作者：许运财（中国民主党党员）
编辑：冯仍 校对：冯仍 翻译：周敏
2026年4月4日，我在加州荒漠中的自由雕塑公园，参加了高智晟律师雕像揭幕仪式。烈日之下，风沙翻卷，一条红色地毯延伸至雕像前方。人群沉默而肃穆，一尊巨大的头像仰望天空——那不仅是一个人的形象，更像是在质问这个时代：当正义被压制时，人还能否坚持为真理发声？
高智晟的存在，本身就是对一党专制体制的一种拷问。在一个权力凌驾于法律之上的制度中，“律师”本应是维护正义的职业，却被迫成为风险最高的角色之一。当法律不再约束权力，而是服务于权力时，所谓“法治”便只剩下形式。高智晟所遭遇的一切，并非个案，而是制度运行的必然结果。
这正是一党专制的核心逻辑：权力不受制约，真相无法公开，个体难以自保。在这样的结构之下，人权不再是权利，而是可以被随时剥夺的恩赐；信仰不再是自由选择，而是被严格限制、甚至遭到打压的对象。所谓“稳定”，往往建立在压制与恐惧之上。
因此，这座雕像立于荒漠，并不只是纪念一个人，更是一种公开的反抗——对遗忘的反抗，对恐惧的反抗。在信息被筛选、声音被压低的环境中，记住本身就成为一种行动。
活动现场汇聚了来自不同背景的人士，有艺术家，有长期投身民主运动的前辈，也有关注中国人权议题的各界人士，以及像我一样的普通参与者。当天到场、热爱自由的民运人士超过三百人。人们来自不同地方，却在这里形成了一个清晰的共识：如果不对专制提出质疑，那么压迫只会继续存在。
我与几位长期参与民主运动的前辈交流，他们的表达并不激烈，却极为坚定。他们深知，极权体制最依赖的，不只是强制力，还有人们的沉默与习惯。当人们习惯于不发声，习惯于回避现实，权力便不再需要掩饰。正因如此，发声本身，已经构成对体制的一种挑战。
站在雕像前，我也开始重新理解“参与”的意义。参与，并不意味着成为某种象征，而是在看清现实之后，不再选择回避。在一个长期信息受限的环境中，能够走出来，看到不同的声音，并愿意表达自己的判断，本身就意味着跨越了一道无形的界线。
或许个体的力量有限，但极权从来不是被一瞬间推翻的，而是在一次次微小的抵抗中被削弱。每一次公开表达，都是对单一叙事的打破；每一次记录与传播，都是对被掩盖历史的还原。
在这里，“信仰”也呈现出更现实的意义。它不只是宗教层面的坚持，更是一种在压力之下仍然不放弃判断、不放弃良知的能力。在缺乏制度保障的环境中，信仰往往成为人最后的支撑，也正因此，成为极权最试图控制的部分。
当仪式结束，人群散去，荒漠恢复寂静。雕像依然矗立在那里，仰望星空。它不只是纪念过去，更像是在提醒未来：当权力试图定义一切时，是否仍有人愿意坚持说出真实？
或许现实依然复杂，但只要仍有人拒绝遗忘、拒绝沉默、拒绝恐惧，那么改变就不会彻底失去可能。
在这个时代，拒绝沉默，本身就是一种抵抗。
图：作者在加州自由雕塑公园参加高智晟雕像揭幕仪式现场（2026年4月4日）
Looking Up at the Starry Sky: Persisting in Freedom and Faith Under the Shadow of Autocracy
Author: Xu Yuncai (Member of the China Democracy Party)
Editor: Feng Reng Proofreader: Feng Reng Translator: Zhou Min
On April 4, 2026, at the Liberty Sculpture Park in the California desert, I participated in the unveiling ceremony of the statue of Lawyer Gao Zhisheng. Under the scorching sun, with wind and sand swirling, a red carpet extended to the front of the statue. The crowd was silent and solemn, as a giant head looked up at the sky—that was not only the image of one person, but more like a questioning of this era: when justice is suppressed, can a person still insist on speaking out for the truth?
The existence of Gao Zhisheng is itself a kind of interrogation of the one-party autocratic system. In a system where power overrides the law, “lawyer” should originally be a profession for maintaining justice, yet it is forced to become one of the roles with the highest risk. When the law no longer restrains power but instead serves power, so-called “rule of law” is left only with form. Everything encountered by Gao Zhisheng is not an individual case, but the inevitable result of the system’s operation.
This is precisely the core logic of one-party autocracy: power is not restricted, truth cannot be made public, and individuals find it difficult to protect themselves. Under such a structure, human rights are no longer rights, but favors that can be stripped away at any time; faith is no longer a free choice, but an object that is strictly limited or even suffers suppression. So-called “stability” is often built upon suppression and fear.
Therefore, this statue standing in the desert is not just to commemorate one person, but is a kind of public resistance—resistance against forgetting, resistance against fear. In an environment where information is filtered and voices are lowered, remembering itself becomes a kind of action.
The event site gathered personages from different backgrounds, including artists, seniors who have long devoted themselves to the democracy movement, personages from various circles concerned with Chinese human rights issues, as well as ordinary participants like me. On that day, more than three hundred freedom-loving democracy activists arrived. People came from different places, yet here they formed a clear consensus: if one does not raise questions against autocracy, then oppression will only continue to exist.
I communicated with several seniors who have long participated in the democracy movement; their expressions were not intense, yet were extremely firm. They know deeply that what a totalitarian system relies on most is not just coercive force, but also people’s silence and habit. When people become accustomed to not speaking out, accustomed to avoiding reality, power then no longer needs to disguise itself. Precisely because of this, speaking out itself has already constituted a kind of challenge to the system.
Standing before the statue, I also began to re-understand the meaning of “participation.” Participation does not mean becoming some kind of symbol, but rather, after seeing reality clearly, no longer choosing to avoid it. In an environment where information has been limited for a long time, being able to walk out, see different voices, and be willing to express one’s own judgment, itself means crossing an invisible boundary.
Perhaps individual strength is limited, but totalitarianism is never overthrown in a single instant; rather, it is weakened amidst tiny resistances time and time again. Every public expression is a breaking of the single narrative; every record and dissemination is a restoration of covered-up history.
Here, “faith” also presents a more realistic meaning. It is not just persistence at the religious level, but even more a kind of ability to still not give up judgment and not give up conscience under pressure. In an environment lacking systemic guarantees, faith often becomes a person’s final support, and precisely because of this, it becomes the part that totalitarianism most attempts to control.
When the ceremony ended and the crowd dispersed, the desert returned to silence. The statue still stands there, looking up at the starry sky. It is not just commemorating the past, but even more like reminding the future: when power attempts to define everything, are there still people willing to insist on telling the truth?
Perhaps reality is still complex, but as long as there are still people who refuse to forget, refuse silence, and refuse fear, then change will not completely lose its possibility.
In this era, refusing silence is itself a kind of resistance.
Image: The author participating in the unveiling ceremony of the Gao Zhisheng statue at the Liberty Sculpture Park in California (April 4, 2026).
