作者：曹泽锋  

2026年6月4日，我再次站在洛杉矶中国领事馆门前。

37年前，北京的长安街上，坦克履带碾过的不只是青年学生的身体，也碾过了一个民族刚刚苏醒的公民意识；37年后，中共依然不敢面对那一夜的枪声，不敢公布死难者名单，不敢允许母亲悼念孩子，不敢让中国人自由说出“六·四”两个字。

一个政权，如果真的清白，何必害怕记忆？  

一个政党，如果真的伟大，何必恐惧真相？

1989年的学生不是暴徒，市民不是叛乱者，天安门广场不是战场。他们要的不过是反腐、透明、自由、尊严，是一个现代国家最基本的政治常识。可是中共给出的答案，是戒严令、机枪、坦克和清洗。那一夜，它没有镇压“动乱”，它镇压的是中国人要求做人的权利。

“六·四”之后，中国进入了一个更漫长、更阴冷的时代。枪声停止了，但恐惧没有停止；广场被清空了，但审查没有清空；尸体被运走了，但国家机器从此学会了如何让整个社会闭嘴。

中共最残忍的地方，不只是杀人，而是杀人之后还要禁止记忆；不只是制造死亡，而是逼迫活着的人假装什么都没有发生。它把历史从课本里删除，把关键词从网络上屏蔽，把母亲的哭声变成“寻衅滋事”，把悼念者变成“境外势力”。在这个政权眼里，鲜血不是罪证，记忆才是罪证。

所以，“六·四”从来不只是1989年的一天。它是中共统治逻辑彻底成形的一刻。自那以后，法轮功被镇压，维权律师被抓捕，香港自由被碾碎，新疆集中营震惊世界，白纸运动青年被秋后算账。所有这些事件都不是孤立的，它们共同证明：当一个政权曾经用坦克镇压人民，它就会不断用恐惧统治人民。

37年过去，中共最成功的工程，不是高铁，不是大楼，不是GDP，而是制造了一个巨大的沉默社会。许多中国年轻人不知道“六·四”，许多人知道却不敢说，许多人不敢说久了，便开始骗自己说“不重要”。这正是极权最可怕的地方：它不只控制人的嘴，还改造人的记忆；不只让人沉默，还让人把沉默误以为成熟。

可我们站在海外，不能替暴政完成遗忘。

我看见有人举着烛光，有人举着死难者的照片，有人高喊“平反‘六·四’”，有人沉默地低头。那一刻我明白，纪念“六·四”不是形式，不是口号，更不是政治表演。它是对死者的交代，是对活人的提醒，是对中共谎言的持续抵抗。

因为只要我们还记得，中共就没有真正胜利。  

只要我们还说出“六·四”，它的封锁就没有完成。  

只要还有人站在中国领事馆门前点燃蜡烛，那一夜的枪声就不会被历史吞没。

“六·四”真正划出的分水岭，不只是人民与政权之间的分水岭，也是记忆与遗忘之间，尊严与苟活之间，沉默与抗争之间的分水岭。有人选择忘记，因为忘记看起来安全；有人选择沉默，因为沉默看起来聪明；也有人选择继续说，因为他们知道，一个民族如果连自己的伤口都不敢看，就永远不可能真正站起来。

今天，我们纪念“六·四”，不只是为了悼念37年前倒下的学生和市民，更是为了告诉这个世界：中共所谓的“稳定”，建立在恐惧之上；所谓的“发展”，掩盖不了血债；所谓的“民族复兴”，如果不能容纳真相与自由，不过是一个更精致的牢笼。

真正的中国，不应该属于坦克和谎言，不应该属于审查和告密，不应该属于那些靠删帖、抓人、封号、恐吓来维系统治的人。真正的中国，应该属于那些在1989年举起横幅的人，属于那些在黑暗中守护记忆的人，属于那些即使流亡海外、仍愿意为真相发声的人。

“六·四”没有结束。它活在每一个被删掉的词里，活在每一个被监控的母亲眼中，活在每一个不愿跪下的中国人心里。

37年后的今天，我们站在这里，不是因为我们强大，而是因为我们不能背叛记忆；不是因为我们没有恐惧，而是因为我们知道，恐惧一旦成为习惯，奴役就会成为命运。

愿死者安息，愿真相归来。  

愿每一个拒绝遗忘的人，都成为暴政无法熄灭的火种。  

愿有一天，“六·四”不再只能在海外被纪念，而能在中国大地上，被公开悼念，被真实书写，被庄严平反。

编辑：韩立华    校对：熊辩 翻译：沈美花

The 37th Anniversary of June Fourth: China After the Gunshots, a Nation Beneath the Silence

Author: Cao Zefeng

On June 4, 2026, I once again stood in front of the Chinese Consulate in Los Angeles.

Thirty-seven years ago, on Beijing’s Chang’an Avenue, the tracks of tanks crushed not only the bodies of young students, but also the civic consciousness of a nation that had only just begun to awaken. Thirty-seven years later, the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) still dares not face the gunfire of that night. It dares not publish the list of the dead, dares not allow mothers to mourn their children, and dares not permit Chinese people to freely utter the words “June Fourth.”

If a regime is truly innocent, why should it fear memory?

If a political party is truly great, why should it fear the truth?

The students of 1989 were not rioters, and the citizens were not insurgents. Tiananmen Square was not a battlefield. What they sought was nothing more than opposition to corruption, transparency, freedom, and dignity—basic political principles that should exist in any modern state. Yet the CCP’s answer was martial law, machine guns, tanks, and political purges. On that night, it did not suppress “turmoil”; it suppressed the Chinese people’s right to be treated as human beings.

After June Fourth, China entered a longer and colder era. The gunfire ceased, but fear did not cease. The square was cleared, but censorship was not. The bodies were removed, but from that moment onward the state apparatus learned how to silence an entire society.

The CCP’s greatest cruelty lies not merely in killing people, but in forbidding remembrance after the killing. It lies not merely in creating death, but in forcing the living to pretend that nothing ever happened. It erases history from textbooks, blocks keywords on the internet, turns a mother’s cry of grief into “picking quarrels and provoking trouble,” and labels those who commemorate the dead as “foreign forces.” In the eyes of this regime, blood is not the evidence of a crime—memory is.

Therefore, June Fourth has never been merely a single day in 1989. It marked the moment when the CCP’s logic of rule reached its full and definitive form. Since then, Falun Gong has been suppressed, rights-defense lawyers have been arrested, Hong Kong’s freedoms have been crushed, the internment camps in Xinjiang have shocked the world, and young participants in the White Paper Movement have faced reprisals long after the protests ended. None of these events stand in isolation. Together, they demonstrate one fundamental truth: when a regime has once used tanks to suppress its people, it will continue to govern its people through fear.

Thirty-seven years have passed. The CCP’s most successful project has not been high-speed rail, skyscrapers, or GDP growth. Rather, it has been the creation of a vast society of silence. Many young Chinese know nothing about June Fourth. Many know about it but dare not speak. Many who remain silent for long enough eventually begin to convince themselves that it is “not important.” This is precisely the most terrifying aspect of totalitarianism: it does not merely control what people say—it reshapes what they remember. It does not merely force people into silence—it leads them to mistake silence for maturity.

But those of us living overseas cannot allow ourselves to complete the work of forgetting on behalf of tyranny.

I saw people holding candlelight. I saw people holding photographs of those who died. Some shouted, “Redress June Fourth!” while others stood in silent reflection with their heads bowed. At that moment, I understood that commemorating June Fourth is not a ritual, not a slogan, and certainly not a political performance. It is an obligation to the dead, a reminder to the living, and an ongoing act of resistance against the CCP’s lies.

For as long as we remember, the CCP has not truly won.

For as long as we continue to speak the words “June Fourth,” its censorship remains incomplete.

For as long as someone still stands before a Chinese consulate and lights a candle, the gunshots of that night will not be swallowed by history.

The true dividing line drawn by June Fourth is not merely the line between the people and the regime. It is also the line between memory and forgetting, between dignity and mere survival, between silence and resistance. Some choose to forget because forgetting appears safe. Some choose silence because silence appears wise. Others choose to keep speaking because they understand that a nation that dares not look at its own wounds can never truly stand upright.

Today, we commemorate June Fourth not only to mourn the students and citizens who fell thirty-seven years ago, but also to tell the world this: the CCP’s so-called “stability” is built upon fear; its so-called “development” cannot erase a debt of blood; and its so-called “national rejuvenation,” if it cannot accommodate truth and freedom, is nothing more than a more sophisticated prison.

The real China should not belong to tanks and lies. It should not belong to censorship and informants. It should not belong to those who maintain their rule through deleting posts, making arrests, suspending accounts, and intimidating citizens. The real China should belong to those who raised banners in 1989, to those who safeguard memory in the darkness, and to those who, even in exile overseas, are still willing to speak out for the truth.

June Fourth has never ended. It lives on in every deleted word, in the eyes of every mother placed under surveillance, and in the hearts of every Chinese person who refuses to kneel.

Today, thirty-seven years later, we stand here not because we are strong, but because we cannot betray memory; not because we are without fear, but because we know that once fear becomes a habit, servitude becomes destiny.

May the dead rest in peace, and may the truth return.

May every person who refuses to forget become a spark that tyranny cannot extinguish.

May the day come when June Fourth is no longer commemorated only overseas, but can be publicly mourned on Chinese soil, truthfully recorded in history, and solemnly redressed.

Editor: Han LihuaProofreader: Xiong BianTranslator: Shen Meihua