作者：魏晓鸣

编辑：李晶  校对：程筱筱 翻译：周敏

我并不是一个天生热衷政治的人。很长一段时间里，我只希望过好自己的生活，努力工作，照顾家庭，对国家和政治保持一种“少说少错”的态度。直到后来，我才明白，在中国，有些话不是“敏感”，而是被禁止思考；有些价值不是“争议”，而是被系统性否定。

我第一次真正、持续地关注美国，是从2024年开始的。那一年，我的妻子和孩子前往美国旅游。在与他们的通话和交流中，我第一次从一个极其具体、生活化的角度感受到这个国家的不同。

他们讲到的并不是宏大的政治，而是一些很普通却在中国并不“普通”的细节：公开场合可以自由表达意见，不必担心因一句话惹来麻烦；不同族裔、不同背景的人共同生活，没有被强制要求统一思想；对个人权利的尊重，是一种日常而自然的存在，而不是口号。

正是从这些真实、细碎的生活体验出发，我开始进一步了解美国的制度和价值。我逐渐意识到，美国之所以被称为自由、民主、包容、尊重人权的国家，并不是因为它没有问题，而是因为它允许问题被讨论，允许权力被质疑，个人不因观点不同而受到惩罚。

我曾在私下和公开场合表达过这样的看法：一个国家如果不允许公民讨论制度、批评执政党，那么它的“稳定”只是一种恐惧下的沉默；一个把政党等同于国家、把反对等同于犯罪的政权，本质上是独裁的。正是这些看法，给我带来了麻烦。

在中国，反对中共并不需要组织、行动或煽动。你只需要说出“中共不是中国”“权力需要制约”“言论自由是基本人权”，就被视为危险人物。我逐渐感受到来自环境的压力：谈话被打断、被警告、被“提醒注意立场”。那种无形却持续的压迫，让人清楚地知道——这里不欢迎独立思考的人。我开始意识到一个残酷的现实：在中国，你并不需要做错什么，只要你想得太多、说得太直，就已经站在风险之中。

中共所维护的并不是人民的利益，而是自身的统治安全。它害怕自由讨论，因为自由会暴露谎言；它打压异议，因为真相会削弱权威。所谓的“稳定”，建立在监控、审查和恐惧之上；所谓的“爱国”，往往被简化为对政党的无条件服从。

当我发现继续留在中国，意味着要么沉默、要么自我否定、要么随时承担不可预知的后果时，我知道，我已经没有真正的选择。

来到美国，并不是因为这里没有问题，而是因为这里允许你承认问题、讨论问题、反对问题。在这里，说政府不等于犯罪，反对执政党不等于背叛国家，个人不需要把一生交给某个不可质疑的权力。

我离开中国，不是因为我憎恨中国这片土地，而是因为我拒绝把一生交给一个不允许我说真话的政权。如果一个国家需要用恐惧来维持忠诚，那它害怕的不是敌人，而是真相本身。

Convicted by Word: Why I Was Forced to Flee China

Author: Wei Xiaoming

Editor: Li Jing Proofreader Cheng Xiaoxiao Translator: Zhou Min

I was never a man naturally drawn to politics. For a long time, my only aspiration was to lead a quiet life—to work hard, cherish my family, and adhere to the cautious maxim of “the less said, the fewer the mistakes” regarding the state. It took years to realize that in China, certain topics are not merely “sensitive”; they are forbidden from thought. Certain values are not merely “disputed”; they are systematically negated.

My profound and sustained focus on the United States began in 2024, the year my wife and children traveled there. Through our conversations, I began to perceive the essence of that country—not through grand political theories, but through the visceral, mundane details of their daily life.

They didn’t speak of lofty ideologies, but of things that are hauntingly “extraordinary” by Chinese standards: the freedom to voice an opinion in public without the shadow of consequence; a mosaic of ethnicities and backgrounds coexisting without the mandate of ideological uniformity; and a respect for individual rights that felt like breathing—natural and uncoerced—rather than a hollow slogan.

Driven by these lived experiences, I began to scrutinize the American system. I realized that the U.S. is heralded as a bastion of liberty and human rights not because it is flawless, but because it permits its flaws to be debated. It allows power to be interrogated, and it ensures that an individual is not criminalized for the “sin” of a dissenting opinion.

I have expressed these views both privately and publicly: that any nation which forbids its citizens from debating its systems or criticizing its rulers possesses a “stability” that is nothing more than the silence of the grave. A regime that equates a political party with the nation, and dissent with treason, is, by definition, a dictatorship. It was this conviction that marked me.

In China, one does not need an organization or a manifesto to “oppose” the CCP. It is enough to simply state that “the Party is not the Country,” “power must be checked,” or “free speech is an inalienable right.” Such thoughts make you a “dangerous element.” Soon, the walls began to close in: conversations were abruptly cut off, warnings were issued, and I was repeatedly told to “watch my stance.” That invisible, suffocating pressure makes one truth agonizingly clear: independent thinkers are persona non grata here. I awoke to a cruel reality: in China, you don’t have to commit a crime to be in danger; you only have to think too deeply and speak too clearly.

The CCP does not safeguard the interests of the people; it safeguards its own survival. It fears free discourse because freedom dismantles lies; it crushes dissent because truth erodes coerced authority. Its so-called “stability” is a fortress built on surveillance and fear; its “patriotism” is reduced to blind, unconditional fealty to the Party.

When I realized that remaining in China meant choosing between permanent silence, self-betrayal, or the constant threat of state retribution, I knew I had no choice at all.

I came to America not because it is a utopia, but because it is a place where one can acknowledge, discuss, and oppose the problems at hand. Here, criticizing the government is not a felony, opposing the ruling party is not an act of betrayal, and one’s life does not belong to an unquestionable power.

I did not leave China because I hate my homeland. I left because I refuse to surrender my life to a regime that forbids the truth. If a state requires fear to command loyalty, then it is not afraid of enemies—it is terrified of the truth itself.