串谋”“勾结”“煽动”，都是在结果确定之后才被拼凑出来的法律叙事，用以赋予迫害一个看似合法的外壳。
更值得警惕的是，这种逻辑一旦被接受，就意味着任何人都不再安全。如果写文章是罪，如果接受采访是罪，如果与外界交流是罪，如果坚持新闻伦理是罪，那么“罪”本身就已经失去了边界。
这正是国安法最核心、也最致命的特征——它不是针对具体行为，而是针对思想和立场；不是惩罚已经发生的危害，而是预防任何可能出现的不服从。在这样的法律体系中，清白不再由事实决定，而是由权力裁定。
对中国共产党而言，黎智英案从一开始就不是一宗普通案件，而是一场示范性审判。它的目标从来不只是惩罚一个人，而是通过这个人，重新校准整个社会的恐惧刻度。
在极权体制中，刑罚的意义并不在于与行为“成比例”，而在于是否足够震慑。二十年这个数字，本身就是一种语言——它向所有人清晰传达一个信息：只要你触碰新闻自由、挑战官方叙事，无论你是谁、年纪多大、是否非暴力，代价都可以是毁灭性的。
为什么一定要判得这么重？因为轻判是危险的。
如果黎智英只是被象征性地定罪、短期服刑，社会就可能产生错觉：也许坚持原则仍有空间，也许对抗权力尚存退路。对一个依赖全面服从维系统治的政权来说，这种错觉本身就是威胁。
因此，中国共产党需要一个“足够痛”的结局：
痛到让媒体人学会自我审查，
痛到让企业家远离公共议题，
痛到让年轻人意识到理想的代价，
痛到让整个社会重新理解“边界在哪里”。
二十年的刑期，正是这种政治心理的产物。它不是为了纠正所谓的“错误”，而是为了重塑行为模式。它要做的不是说服你，而是让你害怕。
更残酷得是，这种重判并不需要真实的犯罪事实作为支撑。国安法的设计本身为这种操作提供了便利：罪名模糊、解释权集中、程序去监督化，使得量刑不再受制于常规法治逻辑，而完全服从于政治需要。
这正是中共统治最核心、也是最冷酷的地方：它不需要你相信它是正义的，它只需要你相信反抗是徒劳的。
而当一个政权必须依靠如此沉重的刑罚来维持秩序时，本身就暴露了它的虚弱。真正自信的制度，不需要用二十年监禁来对付一名记者；只有害怕真相，害怕记忆、害怕被记录的政权，才会如此用力。
黎智英被重判，并不是因为他“危险”，而是因为这个体制知道，它经不起真相的长期存在。
新闻自由的核心，并不只是报道事实，而是承认一个前提——权力并非天然正确，叙事并非只有一个版本，政府的行为可以、也应该被持续质疑与监督。而这一前提，正好触及共产党统治合法性的根基。
中共的权力来源，从来不是公开竞争或自由授权，而是对历史叙事与现实信息的长期垄断。它需要一个被精心管理的世界：哪些事情可以被记住，哪些话可以被说出口，哪些问题可以被讨论，哪些答案只能由官方给出。
在这样的体系中，新闻并不是公共服务，而被视为潜在威胁；记者不是监督者，而被视为“风险因素”；独立媒体不是社会资产，而被视为“敌对力量”。
《苹果日报》的存在，恰恰打破了这一控制逻辑。它不接受官方口径作为最终答案，不把“稳定”置于真相之上，不把“正确立场”当作报道前提。它以通俗、直接、情绪鲜明的方式，让权力暴露在公共视野之下——而这正是极权最无法容忍的事情。
对共产党而言，真正危险的并不是某一篇报道，而是一种不可控的信息机制。
只要这种机制存在，权力就无法完全掌控社会情绪；
只要有人持续记录，历史就无法被随意改写；
只要真相被不断传播，恐惧就无法稳定地生效。
这也是为什么，中共对新闻自由的打击从来不是“管理”，而是彻底清算。因为自由不是可以被调节的变量，而是必须被清除的风险。
黎智英之所以格外“危险”，还在于他的角色重叠性。他既是媒体人，又是企业家；既拥有本地影响力，又与国际社会保持公开联系；既表达价值立场，又拒绝躲进“技术性中立”的安全区。这种公开、持续、可被看见的坚持，让他无法被边缘化、无法被悄然消失。
因此，他必须被高调审判、被长期关押、被塑造成“反面教材”。不是因为他做了什么不可告人的事，而是因为他让太多人看见了权力不愿被看见的东西。
从这个角度看，《苹果日报》的关闭并不是新闻行业的商业失败，而是一场政治清洗；黎智英的判刑也不是司法裁量，而是一种意识形态情场。中共要的不是一个“守规矩的媒体环境”，而是一个不再提出问题的社会。
当一个政权需要通过摧毁新闻自由来维持自身稳定时，它实际上已经承认了自己的脆弱。一个真正自信的制度，不需要害怕记者；一个真正稳固的政府，不需要监禁写字的人；只有建立在谎言与恐惧之上的权力，才会对真相如此敏感、如此暴力。
黎智英不能沉默，因为沉默本身就是对自由的背叛。
对一个极权政权而言，最危险的不是抗议的人群，而是敢于记录、敢于报道、敢于让真相被看到的人。新闻自由不是空洞的口号，它是社会认知的神经系统；一旦失去它，权力就可以随意塑造现实、篡改历史、定义“真相”。
沉默意味着妥协，是在默许权力将事实和记忆据为己有。在黎智英看来，沉默就等于承认：政府有权定义社会的边界，有权决定哪些声音可以存在，有权选择让真相消失。他无法接受这样的现实，因为他的职业、他的信念、他一生追求的正义，都建立在真相可以被揭示、权力可以被监督的前提之上。
中共害怕黎智英发声，因为他能够启发人们的独立思考。他的文字和报道像火种一样，把思考和质疑传递给社会每一个角落。正是这种力量，让一个政权必须高调惩罚、必须长期关押、必须制造恐惧——否则它的权威就无法保持绝对。
黎智英不能沉默，也是因为历史在呼唤责任。每一个独立媒体人、每一个敢于质疑的公民，都是社会记忆的守护者。沉默会让历史空白，事实被消灭，真相被篡改。中共深知这一点，所以必须用二十年的监禁来封口黎智英，试图让未来所有人明白：挑战权威，将付出毁灭性的代价。
黎智英不能沉默，在这一点上，他超越了个人命运，成为了整个社会的精神标杆。二十年的刑期，无法关押他的信念；封锁庭审，无法掩盖他的坚持；法律可以剥夺自由，却无法囚禁真相。
黎智英不能沉默，因为沉默是权力想要的结果，而坚持发声，才是他对历史、对社会、对自由的忠诚。
黎智英被判刑二十年，不只是判给他一个人，而是判给整个香港，甚至是全世界关注新闻自由的人。这个判决试图用长久的监禁来制造恐惧，用法律程序的外壳来掩盖政治迫害，用时间的消耗来消灭意志。然而，无论多么沉重的牢门、多么漫长的刑期，都无法掩盖真相，也无法熄灭已经点燃的火种。
中国共产党害怕的不仅是黎智英个人的声音，而是真相本身的存在。它害怕媒体能够记录历史、曝光权力、激发质疑；它害怕任何人意识到，所谓“稳定”与“繁荣”，不过是建立在恐惧与操控之上的表象。它用法庭、法条、判决、监禁，把一个七十多岁的老人变成“罪人”，以示所有敢于发声者的下场。可它忘了，精神的自由是监禁无法触及的。
黎智英的坚持，昭示了新闻自由和公民权利的不可替代价值。他拒绝沉默，不为个人荣耀，而是为了让社会记住：权力可以掩盖事实，但无法消灭渴望真相的人；法律可以包装迫害，但无法粉碎正义的精神。二十年的刑期，对他而言是身体的囚禁，但对真相而言，却是光明的延续。他成为象征——象征那些不向暴力、恐惧、权力屈服的人；象征新闻自由和独立思考的力量；象征任何时代，勇敢发声的人永远不会被遗忘。
香港的自由正在被剥夺，言论空间正在被封锁，制度性的迫害正在系统化；但这并不意味着希望的终结。每一份报道、每一个勇敢发声的人，都是在续写黎智英所代表的时代革命。权力可以压制声音，但无法消灭记忆与信念；统治可以延长恐惧，但无法抹去历史的真相。正如黎智英所证明的那样，真正的力量来自坚持原则的人，来自不被恐惧支配的精神。
中共可以用监狱、审判、二十年的刑期来震慑社会，但它永远无法剥夺民众对自由的渴望，也无法阻止历史记忆对未来的指引。黎智英的坚持提醒我们：自由不是恩赐，它是必须捍卫的权利；新闻不是罪，它是社会的血脉；沉默不是安全，它是专制希望你接受的陷阱。
二十年，是对一个人的刑期，却也是对权力自信的警醒。正义迟早会被记住，真相终将被揭示。即便监狱将黎智英的身体关押，他的精神、他的信念、他捍卫新闻自由的火焰，仍将在社会中传递、燃烧、照亮那些不愿屈从、不愿沉默的人。
黎智英不能被消灭，香港的记忆不能被篡改，自由的火种不能熄灭。二十年的判决，是极权对勇气的惩罚，但也是历史对正义的记录。无论权力如何压迫，荣光必将归香港，真相必将抵达未来。
Twenty years in prison: a political execution for press freedom
Author: Zhang Yu
Editor: Huang Jizhou Proofreader: Wang Bin Translation: Ge Bing
Abstract: The one-paper, twenty-year verdict against Mr. Lai Chee-ying freely sentenced Hong Kong to death and exposed the real fears of the Chinese Communist regime.
Twenty years in prison.
When the verdict was read, it was no longer just a judicial number but a political declaration: a regime’s public warning to all those who still try to uphold the truth and defend press freedom.
Lai Chee-ying, a media person in his seventies and the founder of Apple Daily, committed no violent acts, no armed organizations, and no covert operations, but was sentenced to 20 years in prison in the name of “national security”. This is not the law’s verdict on crime, but the power’s punishment of dissent; it is not the end of justice, but a display of the rule of fear.
In any normal legal society, news reporting, political commentary, and public expression of positions are all part of civil rights; under the rule of the Chinese Communist Party, these behaviors were redefined as “threatening national security”. This logic itself has revealed the truth: it is never the state that truly feels insecure, but the regime itself.
These twenty years of imprisonment, ostensibly for Lai Chee-ying, were actually for society as a whole ——for journalists, scholars, publishers, entrepreneurs, and for all those who still believe that freedom of speech is not a gift but a right. It is not about “justice”, but about creating a chill: making everyone understand that telling the truth has a price, and the price can be so great that it destroys a lifetime.
The Chinese Communist Party has repeatedly claimed “rule of law in Hong Kong” and “trial independence”, but the Lai Chee-ying case reveals the hypocrisy of these claims. When the law is used to serve political goals, when crimes can be extended indefinitely, and when trial procedures are systematically de-supervised, “the law” ceases to be a tool for protecting citizens and becomes a weapon for suppressing them.
Twenty years in prison, which for an elderly man is almost equivalent to life imprisonment, is not accidental harshness, but carefully calculated deterrence. The CCP needs a sentence heavy enough to prove its zero tolerance for press freedom; it needs a cruel enough ending to tell the world and Hong Kong society: under this system, the truth is not allowed to exist for long.
The Lai Chee-ying case should therefore not be understood as a single “individual case”, but rather as an institutional sample: a complete model showing how totalitarianism can eliminate dissent through a legal shell and package political persecution through judicial proceedings.
Discussing these two decades is not just for the sake of one person’s justice, but to answer a more fundamental question: What is left of a society when the news is sentenced?
Before any punishment can be discussed, a fundamental, yet deliberately avoided, question must first be put on the table: What crime did Lai Chee-ying commit?
If we strip away the political language and the highly ambiguous label of “national security”, the remaining facts are actually extremely clear: Lai Chee-ying is a media person, the founder of Apple Daily, a person who publicly expresses his political stance, insists on press freedom, and refuses self-censorship. Everything he did took place in a public space, was accessible to society, and involved no violence, armed or covert action.
He did not organize armed forces, incite violent conflict, engage in espionage, or pose a direct threat to the safety of any life. Instead, what he did was publish editorials, give interviews, communicate with the international community about the situation in Hong Kong, and continue to criticize those in power through media reports. These actions are perfectly normal civic behavior in any democratic society; yet under the logic of CCP rule, they are repackaged as felonies “endangering national security”.
This is precisely where the Lai Chee-ying case is most absurd and most dangerous.
The so-called crime is not the danger of the behavior itself, but the positional attribute of the behavior.
In the political context constructed by the Chinese Communist Party, “crime” no longer depends on what you do, but on which side you are on. As long as your speech challenges your rights, your reporting is uncontrolled, and your influence cannot be incorporated, then even if you just write, speak, and run a newspaper, you can be endlessly exaggerated and eventually defined as an enemy of the state.
The very existence of Apple Daily is a challenge to totalitarian logic. It rejects the use of official languages, the repetition of a uniform calibre and the reduction of complex social realities to propaganda slogans. In the eyes of a regime that relies on an information monopoly to maintain its rule, this media is not “a different voice” but “a systemic threat”.
Therefore, the Lai Chee-ying case is not the result of the judicial system discovering the crime and punishing it according to law, but rather a process in which political power first determines its position and then searches for the crime. The so-called “conspiracy”“ collusion ”“incitement” is a legal narrative that is pieced together after the outcome is determined to give persecution a seemingly legitimate shell.
It is all the more alarming to note that this logic, once accepted, means that no one is safe anymore. If writing an article is a sin, if being interviewed is a sin, if communicating with the outside world is a sin, if upholding journalistic ethics is a sin, then “sin” itself has lost its boundaries.
This is precisely the core and most deadly feature of the National Security Law ——it is not about specific actions, but about ideas and positions; it is not about punishing harm that has already occurred, but about preventing any possible disobedience. In such a legal system, innocence is no longer determined by facts but by power.
For the Chinese Communist Party, the Lai Chee-ying case was not an ordinary case from the beginning, but an exemplary trial. Its goal is never just to punish one person, but through that person, to recalibrate the scale of fear across society.
In a totalitarian system, the significance of punishment is not so much in relation to the act “proportionality” as in relation to whether it is sufficiently deterrent. Twenty years is a number in itself ——it sends a clear message to everyone: if you touch press freedom and challenge the official narrative, no matter who you are, how old you are, or whether you are nonviolent or not, the cost can be devastating.
Why did it have to be so heavy? Because light sentences are dangerous.
If Lai Chee-ying is only symbolically convicted and serves a short prison sentence, society may have the illusion that there is still room for upholding principles and that there is a way out of fighting power. For a regime that relies on total obedience to peacekeeping rule, the illusion itself is a threat.
Therefore, the Chinese Communist Party needs a “painful enough” ending:
It hurts so much that media professionals learn to self-censor
It hurts so much that it keeps entrepreneurs away from public issues
It hurts so much that young people realize the cost of ideals
It hurts enough to make society as a whole understand again “where the boundaries are”.
Twenty years in prison is the product of this political mentality. It is not about correcting so-called “errors”, but about reshaping behavioral patterns. It’s not about convincing you, it’s about scaring you.
Even more cruel is that such heavy sentences do not need to be supported by true criminal facts. The design of national security laws itself facilitates this operation: the ambiguity of charges, the concentration of interpretation power, and the de-supervision of procedures make sentencing no longer subject to the logic of the regular rule of law, but completely subordinate to political needs.
This is where CCP rule is at its core and most ruthless: it doesn’t require you to believe it is just, it only requires you to believe that resistance is futile.
And when a regime has to rely on such heavy penalties to maintain order, it itself reveals its weakness. A truly confident system does not need to use twenty years in prison against a journalist; only a regime that is afraid of the truth, afraid of memory, and afraid of being recorded would exert such force.
Lai Chee-ying was sentenced not because he was “dangerous”, but because the system knew it could not withstand the long-term existence of the truth.
The source of power for the CCP has never been open competition or free authorization, but rather a long-term monopoly on historical narrative and real-world information. It requires a world that is carefully managed: what can be remembered, what can be said, what questions can be discussed, and what answers can only be given officially.
In such a system, journalism is not a public service but is seen as a potential threat; journalists are not watchdogs but are seen as “risk factors”; and independent media are not social assets but are seen as “hostile forces”.
The existence of Apple Daily breaks this logic of control. It does not accept official caliber as the final answer, does not put “stability” above the truth, and does not take “correct position” as a reporting premise. It exposes power to public view in a popular, direct, and emotionally charged way ——which is exactly what totalitarianism can tolerate the most.
For the Communist Party, the real danger is not a single report, but an uncontrollable information mechanism.
As long as this mechanism exists, power cannot fully control social emotions;
As long as someone keeps recording, history cannot be rewritten at will;
As long as the truth is constantly being spread, fear cannot be steadily effective.
This is also why the CCP’s attack on press freedom has never been “management”, but a complete liquidation. For freedom is not a variable that can be regulated, but a risk that must be purged.
Lai Chee-ying is also particularly “dangerous” because of the overlap of his roles. He is both a media personality and an entrepreneur; he has local influence while maintaining open ties with the international community; he expresses value positions while refusing to hide in a “technically neutral” safe zone. This public, continuous, visible persistence prevents him from being marginalized and quietly disappearing.
Therefore, he must be tried with high profile, imprisoned for a long time, and shaped into “negative teaching material”. Not because he did something unspeakable, but because he made too many people see what power doesn’t want to see.
From this perspective, the closure of Apple Daily was not a commercial failure of the news industry, but a political purge; Lai Chee-ying’s sentencing was not judicial discretion, but an ideological situation. The CCP does not want a “conformist media environment”, but a society that no longer raises questions.
A regime has effectively acknowledged its vulnerability when it needs to maintain its own stability by destroying press freedom. A truly confident system that does not need to fear journalists; a truly solid government that does not need to imprison those who write; only power based on lies and fear can be so sensitive and violent to the truth.
Lai Chee-ying cannot remain silent, for silence itself is a betrayal of freedom.
The most dangerous thing for a totalitarian regime is not the protesting crowd, but the people who dare to record, dare to report, and dare to let the truth be seen. Freedom of the press is not an empty slogan, it is the nervous system of social cognition; once it is lost, power can shape reality, tamper with history, and define “truth” at will.
Silence means compromise and is acquiescing to the power to appropriate facts and memories for oneself. In Lai Chee-ying’s view, silence is tantamount to recognition: the government has the right to define the boundaries of society, to decide which voices can exist, and to choose to let the truth disappear. He could not accept such a reality because his profession, his beliefs, the justice he had pursued throughout his life, were all based on the premise that truth could be revealed and power could be monitored.
The CCP is afraid of Lai Chee-ying speaking out because he can inspire people to think independently. His words and reports are like fire, conveying thoughts and questions to every corner of society. It is this power that makes a regime must punish with high profile, must detain for long periods of time, and must instill fear ——otherwise its authority cannot remain absolute.
Lai Chee-ying cannot remain silent, also because history calls for responsibility. Every independent media person, every citizen who dares to question, is a guardian of social memory. Silence leaves history blank, facts wiped out, and truth tampered with. The CCP knows this so well that it must use twenty years in prison to silence Lai Chee-ying and try to make everyone in the future understand that challenging authority will come at a devastating cost.
Lai Chee-ying cannot remain silent, and in this he transcends personal destiny and becomes a spiritual benchmark for the entire society. Twenty years in prison, unable to hold his convictions; a court blockade, unable to conceal his persistence; the law can deprive him of his freedom, but it cannot imprison the truth.
Lai Chee-ying cannot remain silent, because silence is the desired result of power, and insisting on speaking out is his loyalty to history, society, and freedom.
The Chinese Communist Party fears not only Lai Chee-ying’s personal voice, but the existence of the truth itself. It fears that the media can record history, expose power, and inspire doubt; it fears that anyone will realize that so-called “stability” and “prosperity” are just appearances based on fear and manipulation. It turns a man in his seventies into a “sinner” with courts, laws, sentences, and imprisonment to show what happens to all those who dare to speak out. But it forgets that spiritual freedom is beyond the reach of imprisonment.
Lai Chee-ying’s persistence demonstrates the irreplaceable value of press freedom and civil rights. He refused to be silent, to the personal glory, but to make society remember that power can conceal the truth but cannot eliminate those who desire the truth; law can package persecution but cannot crush the spirit of justice. Twenty years of imprisonment, for him, is a physical captivity, but for the truth, it is a continuation of light. He became a symbol——of those who do not surrender to violence, fear, power; of the freedom of the press and the power of independent thought; of an era when those who speak out will never be forgotten.
Hong Kong’s freedoms are being taken away, its space for expression is being blocked, and institutional persecution is being systematized; but this does not mean the end of hope. Every report, every person who bravely speaks out, is continuing the revolution of the times represented by Lai Chee-ying. Power can silence voices but not erase memories and beliefs; domination can prolong fears but not erase the truth of history. As Lai Chee-ying demonstrates, true strength comes from those who uphold principles, from a spirit that is not dominated by fear.
The CCP can deter society with prisons, trials, and twenty-year sentences, but it can never deprive the people of their desire for freedom or prevent historical memory from guiding the future. Lai Chee-ying’s insistence reminds us: freedom is not a gift, it is a right that must be defended; news is not a sin, it is the blood of society; silence is not security, it is a trap that despotism wants you to accept.
Twenty years is a sentence for a person, but it is also a wake-up call for confidence in power. Sooner or later justice will be remembered and the truth will be revealed. Even if the prison holds Lai Chee-ying’s body, his spirit, his convictions, his flame in defense of press freedom will still be transmitted, burned, and illuminated in society by those who are unwilling to submit and who are unwilling to remain silent.
Lai Chee-ying cannot be extinguished, Hong Kong’s memory cannot be tampered with, and the flame of freedom cannot be extinguished. Twenty years of judgment, a punishment for courage by totalitarianism, but also a record of justice by history. No matter how oppressive power may be, glory will surely return to Hong Kong and the truth will surely reach the future.
