Author: Xie Jingfang Editor: Xing Wenjuan Executive Editor: Liu Fang Proofreader: Cheng Xiaoxiao Translator: Liu Fang
Abstract: As a member of the China Democracy Party, I look back on my years of genuine experience in promoting democracy and human rights for China while living overseas. Through rallies, appeals, and daily actions, I have witnessed the power of faith in freedom and call on more people to ignite the light of hope with courage and action. My name is Xie Jingfang, and I am a member of the China Democracy Party. Over the past few years, I have continuously paid attention to and participated in the cause of democracy and human rights in mainland China. For me, freedom, equality, and dignity are not abstract slogans but the most fundamental rights of every person. Yet in today’s China, these rights are stripped away and suppressed—turned into ornaments of the privileged rather than the protection of citizens. For that reason, I decided to remain silent no longer, but to express my beliefs through action. In Los Angeles, I have taken part in many protests and solidarity events organized by the China Democracy Party. Each time I stand before the Chinese Consulate in Los Angeles, I feel a mix of emotions—anger, sorrow, and determination. Under the scorching sun or in the biting wind, my fellow members and I hold up banners and shout our slogans, calling for the release of prisoners of conscience and attention to silenced citizens. Every time we raise our signs, we are telling the world: the truth still exists, and conscience is not dead. Beyond street demonstrations, I also try to bring the ideals of democracy into everyday life. Community gatherings and conversations with friends become opportunities to share the truth. I tell them that China’s so-called “stability and prosperity” is an illusion built upon fear and repression. I speak about those who have been arrested, disappeared, or persecuted, so that more people may understand—they are not mere numbers in the news, but living, breathing human beings with blood and tears. Action is not limited to protest. Through The Opposition Party magazine, I have donated to the families of prisoners of conscience and published articles in The Epoch Times and other media promoting democracy and freedom. In daily life, I actively share democratic ideas with those around me and exchange thoughts with like-minded compatriots about my experiences on the path of the democracy movement, telling the world about the real China. I know my strength is limited, yet as one predecessor said: “Even a faint light is enough to illuminate a corner of the night.” Every act of participation strengthens my belief that change does not come from grand slogans but from the accumulation of countless small deeds. Over the years, our voices have drawn greater international attention to China’s human rights situation and brought external support to some long-detained dissidents. Though progress is slow and results are modest, every effort marks the beginning of breaking the silence. I often remind myself: the pursuit of freedom carries risks, but it holds the deepest meaning. To resist injustice is conscience; to uphold truth is humanity. Every act of standing up, every shout we make, is a step toward freedom. As long as we neither give up nor remain silent, even the smallest voices can merge into a powerful current. Freedom will not arrive on its own—it requires courage and sacrifice. I will keep moving forward, speaking for those still struggling in the dark, and striving for a free China that truly belongs to its people.
Triumph and Accusation: The Moving Voice of Liberty Sculpture Park
Author: Pan Ronghua
Editor: HU Lili ExecutiveEditor: Luo Zhifei Proofreader: Cheng Xiaoxiao Translator: Liu Fang
Abstract: The “Accountability for the CCP Virus Sculpture Tour” triumphantly returned after traversing the United States from the East Coast, concluding at Liberty Sculpture Park in California. Through sculpture, the artists denounced totalitarianism and the concealment of the pandemic, transforming pain into testimony and affirming a belief that freedom and truth can never be burned away.
[Prologue] The autumn wind of 2025 swept across the deserts of America’s West Coast. In the silent wasteland of Yermo, California, a group of souls from the free world and exiled China raised their flags to welcome an artistic movement that had crossed the continent— The “Accountability for the CCP Virus Sculpture Tour” had returned in triumph. It was not merely the end of an exhibition, but the testimony of history; Not just an arrival, but a new departure for human memory and conscience.
I. On the Frontier of Freedom: A Park Forged by Faith
Driving along Interstate 15 into the heart of the Mojave Desert, one finds a rust-colored sign that reads—
Fig1. Liberty Sculpture Park.
Founded by sculptor Chen Weiming in 2017, the park spans 36 acres. It houses monuments such as the “June Fourth Memorial,” “Tank Man,” “Hong Kong Goddess of Freedom,” and the “CCP Virus” series—works that confront tyranny and celebrate the human struggle for liberty. This land stands as the spiritual home of the Chinese democracy movement abroad and a memorial to the persecuted. Here, art does not exist for beauty’s sake—it exists to declare: Truth cannot be buried, and memory must not be burned.
II. Virus Head and Skull Face: The Iron Poem and the Cry of Fire
The monumental sculpture representing the “CCP Virus” is built from metal, fiberglass, and rebar—its head fusing the human form with viral spikes.
Fig 2. Forged in steel and flame, it stands as a symbol of how art exposes systemic darkness and the human cost of the pandemic.
It is not a metaphor but a poem cast in pain and accusation. Through a striking visual language, the artist unveils the political obscurity behind the outbreak: concealment, censorship, suppression, and denial. The virus spread across the world, claiming millions of lives, while truth remains sealed in silence. The sculpture was burned down by arson in 2021 and resurrected the following year by volunteers. “Art that cannot be burned”—this is the allegory of freedom: truth may be set aflame, but it will never be destroyed.
III. Moving Sculpture: When Art Takes to the Road
This year’s sculpture tour was a long march of ideas.
Fig 3. Crossing the American continent from east to west, it transformed art into a living witness of truth.
Departing from the East Coast, the convoy traversed more than ten states, passed through Washington, D.C., and finally returned to California. The sculptures, mounted on trucks, became mobile totems. The highways and cities turned into temporary galleries; the spectators were not visitors, but every passerby who saw them. At every stop, people gathered, photographed, sang, and spoke— it was both a performance of action art and a pilgrimage of democratic spirit. Art was no longer decoration within walls, but the conscience of the public. It reminds the world: when truth is imprisoned, art becomes its fugitive.
IV. The Triumph Ceremony: Glory in the Flames
Fig 4. Chen Weiming—sculptor, founder of Liberty Sculpture Park—has long used art to record the flame of freedom.
On October 7, under the Los Angeles sun, the returning convoy arrived at Liberty Sculpture Park. Flags fluttered, sculptures gleamed in the wind. People sang, raised flags, took photos; smiles shone through tears. This ceremony was not a display of victory, but an homage to pain. To those who lost loved ones in the pandemic, to dissidents who kept faith in prison, to exiled artists who never ceased to create— in that moment, they found a measure of peace. The triumphant were not conquerors, but witnesses. What they brought back was not glory, but testimony.
V. The Expedition of Truth: Lessons Beyond the Sculpture
The essence of this tour and its sculptures lies not only in protest, but in a global dialogue about humanity and responsibility. It asks: When power hides the truth, do we still dare to seek it? When systems suppress conscience, can we still create? When the virus takes lives, do we remember the silenced voices? The images cast in metal and flame at Liberty Sculpture Park are a mirror for all humankind. They belong not only to exiled Chinese, but to everyone who believes in truth.
VI. History Will Remember This Day
Under the night sky, the firelight cast the sculptures’ shadows across the park. Some said it looked like a grave; others, a lighthouse. It mourns the fallen and points the way forward. History will remember this moment—
Figure 5. Group photo of participants in the “CCP Virus Sculpture Tour” event.
those who drove the vehicles of freedom, carrying sculptures, flags, and conviction across America; those who fought oblivion with art and proved truth with courage. For freedom is not a gift, but a price. Truth is not a slogan, but a faith forged in blood and fire.
Editor: Zhou Zhigang Managing Editor: Luo Zhifei Translator: Liu Fang
This article analyzes the inevitable collapse of centralized regimes. The inefficiency of resource allocation leads to a heavy socioeconomic burden; bureaucratic self-preservation results in long-term evasion of responsibility; and declining executive capacity and public distrust further accelerate decay. Characterized by extreme concentration of power, pervasive control, and repressive governance, totalitarian systems have profoundly influenced human history. Yet, their downfall rarely comes from direct popular overthrow but rather from internal contradictions that accumulate until the system collapses under its own weight. This outcome is inevitable—determined by the system’s intrinsic logic and operational mechanism.
I. The Internal Contradictions of Totalitarianism
Totalitarianism is a highly centralized political system that seeks complete control over society, the economy, culture, and even individual thought. It relies on a powerful ideology, a rigid organizational structure, and a machinery of violence to sustain its rule.
1. Structural Defects of Excessive Power Concentration At its core, totalitarianism rests on absolute concentration of power, often in the hands of a single leader or a small clique. While this can produce short-term efficiency, it eventually reveals fatal flaws. Concentrated power excludes diverse perspectives, increasing the risk of strategic mistakes. Without effective checks and balances, errors go uncorrected, while subordinates exaggerate or distort information to please superiors—creating a vicious cycle.
2. Ideological Rigidity and the Crisis of Legitimacy Such regimes depend on grand ideological narratives—communism, Nazism, nationalism—to justify their legitimacy. Yet rigid ideology undermines adaptability, leaving the regime ill-equipped to respond to global or technological changes.
3. Information Control and Lack of Feedback Totalitarian governments suppress dissent and tightly control information to maintain stability. This information blockade blinds decision-makers to reality, trapping them in echo chambers of false data. As errors accumulate without correction, the system’s foundations weaken.
4. Inefficiency in Resource Allocation Centrally planned or monopolized economies often suffer from inefficiency and waste. Over time, chronic economic stagnation erodes the material base of the regime and diminishes its appeal to the public.
5. Escalating Costs of Social Control Maintaining control through surveillance, propaganda, and coercion becomes increasingly expensive. The resources required for secret police and state media grow unsustainable, draining the treasury and alienating citizens. When the costs of control exceed what the regime can bear, collapse becomes inevitable.
II. The Mechanisms of Internal Decay
Totalitarian collapse is rarely sudden; it is the cumulative result of long-term internal decay.
1. Bureaucratic Corruption and Inefficiency The bureaucratic apparatus expands alongside corruption. Lacking external oversight, officials prioritize self-preservation and avoid accountability, undermining policy enforcement and administrative effectiveness.
2. Elite Division and Betrayal Regime stability depends heavily on elite cohesion. But when internal conflicts intensify, divisions emerge. Disillusioned elites—disadvantaged by policy shifts or disenchanted by ideology—may defect. These fractures often surface in crises such as economic downturns or foreign pressure, acting as catalysts for collapse.
3. Passive Resistance and Public Distrust While citizens seldom directly overthrow totalitarian regimes, their passive resistance—through inefficiency, apathy, or quiet noncompliance—gradually erodes state capacity. As trust in the regime vanishes, its mobilization power diminishes, leaving it incapable of crisis response.
These forces reinforce each other: bureaucratic corruption leads to economic stagnation; economic hardship breeds public discontent; discontent inflates the costs of repression; repression drains economic resources; and resource depletion sparks elite fragmentation—culminating in systemic collapse.
III. Lessons from Totalitarian Collapse
The self-destruction of totalitarianism offers enduring lessons for modern governance:
1. The Necessity of Checks and Balances Excessive concentration of power destroys a system’s self-correcting capacity. Balanced institutions, competition, and accountability mechanisms are essential for resilience.
2. Economic Efficiency and Social Trust Economic performance underpins legitimacy. Sustained inefficiency fosters social unrest. A just, market-oriented economy that meets citizens’ needs strengthens stability.
3. Transparency and Feedback Information openness enables timely policy adjustment. In a globalized world, isolation invites failure. Openness, cooperation, and international engagement are antidotes to systemic stagnation.
Conclusion The collapse of totalitarian regimes teaches that arrogance and isolation are the greatest enemies of power. Enduring stability rests not on repression but on openness, inclusiveness, and self-correction. For any political system to survive, it must institutionalize balance, sustain economic vitality, embrace transparency, and earn the trust of its people.
On World Human Rights Day, let me share the personal experiences of us, the defenders of human rights.
On the morning of April 29, 2020, I published “In Memory of LIN Zhao.” That night, two burly men in black, each weighing about 90 kilograms, ambushed me from a dark corner. When I tried to walk past, they tackled me to the ground without a word and held me down for a long time. When I was finally brought to the interrogation center, I saw that their T-shirts bore the words “Iron Head.”
On May 28, 2022, I was transferred with 146 others from Zixing Detention Center to Chenzhou Detention Center. In cell 401, because I refused to squat, one thug suddenly slapped me across the face. Without hesitation, I kicked him back, but then several others ganged up and beat me. I had no choice but to fight back.
Then a man known as “Director Li” entered and, taking advantage of my defenselessness, slapped me again (though I had spent over six years in prison before, no officer had ever struck me). After he left, a group of at least seven or eight inmates, emboldened by his signal, swarmed over me. I was knocked down, beaten until dizzy, with my head throbbing in pain and swelling in several places, the world spinning before my eyes.
Deputy Director Li Mouhui took me to the interrogation room. I requested medical treatment and examination for my injuries, but he coldly refused. He then ordered me back to cell 401. I said, “Then just let them beat me to death.” He replied, “Killing a person here is no different from killing a dog. We wouldn’t even need to bury you — we’d just throw you into the crematory nearby.” That was the first time I realized how close I was to the cremation furnace.
Deputy Director Li ordered men to drag me to isolation cell 6011. When I woke up, I was lying on the concrete floor next to a puddle of water, my head against a toilet pit, my socks torn. Beside me was a small wooden bed fixed into the cement.
For days my head throbbed with unbearable pain, the swellings showing no sign of subsiding. For four consecutive days, I pressed the emergency button requesting a hospital visit, but was denied each time. I went on a three-day hunger strike in protest, to no avail. No one acknowledged that I had been beaten.
What human rights can there be?!
On May 30, 2023, I was transferred from Zixing Detention Center to Chenzhou Prison. Upon arrival, the fourteen of us from Zixing were ordered to strip naked and squat-jump together. I refused. Within an hour of arriving, I was locked in a 0.18-square-meter iron cage on the second floor of the intake center. It was 35°C indoors. For over eight hours, I had only a spoonful of water and no food. My clothes were drenched in sweat several times.
That night, I was placed in the “high-security zone” on the fifth floor — inside a 0.7-square-meter cage for two weeks, confined there more than 15 hours a day. For six consecutive days I was denied showers; for several days, water and toilet access were also forbidden. My hunger strike changed nothing.
In front of a dozen people, Section Chief Liang said, “Lock this man (pointing at me) tighter. Don’t give him water, don’t let him use the toilet. Just make sure he doesn’t die here.”
Furious, I demanded to be put on the “tiger bench.” Within two hours, my “wish” was granted. After less than ten minutes on it, my hands were swollen, and sweat poured from my head like rain.
When I was finally released from the bench hours later, my right hand remained numb for five days; my thumb could not move normally. Even two months later, it still tingled as if connected to a weak electric current.
What human rights can there be?!
On June 8, 2023, on a form the prison required me to fill out, I wrote:
“Since arriving at Chenzhou Prison on May 30, I have not been treated as a human being. Whether as a natural person, a prisoner, or even a political prisoner—no matter how grave the alleged crime—I still possess the most basic human rights. The dignity of each individual is part of the dignity of all humankind. Humanity’s collective dignity is the sum of each person’s dignity. Even if the prison aims to ‘reform’ people, it cannot do so at the cost of trampling upon or sacrificing human dignity.”
On June 25, 2023, I was transferred to Changsha Prison in Hunan Province. I was not allowed to bring in my two boxes of books—not even a single copy of Three Hundred Tang Poems or The Four Books with Zhu Xi’s Commentary. They called it a “zero-carry-in” policy—one of Warden Lei Jianhua’s so-called “innovative reforms,” an extreme display of his authoritarian control.
A 42-year-old prisoner from Liuzhou, Guangxi, who arrived at the Changsha Prison intake center the same day I did, died in early July. No one took responsibility. For nearly two months in the intake center, we were forbidden to read or write. I requested three times to borrow a copy of Records of the Grand Historian from the bookshelf, and each time I was refused.
After being transferred to the Fourth Prison Division on August 21, 2023, I was forced to the floor in the corridor for five consecutive days because I refused to squat without cause—“to set an example for others,” as they put it. On August 27, 2023, I was beaten by both inmates and police officers after refusing to sing a propaganda “red song.” Officer Xie, the tallest in the division, kicked me hard and said: “Since this is political, hitting you doesn’t count for anything. If you’re unhappy, go report it—to the disciplinary committee, the prosecutor, or even the warden. I don’t care where you complain!”
What human rights can there be?!
On August 29, 2023, I was denied access to the toilet for so long that when the collective “release” time came, it took me 20 minutes to urinate in broken intervals, like something was being forcibly pinched off.
That same day, a police officer verbally punished me: I was to receive only one-third to one-half the amount of hot water others got during the morning and afternoon supply times, and I was allowed to use the toilet only once in the morning and once in the afternoon. Fortunately, a somewhat compassionate supervisor known as “Mother Wu” did not strictly enforce it. A week later, my water supply was restored to “standard levels,” but the rule of allowing only two servings of hot water per day remained unchanged until my release on October 29, 2024. Nearly every morning and afternoon, I had to wait in painful thirst for two or three hours before I could drink. Even though my prostatitis worsened, I received no medical treatment. Between August 21 and December 30, 2023, I formally requested permission to use the toilet eight times; five of those were flatly denied.
What human rights can there be? We were treated worse than animals!
In fourteen months at Changsha Prison, I read only five books—fewer than what I had read in a single month at Heyuan Prison. Either I was forbidden to read, or I was too exhausted and overworked to do so. My six years of calligraphy practice were completely severed—I didn’t even touch a brush once.
As I wrote in a letter to Warden Lei—a letter that never received a reply—the moment my two boxes of books were stopped at the prison gate, my entire sentence in Changsha Prison was doomed to be a nightmare. For someone who had been reading for over a decade, if I could have books, I could endure even in hell; but if reading were forbidden, even paradise would feel like hell. I thank the prison’s education office: after being beaten by the police on March 3, 2024, and finding no place to complain, they handed me Francis Fukuyama’s Political Order and Political Decay on March 8. That book gradually brought me back to life.
In the thirteen months before the strict enforcement of the “9511” work regulation in August 2024, we averaged more than 60 hours of labor per week.
After the prison relocated to its new site on March 23, 2024, for more than a month we were forced to work extra shifts—I did once myself. In a team of over 170 people, dozens were compelled to do so daily. Those who failed to meet quotas were punished in various ways.
At the new site, in the name of maintaining “dining order,” meals were placed on stainless steel trays long before we were allowed to eat. By the time we sat down, the food was always cold. Even in March, when many sick inmates still wore winter coats, this practice continued. I complained multiple times—to no effect.
I remember when my family raised pigs years ago—even the pigs refused to eat cold swill; they were always fed warm food. And yet, as a human rights defender, I was reduced to a condition worse than that of pigs.
In 2020, before his second imprisonment, Xie Wenfei came to Hangzhou to visit Zhu Yufu
What human rights can there be?
Many people might say, “Doesn’t Article 7 of our Prison Law clearly stipulate that the rights of prisoners and their human dignity must be protected?” But I believe that anyone truly awake knows how far we still are from a rule-of-law society—if we are not, in fact, drifting farther away from it. Moreover, our warden, Lei, once declared publicly at a general meeting that we were “criminals,” the so-called “bad people” (on this point I solemnly protest, and I will demand that Warden Lei publicly admit his mistake when the time comes). He said we are here to be punished—and that Changsha Prison is already “too good,” the best in China and the finest in Hunan.He even joked that if the prison got any “better,” the less fortunate in society would, under Dickens’s inspiration, voluntarily come seek refuge in Changsha Prison. At that same meeting, Warden Lei instructed us, the prisoners, to always remember the “Three Questions of the Soul” written on the wall—questions that are the complete opposite of Kant’s three philosophical questions.
Thus, under Warden Lei’s so-called “brilliant leadership” and his ruthless intimidation, few dared to file complaints. Even if one tried, the result would be the same as mine: after being beaten, I wrote a letter to the prison’s resident prosecutor and another to request a meeting with my lawyer, Zhang Lei, to file a complaint—both letters were torn up right in front of me.
In China’s prisons—especially in our Changsha Prison—don’t speak to me of human rights!
This is the thunderous declaration of Changsha Prison itself!
As the French thinker Alexis de Tocqueville once said: “The degree of civilization in a society can be judged by entering its prisons.” How true these words are!
— Written by human rights defender XIE, Wenfei, at the risk of his life, on World Human Rights Day, 2024.