——关于徐光，以及那些始终无法真正“出狱”的人

作者：胡海宁

主编审阅：朱虞夫

人物简介

徐光，1968年生，浙江杭州人，中国民主党浙江委员会主要成员之一，1989年杭州大学学运参与者。1998年参与中国民主党组党，后多次因政治言论、纪念六四及民主活动被拘押、判刑。2022年再次被以“寻衅滋事罪”判刑四年，服刑期间长期绝食抗议，并一度被送入监狱医院。2026年5月刑满出狱。

徐光出来了。

这句话原本并没有什么特别。一个人坐完牢，刑满释放，回家去，照理说，不过是一件普通事情。可这些年，普通事情在中国越来越少了，于是“出来了”三个字，也渐渐带上了一点劫后余生的意味。

消息传出来的时候，我先想到的倒不是别的，而是他还剩多少斤。

去年有人说，徐光已经瘦到八十多斤。长期绝食，长期鼻饲，后来又被送进监狱医院。家属见不到人，送进去的衣物被退回来，外面的人只能从一些零碎消息里拼凑他的情况。中国的政治犯，常常就是这样，一旦被推进高墙里面，人就像忽然沉到水底，偶尔浮上来一点气泡，证明他还没死，仅此而已。

所以这次听说徐光出狱，很多人第一反应并不是欣慰，而是想知道：人还能不能站起来，还能不能说话，精神是不是还清楚？

这话听着未免有些凄凉。可中国的事情，往往就是这样。一个人如果只是偷盗抢劫，坐完牢，大家多半不会这样担心；偏偏那些因为“说话”进去的人，出来时总格外叫人不安。

去年《在野党》在美国复刊，我参与了杂志的排版工作。最开始接触这些稿件时，我对中国民主党这条线上的很多人和很多事情，其实并不熟悉。后来版面做得多了，这些名字才开始在一篇篇稿件里不断重复出现：有人在坐牢，有人刚出狱，有人失联，有人长期被监控。有时候前一期还在排某个人的文章，下一期又开始出现另一个人的判决书和狱中消息。时间久了，会慢慢产生一种奇怪的感觉：这些事情好像从来没有真正结束过。

徐光是老一代民主党人了。

现在二十来岁的年轻人，大概已经不大知道中国民主党。即便偶尔在网上看见这个名字，也不过一划而过。短视频、直播、每天不断刷新的热点新闻，已经足够占满大部分人的注意力。至于九十年代那场轰轰烈烈的组党运动，如今已经像一张被压在柜底的旧报纸，颜色发黄，边角卷起，没人再翻。

可当年并不是这样的。

那时还有不少人真相信，中国会一点一点变好。他们认真讨论过宪政、政党政治、新闻自由，也认真相信，一个国家不应该永远只有一种声音。现在回头看，竟像隔世。

徐光是1989年的大学生，杭州大学，学生领袖之一。后来参与中国民主党组党，再后来第一次被判“颠覆国家政权罪”。之后几十年的人生，几乎一直在坐牢、监控、传唤和长期维稳之间反复循环。

其实很多经历过八九的人，后来都沉默了。有的人出国，有的人发财，有的人进入体制，有的人干脆绝口不提。我自己也是当年的参与者之一，因为那场运动受过伤，后来家里也为那些事情付出了很沉重的代价。很多年过去以后，人会慢慢明白，中国人为什么越来越沉默。房子总要买，孩子总要养，老人总要看病，一个人总不能天天靠理想活着。于是时间久了，许多人就慢慢学会了另一套本领：少说话，多低头。

这也并不奇怪。人毕竟不是石头。

可徐光偏偏不大肯低头。

九十年代末，中国民主党组党。浙江是最活跃的地方，也是大网落得最沉重的地方。

那是一场真正为了争取结社自由、公开冲击“党禁”的抗争。从镇压的大网撒下至今，浙江的监牢里，就从来没有断过坐牢的民主党人。这群人身上，有一种如今已极少见的硬气——他们进了高墙，却绝不肯低下头来写一张“认罪服法”的悔过书，去乞怜什么减刑、假释。管监狱的换了一茬又一茬，这群人的骨头却始终是硬的，没有半点奴才气。

徐光就是这个坚强团队里的一员。他们后来发现，中国有些事情，确实不写在法律里，但他们既然选了这条路，也就没有再打算回头。

徐光出狱以后，也没有安静下来。这些年，他几乎每逢六四都绝食一天。有人觉得这没有意义。一天不吃饭，能怎么样呢？国家机器照样运转，西湖边照样游人如织，商场里照样灯火通明，手机里照样歌舞升平。一个人在家里绝食二十四小时，看起来的确像螳臂当车。

可有时候，事情恰恰坏在这里。

因为许多人连“螳臂当车”也不肯做了。

这些年我时常觉得，中国最厉害的地方，并不是把人抓进去，而是让人慢慢觉得：“算了吧，别碰了，没用的。有些话，说了又能怎么样。”时间久了，人也就真的不说了。

于是你会发现，今天的中国，人人都很聪明。大家知道什么能谈，什么不能谈；知道什么时候该沉默，什么时候该装糊涂。地铁里没人谈政治，饭桌上没人谈政治，连微信群里转发一篇文章，都得先想一想会不会出事。

这种气氛是很厉害的。它不需要天天抓人，却能让很多人自己先把嘴闭上。而对于像徐光这样的人，仅仅闭嘴还不够。

政治犯在中国，最难熬的时候，往往不是在监狱里面，而是在出狱以后。监狱里的铁门至少看得见，几年刑期也总有一个数字；可出狱后的控制，却像空气一样，无处不在，又无法言说。

敏感日子会有人上门，电话会被监听，出门会有人跟着，朋友聚会可能突然被“提醒”。房东会接到压力，单位会接到招呼，连身边朋友都会慢慢疏远。时间久了，一个人会逐渐发现，自己虽然已经离开监狱，却始终无法真正回到正常生活。

这才是最深的消耗——它并不总是激烈的。

很多时候，甚至没有拳头，没有审判，没有镣铐。可它会一点一点把人从正常社会关系里剥离出去，让你无法工作，无法安心生活，无法建立稳定关系，最后慢慢变成一个被悬置的人。

这些年的体制，对付异见者愈发精致了。它不急着摧毁你的肉体，只是长期拖着你，消耗你，让你疲惫，让你孤立，让你慢慢怀疑，坚持到底还有没有意义。

许多人最后并不是因为恐惧而沉默，而是因为太累了。这一点，其实比直接的暴力更厉害。

有时深夜调版，外面的世界还在不断刷新热点，屏幕里的文章，却仍然是抓捕、监控、绝食、坐牢。

时间像没有流动过一样。

这篇稿子还没写完，群里忽然又传来消息：七十六岁的毛庆祥，因为在朋友圈转发了与徐光有关的视频，被杭州警方带走，已经超过五十个小时。群里的人开始紧急呼吁、联络、商量周末抗议的事情。有人提醒，超过四十八小时，通常就不只是一般传唤了。

我忽然发现，自己写的根本不是什么“过去”的事情。

鲁迅以前写中国人的麻木，说看客。我小时候读，觉得那是旧时代留下来的东西。后来才发现，不过是如今的看客换了种样子罢了。现在没有人围着刑场伸脖子了，大家只是低头刷手机。昨天谁被抓了，今天谁消失了，底下偶尔飘过几句评论，很快又被新的热点盖过去。人们照样上班，照样吃饭，照样哈哈大笑，仿佛什么都没有发生。

有时候想想，这甚至比怒骂还冷。

至少怒骂还说明人在意。

最怕的是无所谓。

徐光后来又不断被拘留、传唤、抄家。2014年，他因为一句“共产党能在南湖开一大，民主党也能在西湖租船开一大”的玩笑话，被以涉嫌颠覆国家政权抓进去。如今的人看到这里，也许会觉得荒唐，甚至像个笑话。可这些年，荒唐事发生得太多，人们竟也慢慢习惯了。

后来再抓徐光，罪名变成了“寻衅滋事”。

这个词现在中国人已经很熟悉了。仿佛什么都能往里面装。你举牌，可以寻衅滋事；你发文章，可以寻衅滋事；你说话不中听，也可以寻衅滋事。到了后来，连“平反六四”几个字，都足够把一个人重新送进监狱。

徐光就是这样又一次进去的。

这一次是四年。

等他再出来，已经快六十岁了。

照片传出来的时候，我还是怔了一下。不是因为认不出来，而是因为一下很难把眼前这个满头灰白、神情枯瘦的人，和当年照片里的青年学生联系在一起。好像这些年被带走的，不只是时间。

我有时候会想，像徐光这样的人，到底靠什么撑这么多年。因为正常人是很容易疲倦的。别说坐牢，就是天天被盯着，被骚扰，被警告，被断生路，时间久了，人也会软下来。中国这些年最成功的地方，大概就在于，它并不总是一下把人打死，而是慢慢磨。

磨掉你的脾气，磨掉你的朋友，磨掉你的胆子。磨到最后，很多人自己也不相信自己年轻时说过的话了。

可总还有极少数人，怎么磨都不肯彻底弯下去。

这种人，如今已经越来越少了。

所以徐光出狱，其实并不仅仅是一个人从监狱里出来。至少对一些还记得九十年代、还记得中国民主党、还记得那些年发生过什么的人来说，这件事多少像是一点残余的火星。很弱，很小，甚至随时可能熄灭，但毕竟还在那里。

只是中国变化太快了，快到许多人已经不再关心这些事。

西湖还是那个西湖。游客拍照，孩子放风筝，网红店门口排长队。年轻人讨论演唱会、奶茶、股票和房价。夜里灯光照在湖面上，还是很好看。没有人会从那些热闹里看出来，几公里之外，曾经有人因为一句话、几篇文章、几张纸，被关了几十年。

世界照样往前走。

可西湖的游客不会知道徐光，商场里的人不会知道，那些低头刷手机的年轻人，大概也不会知道——他们不会知道，一个人真正漫长的刑期，有时候是从“出狱”才开始的。

编辑：黄吉洲  校对：毛一炜

作者简介

胡海宁，1989年学运参与者，现居美国。《在野党》杂志社美编部部长，长期从事平面设计工作，并参与独立中文刊物的编辑与排版，关注中国社会中的沉默、记忆与个体命运。

After Release

— On Xu Guang, and Those Who Never Truly Walk Free

By Haining Hu

Reviewed by Editor-in-Chief: Yufu Zhu

About Xu Guang

Xu Guang, born in 1968 in Hangzhou, Zhejiang Province, is one of the principal members of the Zhejiang Committee of the Chinese Democracy Party and a participant in the 1989 student movement at Hangzhou University. He took part in the founding activities of the Chinese Democracy Party in 1998 and was repeatedly detained and imprisoned for political speech, commemorating June Fourth, and participating in democratic activities. In 2022, he was again sentenced to four years in prison on charges of “picking quarrels and provoking trouble.” During his imprisonment, he carried out prolonged hunger strikes and was at one point transferred to a prison hospital. He was released in May 2026.

Xu Guang is out.

At first glance, there seems to be nothing remarkable about that sentence. A man finishes his prison term, walks out, and goes home. Ordinarily, that should be a completely ordinary thing. But in China, ordinary things have become increasingly rare over the years. And so the words “is out” have gradually taken on the feeling of surviving a disaster.

When the news came, the first thing I thought about was not anything political. I wondered how much he still weighed.

Last year, people said Xu Guang had dropped to barely over eighty jin. Prolonged hunger strikes. Forced feeding through nasal tubes. Later he was transferred to a prison hospital. His family could not see him. Clothes they tried to send in were returned. People outside could only piece together fragments of his condition from scattered bits of information. This is often how political prisoners disappear in China: once pushed behind those walls, a person sinks beneath the surface like something underwater, occasionally releasing a small bubble to prove he is still alive. Nothing more.

So when people heard Xu Guang had been released, their first reaction was not relief. They wanted to know: Could he still stand? Could he still speak? Was his mind still clear?

There is something deeply bleak about that question. But that is often how things are in China. If someone went to prison for theft or robbery, people would not react this way after release. But those imprisoned for “speaking” always leave others uneasy when they return.

Last year, after The Opposition Party resumed publication in the United States, I became involved in the magazine’s layout work. At first, I knew very little about the people and history connected to the China Democracy Party. But after working on more and more issues, these names began appearing again and again across different manuscripts: someone imprisoned, someone newly released, someone missing, someone under long-term surveillance. One issue might contain an article by a particular person, and the next would suddenly contain his verdict or news from prison. After a while, a strange feeling slowly emerges: none of these things ever truly end.

Xu Guang belongs to the older generation of democracy activists.

People in their twenties today probably know little about the China Democracy Party. Even if they occasionally see the name online, it passes by in an instant. Short videos, livestreams, and endlessly refreshing headlines already consume most people’s attention. The dramatic party-building movement of the 1990s now resembles an old newspaper buried at the bottom of a drawer, yellowed with age, its corners curled, unread by anyone.

But things were not always like this.

Back then, many people genuinely believed China would slowly become better. They seriously discussed constitutionalism, party politics, and freedom of the press. They genuinely believed a country should not be forced to live forever under a single voice. Looking back now, it feels like another lifetime.

Xu Guang was a university student in 1989, a student leader at Hangzhou University. Later he participated in the founding movement of the China Democracy Party, and was eventually sentenced for the first time on charges of “subverting state power.” Since then, decades of his life have cycled repeatedly through prison, surveillance, interrogations, and long-term political control.

In truth, many people who experienced 1989 eventually fell silent. Some left the country. Some made money. Some entered the system. Others simply stopped speaking about it altogether. I myself was one of those participants. I was injured because of that movement, and my family later paid a heavy price for those years as well. After enough time passes, people begin to understand why Chinese society has grown quieter and quieter. Houses must be bought. Children must be raised. Elderly parents must see doctors. No one can survive forever on ideals alone. So over time, many people gradually learned another skill: speak less, lower your head more.

There is nothing surprising about that. Human beings are not made of stone.

But Xu Guang never seemed willing to lower his head.

In the late 1990s, the China Democracy Party attempted to organize openly. Zhejiang became one of its most active regions — and one of the places where the crackdown fell hardest.

It was a real struggle for freedom of association, a direct challenge to the ban on political parties. Ever since the net of suppression descended, Zhejiang’s prisons have never been empty of democracy activists. These people possessed a kind of stubborn backbone rarely seen today. They entered prison walls but refused to bow their heads and write confessions of “admitting guilt and accepting punishment” in exchange for sentence reductions or parole. Prison officials came and went generation after generation, yet these people remained hard-boned to the end, without even a trace of servility.

Xu Guang was one of them. They eventually discovered that some things in China are simply not written into law. But once they chose this path, they never intended to turn back.

Even after his release, Xu Guang did not fall silent. In recent years, he has observed a one-day hunger strike nearly every June Fourth anniversary. Some people think this means nothing. What can one day without food possibly change? The state machine keeps running. Tourists still crowd West Lake. Shopping malls remain brightly lit. Phones continue overflowing with songs, dances, and entertainment. A man fasting alone in his home for twenty-four hours truly does look like a mantis trying to stop a chariot.

But perhaps that is precisely where the tragedy lies.

Because many people are no longer even willing to be that mantis.

Over the years, I have increasingly felt that China’s greatest strength is not locking people away. It is making people slowly conclude: “Forget it. Don’t touch it. It’s useless. What difference would speaking make anyway?”

And after enough time, people really do stop speaking.

Then you begin to notice something strange about China today: everyone is clever. People know what can be discussed and what cannot. They know when to stay silent and when to pretend not to understand. Nobody talks politics on the subway. Nobody talks politics at the dinner table. Even forwarding an article in a WeChat group requires a moment of hesitation first.

This atmosphere is powerful. It does not require mass arrests every day. People silence themselves voluntarily. And for people like Xu Guang, even silence is not enough.

For political prisoners in China, the hardest years often begin not inside prison, but after release. Prison walls are at least visible. A prison sentence at least has a number attached to it. But post-release control is like air — everywhere, invisible, impossible to describe.

During sensitive periods, someone may appear at your door. Phones are monitored. People follow you outside. Friends gathering together may suddenly receive “reminders.” Landlords come under pressure. Employers receive warnings. Even friends slowly begin distancing themselves. Over time, a person realizes that although he has technically left prison, he has never truly returned to ordinary life.

That is the deepest form of exhaustion — and it is not always dramatic.

Often there are no beatings, no trials, no shackles. Yet little by little, a person is stripped away from normal social existence. You cannot work normally. You cannot live peacefully. You cannot build stable relationships. Eventually you become someone suspended outside ordinary life altogether.

The system has become increasingly sophisticated in the way it handles dissent. It no longer rushes to destroy the body outright. Instead, it drags things out. It wears you down. It exhausts you. Isolates you. Slowly makes you question whether persistence has any meaning left at all.

In the end, many people do not fall silent because they are afraid. They fall silent because they are tired.

And perhaps that is even more powerful than direct violence.

Late at night, while adjusting layouts for publication, the outside world continues refreshing itself with new trends and new headlines. Yet on my screen, the articles remain the same: arrests, surveillance, hunger strikes, prison sentences.

Time itself seems not to have moved.

Before this article was even finished, another message suddenly appeared in the group chat: seventy-six-year-old Mao Qingxiang had been taken away by Hangzhou police after reposting a video related to Xu Guang on WeChat Moments. More than fifty hours had already passed. People in the group immediately began coordinating appeals, contacting others, discussing weekend protests. Someone warned that once forty-eight hours had passed, it was usually no longer a routine summons.

At that moment, I suddenly realized I was not writing about the past at all.

Lu Xun once wrote about the numbness of Chinese spectators. When I was younger, I believed he was describing another era. Only later did I realize the spectators had merely changed form. No one cranes their neck around execution grounds anymore. People simply lower their heads and scroll their phones instead. Yesterday someone was arrested. Today someone disappeared. A few comments drift past beneath the news before being buried under the next trending topic. People continue going to work, eating dinner, laughing loudly, as though nothing had happened.

Sometimes it feels even colder than open hatred.

At least hatred still suggests people care.

The truly frightening thing is indifference.

Xu Guang continued to face detentions, interrogations, and home raids after that. In 2014, he was detained again after joking that “if the Communist Party could hold its First Congress on South Lake, then the Democracy Party could also rent a boat on West Lake and hold one there.” Today, people reading this might find it absurd, even laughable. But so many absurd things have happened over the years that people have gradually become accustomed to them.

Later, Xu Guang was charged again under the crime of “picking quarrels and provoking trouble.”

Chinese people are already deeply familiar with that phrase. It seems capable of containing anything. Holding a sign can become “provoking trouble.” Writing an article can become “provoking trouble.” Saying the wrong thing can become “provoking trouble.” Eventually even the words “Vindicate June Fourth” became enough to send someone back to prison.

That is how Xu Guang was imprisoned again.

This time for four years.

By the time he came out again, he was nearly sixty.

When the photographs emerged, I froze for a moment. Not because I failed to recognize him, but because it was suddenly difficult to connect the gray-haired, gaunt figure in front of me with the young student from those old photographs. It felt as though what had been taken away over the years was not merely time.

Sometimes I wonder what allows people like Xu Guang to endure for so long. Ordinary people tire easily. Even without prison, constant surveillance, harassment, warnings, and social suffocation will eventually wear a person down. Perhaps the system’s greatest success lies precisely there: it does not always destroy people immediately. Instead, it grinds them down slowly.

It grinds away your temper, your friendships, your courage. Eventually many people no longer believe the things they once said in their youth.

And yet a tiny number of people still refuse to bend completely, no matter how long the grinding continues.

People like that are becoming rarer and rarer.

So Xu Guang’s release is not merely one man walking out of prison. At least for those who still remember the 1990s, still remember the China Democracy Party, still remember what happened during those years, his release resembles a remaining spark. Small. Weak. Capable of disappearing at any moment. But still there.

China changes too quickly now. So quickly that many people no longer care about these things at all.

West Lake remains the same West Lake. Tourists take photographs. Children fly kites. Influencer cafés have lines outside their doors. Young people discuss concerts, milk tea, stocks, and housing prices. At night, lights still shimmer beautifully across the water. No one looking at those scenes would realize that only a few kilometers away, people were once imprisoned for decades because of a sentence, a few articles, a handful of pages.

The world continues moving forward.

But tourists at West Lake will not know Xu Guang. People inside shopping malls will not know him. The young people lowering their heads over their phones probably will not know him either.

They will not know that for some people, the longest prison sentence only begins after release.

Author Bio

Haining Hu participated in the 1989 student movement and is currently based in the United States. He serves as Art Director of The Opposition Party magazine and has worked in graphic design for many years, while also contributing to the editing and layout of independent Chinese-language publications. His writing focuses on memory, silence, and individual fate in contemporary China.