作者：袁平
今天是美国独立日。这是一个本应值得欢庆的日子。
1776年7月4日，美国《独立宣言》向世界宣告：人人生而平等，生命、自由与追求幸福，是人与生俱来的权利。对于一个经历过专制社会的人来说，自由两个字，从来都不是一句口号，而是无数人用生命换来的东西。
然而，今年的独立日，我却怎么也高兴不起来。
就在两天前，7月2日，一位流亡藏人——洛嘎·让赞（LOGA RANGZEN），在联合国总部前点燃了自己的身体。我已经记不起，这是我所知道的第多少起藏人自焚事件。但每一次听到这样的消息，我都会沉默很久。因为，这不仅仅是一则新闻。
2009年开始，我在四川阿坝州工作、生活了五年多。此后的十几年里，我的人生轨迹几乎一直围绕成都和阿坝州展开。也许是因为我曾是一名NGO志愿者，也许是因为我从事的是文化遗产保护工作，也许只是因为我喜欢与当地人喝酒聊天、真诚相待，所以我有机会听到许多普通人永远不会知道的故事。
这些讲述者中，有参与过镇压工作的体制内人员，也有被镇压者的亲人、朋友和同学。
他们告诉我，他们如何向藏人开枪；告诉我人被打死后的样子；告诉我抓捕后的藏人被押进军营，被扒光衣服，再被关进用螺纹钢焊成的铁笼。那个笼子的高度，只够一个成年人匍匐爬行。他们长期被关在里面，风吹日晒，吃喝拉撒都在笼中完成。
还有人向我讲述，他们如何与军人一起，用枪托砸向那些抬起头来的藏人，又如何站在铁笼上，对着里面的人撒尿，以此羞辱他们。直到今天，这些画面依然停留在我的脑海里。
与此同时，我也听过很多藏族朋友讲述他们亲人、朋友和同学的遭遇。有人因此终身残疾，有人永远失去了生命。
我甚至曾经与一位刚从印度见过第十四世达赖喇嘛的老活佛有过很长时间的交流。他是我一位藏族兄弟的亲叔叔。让我惊讶的是，他能说一口极其标准的普通话。他说：”这普通话，是我在共产党的监狱里坐了十八年牢学会的。
那一刻，我沉默了很久。
2009年以前，我从未真正进入过中国的少数民族地区。直到汶川地震改变了我的人生。
借着志愿者的身份，我走遍了四川、青海许多藏族聚居区，也去过凉山彝族自治州，还曾在新疆一位哈萨克族朋友家生活了一个多月。这些经历，彻底改变了我对中国少数民族处境的理解。
小时候，我生活的城市里，经常能看到推着小车卖葡萄干和羊肉串的新疆商贩，也能看到腰间佩着藏刀、蹲在街边卖藏药的康巴汉子。我偷偷抓过人家的葡萄干，也偷偷摸过康巴汉子的藏刀。他们从来没有因为这些事情对我发过火，总是一脸憨厚地笑着。
后来，一切慢慢变了。
社会上开始不断流传各种关于他们的传闻。有人说藏人一言不合就拔刀。有人说新疆人偷鸡摸狗、横行霸道。甚至还有人说，他们杀了人警察也管不了。慢慢地，人们开始害怕他们、排斥他们。
我在成都武侯祠附近，不止一次看见这样的画面：一位藏人正常走在人行道上，迎面走来的汉族人却主动绕开。而那位藏人什么也没做。我后来才明白，这种恐惧，并不是来自真实的相处，而是来自长期的宣传。因为后来认识了越来越多少数民族朋友，我开始知道另一个完全不同的世界。他们并不是所谓的”无法无天”。恰恰相反。他们很多时候，比普通汉人承受着更加严厉的管理。
新疆朋友告诉我，他们已经很多年不敢在公共场合讲本民族语言。更不敢轻易承认自己的宗教信仰。因为一旦承认，接下来等待他们的，很可能就是无休止的盘问。有人因此失去自由。有人只是因为喝醉酒、因为街头争吵、因为一些外人看来微不足道的小事，就被送进所谓的”学习中心”。在那里，家人甚至不知道他们去了哪里。
我曾经和新疆朋友一起自驾旅行。每经过一个检查站，当地朋友都要下车。查身份证、录指纹、扫虹膜。而作为汉族游客的我，只需要坐在车里等待。每一次，我都觉得极度不舒服。
我终于意识到：同样生活在一个国家里，不同民族的人，所面对的世界竟然完全不同。
很多汉族人把藏区寺院简单理解成”烧香拜佛”。但真正生活在那里以后，我才知道，那远远不是全部。寺院不仅是宗教场所。它还是学校，是医院，是文化中心，也是语言、艺术和历史得以延续的重要地方。许多藏人，就是在那里学会识字。因此，当寺院被限制的时候，被影响的不只是宗教。更是整个民族文化的延续。
前不久公布的新法律第六条写道：”中华民族共同体意识是民族团结之本。国家坚持增进共同性、尊重和包容差异性……”这是一句很好听的话。但是，一个社会是否真正尊重差异，不应该看它写了什么，而应该看它做了什么。
真正的民族团结，不是让所有民族越来越像。而是每一个民族，都能够自由保留自己的语言、文化、信仰与生活方式。
很多人会把洛嘎·让赞的离去称作”自焚”。但在我心里，我始终觉得：他不是死于那一天的火焰。真正一步一步把他逼向火焰的，是长期压迫一个民族文化、宗教、语言和信仰自由的现实。
如果一个人能够自由表达自己的信仰，能够自由传承自己的文化，能够自由生活在自己的土地上，我相信，没有人会选择用这样痛苦的方式结束自己的生命。
所以，每一次藏人自焚，我看到的都不是一个人的死亡。我看到的是一个民族一次又一次向世界发出的呼喊。也是一个人在生命最后一刻，仍然告诉这个世界：
“我们还在。我们没有放弃。”
洛嘎·让赞，我并不认识你。但因为我曾生活在阿坝，曾听过太多藏人的故事，也曾与许多藏族朋友一起生活、工作、喝酒，所以今天，当我看到你的名字时，我知道，这不仅仅是一则新闻。
你的离去，让我再次想起那些我见过、听过、却始终无法忘记的人。
你的火焰，并没有照亮联合国的大楼，却给我带来了一丝光亮和温暖。它提醒我：不要沉默！
继续把自己知道的事情讲出来。哪怕只是让更多的人知道，世界上曾经有这样一个人，为了自己的民族、文化、信仰与尊严，选择燃烧自己。
今天，美国庆祝独立。而我，更愿意把这一天，献给一位为了自由而燃烧自己生命的人。
洛嘎·让赞（LOGA RANGZEN），请安息。
愿你的名字不会随着新闻过去而被遗忘。
愿你的牺牲，不只是短暂地照亮天空，而能成为更多人追求自由、尊严与真相的勇气。
我向你致敬。也向所有为了自由、为了信仰、为了民族文化、为了人的尊严而承受苦难的人，致以最深的敬意。愿有一天，没有人再需要用燃烧自己的身体，去告诉世界：自由，本来就属于每一个人。
编辑：张致君 校对：周敏 翻译：沈美花
Independence Day and the Self-Immolator
Written on American Independence Day
Author: Yuan Ping
Today is American Independence Day. It is a day that should originally be worthy of grand celebration.
On July 4, 1776, the American Declaration of Independence proclaimed to the world: all men are created equal, and that life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness are inherent, unalienable rights endowed upon mankind. For someone who has lived through an autocratic society, the word “freedom” has never been a mere slogan; rather, it is something that countless individuals have traded their very lives to attain.
However, on this year’s Independence Day, I find myself completely unable to rejoice.
Just two days ago, on July 2, a Tibetan in exile—Lobga Rangzen—set his own body on fire in front of the United Nations Headquarters. I can no longer remember which number this is among all the Tibetan self-immolation incidents I have come to know. Yet, every single time I hear such news, I fall into a long, profound silence. Because this is far more than just a piece of news.
Beginning in 2009, I worked and lived in the Ngawa (Aba) Tibetan and Qiang Autonomous Prefecture in Sichuan Province for over five years. In the dozen or so years that followed, the trajectory of my life has unfolded almost entirely around Chengdu and Ngawa. Perhaps because I was once an NGO volunteer, perhaps because I am engaged in cultural heritage preservation, or perhaps simply because I enjoy drinking, chatting, and treating the local people with absolute sincerity, I have had the opportunity to hear many stories that ordinary people will never know.
Among these narrators, there were establishment insiders who once participated in the crackdown operations, as well as the relatives, friends, and classmates of those who were suppressed.
They told me how they fired their weapons at Tibetans; they described what the bodies looked like after being shot dead; they recounted how captured Tibetans were escorted into military compounds, stripped naked, and then locked into iron cages welded together from rebar (threaded steel). The height of those cages was only sufficient for an adult to crawl on all fours. They were confined inside for prolonged periods, exposed to the blistering sun and biting wind, forced to eat, drink, sleep, and relieve themselves entirely within the confines of the cage.
There were others who recounted how they, alongside the soldiers, smashed their rifle butts into any Tibetan who dared to raise their head, and how they stood atop the iron cages, urinating on the people inside to humiliate them. To this very day, these images remain vividly frozen in my mind.
At the same time, I have listened to many Tibetan friends recount the ordeals suffered by their own relatives, friends, and classmates. Some were left permanently disabled, while others lost their lives forever.
I even once had a prolonged, deep conversation with an elderly Tulku (Living Buddha) who had just returned from meeting the 14th Dalai Lama in India. He was the biological uncle of a Tibetan brother of mine. To my astonishment, he spoke extremely flawless and standard Mandarin. He said: “This Mandarin of mine was learned during the eighteen years I spent behind bars in the Communist Party’s prison.”
At that exact moment, I fell into a long silence.
Prior to 2009, I had never truly set foot in China’s ethnic minority regions—until the Wenchuan earthquake completely altered the course of my life.
Leveraging my identity as a volunteer, I traveled across numerous Tibetan-populated areas in Sichuan and Qinghai; I also visited the Liangshan Yi Autonomous Prefecture, and once lived for over a month in the home of a Kazakh friend in Xinjiang. These experiences thoroughly transformed my understanding of the plight faced by ethnic minorities in China.
During my childhood, in the city where I lived, one could frequently see Xinjiang vendors pushing small carts to sell raisins and mutton skewers, or Khampa men with Tibetan knives strapped to their waists, squatting by the roadside selling traditional Tibetan medicine. I used to secretly snatch their raisins and stealthily touch the Khampa men’s knives. They never once lost their temper at me for these antics; they would always smile with pure, honest benevolence.
Later on, everything slowly began to change.
Various rumors about them began to circulate incessantly throughout society. Some said that Tibetans would draw their knives at the slightest disagreement. Others claimed that people from Xinjiang were thieves, scammers, and acted with tyrannical lawlessness. Some even asserted that even if they committed murder, the police could do nothing about it. Gradually, people began to fear them and ostracize them.
Near the Wuhou Temple in Chengdu, I witnessed the following scene on more than one occasion: a Tibetan would be walking completely normally on the sidewalk, yet the Han Chinese walking from the opposite direction would actively veer away to bypass them. Meanwhile, that Tibetan had done absolutely nothing. It was only later that I came to understand that this fear did not stem from real, lived interactions, but rather from protracted propaganda. Because I subsequently came to know more and more ethnic minority friends, I began to discover an entirely different world. They were not so-called “lawless” elements at all. Quite the contrary. In many instances, they bore a system of management far more severe than that imposed on ordinary Han Chinese.
My Xinjiang friends told me that for many years, they have not dared to speak their native language in public spaces. They dared even less to readily admit their religious faith. Because once they admitted it, what awaited them next would very likely be endless, grueling interrogations. Some lost their freedom as a result. Some were sent to the so-called “learning centers” simply because they got drunk, had a minor street altercation, or due to trivial matters that would seem completely insignificant to an outsider. Once there, their families did not even know where they had been taken.
I once went on a road trip with some friends from Xinjiang. Every time we crossed a checkpoint, my local friends had to step out of the vehicle to have their ID cards checked, fingerprints recorded, and irises scanned. Meanwhile, as a Han tourist, I only needed to sit inside the car and wait. Every single time, I felt an acute, profound sense of discomfort.
I finally realized: despite living within the very same country, people of different ethnicities face worlds that are diametrically opposed.
Many Han Chinese simplisticly conceptualize Tibetan monasteries as merely places to “burn incense and worship Buddha.” But only after truly living there did I realize that this is far from the whole truth. A monastery is not just a religious site. It is also a school, a hospital, a cultural hub, and a vital sanctuary where language, art, and history are kept alive and passed down. It is within those walls that many Tibetans learned how to read and write. Therefore, when monasteries are restricted, it is not merely religion that is impacted; it is the very continuity of an entire ethnic culture.
Not long ago, Article 6 of the newly promulgated law stated: “The consciousness of the Chinese nation’s community is the foundation of ethnic unity. The State adheres to enhancing commonality while respecting and accommodating differences…” These are beautiful, pleasant words. However, whether a society genuinely respects differences should not be judged by what it writes, but by what it actually does.
True ethnic unity does not mean forcing all ethnic groups to become more and more identical. Rather, it means that every single ethnic group is granted the complete freedom to preserve its own language, culture, faith, and way of life.
Many people will refer to the departure of Lobga Rangzen as a “self-immolation.” But in my heart, I have always felt that he did not die from the flames of that particular day. What truly pushed him, step by step, toward those flames was the reality of the long-term oppression weighing upon an entire nation’s culture, religion, language, and freedom of belief.
If a person could freely express their faith, freely inherit and pass down their culture, and freely live upon their own ancestral land, I believe that no one would ever choose to terminate their own life in such an excruciatingly painful manner.
Therefore, with every instance of a Tibetan self-immolation, what I see is never merely the death of an individual. What I see is an entire nation crying out to the world, over and over again. It is also a human being, in the final moment of their life, still telling this world:
“We are still here. We have not given up.”
Lobga Rangzen, I did not know you. But because I once lived in Ngawa (Aba), because I have heard all too many stories of Tibetans, and because I have lived, worked, and shared drinks with many Tibetan friends, today, when I see your name, I know with absolute certainty that this is far more than just a piece of news.
Your departure forces me once again to recall those people whom I have seen, whom I have heard of, and whom I can never, ever forget.
Your flames did not illuminate the buildings of the United Nations, yet they brought a shred of light and warmth to me. They serve as a stark reminder: Do not remain silent!
Continue to speak out about the things you know. Even if it is only to let more people know that there once existed such a person in this world, who, for the sake of his own nation, culture, faith, and dignity, chose to set himself ablaze.
Today, America celebrates its independence. As for me, I prefer to dedicate this day to a human being who burned his own life for the sake of freedom.
Lobga Rangzen, please rest in peace.May your name never be forgotten as the news cycle passes.
May your sacrifice be more than just a momentary flash illuminating the night sky; may it transform into the courage for more people to pursue freedom, dignity, and truth.
I salute you. I also extend my deepest, most profound respect to all those who endure suffering for the sake of freedom, for faith, for ethnic culture, and for human dignity. May there come a day when no one ever needs to burn their own body again just to tell the world: freedom, by right, belongs to every single human being.
Editor: Zhang Zhijun Proofreader: Zhou Min Translator: Shen Meihua
