作者：袁崛 中国民主党党史法规部部长
编辑：周志刚 责任编辑：侯改英 校对：程筱筱

中共于1997年收回香港后，对香港自由人权的打压一直没有停止，香港人的言论自由被逐步压缩。2015年原锣铜湾书店股东桂民海被中共从泰国绑架回港审判，香港人连批评政府、出版书籍的自由都没有了。中共承诺给香港人的特首和立法委员普选则完全沦为一场欺骗。2019年特区政府在北京授意下提交《逃犯条例修订草案》，该草案将允许把香港居民及在港人士直接移交至中国大陆受审，被普遍视为破坏香港原有独立法制的最后防线。从而引发了一场香港各阶层的全民抗议运动。

我当时在广州工作，每天都在关注香港运动局势，希望香港民主力量能够早日实现他们的诉求，实现香港人对特区行政长官和立法会的双普选。

但7月21日晚发生的元朗袭击事件，警方与黑社会合谋蓄意中伤民主运动并致和平示威者被暴力袭击引发流血事件引发了香港人的空前愤怒，推动了冲突的加剧。8月份正好是暑假，我决定亲赴香港见证并参与这场历史性的运动，支持香港人的民主诉求。

8月28日我从广州出发，29日中午到达香港，一到旺角，就看到尖沙咀街道上，到处都涂鸦着“林郑下台!”、“五大诉求，缺一不可!”、“光复香港，时代革命”的文字。30日，我到新亚书院原址和香港中文大学参观，这是余英时先生曾就读和工作的母校，也是上世纪六十年代新儒家文化运动发起的重镇。中文大学校园里有陈维明老师创作的“民主女神像”。当年我只是在线上久闻老师大名，没想到4年后，我也来到了美国洛杉矶，可以常去陈老师的自由雕塑公园，甚至还主持了陈老师的讲座。接触越深越被陈老师彻底反共的实干精神所折服，这是后话。

我从网络上得知8月31日会有大规模的抗议活动，上午我来到香港的民主圣地维多利亚公园。这里每年都举办六四纪念活动，最多时参加人数达上百万。我到达时，维园人群正在聚集，气氛已隐约紧绷。

附近的遮打花园则有较多市民聚集，媒体记者几乎占据了现场每一个角落。我第一次亲身经历这样大规模的抗议场面，心中既紧张又激动。

后我又坐地铁去香港特区政府，我看到办公楼被水马团团围住了，根本进不去。特区政府外面，聚集了上千的示威者，他们向政府办公楼里面的警察愤怒抗议，我深感现场情绪激烈压抑，仿佛冲突一触即发。

我在那里碰到了一位香港市民彭哥，他是广州白云区石井人，小时候便来了香港。问他现在居住环境怎么样，他说一家人挤在30多平米的房子里。我好奇30多平米怎么容得下一家四口？他说勉强住得下，这在香港已经算得上是很不错的居所了，因为大部分人都买不起房，只能租住十来个平米的房子，租金每月五千多港币。彭哥告诉我，这场反送中抗议主要是社会因素，香港房价高启，普通人根本买不起房看不到未来。他们希望政府能倾听他们的诉求，能够考虑普通民众的利益，而不是被权贵势力所挟持。我和彭哥跟着抗议人群走了一段时间，聊起香港人关心的话题随后我们便坐地铁到铜锣湾，那时已经是下午，我们又跟着抗议的人群一起走。我还记得我在九记牛肉吃了碗牛肉面，花费80港币。——在紧张混乱的氛围中，那一碗热气腾腾的面如今回想起来依然显得格外真实。

到了傍晚，铜锣湾街头愈发紧张起来。有上千名示威者在和警方对峙。示威者有序持续的抗议口号声此起彼伏，情绪高涨而凝重。对面几十辆警车开过来，后面的警察还拿着枪，我紧跟示威队伍，跟着他们一起喊口号抗议。警察依托着警车的阵线步步紧逼，抗议人群被压迫后退，警方时不时释放催泪弹划出一道道白色的烟雾，试图驱散游行队伍。勇武派也很有经验，冲在前面的戴有防毒面具，并用雨伞来抵挡催泪弹。中间有催泪弹打过来时，我没反应过来，以为是普通烟雾。闻到后感觉非常呛人，不到一分钟就眼睛很痛睁不开，眼泪鼻涕不停的流，头也痛，我受伤了。旁边的年轻人看到了，立即把我扶到街边，用药水为我清洗眼睛和脸部，疼痛才逐渐好转，我强忍不适，不断向他道谢。那一刻，在混乱与压迫中，这份陌生人的善意就像为民主所作的抗争那般格外沉重而温暖。休息片刻后，我再加入示威人群，我们逐步后退，也在路上设置路障，想阻止警察往前推进。旁边的群众大多是同情和支持示威者的人，他们不断地责骂警察，向示威人群呐喊助威，可见大多数民众是支持示威者的，这也是这场运动的民意基础。人群中我碰到一个来自重庆的外国青年王为，他会中文，和他交流得知他是波兰人。在上海给中国银行的员工做培训，因为写文章批评中共的新疆政策，借上海警察传唤之机，买机票来到了香港。跟我一样他希望亲眼见证并声援这场运动。

最终，赤手空拳的示威者对抗不住警察的武装压迫，逐步向后退散。我一直走到维多利亚公园附近，返回旺角。那晚地铁线金钟站不停，我在荃湾线上车了，但地铁又不开动，只得绕远路走到香港站，转机场线到达奥运站。回到酒店，我在附近吃点东西充饥时，看到新闻上说警察在太子地铁站抓人，逢人查包，不分男女老少，很多示威青年在地铁站被戴口罩的黑衣人暴力击伤，场面一度暴力混乱。我又赶到太子站附近的旺角警署，发现已经有几百人聚集在门口与警察对峙，高喊口号“光复香港，时代革命”，也有骂警察的，用镭射笔照楼上的警察。那时已经是凌晨2-3点，这群年轻人没有一丝畏惧和退意，我在门口又碰到了那个外国青年王为，因为是第二次碰到，我们便多聊了会。他是跟着示威人群一起走过来的，我们互加了微信。他现在也投奔了自由，来到洛杉矶，这是后话。

对峙持续到凌晨4-5点，警察开始发动大规模的冲击，我们只得撤退并逃散，我很幸运地在混乱中只跑了两条街就搭乘一辆的士回到了酒店。

作者（方格衬衣斜挎包者，可惜没拍到正脸）在旺角警署门口与示威青年一起抗议

后记

发生在铜锣湾和太子站的抗议活动是整个反送中运动中最重大的抗议与袭击事件，我有幸见证并参与其中。这场声势浩大，香港人广泛参与的抗议运动极大地改变了香港的政治形势。中共虽然短时间内让特首林郑宣布撤回《逃犯条例修订草案》，但是不久借中国人大通过《香港国家安全法》，把香港所有的抗议游行活动都以违反国家安全法为由取消，并把香港所有的民主运动人士一网打尽，如香港知名的反对运动领袖人物如黎智英、黄之锋，香港民主党的李卓人、何俊仁、邹幸彤等，更有香港2020年立法会选举民主派初选案参与者胡志伟、戴耀廷、区诺轩、何桂蓝等47人被指违反《香港国家安全法》，以涉嫌“颠覆国家政权罪”逮捕并判刑，至此，香港的民主与法治荡然无存，香港的司法机关已经完全沦为中共专制控制香港人的工具，中共所谓的“五十年不变”的虚假承诺已经完全被拆穿。

Participating in the Sixth Anniversary of Hong Kong’s Anti–Extradition Movement

Author: Yuan Jue, Director of the Historical and Legal Affairs Department of the China Democracy Party
Editor: Zhou Zhigang Executive Editor: Hou Gaiying
Proofreader: Cheng Xiaoxiao Translator:Xiaomei Peng

Abstract

The author recounts his experience during Hong Kong’s “Anti–Extradition Bill” movement, including conversations with local citizens about their demands and his eyewitness account of the August 31 police assault at Prince Edward Station and Causeway Bay.

Since the Chinese Communist Party (CCP) resumed sovereignty over Hong Kong in 1997, its suppression of freedoms and human rights has never ceased. Hong Kong’s space for free expression has been steadily shrinking. In 2015, Gui Minhai—shareholder of the Causeway Bay Books—was kidnapped by CCP agents from Thailand and brought back to China for trial. Hong Kongers realized that even the freedom to criticize the government or publish books had been taken away. Beijing’s promise of universal suffrage for both the Chief Executive and Legislative Council became a blatant lie. In 2019, under Beijing’s direction, the Hong Kong government introduced the Fugitive Offenders Ordinance Amendment Bill, which would allow Hong Kong residents and visitors to be extradited directly to mainland China for trial. This was widely seen as the final blow to Hong Kong’s judicial independence. As a result, citizens from all walks of life launched a massive, territory-wide protest movement.

But the July 21 Yuen Long attack—where police colluded with triad gangs to assault peaceful protesters—triggered unprecedented public fury and dramatically escalated the conflict. As August coincided with summer break, I decided to travel to Hong Kong, to witness and take part in this historic movement, and to stand in solidarity with Hong Kong’s fight for democracy.

I left Guangzhou on August 28 and arrived in Hong Kong at noon on the 29th. As soon as I reached Mong Kok and Tsim Sha Tsui, I saw graffiti everywhere: “Carrie Lam must step down!”“Five demands, not one less!” “Liberate Hong Kong, revolution of our times! “On the 30th, I visited the original site of New Asia College and the Chinese University of Hong Kong (CUHK)—the alma mater and workplace of the late historian Yu Ying-shih, and a major center of the New Confucian movement in the 1960s. On campus stands Master Chen Weiming’s “Goddess of Democracy.” Back then, I had only admired Chen’s work online. I never imagined that four years later I would come to Los Angeles, regularly visit his Liberty Sculpture Park, and even host his lectures. The deeper I interacted with him, the more I admired his steadfast and action-oriented anti-CCP spirit—but that is another story.

I learned online that a large protest was scheduled for August 31. In the morning, I went to Victoria Park, Hong Kong’s “democracy sanctuary,” where the annual June Fourth vigil once drew over one million people. When I arrived, crowds were gathering, and the tension was palpable.

Nearby, at Chater Garden, more citizens and media reporters filled nearly every corner. It was my first time personally experiencing a protest of such scale—I felt both nervous and exhilarated.

Later, I took the MTR to the Hong Kong government headquarters. The building was completely barricaded. Thousands of protesters had gathered outside, shouting in anger toward the police behind the barriers. The atmosphere was so intense it felt like violent clashes could erupt at any moment.

There, I met a Hong Kong citizen named Brother Peng, originally from Shijing in Guangzhou’s Baiyun District. He told me that four family members squeezed into a 30-square-meter apartment. I was shocked—how could four people fit into such a small space? He said that, in Hong Kong, this was already a “good” home; most people couldn’t afford to buy any property and had to rent rooms of barely ten square meters, with rent exceeding HK$5,000 a month. He told me the Anti–Extradition movement was rooted in social inequality—sky-high housing prices had crushed young people’s hopes for the future. They simply wanted their government to listen to ordinary citizens, instead of being controlled by powerful interest groups. We walked with the protest marches for a while, then took the MTR to Causeway Bay. I still remember eating a bowl of beef noodles at Kau Kee for HK$80—a small moment of warmth amid the tension, still vivid in my memory. (It is said Leslie Cheung used to dine there often.)

By evening, the streets of Causeway Bay were growing increasingly tense. Thousands of protesters faced off with lines of police. Protest slogans rose again powerful, disciplined, and filled with determination. Dozens of police vehicles advanced, officers armed with guns marching behind them. I stayed with the protesters, chanting slogans. The police, shielded behind their vehicles, kept pushing forward. Tear gas canisters streaked across the air, leaving trails of white smoke. Veteran frontline protesters, equipped with gas masks and umbrellas, expertly blocked the canisters. One tear gas round landed near me. I didn’t realize what it was at first—until the strong, choking fumes hit me. Within seconds my eyes were burning, tears streamed uncontrollably, and my head throbbed. I was injured. Immediately, a nearby young protester rushed over and pulled me to the side, using medical solution to wash my eyes and face. The pain gradually eased. I thanked him repeatedly. In that moment—during chaos and oppression—the kindness of a stranger felt overwhelmingly powerful, a reminder of the humanity behind this struggle. After resting briefly, I rejoined the crowd. We continued retreating while setting up roadblocks to slow the police advance. Many bystanders were openly supportive, shouting encouragement and cursing the police. The people’s sympathy for the protesters formed the backbone of the entire movement. Among the crowd I met a foreigner named Wang Wei, a Polish man who spoke Chinese. He had trained employees at the Bank of China in Shanghai. After being summoned by Shanghai police for criticizing Beijing’s Xinjiang policies, he seized the opportunity to flee to Hong Kong. Like me, he wanted to witness and support the movement firsthand.

Eventually, the unarmed protesters could no longer withstand the police’s armed assault and dispersed. I walked back toward Victoria Park and returned to Mong Kok. That night, service on the MTR’s Admiralty line was suspended. I boarded a train on the Tsuen Wan Line, but it remained stuck. After detours through Hong Kong Station and the Airport Express, I finally reached Olympic Station and returned to my hotel. As I was eating near the hotel, news broke police stormed Prince Edward Station, indiscriminately beating passengers and checking bags. Masked men in black brutally assaulted many young protesters. The scene was chaotic and violent. I rushed to the Mong Kok Police Station. Hundreds of people had gathered outside, confronting the police, chanting “Liberate Hong Kong, revolution of our times!” and shining laser pointers at officers in the building. It was already 2–3 a.m., yet these young people showed no fear or retreat. Unexpectedly, I ran into Wang Wei again. Since it was our second meeting, we chatted longer and added each other on WeChat. He has since also embraced freedom and made his way to Los Angeles—another story.

The standoff lasted until 4–5 a.m., when the police launched a large-scale assault. We were forced to flee. Fortunately, I managed to run only two streets before catching a taxi back to my hotel.

(Photo: The author—wearing a checked shirt and shoulder bag—protesting with young demonstrators at Mong Kok Police Station.)

The clashes at Causeway Bay and Prince Edward Station were among the most significant events of the entire Anti–Extradition movement. I was fortunate to witness and participate in them. This massive, city-wide protest fundamentally reshaped Hong Kong’s political landscape. Although the CCP eventually forced Carrie Lam to withdraw the extradition bill, Beijing soon used the National People’s Congress to impose the Hong Kong National Security Law, banning all protests and arresting nearly every pro-democracy figure. Prominent leaders such as Jimmy Lai and Joshua Wong were jailed; Democratic Party figures Lee Cheuk-yan, Albert Ho, and Chow Hang-tung were imprisoned. The 47 participants of the democratic primary—including Wu Chi-wai, Benny Tai, Au Nok-hin, and Gwyneth Ho—were charged with “subversion” and sentenced. Hong Kong’s democracy and rule of law have since been eliminated. Its judicial institutions have become tools of CCP authoritarian control. Beijing’s promise of “fifty years unchanged” has been exposed as a complete lie.

采访人：张致君 录音：常坤 资料整理：张致君/林小龙 编辑：张致君 翻译：彭小梅

视频接通的那一刻，映入眼帘的是南方永恒的灰白天空——潮湿、沉闷，像随时会落下雨，却又一直憋着。我坐在一个普通得不能再普通的出租屋里：一张桌子，一壶凉掉的茶。谢文飞在电话另一端左右环视了一下，看了看身边路过的人对我说：屋子里讲话不方便，我在外面和你通话。

    谢文飞比我想象得瘦。皮肤有点黑，脸颊有些凹，眼下轻微浮肿。说话声音不大，但每一句都像是从一个很深、很暗的地方被捞起来的。我先按惯例问一些很“日常”的问题——睡得好不好，吃得正不正常。他回答习惯先停一停，再开口，好像在确认自己说出的每个字，都不是随便丢出来的。

    他笑了笑，把头稍微侧过去：“睡得不好是常态了。身体非常糟糕，精神也在崩溃的边缘，整个人像被掏空了一样。”

    我问：“出狱以后一直这样？”

    他点头：“经常是这样，我给自己限定了一个时间，把状态尽可能调整回来。还没完全达到自己设想的“恢复水平”，但总算从谷底爬上来一点”。

“我愿意陪他一起坐牢”

 我问他：“最早，是从什么时候开始关注公共议题的？是什么让你从一个普通打工者，走上街头？”

 他想了几秒，视线掠过去，像是在从一条漫长而混乱的记忆隧道里，摸索一个起点。

“我从小就是嫉恶如仇的性格，十六岁出来打工，期间也遇到很多不公的事情。”他说。

     2013 年，他在网上看到中国民主党安徽党员张林的女儿“张安妮”事件，刘卫国律师在琥珀小学门口点着蜡烛，手里拿着文件，在街上宣读《国际人权公约》。这一幕非常打动他。当时的谢文飞还在工厂上班，没有机会到现场。但是从此以后他知道了在这个国家里还有可以播种希望的人，这是他所向往的。一直到7月16日，许志永因为关注教育平权、呼吁官员公开财产、组织公民讨论会的公民运动被关进看守所。他说“我当时看到网上有很多人在为许志永呼吁，但我想要去所有的公共场所为他呐喊。”那天他手机屏幕的光晃得眼睛发酸，他一口气敲了好几篇微博。“我当时发了一系列微博，大意就是：‘许志永是为了13亿人的自由失去了自己的自由。如果13亿人没有几个人敢站出来，这个民族是没有希望的。我愿意陪他一起坐牢’。”他说这段时没有夸张，没有激昂，只是平静。“我当时觉得总得有人说点什么。 我把手机号公开发出去了。”

刚开始很长时间，没有人联系他。 “大概都觉得我很可疑，”他笑，“后来很多人告诉我，当时觉得我是出来钓鱼的。直到后来，一个又一个人联系他 “到了广州之后，我才意识到：原来这个国家还有这么一群人。以前都以为自己是孤独的。”那几年，他陆续接触到更多在街头举牌、散传单、呼吁权利的人。

“街头，是最能让普通人看到现实的地方。”他说这句话时，语气很笃定。“你站在那里，就是在告诉别人：‘我不是屏幕上的头像，我是真人在这里，我公开的表达我的诉求。’ 那种冲击力，通过网络传播到全世界，感染更多人。街头运动的大家相互配合，没有在任何的人的指示和指导下进行”。

有时候，他们在公园举牌，也有人好奇地停下来，有人远远看看，又很快走开。当周围的人一个个被抓、被判刑，他说，“有的人被关押被失踪突然就失联了。 旁观，也是逃避。如果因为害怕你什么都不做，那就跟默认这个体制没区别。”之后一年多，他们在广州、佛山等地做了无数街头行动：

在江边呼吁释放良心犯；在市政府附近举牌，要求官员公开财产；在公园门口纪念被遗忘的死者；在车站、地铁口，向匆匆赶路的人递上一张写有主张公民权利，呼吁建立民主中国的小卡片。

“每一次出门，都要做好随时消失的准备。”他说这句话很慢。“在这种环境下，你不可能每次都能平安到家。但站在街头那一刻，我反而更踏实——因为至少那一分钟，我知道自己在做什么。这是我内心里抑制不住的冲动。”

有人误以为他是语文老师，或者某种“知识分子”。“很多人说我写文章像文化人，”他笑了一下，“其实我初中都没毕业。我写东西，不是为了当作家，而是一个普通人对社会最基本的追问。”

“工厂里的那些年，可能就是把那些问题一点一点憋在心里，后来，一旦有了说出来、写出来的机会，就再也装不回去了。”

131专案

“我早就做好了被抓捕的准备”谢文飞平静地说，“和我同案的王默被抓后，身边的朋友就劝我得低调行事，如果运动的人都被抓进去就无人在外声援。我知道或早晚都要被抓，我不能停止对正义的守护。”

警察虽对外说是“429”抓捕的谢文飞，但是早就在1月28日准备好了材料，18本卷宗。“我进去的第一周，他们就给我看了我的2本卷宗，立的是131专案，说是他们掌握的材料显示，许志永来郴州找我，我和他一起去了趟长沙，这一个事情就是一件专案。”而谢文飞的回答是，他和许志永素未谋面，即使同坐一辆出租车去长沙，也不知道旁边那位戴着口罩和帽子的人就是许博士。一个星期后当局就决定完全以谢文飞的推特言论给他定罪。

“判刑判了两次，派出所是家常便饭。2013年10月第一次进看守所，10个小时就被戴上了手铐脚镣，然后持续半个月带“背背枷”和脚镣。2014年10月，我也是进去不到10个小时就戴上了戒具，然后就是‘穿针铐’。”

铁环和0.18 平方米的铁笼子

我们谈到他多次被捕，其中聊到了在里面的酷刑。谢文飞停顿一刻长舒一口气：“到现在我的状态也不是那么稳定，既然聊到了，就简单说一下”。他低头想了几秒，说：“穿针铐，他们把我四肢都固定在一个直径只有十公分左右的铁环上，四肢被迫并拢，不是躺，也不是坐，你整个人是被‘钉’在那里。”那种姿势，人不是完全悬空，但也不存在所谓的“支撑点”。所有重量都集中在关节和骨头上，每一分每一秒都在提醒你——你是在遭受酷刑的。

“二十多个小时，不给喝水，不让上厕所。实在憋不住，就让你对着桶解决。”他停顿了一下，像是在斟酌用词。“这是羞辱，不只是肉体折磨，是要让你觉得自己已经不是人。”二十多个小时后，双脚仍然要固定在同一个位置，持续了5天，接着又是持续10天的“8字镣”——一双脚被铁镣成“8”字铐在一起。这是我第3次进看守所。”

“他们这样虐待您，是要从您这里获取消息，还是让您认罪还是单纯的取乐？”

谢文飞说警察知道这样的方式不会让他认罪，只是想让他屈服。第一天，看守所的牢头狱霸就在警察默许下对他群殴，看守所再利用“打架”的名义惩罚他。“你只要写个认错保证书，我们就放了你”，我坚决不写。后来在郴州监狱，我还被关进过 0.18 平方米和0.7平方米、3米多高的铁笼子。

我在脑海里试图想象 0.18 平方米——那是一个成年人无法转身，也伸不开腿的空间。

“我在铁笼子里被持续关了半个月。”衣服湿透、再干、再湿透。空气里像是蒸着铁锈和汗水。“那一瞬间，你知道你已经不是‘人’了，你只是他们关押的物理对象。”谢文飞说。“我甚至觉得我不能活着走出监狱。”

疼痛，会留下影子。

“所谓自由，不过是思想苟且、灵魂麻木、行动有限” 

我念给他听他写的一句：“世人以为的自由，只不过是思想上的苟且，灵魂的麻木，加上行动上的有限自由罢了。”

他听完，轻轻点头。“大多数人觉得自己自由，是因为他们不去想、不去碰那些不舒服的地方，”他说，“只要不去触碰那些禁区，在自己的小圈子里转，就会以为，这就是正常生活。”

我问：“那你想要的自由是什么？”

他想了想，说：“能自由的坚持公义”，他说这几个字的时候，特别慢。 “我没有选择在恐惧里闭嘴。如果连最基本的说话都不敢，那活着对我来说就没什么意义了。”

只要事实摆在那里，只要有人出来说真话，只要有足够多的痛苦被看见，就会有人愿意承担一点代价，一点责任。

总会有人在这些坚持里得到启发。

给年轻一代：保持思考，就是在反抗

我问他：“你会对现在的年轻人说什么？”

他沉默了几秒，似乎是在字斟句酌，“别以为沉默能换来安全。”他说，“公共表达不是英雄主义，而是义务。”

他说“白纸运动”让他看到一些希望——那些深夜举着白纸、在街头默默站立的年轻人，让他知道：这个社会的麻木不是绝对的。“但我也明白，真正准备好长期承受代价的人，还是极少数。”他对年轻人说的不是“去上街”，而是：“请保持独立思考。”

“当你觉得哪里不对劲时，那不是你想多了——而是你还活着。”

他承认，有时候，「活着并保持清醒」，本身就是一种沉重的负担。但如果人人都选择把眼睛关上，这个社会就只剩下官方允许你看到的那一块小天地。

“我以前以为自己是孤独的人。后来才发现，如果没有前面的人启蒙，我不会走上街头；如果没有现在和未来的人，这条路就会断掉。你可以不去承担我这样程度的代价，”他说，“但至少不要嘲笑那些承担代价的人。如果你做不到站出来，至少在内心，不要替压迫者鼓掌。”

采访结束的时候，天已经暗下来，窗外的灰白变成了介于蓝和黑之间的颜色，路灯一盏一盏亮起。而谢文飞所在的城市却没有把他脸侧映得清楚，雾蒙蒙一片，叫人看不真切。

我准备告别，最后问他：“在监狱里这么久，是否曾经接受到海外民运对您的帮助？而对于一直在中国抗争者，海外如何做能最大程度帮助到这些人呢？”

他沉思了一下“公开的声援是很有用的”他说，“只是过程中外界不知道的事不要主动曝光出来。技术、资金方面的支持也非常有必要。”

“在您坐牢这期间，海外的哪个动作对您有了帮助”

“我在越秀区看守所受酷刑的半个月时间中，我的律师王勋和谢阳会见我之后，曝光了我受的酷刑，外界对我的公开关注后，他们就把我转到了广州第一看守所，在那边的2年时间，就没有对我有过任何惩罚了。”

“您自己在监狱里的抗争经验，对还在国内的年轻觉醒者有什么经验吗？”

“每个人的性格、抗争理念和承受程度不一样。我关在湖南的4年半里，一开始就被明确告知：绝对不会让我见到任何一个人权律师，没有律师就没有消息传递出去。我很清楚，我作为一个草根抗争者，够不上大多数人权机构的关注，我知道在里面只能靠自己。我会很清楚的给看管我的警察阐述我的立场，有一定的效果。”

谢文飞说之后的日子里，他还会继续写下去——写看守所里的夜晚，写监狱里的铁笼，写街头短暂的光，写那些被打断、被抹去、被迫终止的生命轨迹。

他说，他并不指望自己能改变什么庞然大物。一个人的力量改变不了这个体制，但这个体制，也不能改变他的坚持。

至少，在这个被不断删改和封存的时代，他还在说话。只要还有人愿意听，他就还没有彻底被关进沉默的监狱里。

记者语：

谢文飞出狱一周年后，陆续又发布了很多文章记录自己的心路历程。在《要不要活下去》中写到自己在出狱后持续受到的当局骚扰，让他一度瞬间想到了死亡，但坚守的信仰支撑他活了下去。我无法想象现在的他处境之艰难，内心之煎熬，但让更多的人关注到他，或许也是黑暗中的一丝温暖的烛火。这世界上又有什么英雄呢，都是像他一样挺身而出的凡人，在那一片土地上，燃烧着自己。

Xie Wenfei: Iron Cages, Nightmares, and the Price of Freedom

Interviewer: Zhang Zhijun Recording: Chang Kun
Materials Compiled: Zhang Zhijun / Lin Xiaolong Editor: Zhang Zhijun Translator: Xiaomei Peng

The moment the video call connected, what came into view was the eternally gray-white sky of the South—humid, heavy, as if it might rain any moment yet endlessly holding back. I was sitting in a room that couldn’t be more ordinary: a table and a pot of cold tea. On the other end of the line, Xie Wenfei glanced around and looked at people passing by. He said to me: “It’s inconvenient to talk inside. I’ll talk to you from outside.”

Xie Wenfei was thinner than I expected. His skin was a bit dark, his cheeks slightly sunken, with mild swelling under the eyes. His voice was not loud, but every sentence sounded as if it had been pulled up from somewhere very deep and very dark. I began with the usual, “everyday” questions—sleep, appetite. He always paused before answering, as though making sure every word he spoke was not casually thrown out.

He smiled a little and tilted his head slightly: “Sleeping badly is the norm. My health is very poor, and my mental state is on the verge of collapse. I feel completely hollowed out.”

I asked, “Has it been like this since you were released?”

He nodded: “Often like this. I set a time frame for myself to adjust as much as possible. I haven’t fully reached the ‘recovery level’ I imagined, but at least I’ve climbed up a bit from the bottom.”

“I was willing to go to prison with him.”

I asked him: “When did you first begin paying attention to public issues? What made you, an ordinary migrant worker, step onto the streets?”

He thought for a few seconds, his gaze drifting, as if searching for a starting point in a long and chaotic tunnel of memories.

“I’ve hated injustice since I was a kid. I started working at sixteen and saw a lot of unfair things.”

In 2013, he saw online the incident involving Zhang Lin, a China Democracy Party member in Anhui, and his daughter, “Zhang Anni.” Lawyer Liu Weiguo lit candles outside Hupo Elementary School, holding documents and reading the International Covenant on Human Rights on the street. That scene deeply moved him. At that time, Xie Wenfei was still working in a factory and could not go to the site. But from then on, he knew there were still people in this country who could plant seeds of hope—something he longed for. Then on July 16, Xu Zhiyong was detained for his involvement in the New Citizen Movement—advocating education equality, calling for officials to disclose their assets, and organizing public discussions. “I saw many people online calling for support for Xu Zhiyong,” he said, “but I wanted to go to every public place and shout for him.” The light from his phone screen made his eyes sore as he typed post after post. “I posted a series of Weibo messages. The general idea was: ‘Xu Zhiyong lost his freedom for the freedom of 1.3 billion people. If among 1.3 billion people only a few dares to stand up, this nation has no hope. I am willing to go to prison with him.’” He said this calmly, without exaggeration or dramatic tone. “I just felt someone needed to say something. I even published my phone number.”

At first, no one contacted him. “Probably everyone thought I was suspicious,” he laughed. “Later many people told me they thought I was fishing for information.”Eventually, one person after another reached out. “When I got to Guangzhou, I realized—there really is such a group of people in this country. Before that, I always thought I was alone.” In the following years, he met more people who held signs in the streets, handed out flyers, and called for rights. “The streets are where ordinary people can see reality most clearly,” he said with certainty. “When you stand there, you’re telling others: I am not just an avatar on a screen—I am a real person here, expressing my demands publicly. That kind of impact spreads through the internet, reaching the world, inspiring more people. Street actions were coordinated among everyone, without instructions from anyone.”

Sometimes they held signs in parks; sometimes pedestrians paused in curiosity; sometimes people glanced from afar then walked away. When people around him began being detained or disappeared without a trace, he said: “Some were arrested, some simply vanished. Watching from the sidelines is also a kind of escape. If fear makes you do nothing, then you’re no different from accepting the system. “For more than a year, they carried out countless street actions in Guangzhou, Foshan, and other cities: calling for the release of prisoners of conscience by the riverbank；holding signs near city hall demanding officials disclose assets；commemorating forgotten victims at park gates；handing out small cards advocating civic rights and calling for a democratic China at train stations and subway exits.

“Every time I went out, I prepared myself for disappearing at any moment,” he said slowly. “In this environment, you can’t expect to return home safely every time. But when I stood on the street, I felt steadier—because at least for that minute, I knew what I was doing. It was an urge I couldn’t suppress.”

Some mistook him for a Chinese teacher or some kind of “intellectual.”“People say I write like an intellectual,” he smiled. “But I didn’t even finish middle school. I write not to be a writer, but because an ordinary person must ask basic questions about society.”

“The years in the factory—maybe that’s when all those questions built up. Once I had a chance to say them or write them out, I could never bottle them up again.”

The 131 Case

“I had long prepared myself for being arrested,” Xie Wenfei said calmly. “After Wang Mo—the co-defendant in my case—was arrested, friends told me to keep a low profile. If every activist is arrested, no one will remain outside to support others. I knew sooner or later I would be taken. But I could not stop defending justice. “Police publicly claimed he was arrested as part of the “429 crackdown,” but materials had already been prepared on January 28—eighteen volumes of files. “In my first week inside, they showed me two volumes of my file. It was registered as the ‘131 case.’ They claimed evidence showed Xu Zhiyong came to Chenzhou to find me, and we went to Changsha together. That alone was filed as a special case. “Xie replied that he had never met Xu Zhiyong before; even if they had shared a taxi, he had no idea the masked and hatted passenger beside him was Dr. Xu. A week later, authorities decided to convict him entirely based on his Twitter posts.

“I was sentenced twice. Being taken to the police station was routine. The first time I entered the detention center in October 2013, I was shackled within ten hours, then strapped into the ‘back-back shackle’ and leg irons for half a month. In October 2014, again within ten hours, I was restrained and then put in the ‘needle-threading shackles.’”

Iron Rings and the 0.18-Square-Meter Iron Cage

We talked about his arrests, including torture. Xie paused, exhaled deeply: “My state is still unstable. Since you asked, I will say it briefly”. He lowered his head for a few seconds. “‘Needle-threading shackles’ means they fixed all four of my limbs to an iron ring about ten centimeters in diameter. Your limbs are forced together. You’re not lying, not sitting—you’re pinned there.” In that posture, one is not fully suspended yet has no point of support. All weight is borne on joints and bones. Every moment reminds you—- you’re being tortured.

“More than twenty hours. No water, no toilet. If you can’t hold it, you go in a bucket.”He paused again, choosing his words. “This is humiliation. Not just bodily torture—it’s meant to make you feel you’re no longer a human being.” After more than twenty hours, his feet remained fixed in place for five days, followed by ten more days of “figure-eight shackles”—legs locked together in the shape of an 8. “That was my third time in the detention center.”

“Did they do this to get information from you, force a confession, or simply for pleasure?” I asked.

Xie said the police knew such methods would not force a confession—they simply wanted him to succumb. On the first day, with police approval, cell bullies beat him. The detention center then punished him under the pretext of “fighting.” “They told me: ‘Write a statement admitting wrongdoing, and we’ll release you.’ I refused.” Later in Chenzhou Prison, he was locked in iron cages of 0.18 square meters and 0.7 square meters, each over three meters high.

I tried to imagine 0.18 square meters—space where an adult cannot turn or extend legs.

“I was kept in the cage for half a month. Clothes soaked, dried, soaked again.The air smelled of rust and sweat.” “In that moment, you know you’re no longer ‘a person.’ You are merely an object they detain,” he said. “I even thought I wouldn’t leave alive.”

Pain leaves shadows.

“What people call freedom is just compromised thought, numb souls, and limited action.”

I read him a line he once wrote: “What people believe is freedom is merely compromised thought, a numbed soul, and limited freedom of action.”

He nodded gently. “Most people think they are free because they avoid thinking about unpleasant things,” he said. “As long as they don’t touch the forbidden zones, they think their little circle is normal life.”

I asked: “Then what kind of freedom do you want?”

He thought for a moment. “To freely uphold justice,” he said slowly. “I chose not to be silent in fear. If I can’t even speak the most basic truth, then living has no meaning for me.”

“As long as facts exist, as long as someone tells the truth, as long as enough pain is seen—someone will be willing to bear a little cost, a little responsibility.”And someone will be inspired.

To the Young Generation: To Keep Thinking Is to Resist

I asked: “What would you say to the young people now?” He was silent for a few seconds. “Don’t think silence will bring safety,” he said. “Public expression is not heroism—it is a duty.”

He said the “White Paper Movement” brought him some hope—those young people standing silently at night with blank papers showed that numbness is not absolute.“But I also know that very few are ready for long-term consequences.” His message to the young is not “go to the streets,” but: “Please keep independent thinking.”

“When you feel something is wrong, it’s not that you’re overthinking—it’s proof that you’re still alive.”

He admitted that sometimes “to live and remain conscious” is a heavy burden.But if everyone closes their eyes, society is left only with what the authorities allow you to see.

“I once thought I was alone. Later I realized—without the people who came before, I would never have gone to the streets; without those now and in the future, this path will break. You don’t have to pay the kind of price I paid,” he said, “but at least don’t mock those who do. If you cannot stand up, at least don’t applaud the oppressor in your heart.”

At the End of the Interview

By the time the interview ended, the sky had darkened. The gray had turned into a color between blue and black. Streetlights lit one by one. But the city where Xie Wenfei stood did not illuminate his face clearly—just a foggy blur.

Before we said goodbye, I asked: “During your long imprisonment, did you receive support from the overseas pro-democracy movement? And for those still resisting inside China, how can people overseas help most effectively?”

He thought. “Public support is very useful,” he said. “But outsiders shouldn’t expose things that activists themselves haven’t made public. Technical and financial support is also very necessary.”

“What action from overseas helped you the most during your imprisonment?”

“During the half month I was tortured in the Yuexiu District Detention Center, my lawyers Wang Xun and Xie Yang met me and exposed the torture. After international attention, they transferred me to the No.1 Guangzhou Detention Center. During the two years there, they didn’t punish me at all.”

“What experience from resisting inside prison can help young people still in China?”

“Everyone has different personalities, beliefs, and limits. In my four and a half years in Hunan, they told me at the start: I would never meet a human rights lawyer. No lawyer means no information gets out. I knew as a grassroots activist, I wasn’t important enough for most human rights organizations. I knew I had to rely on myself. I clearly expressed my stance to the guards, and it had some effect.”

Xie Wenfei said that in the days ahead, he will continue to write—about the nights in the detention center, the iron cages in prison, the brief moments of light on the streets,and the trajectories of lives interrupted, erased, or forcibly ended.

He said he does not expect to change anything enormous. One person cannot change the system. But the system cannot change his persistence either.

At the very least, in an era of constant deletion and silence, he is still speaking.As long as someone is willing to listen, he has not been locked into a prison of silence.

Reporter’s Note

One year after his release, Xie Wenfei continued to publish articles describing his emotional journey. In “To Live or Not to Live,” he wrote about the harassment he endured after release, which made him momentarily think of death. But the faith he held onto kept him alive. I cannot imagine how difficult his situation is today, nor the torment inside him. But allowing more people to pay attention to him may be a small candle of warmth in the darkness. What heroes are there in this world? They are all ordinary people like him, who step forward and burn themselves on that piece of land.

作者：袁崛（中国民主党党法规部长）
编辑：李聪玲 责任编辑：罗志飞 校对：冯仍　翻译：刘芳

继1998年9月湖北第三波组党，申请成立中国民主党湖北筹备委员会后，东北三省的民运人士联合起来，开始跨省组建，成立了中国民主党东北三省委员会筹备委员会，并向中共民政部直接提出注册申请。这是继浙江，山东，湖北三地“中国民主党事件”三波之后的又一次冲击，在规模和级别上都更上一个台阶。这次东北三个省的民运人士联合成立跨省的民主党东北筹委会，是国内民运组党又向前跨越了一个台阶，是向全国委员会迈进的一个重要的中间步骤。东北地区在历史、地理、政治、经济上，一直是一个整体概念。三省联合，共组民主党东北筹委会，是顺理成章的事。由于跨越省市，民主党东北委员会的注册申请，在行政上，应当由中央政府民政部审理，不能由省级民政部门审理。这对测试中共政府和中共高层对跨地区联合组党的态度，有重要意义。可视为注册申请民主党全国委员会的前哨步骤。

东北民主党人冷万宝、唐元隽与民主党人赵昕等人合影（从左至右）

这次东北三省发起注册民主党的人士，多是从事多年反对运动、具有丰富运作经验的老民运战士。辽宁的王泽臣、黑龙江的傅俊保、吉林的冷万宝等发起人，都是七九、八九年就投入民运、坐过牢房的久经考验的民运老战士。联系人王文江，八九年参加民运,组党时是鞍山第一律师事务所执业律师。浙江的王有才因组党被捕后，王文江挺身而出，愿意为王有才担任辩护律师，但被中共当局加以阻拦。

中国民主党东北筹备委员会的申请书中写道：

“中华人民共和国民政部：

根据中华人民共和国宪法和社团管理登记条例的规定，按照国际法的普遍准则，我们申请成立中国民主党东北三省筹备委员会。我们赞成中国民主党的章程，愿意履行民主党章程规定的义务。我们承诺，中国民主党东三省委员会成立后，将承认和尊重江泽民主席国家元首的地位，将承认和尊重中国共产党的执政党地位。同时，在宪法和其它法律的范围内，开展我党的社会和政治活动。政治活动的有序和多党参与，是国家长治久安和实现民主制度的必由之路。人类的历史表明，监督和制衡是现代文明国家权力结构的强大支柱。合法组建政党乃是国家政治处于正常运作的重要特征。

……

我们希望，我们的建党申请能够获得批准。

中国民主党东北地区筹备委员会

一九九八年九月十四日”

中国民主党东北三省筹委会联系人、辽宁省鞍山市第一律师事务所律师王文江，于九月十四日，也就是东北三省民运人士向民政部申请注册民主党东北筹委会的当天，向外界公开发表声明，为了促进民主化进程，宣布退出共产党。王文江说，他在一九八八年加入中国共产党。但他逐步认识到，中共实际上已经腐烂。中国要走向现代化之路，非要有一个新型民主政党不可。基于这个认识，王文江积极投入民运，近来特别活跃。浙江王有才等组党一度被捕，王文江自动站出来，愿意为王有才进行辩护。他又公开与一批东北三省的民运人士一道，筹组民主党东北筹备委员会。由于王文江公开认同了纲领与中共迥异的中国民主党，因此，王文江认为有必要公开宣布退出中国共产党，与之彻底决裂。

唐元隽（左一）与冷万宝（左三）

中国民主正义党发言人王炳章博士指出，除了八九年六四屠杀后，有一批共产党员宣布退党外，王文江这次退党举动，是八九年后第一次共产党员公开宣布退党的行为。将大大地激励中国民主人士争取民主，与中共抗争的勇气。

Northeast Three Provinces Unite to Form a Party，Wang Wenjiang Withdraws from the Communist Party

Author: Yuan Jue (Director of Party Regulations, China Democracy Party)
Editor: Li Congling Executive Editor: Luo Zhifei Proofreader: Feng Reng Translator: Liu Fang

Abstract: Democracy activists from China’s three northeastern provinces jointly submitted an application to the Ministry of Civil Affairs to establish the Preparatory Committee of the China Democracy Party (CDP) Northeast Region. Meanwhile, lawyer Wang Wenjiang issued a public statement announcing his withdrawal from the Chinese Communist Party (CCP).

Following the third wave of party formation in Hubei in September 1998—with an application to establish the China Democracy Party Hubei Preparatory Committee—democracy activists in China’s three northeastern provinces united to form an interprovincial organization, establishing the Preparatory Committee of the CDP Northeast Region. They submitted a direct registration application to the CCP’s Ministry of Civil Affairs. This marked a new level of challenge following the previous “China Democracy Party incidents” in Zhejiang, Shandong, and Hubei. In scale and political significance, this effort represented a further step toward building a national CDP structure.

Historically, geographically, politically, and economically, the three northeastern provinces have long formed a coherent regional concept. Their joint formation of a unified CDP Northeast Preparatory Committee was therefore a logical step. Because this cross-provincial organization exceeded the jurisdiction of provincial authorities, its registration had to be reviewed by the central Ministry of Civil Affairs. This made the application a crucial test of the CCP leadership’s attitude toward interregional opposition organizing and signified an important preparatory step toward applying for a national CDP committee.

A group photo of Northeast CDP members Leng Wanbao and Tang Yuanjun with CDP member Zhao Xin (from left to right)

Many of the initiators of the Northeast CDP effort were seasoned democracy activists with years of experience in opposition movements. Wang Zechen of Liaoning, Fu Junbao of Heilongjiang, and Leng Wanbao of Jilin—all founding members—had participated in the 1979 and 1989 democracy movements and endured imprisonment. Liaison representative Wang Wenjiang, a practicing lawyer at Anshan’s No.1 Law Firm, had joined the 1989 movement. After Zhejiang activist Wang Youcai was arrested for founding the CDP, Wang Wenjiang bravely volunteered to serve as his defense lawyer, though the CCP authorities obstructed him.

The CDP Northeast Preparatory Committee wrote in its application:

“To the Ministry of Civil Affairs of the People’s Republic of China: In accordance with the Constitution of the PRC and the Regulations on the Registration and Management of Social Organizations, and consistent with universal international norms, we hereby apply to establish the Preparatory Committee of the China Democracy Party for the Three Northeastern Provinces. We agree with the CDP Charter and are willing to fulfill the obligations it outlines. We affirm that after its establishment, the CDP Northeast Committee will acknowledge and respect the status of Jiang Zemin as head of state and recognize the CCP’s position as the ruling party. Within the framework of the Constitution and relevant laws, we will carry out legitimate social and political activities.

Orderly political participation and multiparty involvement are essential for lasting national stability and the realization of democratic governance. Human history demonstrates that checks and balances constitute the structural foundation of modern civilized states. The lawful formation of political parties is an important sign of normal political functioning.

We hope our application will be approved. China Democracy Party Northeast Preparatory Committee September 14, 1998”

On the same day the application was submitted—September 14—CDP Northeast liaison representative Wang Wenjiang publicly announced his withdrawal from the Chinese Communist Party. Wang stated that he had joined the CCP in 1988, but over the years came to understand that the Party had decayed. He believed that China’s path to modernization required a new type of democratic party. Based on this conviction, he became active in the democracy movement and took a leading role in the founding of the Northeast CDP Preparatory Committee. Having openly endorsed the CDP’s platform—which fundamentally differs from that of the CCP—Wang declared that it was necessary to sever ties fully and publicly withdraw from the Party.

Tang Yuanjuan (leftmost) and Leng Wanbao (third from the left)

Dr. Wang Bingzhang, spokesperson for the China Democratic Justice Party, noted that since the wave of resignations following the June Fourth Massacre in 1989, Wang Wenjiang’s withdrawal was the first public declaration of Party resignation by a CCP member. He emphasized that this act would significantly encourage democracy activists across China in their struggle against authoritarian rule.

作者：刘芳
编辑：李聪玲 责任编辑：钟然 校对：冯仍 翻译：刘芳

11月4日，香港娱乐圈豪门名媛向太陈岚（Tiffany）发布视频喊话：“奉劝各位千万不要移民美国，付出的代价是你想象不到！绝对不允许我的小孩移民美国，孙子孙女不准去美国读书，如果他们敢去，我把钱捐了，一毛都不留给他们。现在乞丐、流浪汉、瘾君子满街都是，枪战到处发生。有些有钱的朋友住美国很久了，这几年想搬回来，他们会觉得不安全，也被打劫过。”最后向太建议不要移民去美国，留学也没必要，工作、投资也不行。

珠光宝气的向太在豪宅里说这番话时流露出自己也不信的尴尬表情。抛开她的政治目的先不谈，她家庭的黑社会背景连移民台湾也无可能的事实暂且不表。这话和她有情有义、有勇有谋、直言直语的大女人人设也不符啊。这种说法不是第一次听到，在国内的时候，这种观点也非常普遍。国内媒体也会大肆宣传和放大美国的流浪者问题和安全问题。讽刺的是，中国权贵的子女无一例外的在常春藤大学留学。中国的贪官无一例外的在美国囤积巨额财富，并买房置业建立海外第二家庭。而中国普通家庭的父母却为孩子留学的安全问题忧心忡忡。与此同时，香港自从六四和国安法事件以后也出现移民潮。这里也不乏来美国追求自由的港人。难道他们都生活在恐惧中吗？

“向太们”特别爱举的例子，就是那些“满大街的流浪汉”。首先“满大街“就是不实报导。美国流浪汉只是集中在比如纽约和洛杉矶这些大城市的一些区域。比如洛杉矶的市区有几条街道和公园。我在第五街-第七街道（5th St / 6th St / 7th St）的部分路段，以及麦克阿瑟公园（MacArthur Park）见到过集中的流浪汉。我也在纽约街头能看到零星的流浪汉。但是同时我也能看到随时巡逻的警察，警车和直升机。我并不感到害怕。周围的人也不会。见识过公交车上大吵大嚷的精神失常者，被司机呵斥：“不要在我的车上嚷嚷”。在洛杉矶其他区域，流浪汉并不常见。其次，我没有遇到过袭击路人的流浪汉。他们大多无攻击性。刚刚到美国的时候我先生在便利店外看到了流浪者，被问：“你为什么要看着我？” 先生解释说他只是过去便利店买点东西而已。“哦，原来这样”他和我先生击了个拳，表示友好，然后每次路过都如此。他们等在那里是因为每天便利店会把未销售完的热狗留给流浪者。相反，他们大多是人群中的弱势者和少数者。这些人中有一部分是自愿选择了流浪的生活方式，他们并不认可朝九晚五工作的价值观。认为人不是天生就要社会化和工作的。有一部分是不同程度的精神失常者，失业者。也有无法戒掉毒瘾的人。但在美国人看来他们是需要帮助的弱者。很多店铺和义工会对他们提供帮助。社会也提供了避难所，廉价住房，现金和食物。

就这一点美国媒体天天骂，美国选民天天批评，美国地方政府天天被骂得抬不起头。因为在美国，媒体可以骂政府，人民可以骂市长，记者可以追问州长的不作为。而在某些地方，不是没有流浪汉，而是流浪汉“消失得很快”，谁也不知道是被送去救助站，还是被送去“重新认识人生”，抑或是送去为要活150岁的老贼提供“零件”了。于是，街道当然干净，连自由的影子都被清洗得一尘不染。两种制度一对比，我们就不难看清，一个是对人的各种选择的尊重，尤其是弱势群体。一个是强制驱逐和关押，只为了所谓虚假的城市清洁和繁华。

再说吸毒问题。美国吸毒严重？是的，严重到立法、司法、医疗体系都在公开讨论、争辩、痛苦改革。而在另一些国家，吸毒当然不存在，因为毒贩只要和权力合流就能从轻发落乃至消失，而中国本身就是出口芬太尼前体的世界最大的贩毒集团，毒害无数美国年轻人，中共媒体却要把中国报道成世界上唯一的净土。

枪战？国内某些人最喜欢用“美国枪战多”来吓唬大众，好像一出门就会被子弹追着跑。可他们从来不会告诉你，美国之所以强调自我防护，是因为权力永远不能垄断所有武力。美国的问题并不是“坏人有枪”，而是好人也有能力说不；不是“社会危险”，而是他们相信一个普通公民不该完全依赖警察来决定自己的生死。

在美国，枪击案会被报道、被追责、被批评，因为社会认为这是政府保护公民安全的失败；而在另一些国家，遇到不正义的所谓执法行为，你不能拥有任何自保手段。“向太们”最害怕的其实不是美国的枪声，而是美国背后的逻辑——一个普通人可以拥有最后一道对抗邪恶的权力，而不是把生死完全交给政府。这种权力，不是鼓励暴力，而是提醒政府：公民不是臣民；暴力不能被单方面垄断。正因为美国相信“人民拥有力量，政府必须克制”，所以社会的透明度、新闻的自由度、公共讨论的激烈程度，都远超那些空气静悄悄却连真相都不敢讨论的地方。枪声当然可怕，但比枪声更可怕的，是一个社会的人们连保护自己的权力都不存在，只能寄希望于“正义不会迟到和缺席”这种童话。

于是，“向太们”的逻辑就顺理成章：美国没有秩序，因为这里允许你批评政府；美国没有人权，因为这里允许穷人存在；美国不安全，因为这里允许媒体报道真实社会。这听上去荒谬，却是封闭叙事下最自然的产物——别人越乱，才衬托“我们越稳”。

他们真正害怕的，从来不是美国的治安，而是美国的透明；不是自由造成的“乱象”，而是自由带来的“对比”。他们不让孩子来美国，并不是因为美国糟糕，而是因为美国太自由、太平等、太公平：足以让下一代看清原本的世界有什么问题。

更讽刺的是，那些最爱骂美国“水深火热”的人，最爱在美国投资、买房、度假、转移资产、送孩子读书；一边吃着美国牛排，一边指点美国腐烂。

但美国从来不是为害怕的人准备的。

美国的精神，是独立，是自由，是公民对自己命运负责的勇气。

这是属于敢选择、敢担当、敢说“不”的人们的土地。

如果一个人连真实世界都不敢看，连自由都觉得危险，那确实不适合美国——不是美国太可怕，而是自由太真实。

而我看到的美国，是一位台湾移民朋友对我说的那样：“我在大陆长大，台湾读书，走过许多地方。我爱美国，也爱这里善良正义的人。我留下来，因为我愿意为这个社会出力。”朴素一句话，比所有豪门式的“忧国忧民”都更有力量。

When the Rich Lecture America: Who Creates Fear, and Who Escapes Lies

Abstract: This article responds to Tiffany Chen’s negative remarks about the United States, arguing that although America faces issues such as homelessness, drug use, and public safety issues, its transparency, accountability, and respect for the vulnerable give it deeper value. Those who fear America are not afraid of violence—they are afraid of freedom and comparison.

Author: Liu Fang
Editor: Li Congling Executive Editor: Zhong Ran Proofreader: Feng Reng Translator: Liu Fang

On November 4, Hong Kong tycoon and socialite Tiffany Chen released a video warning people: “I advise everyone never to immigrate to the U.S. The price you pay will be unimaginable! I will absolutely not allow my children to immigrate to America. My grandchildren are forbidden from studying here. If they dare to go, I will donate all my money and leave them nothing. The streets are filled with beggars, homeless people, addicts, and gunfights happen everywhere.” She concluded by telling people not to immigrate, not to study abroad, not to work in America, and not to invest here. As she delivered this message from inside her luxurious mansion, even her own expression betrayed a hint of disbelief. Leaving aside her political motives—and the fact that her family’s organized-crime background would likely prevent immigration to Taiwan—the statement itself does not match her long-established public persona of being brave, loyal, and straightforward. But similar claims are extremely common in China. State media often magnifies homelessness and crime in the U.S. as evidence of societal collapse.

The irony, of course, is that no Chinese elite actually believes the propaganda they repeat: their children all study in the Ivy League, corrupt officials funnel their assets into American banks, and wealthy families quietly buy up California real estate—while ordinary Chinese parents are terrified of their children studying abroad. Meanwhile, since the National Security Law, Hong Kong has seen a major wave of emigration. Many Hongkongers came to the U.S. in pursuit of freedom. Are they all “living in fear”? The claim that the U.S. is “full of homeless people” is false. Homeless populations in America are concentrated only in certain areas of big cities—for example, a few blocks around 5th–7th Street in downtown Los Angeles or parts of MacArthur Park. New York also has homeless individuals, but they are scattered. Meanwhile, police cars and helicopters patrol constantly. I’ve never felt unsafe, nor do most people around me. Most homeless individuals are non-violent. Many are mentally ill, unemployed, addicted, or simply reject the conventional work-life mindset altogether. But in American society, they are viewed as people who need help, not as nuisances to be “removed.” Stores and volunteers offer food. Cities provide shelters, low-cost housing, and assistance programs. And here lies the biggest difference: In America, the homeless problem is reported, criticized, debated, and challenged—every day. Media exposes government failures, citizens scold mayors, journalists question governors. But in certain other places, homelessness “disappears quickly.” Whether they were taken to a shelter, a labor camp, or somewhere far worse—nobody asks. When a society’s cleanliness is achieved by removing people instead of helping them, you can certainly have spotless streets—and a level of fear that is far deeper than any urban disorder. America’s drug crisis is real—so real that it is openly discussed in legislation, courts, and hospitals. But in some countries, there is “no drug problem” only because traffickers survive by aligning with power structures, and fentanyl precursor chemicals—exported in massive quantities—ruin countless American families. Yet propaganda paints China as the world’s only drug-free “pure land.” Critics love saying, “America has so many shootings!” as if stepping outside means being hunted by bullets. They never tell you: The right to self-defense prevents power from monopolizing violence. America’s problem isn’t simply “bad people have guns”—it’s that ordinary people also have the right to say no to tyranny. Here, gun violence is viewed as a government failure and openly reported. Elsewhere, when unjust violence comes from “law enforcement,” ordinary people have no right to resist at all. What people like Tiffany fear is not American gunshots—but the American logic behind them: A citizen is not a subject. The government is not entitled to absolute power. A free person must always have a final layer of protection. Freedom creates “chaos,” yes—but it also prevents tyranny. Order built on silence is not stability—it is fear. The logic of “America is unsafe” is simple: America is dangerous because it allows criticism. America is chaotic because it allows the poor to exist. America lacks order because the media shows reality. Absurd? Yes. But within a sealed propaganda ecosystem, it makes perfect sense. They fear America because freedom creates contrast—and contrast exposes lies. They are afraid their children will come here, experience dignity, rights, equality, transparency, and finally understand: The problem is not the world—it is the system they once lived in. The final irony: Those who shout loudest about “America’s collapse” are the same people who buy property in Los Angeles, hide assets in U.S. banks, send their children to American universities, and spend summers vacationing in Hawaii. They enjoy the steak—but curse the ranch. America is not a place for the fearful. Its spirit is independence, responsibility, and the courage to face reality. If someone feels “freedom is too dangerous,” then indeed—America is not suitable for them. Not because America is terrible, but because freedom is too honest. As a Taiwanese friend once told me: “I grew up in the mainland, studied in Taiwan, traveled many places. I love America and the kind, just people here. I stayed because I want to contribute to this society.” Simple words—far more meaningful than any billionaire’s performative concerns.