活动主题：声援黎智英等民主人士
一场丑陋的审判，一场早已注定的宣判，黎智英先生和他的同事们和全世界人的目光，随着那代表独裁，代表邪恶的法槌落下。香港，这曾经的东方之珠，段段20多年就被赤化，就变成了独裁国家的一个普通城市。金融中心的地位丧失，法制陷落，民生凋弊，留下的是只有苦不堪言的人民和对昔日荣光的追忆。
来吧，朋友们，发出我们的声音，声援黎智英等民主人士，让世界看到我们的呐喊，让台湾人民擦亮眼睛，不要重蹈覆辙！
活动组织：中国民主人权联盟洛杉矶分部
活动发起人：胡景、彭小亮
活动组织者： 房兰峰,何兴强
活动开始时间：2026年2月15日 2:00 pm
活动地点：洛杉矶领事馆门口
联系人： 何兴强：6266974469、房兰峰：7733400777
活动主持人：卜青松
洛杉矶 2月15日 释放黎智英！FIGHT FOR FREEDOM ! FREE HONGKONG!
Release 黎智英!
FREE HONGKONG!
时间:2/15/2026 3:30PM
地址：中共洛杉矶领事馆 433 SHATTO PL,LOS ANGELES, CA 90020
主办：中国民主党
2月15日（周日）湾区声援黎智英活动 下午四点
在闻道读书会的会场 以观看电影的形式举行
地址：2077 Gold St ，Alviso, CA 95002，United States
作者：张 宇 编辑：冯仍 校对：程筱筱 翻译：彭小梅
2025年12月10日上午，在中国河南省平顶山市鲁山县，28岁的女性魏亚蕊，在结婚当天跳楼身亡。官方与舆论很快就给出熟悉的解释：“家庭矛盾”“一时想不开”“心理问题”“极端个案”。这些说法看似中性，实则残忍，它们的共同作用只有一个——迅速切断追问责任的可能性。
但真正需要被追问的不是：“她为什么这么极端？”而是：为什么一个明确拒绝婚姻的女性，会被逼到只能用死亡来终止一场她不同意的人生安排？魏亚蕊不是在“选择死亡”，她是在一个拒绝承认女性拒绝权的社会结构中，被系统性地剥夺了所有安全的生存选项。
当她说“不”时，迎接她的不是尊重、不是暂停、不是保护，而是来自家庭、宗族、亲戚、舆论，乃至地方权力结构的集体施压与围剿。
她的死亡并非偶发事故，而是一个高度可预测的结果。
在中国，一个长期将婚姻、生育与“社会稳定”“基层治理”“人口任务”绑定的独裁体制下，女性的身体、情感与人生选择，被视为可调配的社会资源。当她们拒绝配合，系统并不会为她们提供退路，而是通过家庭压力、道德规训、舆论羞辱与制度冷漠，将她们一步步逼向悬崖。
因此，魏亚蕊之死，不是“家庭悲剧”，不是“个人心理疾病”，更不是“无法避免的极端个案”。
这是中国共产党长期结构性压迫女性、将婚姻政治化、将顺从视为稳定前提的必然结果。
魏亚蕊触碰的禁区，不是“结不结婚”，而是她说了“不”。
在中国社会语境中，女性的拒绝从来不被当作一种合法决定。它被重新翻译为“任性”“不懂事”“情绪化”“给家里添麻烦”。拒绝本身，就是对秩序的冒犯。
当一个女性拒绝进入一段被安排好的婚姻，她挑战的并不只是某个家庭决策，而是一个早已形成共识的结构性预期——女性的人生不属于她自己，而属于家庭安排、社会需要与“稳定逻辑”。
最先出现的是家庭压力。父母不再是保护者，而是制度的第一代理人——以“为你好”为名，行剥夺之实；以“我们也是没办法”为名，完成对女性意志的碾压。
接着是宗族与亲戚的合力施压。拒绝被迅速定性为“丢脸”“不孝”“破坏关系”“让大家难做”。女性的选择被置于集体情绪之下。
然后是舆论与社会规训。“别人家的女儿都结婚了”“都到这个年龄了还挑什么”“再拖下去就没人要了”
这些话看似随意，却构成了一套精准的羞辱系统——不断提醒女性：你的价值正在过期，你已经没有资格拒绝。这不是几个人的恶意，也不是沟通失败，而是一整套社会运行逻辑对“女性拒绝权”的系统性封堵。
在中国，婚姻从来不是私人选择。它是中国共产党长期纳入治理体系的政治工具。中共通过基层治理、人口政策与稳定责任制，将婚姻与生育直接绑定为社会秩序的基础单元。女性的婚姻状态，不再是个人决定，而是被默认为一种需要按时完成的社会任务。
在这一逻辑下，结不结婚，从来不是“你愿不愿意”而是“你有没有按要求配合”。当中共将“低生育率”“人口结构失衡”“社会不稳定”定义为治理风险时，它并没有反思制度本身，而是将压力层层下压——压到家庭，压到女性身上。催婚不是亲情行为，而是政策压力的民间传导。
中共从未正面承认逼婚是暴力，因为一旦承认，就等于承认：这个体制依赖对女性的强制，才能维持自身运转。因此，婚姻被去权利化，被去同意化，被重新包装为“责任”“义务”“现实选择”。当一个女性拒绝婚姻时，她不仅是在对抗家庭，她是在对抗一个将顺从视为公民美德、将拒绝视为威胁的政权逻辑。
而中共对此心知肚明。正因如此，它从不为女性提供制度出口：没有有效的法律保护；没有可被信任的求助系统；没有真正独立的公共讨论空间。因为一旦女性拥有安全的拒绝权，这套治理逻辑就会失效。
所以，中共选择了另一条路，对逼婚保持沉默，对父权暴力视而不见，对女性的痛苦进行系统性降级处理。
这不是疏忽，而是选择。魏亚蕊的处境，正是在这样的制度环境中被一步步制造出来的。当婚姻被政治化，拒绝就不再是个人权利，而是被视为“稳定”的破坏行为。在这样的体制下，女性不是公民，而是被管理、被调配、被消耗的治理资源。这就是为什么，当她拒绝结婚时，整个系统都会站在她的对立面。不是因为她错了，而是因为她不再服从中国共产党所需要的那种秩序。
在每一次类似的死亡之后，总会有人提出同一个问题：“她为什么不离开？”
这个问题看似理性，实则残酷。它假设女性始终拥有“安全选项”，并将结局的责任重新推回到她个人身上。
但在中国，这个假设本身就是虚假的。
对许多女性而言，离开并不等于安全，而是进入另一种风险更高的不确定状态。当一个女性拒绝婚姻、试图逃离家庭压力时，她面对的不是一条清晰的出路，而是一片制度性的真空。
首先，是法律层面的失效。在中国，逼婚、精神控制、情感勒索几乎从未被清晰地界定为违法行为。报警往往意味着被劝返，被要求“多沟通”“互相体谅”“不要把事情闹大”。执法系统并不为拒绝婚姻的女性提供保护，它的首要目标是维持表面稳定，而非保障个体权利。对女性来说，报警并不是求助，而是一种可能进一步暴露、激化冲突的高风险行为。
其次，是社会支持系统的缺失。在一个长期压制公民社会、打压独立组织的体制下，真正可被信任的心理援助、法律援助与庇护机制几乎不存在。你可以被要求“去看心理医生”，但你的出境不会因此改变；你可以被告知“想开点”，但没有任何人能为你的拒绝提供现实支撑。心理问题被个人化，而造成心理崩溃的结构性压力，却被完全回避。这正是体制的惯常做法：将系统性压迫转化为个体心理失败。
再者，是舆论环境的围堵。在中国，公开表达对家庭、婚姻、父母安排的决绝，往往意味着被迅速道德审判。“白眼狼”“不孝”“自私”“矫情”这些标签不是偶然的情绪宣泄，而是一种高度稳定、可复制的舆论惩罚机制。它们的作用只有一个：让拒绝变得代价高昂，让沉默看起来更安全。
最后，是经济与身份层面的现实困境。在一个对女性就业、流动、社会保障高度不友好的体系中，“独立生活”往往只是纸面选项。没有稳定收入，没有社会支持，没有制度兜底，“离开”很容易被重新包装为“不负责任”“不现实”“不懂事”。当所有现实条件都在提醒你：顺从是唯一成本最低的生存方式，拒绝就成了一种奢侈，甚至是一种危险。
当法律不保护，当社会不接住，当舆论不站在你这边，当国家只关心“稳定”，那么所谓“个人选择”，就只剩下名义。魏亚蕊并不是没有尝试过承受，也不是没有意识到反抗的代价。她所面对的，是一个不为拒绝提供安全路径的社会结构。在这样的结构中，死亡并不是“冲动选择”而是被一步步逼近的终点。
如果一个社会不断询问受害者“你为什么不离开”，却从不追问“是谁让离开变得不可能”，那么这个社会，早已选边站队。
而中国共产党，正是这个“没有退路”的结构性制造者。
魏亚蕊的死亡不是孤立事件，而是中国共产党长期政治化婚姻、纵容父权暴力、压制女性选择权的结果。面对这样的结构性暴力，我们必须明确立场：
反对中共将婚姻和生育政治化：婚姻不应该是社会治理的工具，更不应该是人口、稳定或基层政绩的附属品。女性的人生不是国家任务，她们的选择权必须被承认、被尊重。
反对以“传统”“孝道”“现实”为名的制度和家庭暴力：任何以道德、情感或社会压力为借口的逼婚行为，都是暴力。不管是谁执行，强迫就是强迫，剥夺就是剥夺。
坚持女性拥有完整、不可让渡的人身权和人生选择权：她们的拒绝、退让、甚至不合作，都是合法的意志表达。没有人有权用“稳定”“家族”“责任”来剥夺女性的自决权。
要求建立可触达的支持系统：包括法律援助、心理支持、公共讨论空间。不是事后道德评判，也不是旁观者的指责，而是真正能提供退路的保护机制。
反对去政治化叙事：任何试图将逼婚、死亡、压迫解释为“家庭矛盾”“心理问题”“极端个案”的行为，都是在替施暴者和制度洗白。直面责任，是正义的前提。
只有当社会、法律与舆论正视这些结构性问题，当每一个女性都拥有安全的选择和生存空间，魏亚蕊的死亡才不会白白成为一份警示。
这不仅是为她发声，更是为所有可能被逼到绝境的女性、为我们自己，争取选择权和生存权。
魏亚蕊已经离开，但她的故事不应该被封存为“悲剧新闻”，也不应该被简化为“心理问题”“家庭矛盾”或“偶发事件”。她的死亡，是中共长期政治化婚姻、纵容父权暴力、压制女性选择权的必然结果。是一个系统、一套逻辑、一种制度，逼迫女性走向绝境的真实写照。
我们必须清楚：女性不是家庭的工具，也不是社会的稳定器，更不是政策的牺牲品。每一次强迫、每一次忽视、每一次道德绑架，都是对人权、自由与尊严的直接侵犯。在一个没有退路的社会里，顺从并不等于安全，沉默并不等于保护。
反对逼婚！反对父权！反对独裁！
Author: Zhang YuEditor: Feng Reng Proofreader: Cheng Xiaoxiao Translator: Peng Xiaomei
Abstract:On December 10, 2025, in Lushan County, Pingdingshan City, Henan Province, 28-year-old Wei Yarui fell to her death on her wedding day, sparking widespread public concern. This article argues that the incident was not a matter of “family conflict” or “psychological issues,” but the structural result of the long-term politicization of marriage and the systematic suppression of women’s right to refuse. The author calls for opposition to forced marriage and patriarchal violence, and for the defense of women’s full personal and decision-making rights.
On the morning of December 10, 2025, in Lushan County, Pingdingshan City, Henan Province, 28-year-old Wei Yarui jumped to her death on her wedding day. Official statements and public opinion quickly offered familiar explanations: “family conflict,” “a moment of emotional breakdown,” “psychological issues,” “an extreme individual case.” These statements appear neutral but are in fact cruel. Their common function is only one—to quickly cut off any possibility of questioning responsibility.
But what truly needs to be questioned is not: “Why was she so extreme?”It is: Why was a woman who clearly refused marriage driven to the point where death was the only way to end a life arrangement she did not consent to?
Wei Yarui was not “choosing death.” She was systematically stripped of all safe options for survival within a social structure that refuses to recognize women’s right to refuse.
When she said “no,” what met her was not respect, not pause, not protection, but collective pressure and encirclement—from family, clan, relatives, public opinion, and even local power structures.
Her death was not an accidental tragedy, but a highly predictable outcome.
Under a dictatorial system in China that has long tied marriage, childbirth, “social stability,” “grassroots governance,” and “population targets” together, women’s bodies, emotions, and life choices are treated as social resources to be allocated. When they refuse to cooperate, the system does not provide them with an exit. Instead, through family pressure, moral discipline, public shaming, and institutional indifference, it pushes them step by step toward the edge.
Therefore, Wei Yarui’s death was not a “family tragedy,” not a “personal psychological illness,” and certainly not an “unavoidable extreme case.”
It was the inevitable result of the Chinese Communist Party’s long-term structural oppression of women, its politicization of marriage, and its treatment of obedience as a prerequisite for stability.
The taboo Wei Yarui touched was not “whether to marry,” but that she said “no.”
In the social context of China, a woman’s refusal is never regarded as a legitimate decision. It is retranslated as “willful,” “immature,” “emotional,” or “causing trouble for the family.” Refusal itself is treated as an offense against order.
When a woman refuses to enter an arranged marriage, she challenges not merely a family decision, but a deeply internalized structural expectation—that a woman’s life does not belong to herself, but to family arrangements, social needs, and the “logic of stability.”
The first pressure comes from the family. Parents cease to be protectors and instead become the first agents of the system—depriving in the name of “for your own good,” crushing female will in the name of “we have no choice.”
Next comes collective pressure from clan and relatives. Refusal is quickly labeled as “shameful,” “unfilial,” “damaging relationships,” “making things difficult for everyone.” A woman’s choice is placed beneath collective emotion.
Then comes public opinion and social discipline:“Other people’s daughters are already married.”“At this age, what are you still being picky about?”“If you wait any longer, no one will want you.”
These remarks may sound casual, but they form a precise system of humiliation—constantly reminding women that their value is expiring and that they no longer have the right to refuse.
This is not the malice of a few individuals, nor a failure of communication. It is the systematic blockade of women’s right to refuse embedded in the logic of social operation.
In China, marriage has never been purely a private choice. It has long been incorporated into the CCP’s governance system as a political tool. Through grassroots governance, population policies, and stability accountability mechanisms, the CCP has bound marriage and childbirth directly to social order. A woman’s marital status is no longer a personal decision, but an assumed social task to be completed on time.
Under this logic, the question is never “Do you want to marry?” but “Have you cooperated as required?” When the CCP defines “low birth rates,” “demographic imbalance,” and “social instability” as governance risks, it does not reflect on the system itself. Instead, it shifts pressure downward—to families, to women. Urging marriage is not an act of affection; it is the grassroots transmission of policy pressure.
The CCP has never openly admitted that forced marriage is violence. To do so would be to admit that the system relies on coercion of women to sustain itself. Thus marriage is stripped of rights, stripped of consent, and repackaged as “responsibility,” “duty,” and “realistic choice.”
When a woman refuses marriage, she is not only confronting her family; she is confronting a regime logic that treats obedience as civic virtue and refusal as threat.
The CCP understands this well. That is precisely why it does not provide women with institutional exits: no effective legal protection, no trustworthy support systems, no truly independent public discussion space. Because once women possess a safe right to refuse, this governance logic would collapse.
So the CCP chooses another path: silence about forced marriage, indifference toward patriarchal violence, and systematic downgrading of women’s suffering.
This is not negligence. It is a choice.
Wei Yarui’s situation was produced step by step within such an institutional environment. When marriage is politicized, refusal is no longer a personal right but is treated as a destabilizing act. In such a system, women are not citizens, but governance resources to be managed, allocated, and consumed.
That is why, when she refused marriage, the entire system stood against her. Not because she was wrong, but because she no longer conformed to the order required by the CCP.
After each similar death, someone always asks the same question: “Why didn’t she just leave?”
This question appears rational but is in fact cruel. It assumes that women always possess a “safe option,” and shifts responsibility back onto the individual.
But in China, this assumption itself is false.
For many women, leaving does not mean safety, but entry into a more uncertain and risky condition.
First, legal failure. In China, forced marriage, psychological control, and emotional blackmail are rarely clearly defined as illegal. Calling the police often results in being persuaded to return, urged to “communicate more,” “be understanding,” and “not make things bigger.” Law enforcement’s priority is maintaining surface stability, not protecting individual rights. Reporting is not help—it may expose the woman to greater risk.
Second, the absence of social support. In a system that suppresses civil society and independent organizations, reliable psychological counseling, legal aid, and shelter mechanisms barely exist. You may be told to “see a psychologist,” but your situation does not change. Structural pressure is converted into “individual psychological failure.”
Third, public opinion. Publicly rejecting family arrangements invites rapid moral judgment— “ungrateful,” “unfilial,” “selfish,” “overdramatic.” These labels are not random; they are stable and replicable punishment mechanisms. They raise the cost of refusal and make silence seem safer.
Finally, economic and social reality. In a system unfriendly to women’s employment, mobility, and social security, “independent living” is often only a theoretical option. Without income, support, or institutional protection, leaving is repackaged as “irresponsible,” “unrealistic,” “immature.”
When law does not protect, society does not support, public opinion does not stand with you, and the state only cares about “stability,” then “personal choice” remains in name only.
Wei Yarui did not die because of impulsive weakness. She was pushed step by step toward a dead end by a structure that offers no safe path for refusal.
If a society constantly asks victims “Why didn’t you leave?” but never asks “Who made leaving impossible?” then that society has already chosen its side.
And the Chinese Communist Party is precisely the architect of this “no-exit” structure.
Wei Yarui’s death is not an isolated case. It is the result of the CCP’s long-term politicization of marriage, tolerance of patriarchal violence, and suppression of women’s right to choose.
In the face of such structural violence, we must state clearly:
Oppose the CCP’s politicization of marriage and childbirth. Marriage must not be a governance tool, nor a population or stability metric. Women’s lives are not state tasks.
Oppose violence disguised as “tradition,” “filial piety,” or “reality.” Any forced marriage justified by moral or emotional pressure is violence.
Insist that women possess full, inalienable personal and life decision-making rights. Their refusal is legitimate expression of will.
Demand accessible support systems—legal aid, psychological support, and independent public discussion spaces.
Reject depoliticized narratives that reduce forced marriage and death to “family conflict” or “psychological issues.” Facing responsibility is the precondition for justice.
Only when society, law, and public discourse confront these structural problems will Wei Yarui’s death not become an empty warning.
This is not only speaking for her, but for all women who may be pushed to despair—and for us.
Wei Yarui is gone. But her story must not be archived as mere “tragic news,” nor simplified into “psychological issues” or “family conflict.”
Her death is the inevitable result of a system that politicizes marriage, condones patriarchal violence, and suppresses women’s right to choose.
Women are not tools of family, not stabilizers of society, not sacrifices for policy.
Oppose forced marriage.Oppose patriarchy.Oppose dictatorship.
—致金明日牧师
作者：赵令军
编辑：钟然 校对：熊辩 翻译：彭小梅
在当下的中国，教堂被监控、信徒被传唤、聚会被定性为“非法”早已成为一种常态。从建政初期至今，中共对基督教的压制从未中断，只是在不同时期更换了手段与名目。
然而，2025年10月9日晚，广西北海，当局出动三十余名全副武装的警察，包围整栋住宅，只为抓捕一位讲道、祷告、牧养信徒的老人——金明日牧师，这个世界仍然不得不再次面对一个问题：
一个自称强大、稳定、无所畏惧的政权，究竟在恐惧什么？
金明日牧师的被捕，并不仅仅是一场针对个人的抓捕行动。
它更像是一种公开宣示——当信仰拒绝臣服，权力就必须出手；当良知不肯低头，国家机器便被动员起来。
一个坚持无神论的独裁政权，试图通过这种方式向信徒宣告：没有人能帮助你们——你们的教堂不能，你们的上帝也不能。
但金明日牧师并非毫无准备。
在此之前，他已经亲眼见过多位牧师、传道者被抓、被审、被长期拘押。他曾为他们感到纠结、痛心；也正因为见过代价，他才更加清楚，这条路通向何处。
正是在这样的背景下，他后来对来访者所说的那句话才显得格外平静，却分量极重：“以前看到别的牧师或传道者被抓，我很纠结，却无能为力；如今，我自己被抓了，反而觉得很坦然。”
从这一刻起，叙事发生了变化。
金明日牧师不再只是一个“被迫害者”，而是一位明知后果、仍然作出选择的人。
他让我想起《使徒行传》中记载的第一位殉道者——司提反。
《使徒行传》5章29节写道：“顺从神，不顺从人，是应当的。”
这并非一句抽象的信仰宣言，而是在历史中一次次被具体生命所印证的选择。
在教会最初的年代，执事司提反因坚持公开见证信仰，被带到权力与宗教合谋的审判面前。面对捏造的指控与即将降临的石刑，他既没有为自己辩护，也没有以认罪换取生存。
当石头即将落下时，他没有控诉，也没有呼喊不公，而是仰望天空，平静地说了一句
“主耶稣，请你接受我的灵魂。”
那不是绝望中的哀求，而是在已经作出选择之后的交托。
正是在这一刻，死亡失去了它作为威胁的力量。
两千年后，当金明日牧师说出“我反而觉得很坦然”时，这种坦然同样不是对现实的无知，也不是对苦难的轻视，而是源自同一个根基：
当一个人已经把生命交托，权力便无法再以恐惧相要挟。
司提反在行刑之时，将灵魂交在主的手中；
金明日牧师在被捕之时，将命运交在同样的顺从之中。
时代不同，方式各异，
但那一刻的心境，是相通的。
为了抓捕金明日牧师，当局出动了数十名警力。
不是为了制止暴力犯罪，也不是为了防范公共危险，而只是为了终止祷告、终止讲道、终止一群人按照良心聚集的权利。
事实本身，已经构成了最清楚的控诉。
而更沉重的代价，落在了他的家人身上。
由于中共长期实施边控，金明日牧师已经超过七年未能与身在美国的家人团聚。他的家人被迫承受突如其来的分离、漫长的不确定，以及随时可能升级的打压。事实上，正如他女儿 Grace Jin 在美国国会的陈词中所披露的那样，中共对她们的恐吓已经开始。
然而，她们并未否认金牧师的选择，也没有将他的坚持视为鲁莽。
“很痛苦，但依然充满爱，我们相信上帝不会抛弃我们。”她们如是说。
殉道从来不是一个浪漫的词。
它意味着清醒地承受，意味着在孤独中站立，意味着明知将失去自由，仍不撤回信仰与良知。
司提反倒下后，教会并未消失；恰恰相反，逼迫成为信仰扩散的起点。历史一再证明：迫害从未终结信仰，反而不断替它作证。
当权力以为自己封住了口、锁住了人，却发现真理被推向了更远的地方。
正如 Grace Jin 在国会所说：即便在文革时期，仍有人在暗中坚持信仰，甚至躲在厨房里为家人唱赞美诗；那么在今天，一个政权同样无法消灭基督教。
当国际社会一次次发声，呼吁释放一位本应无罪的牧师时，真正站在历史被告席上的，早已不是他。
一个必须动用国家机器来压制信仰、用法律名义惩罚良知的政权，事实上已经对自己作出了判决。
政权或许可以囚禁人的身体，却无法审判一个顺从神的灵魂。
从司提反，到无数无名的信徒，再到今天的金明日牧师，殉道者从来不是失败者——他们只是提前把结局交给了时间。
而时间，终将作证。
赵令军（Frank），加拿大，2026年2月
Author: Zhao Lingjun Editor: Zhong Ran Proofreader: Xiong Bian Translator: Peng Xiaomei
Abstract:The arrest of Pastor Jin Mingri has sparked renewed reflection on the suppression of faith. Drawing on the spirit of Stephen’s martyrdom, this article points out that a conscience obedient to God does not fear the coercion of power, and that truth will ultimately be proven by time.
In present-day China, churches under surveillance, believers summoned for questioning, and gatherings labeled as “illegal” have long become a norm. From the early years of the regime to today, the Chinese Communist Party’s suppression of Christianity has never ceased; it has merely changed its methods and pretexts in different periods.
Yet on the night of October 9, 2025, in Beihai, Guangxi, when authorities dispatched more than thirty fully armed police officers to surround an entire residential building—simply to arrest an elderly pastor who preached, prayed, and shepherded believers—the world was once again forced to confront a question:
What exactly is a regime that claims to be powerful, stable, and fearless truly afraid of?
Pastor Jin Mingri’s arrest was not merely an operation targeting an individual.
It was more like a public declaration—that when faith refuses to submit, power must intervene; when conscience refuses to bow, the machinery of the state is mobilized.
An atheistic authoritarian regime attempts, in this way, to declare to believers: no one can help you—your church cannot, and your God cannot either.
But Pastor Jin Mingri was not unprepared.
Before this, he had personally witnessed multiple pastors and preachers being arrested, tried, and detained for long periods. He had felt anguish and pain for them; precisely because he had seen the cost, he understood even more clearly where this path would lead.
It is against this background that the words he later spoke to visitors appear especially calm, yet weighty:
“In the past, when I saw other pastors or preachers arrested, I felt torn and powerless; now that I myself have been arrested, I actually feel at peace.”
From that moment, the narrative changed.
Pastor Jin Mingri was no longer merely a “persecuted victim,” but a man who knew the consequences and still made his choice.
He reminds me of the first martyr recorded in the Book of Acts—Stephen.
Acts 5:29 says: “We must obey God rather than men.”
This is not an abstract declaration of faith, but a choice repeatedly embodied in concrete lives throughout history.
In the early days of the church, the deacon Stephen, for insisting on publicly bearing witness to his faith, was brought before a trial shaped by the collusion of power and religion. Facing fabricated accusations and the impending sentence of stoning, he neither defended himself nor exchanged confession for survival.
As the stones were about to fall, he did not accuse, nor cry out injustice, but looked up to heaven and calmly said:
“Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.”
That was not a plea born of despair, but a surrender made after a decision had already been taken.
At that moment, death lost its power as a threat.
Two thousand years later, when Pastor Jin Mingri said, “I actually feel at peace,” this peace was likewise not ignorance of reality, nor disregard for suffering, but arose from the same foundation:
When a person has already entrusted his life, power can no longer use fear as leverage.
Stephen, at the moment of execution, entrusted his spirit into the Lord’s hands;Pastor Jin Mingri, at the moment of arrest, entrusted his fate in the same obedience.
The times are different, the circumstances vary,but the state of heart in that moment is shared.
To arrest Pastor Jin Mingri, the authorities mobilized dozens of police officers.
Not to stop violent crime, nor to prevent public danger, but merely to end prayer, to end preaching, to end a group of people gathering according to conscience.
The facts themselves constitute the clearest indictment.
And the heavier cost has fallen upon his family.
Because of long-standing exit controls imposed by the CCP, Pastor Jin Mingri has not been able to reunite with his family in the United States for more than seven years. His family has been forced to endure sudden separation, prolonged uncertainty, and the constant possibility of escalating repression. Indeed, as his daughter Grace Jin disclosed in her testimony before the U.S. Congress, intimidation against them by the CCP has already begun.
Yet they have not denied Pastor Jin’s choice, nor regarded his persistence as reckless.
“It is very painful but still filled with love. We believe God will not abandon us,” they said.
Martyrdom has never been a romantic word.
It means sober endurance. It means standing firm in solitude. It means knowing one may lose freedom yet still refusing to withdraw one’s faith and conscience.
After Stephen fell, the church did not disappear; on the contrary, persecution became the starting point for the spread of faith. History repeatedly proves that persecution has never ended faith; rather, it continually bears witness to it.
When power believes it has silenced mouths and locked up bodies, it finds that truth has been carried even farther.
As Grace Jin said in Congress: even during the Cultural Revolution, people persisted in faith in secret, even hiding in kitchens to sing hymns for their families; then today, likewise, a regime cannot eliminate Christianity.
When the international community repeatedly calls for the release of a pastor who should be innocent, the one truly standing in history’s dock is no longer him.
A regime that must mobilize state machinery to suppress faith, and punish conscience in the name of law, has in fact already passed judgment upon itself.
A regime may imprison the body, but it cannot try the soul that obeys God.
From Stephen to countless unnamed believers, to Pastor Jin Mingri today, martyrs have never been the defeated—they have merely entrusted the ending to time in advance.
And time will bear witness.
Zhao Lingjun (Frank)Canada, February 2026
第十三届奥斯卡中国自由人权奖(2026)
通知
顾问：
苏晓康、朱虞夫、林劲鹏、陈立群、陈维明、周锋锁、方政、封从德、金秀红、王丹、盛雪
候选人名单（个人）：
余江帆、常珈瑄、王一飞、许光利、徐光、张晓东、陆辉煌、董广平、李宜雪、樊军益、袁小华、刘家财、宋泽、张毅、黄云敏、邹巍、程晓峰、李原风、朱承志；
候选人名单（集体）：
林昭墓拜祭群体、四川泸州“中国民主胜利党”案全体涉案人员
投票人：
1，主办单位（洛杉机中国民主平台、自由雕塑公园、洛杉矶中国民主党全委会）的会员，参与现场投票；
2，关注中国人权的世界各民主大佬、领袖类名人、人权斗士、媒体记者、特邀嘉宾等可以电话或现场投票；
3，国内一线的著名人权抗争勇士等可以网络、邮件或电话投票
投票时间：美西时间2026年2月21日下午一点
地址：June 4th Memorial Museum（3024 Peck Rd, El Monte, CA 91732）
组委会联系人：王应国、李亚辉、周云龙、刘卓华、张志君
官网网址：www.lacd01.com
—致金明日牧师
作者：赵令军
编辑：钟然 校对：熊辩 翻译：彭小梅
在当下的中国，教堂被监控、信徒被传唤、聚会被定性为“非法”早已成为一种常态。从建政初期至今，中共对基督教的压制从未中断，只是在不同时期更换了手段与名目。
然而，2025年10月9日晚，广西北海，当局出动三十余名全副武装的警察，包围整栋住宅，只为抓捕一位讲道、祷告、牧养信徒的老人——金明日牧师，这个世界仍然不得不再次面对一个问题：
一个自称强大、稳定、无所畏惧的政权，究竟在恐惧什么？
金明日牧师的被捕，并不仅仅是一场针对个人的抓捕行动。
它更像是一种公开宣示——当信仰拒绝臣服，权力就必须出手；当良知不肯低头，国家机器便被动员起来。
一个坚持无神论的独裁政权，试图通过这种方式向信徒宣告：没有人能帮助你们——你们的教堂不能，你们的上帝也不能。
但金明日牧师并非毫无准备。
在此之前，他已经亲眼见过多位牧师、传道者被抓、被审、被长期拘押。他曾为他们感到纠结、痛心；也正因为见过代价，他才更加清楚，这条路通向何处。
正是在这样的背景下，他后来对来访者所说的那句话才显得格外平静，却分量极重：“以前看到别的牧师或传道者被抓，我很纠结，却无能为力；如今，我自己被抓了，反而觉得很坦然。”
从这一刻起，叙事发生了变化。
金明日牧师不再只是一个“被迫害者”，而是一位明知后果、仍然作出选择的人。
他让我想起《使徒行传》中记载的第一位殉道者——司提反。
《使徒行传》5章29节写道：“顺从神，不顺从人，是应当的。”
这并非一句抽象的信仰宣言，而是在历史中一次次被具体生命所印证的选择。
在教会最初的年代，执事司提反因坚持公开见证信仰，被带到权力与宗教合谋的审判面前。面对捏造的指控与即将降临的石刑，他既没有为自己辩护，也没有以认罪换取生存。
当石头即将落下时，他没有控诉，也没有呼喊不公，而是仰望天空，平静地说了一句
“主耶稣，请你接受我的灵魂。”
那不是绝望中的哀求，而是在已经作出选择之后的交托。
正是在这一刻，死亡失去了它作为威胁的力量。
两千年后，当金明日牧师说出“我反而觉得很坦然”时，这种坦然同样不是对现实的无知，也不是对苦难的轻视，而是源自同一个根基：
当一个人已经把生命交托，权力便无法再以恐惧相要挟。
司提反在行刑之时，将灵魂交在主的手中；
金明日牧师在被捕之时，将命运交在同样的顺从之中。
时代不同，方式各异，
但那一刻的心境，是相通的。
为了抓捕金明日牧师，当局出动了数十名警力。
不是为了制止暴力犯罪，也不是为了防范公共危险，而只是为了终止祷告、终止讲道、终止一群人按照良心聚集的权利。
事实本身，已经构成了最清楚的控诉。
而更沉重的代价，落在了他的家人身上。
由于中共长期实施边控，金明日牧师已经超过七年未能与身在美国的家人团聚。他的家人被迫承受突如其来的分离、漫长的不确定，以及随时可能升级的打压。事实上，正如他女儿 Grace Jin 在美国国会的陈词中所披露的那样，中共对她们的恐吓已经开始。
然而，她们并未否认金牧师的选择，也没有将他的坚持视为鲁莽。
“很痛苦，但依然充满爱，我们相信上帝不会抛弃我们。”她们如是说。
殉道从来不是一个浪漫的词。
它意味着清醒地承受，意味着在孤独中站立，意味着明知将失去自由，仍不撤回信仰与良知。
司提反倒下后，教会并未消失；恰恰相反，逼迫成为信仰扩散的起点。历史一再证明：迫害从未终结信仰，反而不断替它作证。
当权力以为自己封住了口、锁住了人，却发现真理被推向了更远的地方。
正如 Grace Jin 在国会所说：即便在文革时期，仍有人在暗中坚持信仰，甚至躲在厨房里为家人唱赞美诗；那么在今天，一个政权同样无法消灭基督教。
当国际社会一次次发声，呼吁释放一位本应无罪的牧师时，真正站在历史被告席上的，早已不是他。
一个必须动用国家机器来压制信仰、用法律名义惩罚良知的政权，事实上已经对自己作出了判决。
政权或许可以囚禁人的身体，却无法审判一个顺从神的灵魂。
从司提反，到无数无名的信徒，再到今天的金明日牧师，殉道者从来不是失败者——他们只是提前把结局交给了时间。
而时间，终将作证。
赵令军（Frank），加拿大，2026年2月
Author: Zhao LingjunEditor: Zhong Ran Proofreader: Xiong Bian Translator: Peng Xiaomei
Abstract:The arrest of Pastor Jin Mingri has sparked renewed reflection on the suppression of faith. Drawing on the spirit of Stephen’s martyrdom, this article points out that a conscience obedient to God does not fear the coercion of power, and that truth will ultimately be proven by time.
In present-day China, churches under surveillance, believers summoned for questioning, and gatherings labeled as “illegal” have long become a norm. From the early years of the regime to today, the Chinese Communist Party’s suppression of Christianity has never ceased; it has merely changed its methods and pretexts in different periods.
Yet on the night of October 9, 2025, in Beihai, Guangxi, when authorities dispatched more than thirty fully armed police officers to surround an entire residential building—simply to arrest an elderly pastor who preached, prayed, and shepherded believers—the world was once again forced to confront a question:
What exactly is a regime that claims to be powerful, stable, and fearless truly afraid of?
Pastor Jin Mingri’s arrest was not merely an operation targeting an individual.
It was more like a public declaration—that when faith refuses to submit, power must intervene; when conscience refuses to bow, the machinery of the state is mobilized.
An atheistic authoritarian regime attempts, in this way, to declare to believers: no one can help you—your church cannot, and your God cannot either.
But Pastor Jin Mingri was not unprepared.
Before this, he had personally witnessed multiple pastors and preachers being arrested, tried, and detained for long periods. He had felt anguish and pain for them; precisely because he had seen the cost, he understood even more clearly where this path would lead.
It is against this background that the words he later spoke to visitors appear especially calm, yet weighty:
“In the past, when I saw other pastors or preachers arrested, I felt torn and powerless; now that I myself have been arrested, I actually feel at peace.”
From that moment, the narrative changed.
Pastor Jin Mingri was no longer merely a “persecuted victim,” but a man who knew the consequences and still made his choice.
He reminds me of the first martyr recorded in the Book of Acts—Stephen.
Acts 5:29 says: “We must obey God rather than men.”
This is not an abstract declaration of faith, but a choice repeatedly embodied in concrete lives throughout history.
In the early days of the church, the deacon Stephen, for insisting on publicly bearing witness to his faith, was brought before a trial shaped by the collusion of power and religion. Facing fabricated accusations and the impending sentence of stoning, he neither defended himself nor exchanged confession for survival.
As the stones were about to fall, he did not accuse, nor cry out injustice, but looked up to heaven and calmly said:
“Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.”
That was not a plea born of despair, but a surrender made after a decision had already been taken.
At that moment, death lost its power as a threat.
Two thousand years later, when Pastor Jin Mingri said, “I actually feel at peace,” this peace was likewise not ignorance of reality, nor disregard for suffering, but arose from the same foundation:
When a person has already entrusted his life, power can no longer use fear as leverage.
Stephen, at the moment of execution, entrusted his spirit into the Lord’s hands;Pastor Jin Mingri, at the moment of arrest, entrusted his fate in the same obedience.
The times are different, the circumstances vary,but the state of heart in that moment is shared.
To arrest Pastor Jin Mingri, the authorities mobilized dozens of police officers.
Not to stop violent crime, nor to prevent public danger, but merely to end prayer, to end preaching, to end a group of people gathering according to conscience.
The facts themselves constitute the clearest indictment.
And the heavier cost has fallen upon his family.
Because of long-standing exit controls imposed by the CCP, Pastor Jin Mingri has not been able to reunite with his family in the United States for more than seven years. His family has been forced to endure sudden separation, prolonged uncertainty, and the constant possibility of escalating repression. Indeed, as his daughter Grace Jin disclosed in her testimony before the U.S. Congress, intimidation against them by the CCP has already begun.
Yet they have not denied Pastor Jin’s choice, nor regarded his persistence as reckless.
“It is very painful but still filled with love. We believe God will not abandon us,” they said.
Martyrdom has never been a romantic word.
It means sober endurance. It means standing firm in solitude. It means knowing one may lose freedom yet still refusing to withdraw one’s faith and conscience.
After Stephen fell, the church did not disappear; on the contrary, persecution became the starting point for the spread of faith. History repeatedly proves that persecution has never ended faith; rather, it continually bears witness to it.
When power believes it has silenced mouths and locked up bodies, it finds that truth has been carried even farther.
As Grace Jin said in Congress: even during the Cultural Revolution, people persisted in faith in secret, even hiding in kitchens to sing hymns for their families; then today, likewise, a regime cannot eliminate Christianity.
When the international community repeatedly calls for the release of a pastor who should be innocent, the one truly standing in history’s dock is no longer him.
A regime that must mobilize state machinery to suppress faith, and punish conscience in the name of law, has in fact already passed judgment upon itself.
A regime may imprison the body, but it cannot try the soul that obeys God.
From Stephen to countless unnamed believers, to Pastor Jin Mingri today, martyrs have never been the defeated—they have merely entrusted the ending to time in advance.
And time will bear witness.
Zhao Lingjun (Frank)Canada, February 2026
作者：于越 编辑：韩立华 校对：王滨 翻译：周敏
真正脆弱的，从来不是政权本身，而是建立在遗忘和恐惧上的统治。当一个政府连悼念死者都不允许，连烛光都要扑灭，连追问历史的人都要送进牢房，这样的政权，就已经在向世界承认它没有勇气面对自己的过去。李卓人、周幸彤、何俊仁之所以被指控，不是因为他们做了什么危险的事，而是因为他们坚持了一种最朴素的信念：历史不能被抹去，死者不应该被再次杀死于遗忘之中。
今天，被告上法庭的是他们，但真正受审的，却是“正义”这两个字。如果一个社会连公开悼念都被定性为“颠覆”，那么所谓“法治”，就只剩下一套冰冷的程序，而失去了最基本的精神内核。法律本应保障公民免受权力的侵害，而不是成为恐惧笼罩的工具。以“煽动颠覆”的名义关押为死者发声的人，只会让更多人明白：问题不在于这些公民勇敢，而在于掌权者太害怕光亮。
声援他们，并不是要推翻谁，而是要捍卫一种做人的底线：有权记住，有权悲伤，有权在公共空间讨论历史。今天，香港的烛光被强行熄灭，纪念的广场被铁栏围起，但这并不意味着记忆会终结。恰恰相反，每一次对纪念者的审判，都是对这段历史的再次提醒；每一次企图抹除记忆的举动，都会促使更多人去追问：究竟发生了什么，为什么连悼念都会怕。
愿更多人记住李卓人、周幸彤、何俊仁的名字，记住他们挺身而出的身影。支持他们，就是在捍卫一种最普通、却最珍贵的权利：面对真相，而不是在谎言中沉睡。愿有一天，人们可以在没有恐惧的夜空下，重新点起那一片烛光，让被压抑的哀悼与追问，堂堂正正地回到广场中心而不是在法庭阴影下低声诉说。
在任何一个自称文明的社会里，悼念死者，都不应该成为罪名。天安门事件中逝去的人，是真实存在的生命，是一个个被历史碾碎的个体；而那些坚持点燃烛光、为他们守住记忆的人，不应该被戴上“颠覆政权”的帽子，更不应该被送上审判席。李卓人、周幸彤、何俊仁，以及支联会多年来所做的事情，说到底，只是用和平、理性的方式，让世界不要忘记一段血写的历史——如果这都算犯罪，那么有罪的，不是他们，而是害怕真相的人。
所谓“煽动颠覆政权”，在他们身上，根本找不到暴力的影子。他们没有组织武装起义，没有鼓动仇恨，更没有号召任何人去伤害无辜。他们手里拿着的，不是武器，而是蜡烛；他们举起的，不是刀枪，而是一块写着“平反”“追究责任”“还政于民”的布条。这些诉求，也许尖锐，却绝不是毁灭国家，而是希望国家变得更公正、更有人性。在一个健康的社会里，要求真相、要求问责、要求不再重演悲剧，不应当被视为敌意，而应当被理解为对公共良知的捍卫。
写在周幸彤、李卓人、何俊仁被审判之前 2026 年 1 月 20 日
Author: Yu Yue Editor: Han Lihua Proofreader: Wang Bin Translator: Zhou Min
What is truly fragile is never the regime itself, but a rule built on forgetting and fear. When a government does not even allow the mourning of the dead, when even candlelight must be extinguished, and when even those who question history must be sent to prison, such a regime has already admitted to the world that it lacks the courage to face its own past. The reason Lee Cheuk-yan, Chow Hang-tung, and Albert Ho are being charged is not because they did something dangerous, but because they insisted on a most simple belief: history cannot be erased, and the dead should not be killed again in forgetfulness.
Today, it is they who are brought to court, but what is truly on trial is the word “Justice.” If a society defines even public mourning as “subversion,” then the so-called “rule of law” is left with only a set of cold procedures, losing its most fundamental spiritual core. Law should protect citizens from the infringement of power, rather than becoming a tool of looming fear. To imprison those who speak for the dead in the name of “inciting subversion” only makes more people understand: the problem is not that these citizens are brave, but that those in power are too afraid of the light.
Supporting them is not about overthrowing anyone, but about defending a bottom line of being human: the right to remember, the right to grieve, and the right to discuss history in public spaces. Today, the candlelight in Hong Kong has been forcibly extinguished, and the square of commemoration has been surrounded by iron fences, but this does not mean that memory will end. On the contrary, every trial of a commemorator is a renewed reminder of that period of history; every attempt to erase memory will prompt more people to ask: what exactly happened, and why is even mourning feared?
May more people remember the names of Lee Cheuk-yan, Chow Hang-tung, and Albert Ho, and remember their figures standing forth. Supporting them is defending a most ordinary yet most precious right: to face the truth, rather than sleeping in lies. May one day, people be able to relight that field of candlelight under a night sky without fear, letting suppressed mourning and questioning return with dignity to the center of the square, rather than whispering in the shadows of the courtroom.
In any society that calls itself civilized, mourning the dead should not become a crime. The people who perished in the Tiananmen Incident are real existing lives, individual lives crushed by history; and those who insist on lighting candles and keeping memory for them should not be labeled with “subverting state power,” let alone be sent to the dock. What Lee Cheuk-yan, Chow Hang-tung, Albert Ho, and the Alliance have done over the years is, in the final analysis, simply using peaceful and rational ways to let the world not forget a history written in blood—if even this is considered a crime, then the guilty ones are not them, but those who fear the truth.
As for the so-called “inciting subversion of state power,” there is no trace of violence to be found in them. They did not organize armed uprisings, did not incite hatred, and certainly did not call on anyone to harm the innocent. What they held in their hands were not weapons, but candles; what they raised were not swords or guns, but a cloth banner reading “Vindicate,” “Seek Accountability,” and “Return Power to the People.” These demands may be sharp, but they are absolutely not about destroying the country; rather, they are the hope for the country to become more just and more humane. In a healthy society, demanding the truth, demanding accountability, and demanding that tragedy never repeats should not be seen as hostility, but should be understood as the defense of public conscience.
Written before the trial of Chow Hang-tung, Lee Cheuk-yan, and Albert Ho January 20, 2026
作者：彭硕
编辑：李晶 校对：王滨 翻译：戈冰
在台湾，最高领导人和其他高级公务员的财产状况并不是一个需要人猜测的话题，财产公示是一项明确写入法律的制度要求。根据台湾监察机关依法公开的最新财产申报资料，以现任总统赖清德及其配偶为例，其名下的资产结构十分清晰：在台南市有一块土地及一套住宅，购入总价约 3280 万新台币；银行存款合计约 1125 万新台币；有价证券全部为美国国债，总值约 1186 万新台币；与此同时，其名下仍有约 1246 万新台币的房屋贷款负债。每一项资产的取得时间、取得方式、金额以及负债情况，均在官方申报文件中逐项列明，并依法接受社会监督。
在这样的制度下，公众关注的重点并不在于官员有多少钱，而在于这些财产是否与其合法收入相匹配，是否存在来源不明的情况。财产公开的意义，并不是道德审判，而是让权力运行在可被核查、可被追问的轨道上。
与此形成鲜明对比的是，在中国大陆，官员的个人及家庭资产状况，从未进入任何制度化的公开程序。公众无法获知市长、省长、部长的财产情况，更不可能知道最高领导人习近平及其直系亲属名下究竟拥有多少资产，这些资产的构成如何，又分别来源于何种渠道，也不存在独立机构进行核查或向社会作出解释。这一问题的关键，并不在于数字大小本身，而在于是否允许监督存在。一个无法回答“最高领导人及其家族是否清廉”的制度，也就不可能真正回答“这个体制是否能够反腐”的问题。正是在这种权力高度不透明的背景下，中共的反腐逐渐演变成一种依赖内部运作的治理方式。
为了弥补常规监督的失效，官方不断强化“中央巡视组”这一自上而下的检查机制，以非常态的方式介入地方、部门和国有机构。但从制度角度看，巡视组的存在本身就暴露了一个根本问题：日常的制度性反腐和司法监督已经无法正常运转。巡视组并非独立司法机构，而是权力体系内部的监督安排，可以调查别人，却难以接受同等透明度的外部监督。当监督权力本身缺乏制衡，它就可能演变为新的权力节点，而非腐败的终结者。曾参与反腐和巡视工作的纪检高层人员中，也有多人因严重腐败被查处并判刑。例如，曾担任中央巡视组副组长的董宏，后来被查实长期、大规模受贿，涉案金额巨大，被判死缓。这类案件表明，在缺乏外部制衡的情况下，监督权本身也会异化为新的权力资源。
根据最高人民法院公布的司法统计，近几年全国因贪污贿赂罪被判刑的人数，发生了显著变化，其中最引人注目的是重刑比例的持续攀升。2017 年，被判处五年以上有期徒刑直至死刑的人数为 2124 人，到 2024 年，这一数字已上升至 6630 人，短短数年间增长超过三倍。重刑比例持续上升，那么问题显然不在个别官员贪腐，而在于一个能够长期容纳大规模权钱交易的制度环境。
这一趋势并不能简单解读为“反腐力度加大”的结果，更应被理解为腐败形态的整体升级。当制度真正有效时，腐败应当趋于边缘化、零散化，并逐步减少；而当重刑比例持续上升，恰恰说明腐败正在向更高权力层级、更关键资源领域集中，演变为一次性、系统性的权力变现。这种变化反映的不是个别道德失范，而是权力结构与监督机制失灵所导致的必然结果。
与此同时，中国以“公有制经济为主体”的制度安排，也在客观上放大了这种激励结构。土地、金融、能源、军工、芯片、生物医药等领域的大规模国家投资，使资源高度集中在政府手中，其具体分配权则掌握在少数官员手上，公有制实际上也就是“官有制”。当行政权、审批权和资源配置权高度叠加，却缺乏透明公开和问责机制时，权力自然会被转化为经济租金。腐败由此不再是制度的偏差，而是制度结构所不断激励的结果。
如果官员财产公开真的水土不服，那么这一制度本不应在华人社会长期存在。但现实恰恰相反。即便在中国主权之下的香港和澳门，最高行政长官至今仍需依法申报其财产与重大经济利益，并将相关申报内容向公众披露或接受社会查询。这一制度源自殖民时期引入的西方廉政与问责框架，在回归后被完整保留并持续运作，其核心目的在于防止权力与私人利益发生不透明的结合。这一事实本身已经说明，官员财产公开并不存在所谓的文化障碍。制度是否能够运行，取决的不是族群或传统，而是是否愿意接受权力受约束、受监督的现代政治原则。
因此，“越反越腐”并不是反腐不够严厉，而是共产党所主导的反腐制度本身存在根本缺陷。在这一体制下，反腐并非真正用于限制权力，而是服务于权力的重新分配与重组，同时也不是压缩寻租空间，而是迫使寻租方式不断升级和集中。共产党试图用更加集中的权力去对抗由权力高度集中所制造的腐败，用运动式清洗取代制度性约束，用党内纪律取代公共监督，这种逻辑本身就是自我矛盾的。
在一个最高权力及其家族资产不必公开、监督体系从属于党、司法缺乏独立性、规则高度不可预期的体制中，共产党的反腐注定无法终结腐败，只能不断推动腐败向更高层级、更大规模和更隐蔽的形态演化。真正有效的反腐，必须以权力透明为前提，以制度约束为核心，以独立监督为保障。只要共产党拒绝让权力接受制度化监督，无论反腐口号多么激烈，查处数字多么惊人，都只能停留在政治表演层面，而腐败则会在更深的制度结构中持续生长。
Author: Peng Shuo
Editor: Li Jing Proofreader: Wang Bin Translator: Ge Bing
Abstract: By comparing the asset disclosure systems for officials in mainland China, Taiwan, and Hong Kong, it becomes evident that the CCP’s anti-corruption efforts serve merely as a tool for internal power struggles. In an environment of systemic corruption, nearly all officials engage in graft, and asset disclosure remains a topic dictatorships dare not touch.
In Taiwan, the financial status of top leaders and senior civil servants is not a matter of speculation, as asset disclosure is a legally mandated requirement. According to the latest asset declarations publicly released by Taiwan’s oversight agency, the asset structure of incumbent President Lai Ching-te and his spouse is transparent: they own a plot of land and a residential property in Tainan City, purchased for approximately NT$32.8 million; bank deposits totaling approximately NT$11.25 million; all securities consist of U.S. Treasury bonds valued at about NT$11.86 million; concurrently, they carry approximately NT$12.46 million in outstanding mortgage debt. The acquisition date, method, amount, and debt status for each asset are itemized in official disclosure documents and subject to public oversight as mandated by law.
Under this system, public scrutiny focuses not on how much officials possess, but whether their assets align with lawful income and whether any sources remain unexplained. The purpose of asset disclosure is not moral judgment, but to ensure power operates within verifiable, accountable boundaries.
In stark contrast, on the Chinese mainland, the personal and family assets of officials have never been subject to any institutionalized disclosure process. The public cannot ascertain the wealth of mayors, governors, or ministers, let alone the assets held by the paramount leader Xi Jinping and his immediate family members—their composition, sources, or any independent oversight or public accountability. The crux of this issue lies not in the magnitude of the figures themselves, but in whether oversight is permitted. A system incapable of answering whether its supreme leader and his family are clean cannot genuinely address whether the system itself can combat corruption. It is precisely against this backdrop of extreme opacity in power that the CCP’s anti-corruption efforts have gradually evolved into a governance approach reliant on internal operations.
To compensate for the failure of conventional oversight, authorities have continuously strengthened the top-down inspection mechanism of the “Central Inspection Teams,” which intervene in local governments, departments, and state-owned institutions through extraordinary means. Yet from an institutional perspective, the very existence of these inspection teams exposes a fundamental problem: routine institutional anti-corruption efforts and judicial oversight have ceased to function normally. Inspection teams are not independent judicial bodies but supervisory arrangements within the power structure itself. They can investigate others but struggle to accept external oversight of equivalent transparency. When oversight power itself lacks checks and balances, it risks becoming a new power node rather than an anti-corruption enforcer. Several high-ranking officials involved in anti-corruption and inspection work have themselves been investigated and sentenced for severe corruption. For instance, Dong Hong, former deputy head of a Central Inspection Team, was later found guilty of long-term, large-scale bribery involving massive sums and sentenced to death with a two-year reprieve. Such cases demonstrate that without external checks, supervisory authority itself can become a new form of power resource.
According to judicial statistics released by the Supreme People’s Court, the number of individuals sentenced for embezzlement and bribery offenses nationwide has undergone significant changes in recent years, most notably marked by a continuous rise in the proportion of severe sentences. In 2017, 2,124 individuals received sentences ranging from five years to death. By 2024, this figure had surged to 6,630—more than tripling in just a few years. The persistent rise in severe penalties suggests the problem lies not in isolated cases of official corruption, but in a systemic environment that has long accommodated large-scale power-for-money transactions.
This trend should not be simplistically interpreted as the result of “intensified anti-corruption efforts,” but rather understood as an overall escalation in the nature of corruption. When institutions are truly effective, corruption should become marginalized, fragmented, and gradually diminish. Conversely, a persistent rise in the proportion of severe punishments indicates that corruption is concentrating at higher levels of power and in more critical resource sectors, evolving into one-off, systemic monetization of power. This shift reflects not isolated moral lapses, but the inevitable outcome of dysfunctional power structures and oversight mechanisms.
Concurrently, China’s institutional arrangement centered on “public ownership as the mainstay” objectively amplifies this incentive structure. Massive state investments in sectors like land, finance, energy, defense, semiconductors, and biopharmaceuticals concentrate resources heavily within government hands, with specific allocation authority resting with a handful of officials—effectively transforming public ownership into “official ownership.” When administrative authority, approval powers, and resource allocation rights are highly overlapping yet lack transparency, openness, and accountability mechanisms, power naturally transforms into economic rent. Corruption thus ceases to be a deviation from the system and instead becomes an outcome continuously incentivized by the institutional structure.
If public disclosure of officials’ assets truly fails to take root, then this system should not have persisted long-term in Chinese-speaking societies. Yet the opposite holds true. Even in Hong Kong and Macau under Chinese sovereignty, the Chief Executives remain legally obligated to declare their assets and significant economic interests, with disclosures made public or accessible to societal scrutiny. This system, rooted in Western integrity and accountability frameworks introduced during colonial times, was fully preserved and continues to operate post-handover. Its core purpose is to prevent opaque collusion between power and private interests. This fact alone demonstrates that no so-called cultural barriers exist to public disclosure of officials’ assets. Whether such systems function depends not on ethnicity or tradition, but on embracing modern political principles that subject power to constraints and oversight.
Therefore, the paradox of “the more we fight corruption, the more it spreads” does not stem from insufficient rigor in anti-corruption efforts, but from fundamental flaws within the Communist Party-led anti-corruption system itself. Under this framework, anti-corruption measures do not genuinely serve to limit power; instead, they facilitate the redistribution and reorganization of power. Rather than reducing opportunities for rent-seeking, they compel rent-seeking practices to escalate and concentrate. The Communist Party attempts to combat corruption—a consequence of highly concentrated power—by wielding even more centralized authority. It replaces systemic constraints with campaign-style purges and substitutes public oversight with internal party discipline. This logic is inherently self-contradictory.
In a system where the supreme leader and his family’s assets remain undisclosed, oversight mechanisms are subordinate to the Party, the judiciary lacks independence, and rules are highly unpredictable, the Communist Party’s anti-corruption efforts are doomed to fail in ending corruption. Instead, they inevitably drive corruption to evolve into higher-level, larger-scale, and more covert forms. Truly effective anti-corruption efforts must be predicated on transparency of power, anchored in institutional constraints, and safeguarded by independent oversight. As long as the Communist Party refuses to subject power to institutionalized oversight, no matter how fiery the anti-corruption rhetoric or how staggering the numbers of cases investigated, such efforts will remain mere political theater. Corruption, meanwhile, will continue to thrive within the deeper institutional structures.
作者：孔德翠
编辑：Geoffrey Jin 校对：程筱筱 翻译：彭小梅
这个世界，需要勇敢的人。
刘虎是我十多年的微信好友。巫英蛟是他的合作者，也是我多年的微信好友。认识他们的人都知道，他们一直在为普通人发声。在很多人选择沉默的时候，他们选择记录；在很多人退后的时候，他们站了出来。有人称刘虎为“国内最后的调查记者”。这不是一个荣耀的头衔，而是一种沉重的现实：当正常履行新闻职责，变成一种稀缺品质；当说出事实，需要付出失去自由的代价；这个社会本身，就已出了问题。
我常常想起多年前，在深圳的一个下雨的夜晚。一名年轻人摔倒在马路中央。车灯刺眼，雨水混着泥水，街头的人行色匆匆，却没有一个人敢上前。那是中国经济最繁华、最“文明”的城市之一，可那一刻，恐惧比冷漠更真实。我冲了过去，把他扶了起来。很快，有人看到我这样做，才开始陆续加入。我们把他抬到路边，拨打了急救电话。
事情结束后，我才发现自己浑身发抖，手心全是汗。我明明知道自己在做对的事，却依然害怕——害怕被误解，害怕被讹，害怕所谓的“后果”。
后来我把这件事告诉了刘虎。他只对我说了一句话：“你很勇敢，别担心，应该没事的。”
这句话，我一直记得。勇敢，从来不是不害怕，而是明明知道风险存在，依然选择站出来。
前几天，听到刘虎再次被捕的消息，我感到震惊，也感到一种熟悉的悲伤。朋友们半夜发来消息，说他“又被抓了”。“又”这个字，本身就令人心寒。刘虎曾在2013年因调查报道被长期羁押，最终无罪。那一刻，很多人以为这是法治进步的信号。可今天，历史并没有向前，而是在倒退——同样的事情，再一次发生。巫英蛟长期关注法治与公共利益议题，通过自媒体发布深度调查内容，与多位记者合作，揭示地方权力的黑箱运作。也正因为如此，他被带走、被噤声、被警告。
他们并不是“危险人物”。真正被视为危险的，是真相本身。
当纪检系统取代司法程序；当警力凌驾于法律之上；当写作、调查、记录被定性为“罪行”。我们失去的，不只是几个记者，而是一个社会最基本的自我纠错能力。
没有舆论监督的权力，必然走向失控；没有表达自由的社会，只剩下恐惧与沉默。
但我依然相信一件事：真相不会因为抓捕而消失，自由也不会因为恐吓而终结。这个社会，正是因为还有像刘虎、巫英蛟这样的人，才没有彻底失去对良知的信任。
这个世界，需要勇敢的人。
写作无罪，记录无罪，说出事实无罪。如果连记录现实的人都要付出自由的代价，
那么沉默，才会成为真正被强迫的“共识”。
Author: Kong Decui
Editor: Geoffrey Jin Proofreader: Cheng Xiaoxiao Translator: Peng Xiaomei
Liu Hu has been my WeChat friend for more than a decade. Wu Yingjiao is his collaborator and has also been my WeChat friend for many years. Those who know them understand that they have always spoken up for ordinary people. When many chose silence, they chose to record. When many stepped back, they stepped forward. Some call Liu Hu “the last investigative journalist in China.” This is not a title of glory, but a heavy reality: when carrying out normal journalistic duties becomes a rare quality; when speaking the truth requires the price of losing one’s freedom; then the society itself is already in trouble.
I often recall a rainy night many years ago in Shenzhen. A young man fell in the middle of the road. The headlights were blinding, rain mixed with mud, and pedestrians hurried past—yet no one dared to step forward. It was one of China’s most prosperous and “civilized” cities, but in that moment, fear was more real than indifference. I rushed over and helped him up. Soon, after others saw me doing so, they began to join in. We carried him to the roadside and called for emergency assistance.
After it was over, I realized I was trembling all over, my palms drenched in sweat. I knew I had done the right thing, yet I was still afraid—afraid of being misunderstood, afraid of being falsely accused, afraid of the so-called “consequences.”
Later, I told Liu Hu about it. He said only one sentence to me: “You are very brave. Don’t worry. It should be fine.”
I have always remembered those words. Courage is never the absence of fear but knowing the risks and still choosing to stand up.
A few days ago, when I heard the news that Liu Hu had been arrested again, I felt shocked—and a familiar sorrow. Friends sent messages late at night saying he had “been detained again.” The word “again” itself is chilling. Liu Hu was previously detained for a long time in 2013 because of investigative reporting and was ultimately found not guilty. At that time, many believed it signaled progress in the rule of law. But today, history has not moved forward—it is retreating. The same thing has happened once more.
Wu Yingjiao has long focused on issues of rule of law and public interest, publishing in-depth investigative content through self-media platforms and collaborating with multiple journalists to expose the black-box operations of local power. For precisely this reason, he has been taken away, silenced, and warned.
They are not “dangerous individuals.” What is truly considered dangerous is the truth itself.
When disciplinary inspection systems replace judicial procedures; when police power overrides the law; when writing, investigation, and documentation are labeled as “crimes”—what we lose is not merely a few journalists, but the most basic capacity of a society to correct itself.
Power without public oversight inevitably runs out of control. A society without freedom of expression is left only with fear and silence.
But I still believe one thing: truth does not disappear because of arrests, and freedom does not end because of intimidation. It is precisely because there are still people like Liu Hu and Wu Yingjiao that this society has not completely lost its trust in conscience.
This world needs brave people.
Writing is not a crime. Recording is not a crime. Speaking the truth is not a crime.
If those who document reality must pay for it with their freedom, then silence will become the only “consensus” imposed upon us.
© 1998–2026 在野党(Opposition Party).
