—— 写在2025年感恩节
作者：张致君
编辑：李聪玲 责任编辑：鲁慧文 翻译：刘芳
十一月的美国，街道依旧温暖如春，风吹过，树叶翻动，没有声响，仿佛怕惊醒谁。街角的商店里，南瓜和肉桂的气味混杂火鸡的香气，扑向人群，我闻到自己过去逃亡的阴影，那些味道熟悉又陌生。
我走过黑暗的地方。黑暗不仅没有光，它还会把人压成灰，甚至让人怀疑自己是否存在。有人在清晨敲门，脚步声轻轻，却像利刃一样穿透耳膜，让人心跳漏拍。
我曾被逼迫、被监控、被剥夺表达的权利，甚至在想象中被剥夺生命。自由，对我来说，是一个遥不可及的词。现在，它像一阵风，轻轻掠过，却让我泪流满面。
我第一次在这里过感恩节。餐桌上的火鸡、土豆泥、南瓜派、蔓越莓，每一种食物都带着一种温暖和象征。但我坐在那里时，眼里看到的却是影子：自己在黑暗里长久的身影，与餐桌上亮堂的光形成刺目的对比。
如今的我被美国重新接住。而正因经历过失去自由、失去尊严、甚至失去生命保障的恐惧，才更能体会今天的光亮来之不易。
很长一段时间，国际公约法对许多人来说只是新闻上的名词：联合国大会、1951年《难民地位公约》、1967年《议定书》、禁止驱回原则（non-refoulement）。它们听上去庞大、抽象、遥远，像是属于外交官或法律专家的语言。
但当我第一次面对面和移民官交谈时，我忽然明白了一件事情：
世界上至少有一些国家愿意听你的故事，愿意保护你免受迫害。
在中国，当人们因言论被监控、因参与民主运动而受威胁，“合法权益”不过是讽刺性的空话。公约写着：当有人因政治迫害、宗教压迫、言论受限或持不同政见而受威胁时，他有权逃离，有权寻求保护。
我第一次意识到，这不是法律的炫耀，而是给最脆弱的人留的一扇门。
这扇门不看你的肤色，不看你的财富，也不看你的国籍。它只问：你是否正在被伤害？你是否需要保护？
《难民公约》规定，一个人因为政治迫害、宗教压迫、言论自由受限制或因持不同政见而遭受威胁时，有权逃离、寻求保护。
这种保护能让受伤的人能继续前行，能给与恶政缠斗的人最后一丝希望。
它告诉挺身而出的人，公义一直都与我们同在。
逃亡并不浪漫。
它是惊惧，是夜里的躲避，是随时被抓捕的风险，是在机场递出护照时心跳的剧烈。
但也正是在逃亡的路上，我第一次真正体会到“国际社会”这个词的重量。
我遇到过来自人权组织的志愿者，他们为陌生人争取权利，却从不求回报；遇到那些经历过类似迫害的人，他们毫不犹豫地分享经验、鼓励、甚至提供临时住所；遇到来自教会、非营利机构、慈善团体的人，他们愿意帮忙写支持信，愿意陪伴一起准备面谈，愿意在最疲惫的时候彼此祷告。
我曾以为世界只讲利益，但我后来见到另一个世界：制度可以冷漠，国家可以沉默，但人心仍然会颤动。这些手像无形的网，把从高处坠落的人慢慢托住。
那一刻，我意识到文明不是 GDP，也不是军力，而是有人在陌生人跌倒时弯下腰。
这力量把难民从崩溃的边缘重塑起来。
“谢谢你们。我们没有被世界遗弃。”
逃亡的时期，我常常问自己：
“为什么是我？”
“苦难是否有意义？”
“上帝是否在沉默？”
但渐渐地，我明白了一件事：
基督并不承诺我们不会经历风暴，祂承诺的是：
当风暴来临时，你不要害怕，因为我与你同在。
我读《出埃及记》，读到一个民族在压迫下被上帝带出埃及；读《诗篇》，读到大卫在绝望中仍然说：“耶和华是我的牧者”；读《马太福音》，读到耶稣在婴孩时期也曾逃亡埃及；读《约翰福音》，读到“光照在黑暗里，黑暗却不能胜过光”。
那一刻，我突然明白：逃亡不是羞耻，而是信仰历史的一部分。
每个政治难民的故事，都与圣经里的那些逃亡者一样：都是在黑暗中寻找光的人。
在我最无助的时候，是教会的人为我祷告；在我最焦虑的时候，是牧者告诉我：“你不是偶然来到这里，是上帝亲自带你到安全之地”；在我第一次过感恩节的时候，是一个美国家庭打开家门，邀请我一起吃饭，对我说：
“你现在也是我们的一部分。”
基督信仰教我看见：
恩典不是从天而降的奇迹，恩典常常借着人来显明。
感恩节的意义，也从来不是那只火鸡。
它象征的是一种“走过死亡，仍然活着”的见证。
这种象征仿佛也在对我说，政治难民的感恩，不是繁荣的感恩，而是生存的感恩；不是富足的感恩，而是被接纳的感恩；不是成功的感恩，而是自由的感恩。
我从黑暗里出来，在一个自由的国度重新获得呼吸的权利的感恩。
如今我走在街上，听见警车经过不再紧张，看到政府大楼不再避让，晚上睡觉不再担心有人敲门。这些对普通美国人而言毫不起眼的小事，对我来说却是最珍贵的自由。
所以，当我数算恩典时，我知道这不仅是幸运，而是使命。
我被美国保护过，所以我愿意守住背后的价值。
我被基督拯救过，所以我愿意去成为别人的安慰。
我愿意用自己的见证告诉世界：
迫害无论多么强大，都无法阻挡一个人追求自由；
黑暗无论多深，都无法遮盖光的脚步；
一个国家越压制真相，越证明真相的重要。
更重要的是，国际社会愿意告诉那些正在受迫害、正在逃亡、正在等待庇护结果的人：
你们并不孤单。
世界上有法律、有制度、有组织、有信仰、有许多人，愿意在黑暗中与你们同行。
而我们需要，带着恩典，继续前行。
Counting Grace
— Written for Thanksgiving 2025
Author: Zhang Zhijun
Editor: Li Congling Executive Editor: Lu Huiwen Translator: Liu Fang
Abstract:As Zhang Zhijun spends Thanksgiving in the United States, she looks back on her journey of escape and reflects on the grace of freedom, asylum, and faith. She recalls the support she received from the international community, human rights organizations, and the Church during her darkest hours. She now resolves to guard freedom with her own story, to comfort others in need, and to keep walking forward in grace.
In November, the streets of America still feel as warm as spring. When the wind blows, the leaves turn over without making a sound, as if afraid to wake someone. In the shops on the corner, the scent of pumpkin and cinnamon mixes with the aroma of roast turkey and rushes toward the crowd. I inhale it and suddenly smell the shadow of my past escape—familiar, yet distant.
I have walked through dark places. Darkness is not merely the absence of light; it presses a person into dust and makes one doubt whether they exist at all. Someone knocks on the door at dawn, the footsteps soft yet cutting through the ear like a blade, making the heart skip in fear.
I had been persecuted, monitored, deprived of the right to speak—stripped, even in imagination, of the right to live. Freedom, to me, was once a word out of reach. Now it brushes past like a gentle breeze and brings tears to my eyes.
This is my first Thanksgiving here. The turkey, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie, and cranberries on the table each carry their own warmth and symbolism. But as I sat there, what I saw were shadows: the long silhouette of myself in darkness, standing in sharp contrast to the bright light shining over the table.
Today, America has caught me once again, allowing me to land safely. And precisely because I once lost freedom, dignity, and even the basic assurance of life itself, I can now feel how precious today’s light truly is.
For a long time, international conventions were nothing more than terms heard in the news: the UN General Assembly, the 1951 Refugee Convention, the 1967 Protocol, the principle of non-refoulement. They sounded grand, abstract, distant—language belonging to diplomats and legal experts. But the first time I sat face-to-face with an immigration officer, I suddenly understood something: there are at least some countries in this world willing to hear your story, willing to protect you from persecution.
In China, when people are monitored for their speech or threatened for participating in democracy movements, “lawful rights” are little more than ironic empty words. The Convention states that when someone is threatened due to political persecution, religious oppression, restricted speech, or dissenting beliefs, they have the right to flee and the right to seek protection.
And for the first time, I realized this was not the law showing off—it was a door left open for the most vulnerable. This door does not look at your skin color, your wealth, or your nationality. It asks only: Are you being harmed? Do you need protection?
The Refugee Convention affirms that when a person faces political persecution, religious oppression, restrictions on speech, or threats due to dissenting views, they have the right to escape and the right to seek asylum. Such protection allows the wounded to keep moving and gives those struggling under tyranny one last thread of hope.
It tells those who stand up for justice that righteousness has never left their side.
Escape is not romantic. It is fear—hiding in the night, risking arrest at any moment, feeling your heartbeat pounding as you hand your passport over at the airport.
But it was on that journey of escape that I first understood the true weight of the words “international community.”
I met volunteers from human rights organizations who fought for the rights of strangers without asking for anything in return; I met people who had endured persecution themselves, who readily shared their experience, encouragement, and even temporary shelter; I met people from churches, nonprofits, and charitable groups who were willing to write support letters, prepare me for interviews, and pray alongside me when I felt most exhausted.
I once thought the world only cared about interests. But later I saw another world: where systems can be cold and nations silent, yet human hearts still tremble with compassion. These hands, like an invisible net, gently catch those falling from great heights. In that moment, I understood that civilization is not GDP or military power—it is the willingness of someone to bend down when a stranger has fallen.
This strength reshapes refugees on the edge of collapse.
“Thank you. We have not been abandoned by the world.”
During the long days of escape, I often asked myself: “Why me?” “Does suffering have meaning?” “Is God silent?”
But gradually, I understood something: Christ never promises that we will not encounter storms. He promises this: When the storm comes, do not be afraid—for I am with you.
I read the Book of Exodus, and saw an entire nation led out of oppression by God; I read the Psalms, and saw David declare, even in despair, “The Lord is my shepherd”; I read the Gospel of Matthew, where Jesus Himself fled to Egypt as an infant; I read the Gospel of John, where it is written: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
In that moment, I understood: escape is not shameful—it is part of the history of faith.
Every political refugee’s story resembles those ancient stories of flight in Scripture. Each one is a person seeking light in the midst of darkness.
When I was helpless, it was the Church that prayed for me; when I was anxious, it was the pastor who told me, “You are not here by accident. God Himself brought you to a place of safety.” And during my first Thanksgiving, it was an American family who opened their door, invited me to share their meal, and said to me: “You are part of us now.”
Faith taught me this: grace is not always a miracle that falls from the sky—grace is often revealed through people.
And the meaning of Thanksgiving has never been just about the turkey. It symbolizes a testimony—a life that has walked through death, yet remains alive.
It tells me that the gratitude of a political refugee is not the gratitude of prosperity, but the gratitude of survival; not the gratitude of abundance, but the gratitude of being accepted; not the gratitude of success, but the gratitude of freedom.
I came out of darkness, and in a free land I regained the right to breathe.
Now, when I walk down the street, the sound of a police car no longer tightens my chest; I no longer avoid government buildings; I no longer fear a knock on the door at night. These may seem trivial to ordinary Americans, but to me they are the most precious expressions of freedom.
So when I count grace, I know it is not merely fortune—it is calling.
America has protected me, so I will guard the values behind that protection.Christ has saved me, so I will become comfort for others.
With my story, I want to tell the world:
No matter how powerful persecution appears, it cannot stop a person from seeking freedom.No matter how deep the darkness, it cannot extinguish the steps of light.The more fiercely a regime suppresses truth, the more it proves the truth’s importance.
And above all, the international community wants those who are persecuted, fleeing, or waiting for asylum decisions to know this:
You are not alone.There are laws, institutions, organizations, faith communities, and countless people in this world willing to walk with you through the darkness.
And we must continue forward, carrying grace.
