China Democracy & Human Rights Alliance Holds Rally in Front of the Chinese Consulate in Los Angeles to Support Prisoners of Conscience in China
Author: Shen Meihua
On May 24, 2026, the China Democracy & Human Rights Alliance held a rally in front of the Consulate General of the People’s Republic of China in Los Angeles in support of Xu Guang. Under the blazing sun, participants stood outside the consulate holding banners and signs high, hoping to bring greater public attention to the injustices currently faced by Xu Guang and Mao Qingxiang.
Many democracy advocates, human rights activists, and friends concerned about human rights issues in China attended the event. Participants displayed a large banner handwritten in calligraphy by Mr. Zhu Yufu, founder of the China Democracy Party:
“The CCP’s persecution of Xu Guang is intolerable to heaven’s justice! The persecution of Mao Qingxiang arouses the indignation of both humanity and heaven!”
Participants also shared stories about the activities and experiences of Mao Qingxiang and Xu Guang in Zhejiang Province.
Many participants held signs reading “Xu Guang Is Innocent” and “Support Xu Guang,” while others displayed boards introducing Xu Guang’s background and experiences. Standing outside the consulate, I was deeply moved. Although this was only a street protest overseas, everyone hoped that through such actions the international community would continue to pay attention to the situation of Chinese dissidents.
According to Mr. Zhu, Xu Guang participated in the student democracy movements of 1986 and 1989 and was also involved in the preparatory committee of the Zhejiang branch of the China Democracy Party. In 1999, he was sentenced to five years in prison on charges of “subverting state power.” In 2022, he was again sentenced to four years in prison on charges of “picking quarrels and provoking trouble.”
What troubled me most was learning that Xu Guang has been on a prolonged hunger strike in prison and that his physical condition is a cause for serious concern. Even so, public attention to his situation remains very limited. That is why people came to the Chinese consulate—to make their voices heard.
In addition to supporting Xu Guang, we also expressed support for Mao Qingxiang. After Xu Guang was released from prison, Mao simply went to visit him and later posted a photo of their meeting on WeChat Moments. He was subsequently taken away by the police. As of the day of the rally, he had been detained for more than 48 hours without being released. Many participants believed it was deeply shocking that someone could be detained merely for visiting a friend and posting a photo together. Throughout the event, we repeatedly called for Mao Qingxiang’s immediate release. Through activities like this, we hope more people will learn that in China, individuals can still lose their freedom because of their speech, their friendships, or their expressed opinions.
A fundraising effort was also conducted during the event. The donations will be entrusted to 《The Opposition Party》 magazine for transfer to Xu Guang’s family. We plan to continue organizing similar activities and fundraising projects in the future.
Standing among the crowd, watching people hold banners and chant slogans, I felt conflicted. On one hand, I felt that an individual’s power is very limited. On the other hand, if no one speaks out, many things will truly be forgotten.
Perhaps a single event cannot change much, but at least we did not remain silent.
—A Discussion of the Incident at the Hongzhida Youth Development Center Where a Trainee Was Beaten Blind
Author: Zhou Min
On Mother’s Day, Mr. Zhang’s family received a thank-you letter from their son, written at the Hongzhida Youth Development Center in Yangxin County, Huangshi City, Hubei Province. They were unaware that the center had instructed him to write the letter; they believed it reflected their son’s true feelings. But that same evening, in his dormitory, the son wrote another note—a plea for help. He entrusted it to a fellow student who was about to leave, asking him to take it out and beg his mother to rescue him.
Two letters, written by the same hand. One was what the system forced him to write; the other was what he truly wanted to say.
The former reached the parents’ hands. The latter was discovered by the homeroom teacher, leading to a brutal beating that left him unconscious and blind in his right eye.
Mr. Zhang is not a bad father. During his on-site visit, he saw his son playing sports and chess, and he was assured that there would be no physical punishment or verbal abuse. He paid 32,800 yuan, believing he had purchased a new beginning for his son. What kind of situation led a father who loves his child to sign that contract?
I. The Creation of Anxiety
Zhang Hao is currently in his second year of junior high school; he is 13 years old. Since April of this year, he has been skipping school and staying out all night. By any standard of developmental psychology, this is merely a signal that attention and intervention are needed—not a crisis.
Yet in Mr. Zhang’s situation, this was a crisis.
To understand this, one must first understand the soil in which Chinese parents’ anxiety takes root.
The one-child policy has been in place for nearly four decades, and one of its most profound psychological consequences is that all expectations, resources, and anxiety are concentrated on a single child. This child has no siblings to share the parents’ expectations, no cousins to provide a buffer or a sounding board. He is their sole stake.
The college entrance exam system has further intensified this anxiety. In a society where educational resources are highly unequal and academic credentials are closely tied to social mobility, a child “failing” means that the social standing accumulated by the family over decades could come to an abrupt end. This is by no means an exaggeration.
In the 2000s, the concept of “internet addiction” emerged. The media and certain experts joined forces to create a moral panic: playing video games was equated with mental illness, and the internet was portrayed as a flood of monsters destroying the next generation. Normal adolescent exploration and struggles were defined as pathological conditions requiring intervention.
In this environment, Zhang Hao’s truancy and staying out all night were not seen as signals requiring understanding and communication, but as a disease requiring treatment and correction. Mr. Zhang’s anxiety was real, yet it was also systematically amplified.
II. A Gap in Support
As a parent, where does one turn for help when faced with a 13-year-old son who skips school and stays out all night?
The school counselor is the first answer—and the first source of disappointment. China has long suffered from a severe shortage of mental health professionals in primary and secondary schools, and their roles are primarily focused on maintaining stability: suppressing crises, soothing emotions, and preventing incidents from escalating, rather than providing support centered on the child’s long-term well-being. For a child who skips school, the school’s more common response is to apply pressure and summon the parents for a meeting, rather than offering substantive psychological support.
The adolescent psychiatry departments at public hospitals are the second option. In major cities like Beijing and Shanghai, waiting times at the psychiatry departments of renowned children’s hospitals are measured in months, and appointments with some popular specialists must be booked several months in advance. Even if an appointment is secured, the costs are largely not covered by medical insurance, and long-term psychological treatment places a heavy financial burden on ordinary families. For an ordinary family living in Jiujiang, Jiangxi, this path is simply too difficult.
Family therapy is the third option. In China, this is virtually nonexistent. Family therapists are a scarce private service, expensive, and there are not enough practitioners in most second- and third-tier cities.
Community support is the fourth option. China’s community service system is essentially non-existent when it comes to adolescent mental health.
When all other options failed, a father searched online and came across an advertisement for Hongzhida.
How did this void come about? It is the result of a long-standing accumulation of policies that have concentrated educational resources on exam-oriented education, treated mental health as a dispensable “soft” need, and privatized the handling of family issues. The state has withdrawn from its rightful position, allowing the market to fill the gap.
The market’s method of filling this void is quite sophisticated. When the Siwei Growth Base opened in Jinjiang, Fujian, in 2022, Principal Xiang Mingsheng first applied to the Quanzhou Civil Affairs Bureau for public welfare accreditation as a “Minor Growth Guidance Service Center.” After obtaining approval, he relocated and reestablished the facility, hanging a sign indicating supervision by the Civil Affairs Bureau to recruit students. Ms. Wu paid 60,000 yuan on the spot, citing a single reason: since it was run by the government, it must be legitimate. The Civil Affairs Bureau later responded: “We had long required the center to close; we had no idea they had moved to a village in Jinjiang to set up this base.” The void left by the state’s inaction was filled by a counterfeit government sign. Over the course of two years, the Siwei Base abused at least eight adolescents. Among them, 14-year-old Xiao Wu was forced to stand all night, kneel while holding a basin of water, and was locked in a small, dark iron cage for 28 days, ultimately suffering a lifelong disability. On the night he was kicked and suffered a fracture, the principal called Ms. Wu, claiming the child had sustained a minor injury while running.
This is the “solution” the market has produced: violent confinement fills the void left by the absence of public services, while a government-issued sign satisfies parents’ need for trust.
III. The Conspiracy Is Complete
This is the most difficult yet most essential part of this article.
Before making the payment, Mr. Zhang knew he would be unable to contact his son for six months. He knew his son had been deceived into coming to the facility under the pretext of cooperating with an investigation into telecom fraud, yet the parents went along with this arrangement. They signed the agreement and paid the fees in good faith.
This constitutes a form of conspiracy.
Before using this term, its meaning must be clarified. Conspiracy does not equate to being the mastermind. Mr. Zhang had absolutely no intention of harming his son. His motivation was love—a last-ditch effort after running out of options in this society.
Yet the collusion is real, and it comprises three elements:
The first is cognitive narrowing under conditions of despair. Psychological research suggests that under extreme anxiety and stress, decision-making quality declines, risk assessments become distorted, and the desire for a solution overrides all caution. Before making payment, Mr. Zhang visited the facility in person. He saw the children playing ball and heard promises that there would be no physical punishment. However, filtered through his desperation, this information was reshaped into what he wanted to see. The clause stipulating no contact for six months—which should clearly have raised red flags—was accepted in his desperate state as a professional approach.
The second factor is the “it’s for your own good” culture. In mainstream Chinese parenting culture, disciplining children is inherently seen as an expression of love; strictness is a virtue, and suffering is a necessary cost of growth. “No pain, no gain” is a complete educational philosophy passed down through generations. When a facility tells parents, “We will educate your child through strict methods,” this cultural framework helps parents blur the line between strictness and violence.
The third factor is a deep internalization of the state’s logic of reform. This is the most hidden yet fundamental layer, and it plays a decisive role. Having lived for a long time within a social structure where “problem individuals can be detained and reformed, isolation can bring about transformation, and coercion is for the individual’s own good,” this mindset has unconsciously become common sense. It is not a written rule, but it exists in the air, breathed in by every generation. When Mr. Zhang considered sending his son to a closed facility, he did not realize that he was repeating a civilian version of the state’s reform techniques. He believed it was a voluntary choice.
And so, the conspiracy was complete. Through a logic as natural as breathing, a father who loved his child, within the bounds of the law, surrendered his child’s personal freedom to an institution that operated through violence.
Facing this reality is not meant to condemn Mr. Zhang, nor to diminish the responsibility of the homeroom teacher. Rather, it is to seek an urgent answer: what does the next desperate parent need to avoid walking down the same path?
IV. Where Lies the Way Forward?
The answer is actually clear: a professional support system; youth mental health services free from stigma; schools that genuinely fulfill a counseling role rather than focusing solely on grades; and community-based family support networks.
But these solutions face two major obstacles.
The first obstacle concerns resources and institutional frameworks. The aforementioned system requires sustained public investment, the training of professional personnel, and policies that prioritize mental health within the public health agenda. While these are not impossible, they demand a reordering of priorities.
The second obstacle runs deeper and is more difficult to overcome. As long as the state’s logic of “forcibly reforming problematic individuals” remains unchallenged, its civilian counterpart will always find fertile ground. Public services can alleviate the desperation of parents who feel they have nowhere else to turn, but they cannot completely erase the shaped perceptions of parents. A parent raised within this state-level logic will still tend to believe that coercion can change people, even when better options are available.
This is a cultural project that will take generations to complete, and its starting point is the willingness to confront the root causes of forced rehabilitation.
V. Two Notes
On Mother’s Day, the thank-you letter was sent, but the note asking for help was not.
The distance between these two notes is proof that a system is at work: it knows how to manage information, how to show the outside world only what it wants them to see, and how to suppress voices within a closed space.
This system was not established by a single “growth camp.” It was built by the market, endorsed by culture, sustained by institutional loopholes, and granted its final authorization through parents’ signatures and payments.
Zhang Hao’s right eye spent the night in darkness. That dark narrative was constructed by a cast of characters.
Editor: Huang Jizhou Proofreader: Xiong Bian Translator: Ge Bing
(Photo Gallery) San Francisco’s 37th Anniversary of June 4th Commemorative Events—Cleaning of the Statue of Democracy and June 4th Photo Exhibition
Photojournalist: Guan Yongjie
Summary: The annual cleaning of the Statue of Democracy in San Francisco’s Chinatown took place, kicking off the Bay Area’s June 4th commemorations. A photo exhibition was held on-site to raise funds for recently released dissident Xu Guang, calling on people not to forget the history of June 4th.
The cleaning of the Statue of Democracy at Portsmouth Square in San Francisco’s Chinatown is an iconic annual tradition in the Bay Area to commemorate June 4th. On May 24, organized jointly by the China Democracy Education Foundation, Humanitarian China, the San Francisco Chapter of the China Democratic Party, the China Democracy and Human Rights Alliance, the Chinese Youth Support Tibet Association, the Hong Kong Association of America, and other overseas pro-democracy and human rights groups, people from all walks of life once again gathered at Portsmouth Square in San Francisco’s Chinatown to thoroughly clean the bronze statue, which had become mottled with rust, thereby kicking off the Bay Area’s series of events commemorating the June 4th anniversary.
This approximately 10-foot-tall bronze statue of the Goddess of Democracy was officially unveiled in 1994 on the fifth anniversary of the June 4th Incident. It serves as a representation of the original Goddess of Democracy statue that was toppled by tanks in Tiananmen Square in 1989, and it is the first replica of the Goddess of Democracy to be permanently erected on public land anywhere in the world.
Fang Zheng, an eyewitness to the June 4th incident and one of the event’s organizers, stated that cleaning the statue symbolizes “washing away the dust of history and brushing aside the veil over the truth.” By personally wiping the statue, people overseas continue to uphold the pursuit of truth, refuse to forget the history of totalitarianism, and strengthen their belief in the realization of freedom and democracy in China’s future.
Event participants pose for a group photo with Mr. Fang Zheng in front of the Statue of Democracy
A photo exhibition on the June 4th Incident was held concurrently, attracting many San Francisco residents and tourists to stop and view the displays. The exhibition aims to help the world re-examine and understand this chapter of history that the Chinese Communist Party has strived to conceal
Mr. Zhou Fengsuo, one of the student leaders of the June 4th movement, spoke at the event: “What we commemorate on June 4th is not only the victims, but also the spirit of the Chinese people who were willing to sacrifice everything for democracy and freedom.”
In 1989, millions of Chinese people peacefully protested in over 300 cities, only to be suppressed by the CCP with tanks and machine guns; the death toll remains unknown to this day.
Despite the CCP’s long-standing suppression and censorship, countless people continue to commemorate June 4th. Whether it be the “Tank Man,” the Statue of Democracy, or the young people in the later White Paper Movement, all demonstrate that the spirit of pursuing freedom and justice has never faded. June 4th no longer belongs solely to China; it has become an important symbol of the world’s pursuit of democracy, human rights, and freedom.
Another theme of this event is “One Dollar Per Person to Aid Prisoners of Conscience,” a fundraising effort for Mr. Xu Guang, who was recently released from prison after serving his sentence. In the San Francisco area, Li Haifeng of the Chinese Democracy and Human Rights Alliance is coordinating the effort. The funds raised will be transferred to Mr. Zhu Yufu, who will then deliver them to Mr. Xu Guang.
(Image from the internet)
Xu Guang (born September 11, 1968, in Fuyang City, Zhejiang Province) is a renowned Chinese political dissident, a leader of the 1989 student movement, and one of the core founders of the Zhejiang Committee of the “China Democratic Party.” Due to his long-standing public advocacy for democratic constitutionalism and participation in political resistance in mainland China, he has been arrested and imprisoned multiple times, serving a cumulative prison term of over nine years. He was released from prison in the early hours of May 19, 2026, after completing his sentence. According to colleagues from the overseas Chinese Democratic Party and several dissidents in Hangzhou, during his four-year detention and imprisonment, Xu Guang engaged in a prolonged hunger strike to protest the authorities’ fabricated charges. In the latter part of his incarceration, he survived primarily through forced nasogastric feeding administered by prison officials. As a result, his physical condition was extremely poor upon release—he was emaciated (his weight had dropped to just over 80 jin)—and on the day of his release, several people carried him on a stretcher back to his home on Waidongshan Lane in Hangzhou’s West Lake District. After his release, Xu Guang expressed his gratitude through overseas friends and issued a statement once again, calling on the outside world to “Never Forget June 4th.”
A total of $710 in donations was collected at the event.
Group photo of participants at the end of the event
Reaffirming the slogans for this year’s commemoration: “Never Forget June 4th,” “Put the CCP on Trial,” and “Restore Our Democracy!”
Editor: Zhong Ran Proofreader: Zhou Min Translator: Ge Bing
“Cultural Revolution” 2.0: An Upgraded Form of Control in Disguise
By Huang Li’e
Abstract: The “Cultural Revolution” was not an accidental tragedy resulting from mass chaos, but rather the outcome of power mobilization, propaganda promotion, and institutional collaboration. The Red Guards were merely a surface manifestation; what truly requires reflection is the power structure behind them.
From a broader historical perspective, this logic has repeated itself time and again: creating enemies, mobilizing the masses, and then having the state apparatus carry out the purge. Individual madness is merely the result; institutional operation is the root cause.
This year marks the 60th anniversary of the outbreak of the “Cultural Revolution.”
Every year at this time, people look back on that period: the Red Guards, public criticism sessions, home raids, the destruction of the “Four Olds,” violent clashes, and widespread fear. Many young people view the “Cultural Revolution” as a frenzy of the masses, as if it were merely a tragedy caused by a society spiraling out of control.
But the “Cultural Revolution” was never simply a case of social disorder.
Without the instigation of the highest authorities, without the incitement of the propaganda apparatus, and without the tacit approval and cooperation of the entire system, it could never have swept across the nation, much less lasted for a decade.
Therefore, what deserves the most reflection regarding the Cultural Revolution has never been merely the Red Guards.
The Red Guards were merely a surface phenomenon; the real issue lies in the power structure behind them.
Looking back at the history of the Chinese Communist Party, one will discover that the Cultural Revolution was not an isolated event.
From the Land Reform, the Suppression of Counter-Revolutionaries, the “Three Anti” and “Five Anti” campaigns, to the Anti-Rightist Movement, the Great Leap Forward, the Cultural Revolution, and the subsequent June Fourth crackdown, the history of the Chinese Communist Party has almost always been accompanied by political struggles and systemic violence.
This violence is not merely physical.
It encompasses not only open suppression but also ideological re-education, control of public opinion, social purges, and the use of fear to force the entire society into submission.
The logic behind each political campaign is strikingly similar: first, create an enemy; then, mobilize the masses; and finally, have the state apparatus carry out the purge and crackdown.
The enemy could be landlords, rightists, or those in power who follow the capitalist road; it could also be “foreign forces,” “historical nihilism,” or “destabilizing elements.”
The labels have changed, but the logic has not truly changed.
This is why, when many people look back at reality today, they still feel a sense of familiarity.
The Red Guards are gone, but internet censorship remains.
The big-character posters are gone, but algorithmic filtering and keyword blocking have taken their place.
Public denunciations are gone, but increasingly sophisticated surveillance systems and data governance have emerged.
Times have progressed, technology has advanced, but certain methods of control have merely changed their outward appearance.
Ultimately, the problem does not lie in a particular generation suddenly going mad, nor is it merely the personal mistake of a single leader.
The real problem lies in a system that lacks checks and balances and places politics above the law—a system that is inherently prone to sliding into violence.
When power faces no constraints, when dissent is viewed as a threat, and when political loyalty takes precedence over individual rights, violence ceases to be merely a means and gradually becomes an integral part of the system.
Sixty years have passed since the Cultural Revolution, but the greatest warning it leaves behind is not merely a historical memory.
Rather, it serves as a reminder that if the institutional conditions that gave rise to the Cultural Revolution are not truly addressed, similar tragedies will always have the potential to recur.
This, perhaps, is the most profound practical significance of the 60th anniversary of the Cultural Revolution.
Folk Authorization of “Reformation Techniques”: From Re-education to Growth Bases
By Zhou Min
This incident occurred in May 2026 at the Hongzhidai Youth Growth Base in Yangxin County, Huangshi City, Hubei Province, where a homeroom teacher used a wooden ruler and a hollow iron rod to crush a 13-year-old boy’s attempt to escape. When the ruler broke, the instructor replaced it with an iron rod, continuing to strike the boy until he knelt on the ground. Believing the boy was faking it, the instructor then punched him in the head and eyes. The boy’s blood flowed onto the floor, and he lay unconscious on the spot all night, with no one checking on him.
The next day, upon learning that the boy had lost sight in his right eye, the instructor used an egg to roll over his eye to reduce the swelling. After undergoing a seven-hour craniotomy, the boy’s right eye remained blind.
The details of this case are so shocking that they are bound to trigger yet another cycle: public outrage, parents’ demands for answers, official statements, and then a return to calm. But we should not stop at outrage; we must ask further: Where does this approach—“deeming a child abnormal → forcibly isolating him → subjecting him to forced correction”—come from? In fact, we have seen it elsewhere, and not just once.
Image source: Internet
I. The State’s Genealogy of “Re-education”
In 1957, China established the system of re-education through labor. Its operation was simple and effective: without judicial trial, public security authorities could detain individuals deemed to have committed “minor offenses” or to have “ideological problems” for up to four years, in the name of “re-education.” This system persisted for a full fifty-six years before it was officially abolished in 2013.
Over those fifty-six years, Chinese society underwent a profound ideological indoctrination: problematic individuals could be isolated; isolation was for the purpose of re-education; and re-education was for their own good.
This noble-sounding rationale targeted different groups at different times. The “re-education” campaign against Falun Gong practitioners mobilized family members, turning familial bonds into tools of re-education—if your children or parents came to persuade you to renounce your faith, the success rate of “re-education” would be higher. In Xinjiang’s vocational skills education and training centers, participants are forced into residential programs, cut off from the outside world, and subjected to ideological re-education courses—all while the regime publicly claims these are voluntary vocational training programs. Compulsory drug rehabilitation centers medicalize “addiction,” using the guise of treatment to exert control over individuals.
While the outward appearances of these state institutions vary, their internal structures are strikingly consistent: closed spaces, information blackouts, forced identity reshaping, and the public claim that it is all for the individual’s own good.
Hongzhida’s operational manual shares the same DNA as these state institutions. Parents are told they cannot visit for six months, cannot speak with their children, and can only learn about their children’s well-being through photos and videos posted by the homeroom teacher in a WeChat group. Children are lured into the facility under the pretext of “cooperating with an investigation into telecommunications fraud.” The facility claims to educate children using professional methods and traditional cultural values.
The only difference is that Hongzhidai is privately run, and its authority to reform the children comes from their families.
II. The Yang Yongxin Model
When discussing the development of China’s private reform practices, the name Yang Yongxin is impossible to ignore.
In the mid-2000s, internet addiction became one of China’s most prominent social issues. The media, experts, and officials formed a rare coalition of consensus: online gaming was destroying China’s next generation, and intervention was necessary. Against this backdrop, figures like Tao Hongkai and Yang Yongxin emerged, receiving extensive positive media coverage.
Yang Yongxin’s method was simple: electric shock therapy. In a psychiatric ward in Linyi, Shandong, he administered electric shock treatments to adolescents sent by their parents, claiming it could correct internet addiction and cure bad habits. Patients described the experience as intense pain and full-body convulsions.
In 2009, CCTV’s *News Investigation* exposed these practices, causing a nationwide uproar. However, one detail was overlooked by many reports: after the exposure, a significant number of parents chose to stay, even expressing gratitude to the reporters. They had witnessed the “results”—their children had become obedient and compliant, no longer resisting.
The parents’ choice is more thought-provoking than the electric shocks themselves. It demonstrates that their acceptance of this logic was not the result of being deceived, but rather of active endorsement. They believed their children needed to be forcibly reformed, firmly held that “pain is a necessary price for correction,” and considered isolation an effective means to that end.
Yang Yongxin’s institution managed to continue its electric shock therapy until 2016, partly because it operated within a formal psychiatric ward—the endorsement of the state healthcare system provided him with a continuous veneer of legitimacy. Once this veneer was stripped away, the electric shocks ceased, but the model of forced confinement itself remained intact, unchallenged.
Yang Yongxin proved one thing: there is a real and persistent demand in the private market for this logic of “reformation.”
III. When the State Approves, the People Will Exaggerate
The spiritual legacy of state-sanctioned forced “re-education” lies in the legitimacy it established: problematic individuals can be isolated and forcibly transformed, and suffering is a reasonable cost of re-education. Once this legitimacy becomes common social knowledge, the private sector will actively replicate it.
Medical terminology has been redefined through militarized language. Treatment becomes training, patients become trainees, and treatment cycles become “growth cycles.” This lowers the entry barrier, bypasses health regulations, while maintaining the appearance of professionalism.
A key shift is the replacement of state authorization with parental consent. Re-education through labor requires a decision by public security authorities; involuntary psychiatric hospitalization requires joint signatures from the hospital and family members; yet sending a child to a “growth base” requires only a parent’s signature and a bank transfer. The chain of authorization has been shortened to the extreme, with minimal friction costs.
Information blackouts have shifted from state control measures to standard commercial clauses. “No contact for six months”—this was a condition Mr. Zhang knew and accepted before making payment. This has effectively become an educational tactic: children must be completely cut off from their original environment to complete their “reformation.”
The essence of this privatization is the removal of bureaucratic procedures and document approvals, retaining only the violent core, which is then sold at market prices.
IV. The State’s Ambiguous Stance
Following the exposure of the Hongzhida case, the response from the Yangxin County Education Bureau is worth reading: The facility in question was formerly a bilingual school that has since been deregistered; its license was issued by the Market Regulation Bureau, so the Education Bureau has no regulatory authority over it. When contacted, staff at the Market Regulation Bureau replied, “I don’t know,” and hung up the phone.
Why has the state maintained such an ambiguous stance toward these institutions for so long?
Because these institutions deal precisely with the very groups the state also wishes to deal with: unruly, wayward adolescents who cause headaches for families and schools. Detaining and isolating them, forcing them to obey—the state itself still employs these methods, albeit on different subjects and in different settings.
Cracking down only on the violent tactics of “growth bases” while failing to question the nature of forced confinement itself is the limitation of these rectification efforts. Yang Yongxin was ordered to stop only the use of electric shocks—not the forced boarding, information blackout, or physical restraint. The very drawing of this line reflects the government’s stance.
As long as the premise that “problem individuals can be forcibly reformed” remains untouched, these “growth bases” will always have fertile ground to thrive. Change the sign, move to a different county, and they can reopen.
V. Physical Abuse
Zhang Hao, a child, lay on the ground all night. A night of pain and cold.
The wooden rulers snapped in half, the hollow iron rods whizzing through the air—their chilling echoes are a reflection of a reform technique that has persisted for decades in society: from state re-education through labor camps to psychiatric wards, and on to militarized training camps. The panicked faces within grow younger with each passing year, and the groups grow more and more bewildered.
We condemn that drill instructor—and rightly so; we hold that base to account—and rightly so. But if our questioning stops here, we let this inhuman chain of operations slip away—a chain where every link is interlocked, each one declaring that “problem individuals” can be detained, that isolation can bring about change, and that brutal beatings are a reasonable price to pay for “correction.”
This long chain does not begin with Hongzhidai, nor will it end with Hongzhidai.
Summary: In 2026, a 13-year-old boy at the Hongzhidai facility in Hubei attempted to escape and was brutally beaten by an instructor with a ruler and an iron rod, resulting in the loss of sight in his right eye. This case is a concrete manifestation of the Chinese Communist Party’s consistent authoritarian governance mindset: viewing individuals as tools to be forcibly reshaped by the state or parents, where violence and deprivation of liberty are deemed legitimate as long as they are carried out “for your own good.”
勿忘六四-37週年-星火不滅-緬懷勇士——悼念六四大屠殺死難者燭光晚會聯合主辦方：中國民主教育基金會 中國民主黨舊金山黨部 人道中國北加州香港會 美國香港人會館 舊金山致公總堂擦星星事務所 中國民主人權聯盟時間：6月3日 7:00pm – 9:00pm地點：舊金山中國領事館前1450 Laguna St, San Francisco, CA 94115Never Forget June 4th — 37th AnniversaryThe Spark Will Never Die — Honoring the BraveCandlelight Vigil to Mourn the Victims of the June 4th MassacreCo-organizers:China Democracy Education FoundationChina Democracy Party, San Francisco BranchHumanitarian ChinaNorthern California Hong Kong ClubUS Hongkongers ClubSan Francisco Gee Tuck Sam Tuck AssociationCa Xingxing OfficeChina Democracy and Human Rights AllianceTime: June 3, 7:00 PM – 9:00 PMLocation: In front of the Chinese Consulate in San Francisco1450 Laguna St, San Francisco, CA 94115
— On Xu Guang, and Those Who Never Truly Walk Free
By Haining Hu
Reviewed by Editor-in-Chief: Yufu Zhu
About Xu Guang
Xu Guang, born in 1968 in Hangzhou, Zhejiang Province, is one of the principal members of the Zhejiang Committee of the Chinese Democracy Party and a participant in the 1989 student movement at Hangzhou University. He took part in the founding activities of the Chinese Democracy Party in 1998 and was repeatedly detained and imprisoned for political speech, commemorating June Fourth, and participating in democratic activities. In 2022, he was again sentenced to four years in prison on charges of “picking quarrels and provoking trouble.” During his imprisonment, he carried out prolonged hunger strikes and was at one point transferred to a prison hospital. He was released in May 2026.
Xu Guang is out.
At first glance, there seems to be nothing remarkable about that sentence. A man finishes his prison term, walks out, and goes home. Ordinarily, that should be a completely ordinary thing. But in China, ordinary things have become increasingly rare over the years. And so the words “is out” have gradually taken on the feeling of surviving a disaster.
When the news came, the first thing I thought about was not anything political. I wondered how much he still weighed.
Last year, people said Xu Guang had dropped to barely over eighty jin. Prolonged hunger strikes. Forced feeding through nasal tubes. Later he was transferred to a prison hospital. His family could not see him. Clothes they tried to send in were returned. People outside could only piece together fragments of his condition from scattered bits of information. This is often how political prisoners disappear in China: once pushed behind those walls, a person sinks beneath the surface like something underwater, occasionally releasing a small bubble to prove he is still alive. Nothing more.
So when people heard Xu Guang had been released, their first reaction was not relief. They wanted to know: Could he still stand? Could he still speak? Was his mind still clear?
There is something deeply bleak about that question. But that is often how things are in China. If someone went to prison for theft or robbery, people would not react this way after release. But those imprisoned for “speaking” always leave others uneasy when they return.
Last year, after The Opposition Party resumed publication in the United States, I became involved in the magazine’s layout work. At first, I knew very little about the people and history connected to the China Democracy Party. But after working on more and more issues, these names began appearing again and again across different manuscripts: someone imprisoned, someone newly released, someone missing, someone under long-term surveillance. One issue might contain an article by a particular person, and the next would suddenly contain his verdict or news from prison. After a while, a strange feeling slowly emerges: none of these things ever truly end.
Xu Guang belongs to the older generation of democracy activists.
People in their twenties today probably know little about the China Democracy Party. Even if they occasionally see the name online, it passes by in an instant. Short videos, livestreams, and endlessly refreshing headlines already consume most people’s attention. The dramatic party-building movement of the 1990s now resembles an old newspaper buried at the bottom of a drawer, yellowed with age, its corners curled, unread by anyone.
But things were not always like this.
Back then, many people genuinely believed China would slowly become better. They seriously discussed constitutionalism, party politics, and freedom of the press. They genuinely believed a country should not be forced to live forever under a single voice. Looking back now, it feels like another lifetime.
Xu Guang was a university student in 1989, a student leader at Hangzhou University. Later he participated in the founding movement of the China Democracy Party, and was eventually sentenced for the first time on charges of “subverting state power.” Since then, decades of his life have cycled repeatedly through prison, surveillance, interrogations, and long-term political control.
In truth, many people who experienced 1989 eventually fell silent. Some left the country. Some made money. Some entered the system. Others simply stopped speaking about it altogether. I myself was one of those participants. I was injured because of that movement, and my family later paid a heavy price for those years as well. After enough time passes, people begin to understand why Chinese society has grown quieter and quieter. Houses must be bought. Children must be raised. Elderly parents must see doctors. No one can survive forever on ideals alone. So over time, many people gradually learned another skill: speak less, lower your head more.
There is nothing surprising about that. Human beings are not made of stone.
But Xu Guang never seemed willing to lower his head.
In the late 1990s, the China Democracy Party attempted to organize openly. Zhejiang became one of its most active regions — and one of the places where the crackdown fell hardest.
It was a real struggle for freedom of association, a direct challenge to the ban on political parties. Ever since the net of suppression descended, Zhejiang’s prisons have never been empty of democracy activists. These people possessed a kind of stubborn backbone rarely seen today. They entered prison walls but refused to bow their heads and write confessions of “admitting guilt and accepting punishment” in exchange for sentence reductions or parole. Prison officials came and went generation after generation, yet these people remained hard-boned to the end, without even a trace of servility.
Xu Guang was one of them. They eventually discovered that some things in China are simply not written into law. But once they chose this path, they never intended to turn back.
Even after his release, Xu Guang did not fall silent. In recent years, he has observed a one-day hunger strike nearly every June Fourth anniversary. Some people think this means nothing. What can one day without food possibly change? The state machine keeps running. Tourists still crowd West Lake. Shopping malls remain brightly lit. Phones continue overflowing with songs, dances, and entertainment. A man fasting alone in his home for twenty-four hours truly does look like a mantis trying to stop a chariot.
But perhaps that is precisely where the tragedy lies.
Because many people are no longer even willing to be that mantis.
Over the years, I have increasingly felt that China’s greatest strength is not locking people away. It is making people slowly conclude: “Forget it. Don’t touch it. It’s useless. What difference would speaking make anyway?”
And after enough time, people really do stop speaking.
Then you begin to notice something strange about China today: everyone is clever. People know what can be discussed and what cannot. They know when to stay silent and when to pretend not to understand. Nobody talks politics on the subway. Nobody talks politics at the dinner table. Even forwarding an article in a WeChat group requires a moment of hesitation first.
This atmosphere is powerful. It does not require mass arrests every day. People silence themselves voluntarily. And for people like Xu Guang, even silence is not enough.
For political prisoners in China, the hardest years often begin not inside prison, but after release. Prison walls are at least visible. A prison sentence at least has a number attached to it. But post-release control is like air — everywhere, invisible, impossible to describe.
During sensitive periods, someone may appear at your door. Phones are monitored. People follow you outside. Friends gathering together may suddenly receive “reminders.” Landlords come under pressure. Employers receive warnings. Even friends slowly begin distancing themselves. Over time, a person realizes that although he has technically left prison, he has never truly returned to ordinary life.
That is the deepest form of exhaustion — and it is not always dramatic.
Often there are no beatings, no trials, no shackles. Yet little by little, a person is stripped away from normal social existence. You cannot work normally. You cannot live peacefully. You cannot build stable relationships. Eventually you become someone suspended outside ordinary life altogether.
The system has become increasingly sophisticated in the way it handles dissent. It no longer rushes to destroy the body outright. Instead, it drags things out. It wears you down. It exhausts you. Isolates you. Slowly makes you question whether persistence has any meaning left at all.
In the end, many people do not fall silent because they are afraid. They fall silent because they are tired.
And perhaps that is even more powerful than direct violence.
Late at night, while adjusting layouts for publication, the outside world continues refreshing itself with new trends and new headlines. Yet on my screen, the articles remain the same: arrests, surveillance, hunger strikes, prison sentences.
Time itself seems not to have moved.
Before this article was even finished, another message suddenly appeared in the group chat: seventy-six-year-old Mao Qingxiang had been taken away by Hangzhou police after reposting a video related to Xu Guang on WeChat Moments. More than fifty hours had already passed. People in the group immediately began coordinating appeals, contacting others, discussing weekend protests. Someone warned that once forty-eight hours had passed, it was usually no longer a routine summons.
At that moment, I suddenly realized I was not writing about the past at all.
Lu Xun once wrote about the numbness of Chinese spectators. When I was younger, I believed he was describing another era. Only later did I realize the spectators had merely changed form. No one cranes their neck around execution grounds anymore. People simply lower their heads and scroll their phones instead. Yesterday someone was arrested. Today someone disappeared. A few comments drift past beneath the news before being buried under the next trending topic. People continue going to work, eating dinner, laughing loudly, as though nothing had happened.
Sometimes it feels even colder than open hatred.
At least hatred still suggests people care.
The truly frightening thing is indifference.
Xu Guang continued to face detentions, interrogations, and home raids after that. In 2014, he was detained again after joking that “if the Communist Party could hold its First Congress on South Lake, then the Democracy Party could also rent a boat on West Lake and hold one there.” Today, people reading this might find it absurd, even laughable. But so many absurd things have happened over the years that people have gradually become accustomed to them.
Later, Xu Guang was charged again under the crime of “picking quarrels and provoking trouble.”
Chinese people are already deeply familiar with that phrase. It seems capable of containing anything. Holding a sign can become “provoking trouble.” Writing an article can become “provoking trouble.” Saying the wrong thing can become “provoking trouble.” Eventually even the words “Vindicate June Fourth” became enough to send someone back to prison.
That is how Xu Guang was imprisoned again.
This time for four years.
By the time he came out again, he was nearly sixty.
When the photographs emerged, I froze for a moment. Not because I failed to recognize him, but because it was suddenly difficult to connect the gray-haired, gaunt figure in front of me with the young student from those old photographs. It felt as though what had been taken away over the years was not merely time.
Sometimes I wonder what allows people like Xu Guang to endure for so long. Ordinary people tire easily. Even without prison, constant surveillance, harassment, warnings, and social suffocation will eventually wear a person down. Perhaps the system’s greatest success lies precisely there: it does not always destroy people immediately. Instead, it grinds them down slowly.
It grinds away your temper, your friendships, your courage. Eventually many people no longer believe the things they once said in their youth.
And yet a tiny number of people still refuse to bend completely, no matter how long the grinding continues.
People like that are becoming rarer and rarer.
So Xu Guang’s release is not merely one man walking out of prison. At least for those who still remember the 1990s, still remember the China Democracy Party, still remember what happened during those years, his release resembles a remaining spark. Small. Weak. Capable of disappearing at any moment. But still there.
China changes too quickly now. So quickly that many people no longer care about these things at all.
West Lake remains the same West Lake. Tourists take photographs. Children fly kites. Influencer cafés have lines outside their doors. Young people discuss concerts, milk tea, stocks, and housing prices. At night, lights still shimmer beautifully across the water. No one looking at those scenes would realize that only a few kilometers away, people were once imprisoned for decades because of a sentence, a few articles, a handful of pages.
The world continues moving forward.
But tourists at West Lake will not know Xu Guang. People inside shopping malls will not know him. The young people lowering their heads over their phones probably will not know him either.
They will not know that for some people, the longest prison sentence only begins after release.
Author Bio
Haining Hu participated in the 1989 student movement and is currently based in the United States. He serves as Art Director of The Opposition Party magazine and has worked in graphic design for many years, while also contributing to the editing and layout of independent Chinese-language publications. His writing focuses on memory, silence, and individual fate in contemporary China.
“I Just Follow My Conscience” – An In-Depth Interview with Chen Kaipin
Reporter: Jia Jia
Abstract: Chen Kaipin, a Zhejiang-based democrat living overseas, gave an exclusive interview to “Opposition Party,” reflecting on his experiences, including being imprisoned for hanging banners and cycling to Taiwan to speak out, and describing his journey of persisting in the pursuit of freedom and institutional reform.
Profile
Chen Kaipin was born on July 10, 1963, and graduated from the Department of Literature and Art of Zhejiang Public Security College (now Zhejiang Police Academy) in 1984.
After graduation, he worked in clothing design in Hangzhou, and later went into business, running companies, entertainment businesses, hotels, saunas, and other industries. He was also engaged in foreign trade between Dubai and Iran for a long time.
On June 4, 2008, on the eve of the Beijing Olympics, Chen Kaipin hung a giant banner on the roof of the Hangzhou Building in downtown Hangzhou. The banner was about 1 meter × 10 meters in size, and he dropped two boxes of leaflets from the roof, containing more than 400 copies.
The leaflets included statements such as: “Don’t let the Chinese nation become the last page of human civilization,” “The Communist Party and government corruption are the source of all evil,” and “It killed Hu Yaobang.”
After the incident, Chen Kaipin was sentenced to two years in prison for “inciting subversion of state power” and served his sentence in Hangzhou Prison and Shilifeng Prison.
In 2013, after Xi Jinping proposed the “Chinese Dream,” Chen Kaipin once again publicly expressed his political views.
He posted online, criticizing personality cult and the concentration of power, and stated that “China’s real problem is a systemic problem, not a problem of a particular individual.”
These remarks subsequently attracted attention.
Since then, Chen Kaipin has spoken out publicly on numerous occasions, including publishing articles on online platforms, giving interviews, and cycling to Taiwan, hoping to express his demands and political ideas through non-governmental communication channels.
For a long time, Chen Kaipin has continuously called for freedom of speech, civil rights, and institutional reform.
He believes that the core problem of Chinese society is not the people themselves, but the long-standing lack of normal power oversight and institutional constraints.
Chen Kaipin wrote in his autobiography:
“Hanging banners high, constantly speaking out, and repeatedly going to jail are also to awaken people.
Never yielding to power is my character and my philosophy as a person.”
Historical Background
This interview presents more than just one person’s life experience.
Since the 1990s, Chinese society has experienced rapid economic development. Urbanization, marketization, and the Internet wave have rapidly changed the fate of countless ordinary people.
Many people have gained a better life through economic growth and have expectations for the future.
However, at the same time, problems such as the widening gap between the rich and the poor, power imbalances, and the shrinking space for expression have gradually emerged within society.
Especially in the context of the highly developed Internet, ordinary people have for the first time gained broader access to information, which has also led to more and more people paying attention to public issues, social justice, and individual rights.
In this era, some people choose to remain silent, some choose to leave, and a few choose to continue speaking out.
Chen Kaipin is one of them.
His experience not only has a strong personal touch, but also reflects the thoughts of some ordinary Chinese people about the relationship between reality, the system, and personal destiny in a special era.
Interviewee: Chen Kaipin (Zhejiang China Democratic Party member)
“A lot of people don’t understand. You could obviously have a very good life.”
Jia Jia: Mr. Chen, I also took a quick look at your experience, and I was really touched.
In fact, many people will have a question: Your original living conditions were quite good. Why did you choose such a path in the end?
Chen Kaipin: It’s a long story.
I graduated from Zhejiang Academy of Fine Arts, where I studied fashion design.
Later, I went into business. I was involved in foreign trade, and I also opened companies, hotels, karaoke bars, and saunas.
In the early 1990s, I had already earned my first million in my life.
In those days, that was actually considered a very good life.
I have also been to many countries and seen many things.
So later, many people didn’t understand. They said, “You could obviously live a stable life, so why do you have to do these things?”
But I think that when you’re alive, there are always some things that you feel you “should do.”
It’s not a momentary impulse.
Rather, it’s a gradual realization that this society and this system have already developed major problems.
“I didn’t suddenly become an opponent. I used to believe in this system.”
Jia Jia: Did you have doubts about the system from the beginning?
Chen Kaipin: No.
In fact, I used to believe in it too.
Including our parents’ generation, we were all raised with the Communist Party’s education.
Many people really believed in it when they were young.
My family was also very well off. It was a family that everyone in the area envied.
The work, benefits, and living conditions were all quite good.
So when I later slowly realized the problem, I actually struggled internally for a long time.
Because you will find that Chinese people are obviously very smart and hardworking, but many things are becoming more and more wrong.
The problem is not with the people; the problem is with the system.
“When I hung the banner, I knew something would happen.”
Jia Jia: You later hung banners and distributed leaflets in Hangzhou. At that time, you had already thought about the consequences, right?
Chen Kaipin: I knew.
Of course I knew.
Especially in the period before the 2008 Olympics, the atmosphere was already very tense.
But at that time, I just had a feeling in my heart – there are some things that someone has to do.
If everyone is afraid, then many problems will never be spoken about.
At that time, I hung banners and distributed leaflets. In fact, I already knew that something would definitely happen after I went back.
But I still did it.
“Actually, I was also afraid, but it would be more uncomfortable not to do it.”
Jia Jia: So, are you afraid?
Chen Kaipin: Of course I’m afraid.
How could I not be afraid?
They could easily deal with us like squashing an ant.
There are many things that people outside can’t even imagine.
But there are some things that, if you don’t do them, you’ll never be able to live with yourself for the rest of your life.
So in the end, I still did it.
It wasn’t because I was so brave.
It was because at that time, there was a fire in my heart.
“Taiwan made me truly feel a democratic society for the first time.”
Jia Jia: Later, you rode your bicycle to Taiwan. Why did you think of such a method at that time?
Chen Kaipin: Because I wanted more people to know the real situation in mainland China.
I wasn’t doing it for show.
At that time, cycling around Taiwan was actually a very arduous process, but I saw many things in Taiwan that I had never really experienced before.
This included the way ordinary people express themselves, the media environment, and social discussions.
For the first time, I really felt what a democratic society is like.
“In Taiwan, I have been speaking out for democracy in mainland China.”
Jia Jia: During your time in Taiwan, did you also have contact with many media and social figures?
Chen Kaipin: Yes.
During my time in Taiwan, I gave some interviews and have also been speaking out for democracy in mainland China.
Because I think that many of the real situations in mainland China are not really understood outside.
I also had contact with some Taiwanese democracy activists and some politicians.
Including meeting Su Zhenchang later.
We talked about the situation in mainland China and the development of a democratic society.
I was deeply moved at that time.
Because in Taiwan, many things can be discussed openly.
“Taiwan’s democracy has allowed me to see another possibility.”
Jia Jia: What do you think of Taiwan’s democratic system?
Chen Kaipin: I think the biggest benefit of a democratic system is that it can solve the problem of power.
Even if there are disputes and differences of opinion among them, at least power is constrained.
Leaders can be criticized.
Society also allows different voices to exist.
At that time, I participated in some social activities in Taiwan, and I was particularly moved.
Because you will find that if a society allows people to speak, it will not become more and more oppressive.
“Many people advised me not to return to the mainland, but I still came back.”
Jia Jia: Then why did you still decide to return to the mainland later?
Chen Kaipin: Many people advised me not to come back.
But I came back in the end.
Because I felt that if I suddenly left, then the things I had done before would seem to have no meaning.
And I always felt that –
This is not for me personally.
This includes many pro-democracy people. Many people who have stood up are actually not doing it for themselves.
I just feel that a normal person should say something when they see something unfair.
“The most important thing now is to spread the word.”
Jia Jia: What do you think is the biggest difficulty now?
Chen Kaipin: The biggest difficulty now is actually dissemination.
In the past, writing articles was useful.
Now, short videos and Internet dissemination are more important.
Because many young people nowadays don’t read long articles much anymore.
But on the other hand, they are also keeping a closer eye on the Internet.
So now there is a particular need for people who understand technology, who understand the Internet, and who can make videos.
These things are very important.
“As long as more people know, we will be relatively safe.”
Jia Jia: Then, how do you think the outside world can help you?
Chen Kaipin: The most important thing is to let more people know.
Because a lot of things are very dangerous when no one knows about them.
As long as everyone pays attention, we will be relatively safer.
What I fear most is that there is no voice saying, “I don’t want to be a hero.”
Jia Jia: If there really is a change in the future, and future generations look back at your story, what kind of Chen Kaipin do you want them to remember?
Chen Kaipin: I don’t want others to see me as some kind of hero.
I just think that a normal Chinese person should stand up and say something when they feel that something is wrong.
Even if it only leaves a small trace.
At least in the future, people will know that there was once someone who lived with integrity.
Closing remarks
It was dusk when the interview ended.
Chen Kaipin on the other end of the phone sounded tired, but he remained calm.
He did not use strong language, nor did he deliberately portray himself as a “tragic” figure.
More often than not, he just repeated two words: “conscience.”
Perhaps in the eyes of many people, his life could have taken a completely different path: continuing to do business, continuing to make money, and continuing to live a stable and prosperous life.
But in the end, he chose to stand up, even though he knew what the cost would be.
In the long course of history, individuals often seem insignificant.
Many people’s names will be forgotten, and many stories may not be fully recorded.
But when the times really change, what people ultimately remember is often not the most powerful people, but those who were still willing to speak out during the silent years.
Chen Kaipin said that he didn’t want to be a hero.
But it is precisely when ordinary people choose to remain silent that a person who insists that “this is wrong” is particularly valuable.
Perhaps history will not immediately provide an answer.
But there will always be people who remember that in that oppressive, complex, and fearful era, there were people who were willing to pay the price and persevere for what they believed in.
Ms. Jia Jia, a reporter from the magazine’s interview department, interviewed Mr. Chen Kaipin overseas.
Editor: Zhong Ran Proofreader: Feng Reng Translator: Ge Bing
