Grand Protest Motorcade from America’s West to East Against the CCP
Author: Luo Zhifei Editor: Zhao Jie Responsible Editor: Hu Lili Translator: Wu Kezheng
I am Luo Zhifei, a member of the Chinese Democratic Party. On September 6, 2025, the West-to-East grand motorcade against the CCP began its journey. As the scriptwriter for the video, it is my honor to contribute to the movement! We are not opposed to the Chinese people—we are opposed to an authoritarian regime that violates human rights and wields undue influence over the world. In the face of pandemic cover-ups, cross-border persecution, and threats of infiltration into democratic societies, we must act! I call on the U.S. government to investigate the CCP’s responsibility, protect dissidents abroad, and work toward global transparency in public health. Friends, let us unite and raise our voices for freedom and justice!!!
An Open Letter to China’s Soldiers: Whose Country Are You Really Defending?
Abstract: This is an open letter to active-duty and retired members of China’s armed forces. It exposes how the CCP has falsified the history of the War of Resistance and bent the military to the service of dictatorship. It urges soldiers to recognize that the people are their true providers; that “defending the country” is not the same as defending a party’s private interests. Refuse to raise your rifle for tyranny or to stand guard for lies. Guard your conscience and the soul of the army—be the backbone of national justice.
Author: A demobilized veteran inside China
Editor: Li Congling Responsible editor：Luo Zhifei Translator: Wu Kezheng
Dear Chinese soldiers—both active-duty and retired:
Have you ever marched with head held high on a parade ground, yet never set foot on a real battlefield?Have you saluted under the slogan “defend home and country,” yet never seen clearly who the true enemy is?Have you asked yourself—whose home am I defending? Whose country am I protecting?
I. History cannot be prettified, and the War of Resistance cannot be falsified!
“Where were you during the Battle of Shanghai? I was in Yan’an.Where were you during the Defense of Nanjing? I was in Yan’an…I am the pillar of the War of Resistance.”
This is a silent mockery of one who never set foot on the front lines, yet was the first to climb onto the honors list!
Today, as the CCP once again stages a “Victory in the War of Resistance” parade on September 3,those who shunned battle are dressed up as national heroes,and those who reaped from the rear are packaged as the “mainstay.”
But you know in your heart:Who watched from behind the lines, refusing direct engagement with the enemy?Who, under the banner of ‘self-preservation,’ drained the blood of their compatriots?Who, at the war’s end, expanded their forces and turned their gun barrels upon compatriots?
The War of Resistance is the blood and tears of the Chinese nation—not a theatrical stage for the CCP’s cosmetics.
II. The army’s soul must belong to the people, never in service of a dictator!
Do you still remember the oath of being the “people’s army”?“However splendid the military uniform, it is still the clothing woven from a hundred families.However plentiful the military decorations, they are still meals taken from a thousand households.”
“We have neither the right, nor must we ever dare, to raise any weapon against the very people who gave us life.”
But today, you—It is workers demanding their wages that you disperse,It is students crying out for fairness that you suppress,It is the red lines of “stability maintenance” for red capital that you guard,Yet when you retire, there is no post, no housing, no security!
For whom are you standing guard? For whom are you raising your gun?And who is sacrificing your life while shrouding your conscience?
III. For whom are you willing to die? For whom to bleed?
In today’s China, 2025, youth unemployment has broken through 20 percent.Demobilized veterans are cast to the margins, and families of active-duty soldiers still struggle under the weight of mortgages.
And whom are you truly defending?The princelings propped up by state coffers,The special-supply class fattened by monopoly,The power elite that devours the “stability-maintenance budget,” gnawing even the bones!
In service, you are a screw in the stability-maintenance machine；In retirement, you are a tool cast aside.If you remain asleep, you are doomed to become the scapegoat of this system!
IV. Take off the fake medals; wear the halo of conscience!
When power orders you to raise your gun at the people—remember:“My arms and my spear are forged from the people’s fat and marrow;my decorations and my robe are paid for by the people’s taxes and stipends.”
The people are your true providers.To point your gun at the people is to betray the soul of the army;to bow your head to conscience is to surrender your humanity!
“Whoever harms our people is our enemy, we fight to the death!”Take off the uniform that has been stained; return to the ranks of the people.Refuse to block bullets for tyranny; refuse to stand guard for lies.Defending home and country is not the same as defending a party’s private interests.Loyalty to the people is a soldier’s true home.
V. A cry from the awakened to the warriors!
You are not meant to be a cog in an autocratic machine,you should be the backbone of national justice!
You are not meant to be a prop in the backdrop of a parade,you should be the vanguard that topples despotism!
Guard the land and protect the people, engrave the mission in your heart!Conscience cannot be deceived, the soul of the army will shine!
When the salutes thunder on September 3,may you remove your cap and bow your head—in mourning for truth.When the loudspeakers proclaim “victory,”may you close your eyes and reflect—for the people’s awakening.
Editor: Jie Zhao Managing Editor: Lili Hu Translation: Lyu Feng
I am Yiwei Mao, a member of the China Democracy Party.This photo was taken in September 2024, when I stood in front of the June Fourth Freedom Sculpture Park, holding a sign that read “END CCP.”
Since middle school, I had already learned to use circumvention software to bypass the Great Firewall. Through it I saw the outside world, and I also saw the true face of the CCP’s dictatorship. The June Fourth massacre, the censorship of speech, and the suppression of dissidents made me fully realize that China has neither freedom nor democracy.
Thirty-five years have passed, yet June Fourth has still not been vindicated. The CCP still clings to power through lies and violence. I firmly oppose the CCP dictatorship and call for democracy and constitutional government.
Author/Editor-in-Chief: Zhu YufuResponsible Editor: Hu LiliTranslation: Lyu Feng
(3) Transfer
1. In the SWAT Unit
On August 13, Zheng Gang finally arrived. The people from the detention center came in and told me to pack up and go. I didn’t know where I was being taken. My mind was dazed, my body utterly exhausted, and the sunlight in the courtyard made me so dizzy that I could hardly open my eyes. Stumbling, I followed the man to the police car in front of the building. Zheng Gang remained silent, a sheepish smile on his face, sizing me up from head to toe. We kept our silence. We got in the car and left.
The police car crossed the river and drove north toward Hangzhou. It stopped in a secluded alley. Since, upon leaving Xiaoshan, the people in the cell had taken away all my daily necessities, I knew life would be very inconvenient once locked up again. I pulled out the few dozen yuan I had in my pocket and asked Zheng Gang to buy me some things like toothpaste and a toothbrush. He refused, saying: “Go on up. They’ll buy them for you.” That was the last time I saw Zheng Gang.
Later, after I was imprisoned, he repeatedly harassed, threatened, and intimidated my wife at her workplace. He confiscated the financial assistance that overseas friends had sent to support my family, and spread malicious rumors to slander my wife. For this, Mao Qingxiang’s wife, Hu Xiaoling, confronted him and demanded evidence. He cowardly denied it. As a political secret agent, Zheng played an irreplaceable role in the suppression of the Democratic Party and Falun Gong, and from this he gained official favor, rising quickly in power and status. But that is another story.
This was the headquarters of the Public Security SWAT Unit in Xiacheng District, Hangzhou. The fourth floor was enclosed with iron bars, used as a place to hold economic fraud suspects under “residential surveillance.” Two rooms on the east side were further separated by railings: one served as the police duty office, the other as the “confinement room”—the cell where I was detained.
Inside was already a man named Xu Baijia, a cadre from the Hexi Village Committee in Chaohui Street. He was also tasked with keeping an eye on me, but he turned out to be quite decent and trustworthy. Out of habit, I searched the walls for traces of “culture” and found the words carved by Zhu Zhengming: “Tyranny must fail, democracy must prevail.” When I asked Xu about the previous detainee, he simply told me that Zhu had been released on bail by his work unit, and then, looking very nervous, warned me sternly not to let the police know he had said such a thing.
Zhu Zhengming (left) and Zhu Yufu (right) in a photo together
It was pure coincidence that the two places where I was detained were both places where Zhu Zhengming had once been held. From the handwriting he left behind, I saw his resolve and courage. I prayed for him from the bottom of my heart—may he be free. Zhu was a child prodigy, with a powerful capacity for independent thought. He had a firm and nuanced grasp of democratic theory, practiced tolerance in deed, and treated others with great decency. In 1998, when the first meeting in Hangzhou discussed forming the China Democracy Party (CDP) on the mainland, responses came from all over, and the movement looked poised to spread like wildfire—an outcome owed in no small part to Zhu’s unassuming, detached mindset. At the time, Zhu named the new party “China Democracy Party” and added ‘Zhejiang Preparatory Committee’ after it, intending that ‘Zhejiang builds the stage so everyone can perform,’ thus rejecting the all-too-common habit of staking out one’s own turf as a petty warlord. But Zhu was not someone who “played politics.” I remember that when Wang Youcai, Wang Donghai, Lin Hui, and others went to the Zhejiang Department of Civil Affairs to apply to register the CDP, the relevant authorities stalled, saying they needed to “study it.” I resolved to light a fire under things: I took the Declaration on the Founding of the China Democracy Party to the street to distribute—and was arrested and taken to the Public Security Bureau. Zhu felt immense pain and guilt about this, blaming himself. In temperament, he and I are quite similar. For the likes of us, hesitant and soft-hearted as we are, to test the waters of politics—how could we not risk being drowned? And yet, if we were to turn a blind eye to such an imperfect reality, we could not bear the pressure of conscience. I worried about Zhu. Though long past the usual age for marriage, he was still living alone; his beautiful and virtuous girlfriend might, because of Zhu’s misfortune and imprisonment, never find a reliable partner for life. Thinking of this, I faced my own coming hardships with greater calm.
2. A Wish GrantedOn August 30, several people from the preliminary investigation section came to interrogate me. One of them, named Chen Weixing, asked: “Do you know Xu Guang?” I said I did not. He gave a sly smile, as if he thought I was lying. (Only later did I realize he meant Xu Guang; he had mixed some standard Mandarin into his Hangzhou dialect, which confused me—the Hangzhou pronunciation of “Xu” sounds like qu.) Then Chen said: “Regarding your case, some people say you’ve faded out of the democracy movement. But during Spring Festival, when I was on duty at the train station, we found your China Democracy Party business card on a migrant worker. I asked where he got it, and he said you personally gave it to him at Hubin. I asked what you looked like, and his description matched. So I believe you have not faded out.” Seeing his self-satisfied expression, I laughed to myself: who did he think he was, that he could so easily saddle the Chinese government with a heavy human-rights burden? In fact, I never handed out cards at Hubin. It was Wang Rongqing who handed out my cards—he said he’d run out of his own and would use mine. But faced with the arrogant Chen, I chose not to explain, lest I fuel his swagger. I wondered whether, in a future democratic society, someone like Chen would still be so cocksure in owning the consequences of his deeds today. Seeing my look of disdain, another man surnamed Xu clenched his teeth (perhaps that was just his face) and said coldly: “Zhu Yufu, this time we’ll grant your wish and send you to prison.” I smiled slightly and said, “Thank you—I’m willing.” Chen said glumly, “All right then—turn off the air-conditioning. Don’t waste the Communist Party’s money. We’re done here.” I immediately replied: “What money of the Communist Party? That’s taxpayers’ money.” My words seemed to provoke Chen. He shot back: “Taxpayers? How much tax have you paid?” The arrogant are often the ignorant; how can the concept of a taxpayer be distinguished by how much tax one pays? Sheltered behind public power, their hearts are in fact quite weak.
The condensate from the air conditioner in the police duty room next door collected in our cell. Every day Xu and I carried it to the toilet to dump it. On the night of September 12, while carrying the water, I felt a sudden twinge in my lower back. It seemed minor at the time, but the next morning, the 13th, I couldn’t get out of bed; even the slightest movement sent me into a cold sweat from the pain. Xu notified the duty officer next door, to no avail. I could only hunch over, hands on my knees, and shuffle to the toilet. Xu asked someone to replace my bed board because the old one had sunk into a soft dip—certainly harmful to my spine and lumbar vertebrae.
On September 15, the political-security police handling the case arrived. A young officer (Jiang Xiaomin) said, “We’re taking you to see a doctor today. Bring all your things.” He then hoisted up my torso and, with difficulty, moved me toward the door. I weighed 180 jin at the time—no small task for him. The stabbing back pain left my clothes soaked with sweat by the time we got downstairs. They stuffed me into the car. After we’d driven a while in one direction, the young officer said, “We have to take care of something first—won’t take long—then we’ll go to the hospital, okay?” I said, “Fine.” (In 2007, this same Jiang Xiaomin still remembered my weight—but why did he keep lying back then? It showed his crooked intent. Because of his “great service” in suppressing the China Democracy Party, his masters promoted him to section chief, so later he needed only to order subordinates around.) The car immediately turned and drove northwest. After a silence, the man in sunglasses in the front seat said to me: “You’ve harmed your children. Look at so-and-so—smarter than you. He quit the democracy movement, and now his son can work at the provincial procuratorate. Isn’t that much better?!” I smiled faintly. After a while, the car arrived at the Hangzhou Municipal Detention Center. They carried me into an interrogation room and left. Chen Weixing came again to take custody. Seeing me carried in, Chen jeered: “Anyone who didn’t know better would think you’d been beaten.” He then produced an arrest warrant for me to sign. The date on it was September 13—counting the time, exactly the day my back gave out. Was this some ill omen? Of course, I did not see it as a disaster. For me, it was getting what I had sought. It was as if I’d received a certificate of qualification in the democracy movement, and I signed my name with a kind of joy. Those few men, unable to see my pale face, trembling hands, and labored breathing, were perhaps a little disappointed.
(4) Hangzhou Detention Center1. How to Write “Prison”After taking down a statement, Chen told a labor prisoner (inmates serving short sentences of up to a year) to carry me to the cell. The car that had brought me was gone, and the items on it had vanished as well; the promised “medical visit” had turned into an empty pledge. In the dark, damp Room 3 of Block 5, everyone was assembling strings of Christmas lights. A container bound for Brooklyn, New York, was waiting to be loaded (the cardboard boxes in the corridor bore English words indicating Brooklyn, New York). To meet the deadline, daily quotas were jam-packed. After carrying me in, the labor prisoner left. The sleeping platform was piled with electrical wires and plastic bulbs, each person had their stacks piled high in front of them, and there was hardly a place to set one’s feet. The cell boss (笼头) said, “Just lie there on the floor.” Though it was concrete, it had been wiped very clean. After I lay there a while, the boss told someone to bring a few pieces of cardboard to put under me.
The boss, Xu Hua, had a long, fine beard. Because he kept silent at every interrogation and the authorities got nothing from him, he had already been held there for over two years. He seldom spoke, while a “broken-leg” sidekick near him was so lively that for a time I couldn’t tell who the boss was. In the days that followed, I found Xu to have a sense of humor. I remember one day, an elderly, gaunt policeman came to inspect sanitation. Standing outside the iron bars in the corridor, he called into our cell: “Have you cleaned up?” Everyone held their breath and said nothing. He repeated the question even louder. Thinking it rude not to answer, I said, “Yes, we’ve cleaned.” Unexpectedly, he exploded into curses, then stomped off in a huff. After he left, Boss Xu asked me, “You wear glasses—you look educated. Tell me: how do you write the character for ‘prison’ (狱)?” I told him how it’s written. He continued, “On this side there’s a ‘dog radical’ (犭), not a ‘person.’ On the other side there’s also ‘dog’ (犬). In the middle is ‘speech’ (言). How do beasts and dogs converse? We can’t understand what he says—but you can?” I couldn’t help but smile.
Rooms 1 and 2 of Block 5 were death-row cells. In Room 2, one condemned man’s hands and feet were shackled tightly to a wooden board, and he would suddenly erupt into curses. When the procuratorate came to interrogate, they would have cellmates carry him to the exercise yard opposite. I always felt something was off. One day, during yard time, the boss from Room 2 stood at our door chatting with Xu Hua about various death-row inmates they’d encountered. I said I felt that condemned man seemed mentally unsound. The boss gave me a dismissive look, blaming me for meddling. Not long after, the condemned man was moved—because he did in fact have a mental illness. I later thought: the Room 2 boss lived with him daily and should have noticed, but long confinement breeds indifference; they simply didn’t care whether others lived or died.
2. “Teach Him a Lesson!”One night, a deputy director of the detention center surnamed Ren was on duty. Drunk, he came to the bars to “educate” me: “Why do you oppose the Communist Party? The Party is the father; you are the son. If a son opposes the father, he gets a beating. Look, the Party has even given us a raise—we the people support it.” I said, “I am also one of the people. When I oppose what it does wrong, it’s so it can do better. Am I not part of the people?” He said, “You are not the people.” I said, “You can’t affirm ‘the people’ in the abstract and then deny it in the concrete. For many years you’ve usurped the term ‘people’ and emptied it of its true meaning.” He flew into a rage: “I’ll beat you up.” After a pause he added, “I won’t beat you now. I’ll wait at the gate and beat you when you leave the detention center.” Then he pointed around me and said to the others: “Tomorrow you lot teach him a lesson!” and left.
Boss Xu said, “What he means by ‘teach you a lesson’ is for us to beat you up. Why would we do that?” He showed no intention of lifting a finger, and his words also cut off opportunities for the blood-thirsty. A few who wanted to practice their moves to relieve boredom could only give up. Those who knew Ren said he used to be chief of the Binjiang Public Security Sub-Bureau and a professional boxer. For beating a detainee while drunk and causing serious consequences, he’d been demoted here. Had there been no prior incident like that, I would have been in trouble that day. Lou X— from the neighboring cell later served time with me in Zhejiang No. 6 Prison. He said they had all been holding their breath for me that day—this guy goes wild when he’s drunk.
Ren’s call eventually had consequences. A private salt trafficker surnamed Li from Xiaoshan (he had sold several tons of industrial salt—sodium nitrite—counterfeited as table salt. Sodium nitrite is mainly used in construction, dye production, and as a rust inhibitor. Ingestion of 0.3–0.5 g can cause acute poisoning, and 3 g can be fatal. Once poisoned, people suffer dizziness, nausea, vomiting, and difficulty breathing; severe cases can lead to coma or cardiorespiratory failure and death. The state strictly prohibits using industrial salt in food. But Li used his connections to get a light sentence—symbolically one year. Each time he was called out by guards, he came back with a few packs of cigarettes.) After Xu was transferred, Li was appointed boss of our cell. Within days he beat me so badly I looked like a “panda.” That was already December 14, after the Zhejiang High Court rejected a ruling on December 10. A guard with a stutter named Chen Yigang came to investigate. Li said he beat me because I “said reactionary things—said the Communist Party would collapse.” Chen stammered, “Re…vo…lutionaries aren’t afraid of losing their heads and shedding…blood, so what’s this little injury?” Then he turned and left, and nothing more was done. When I was framed and imprisoned again in 2007 and sent to Zhejiang No. 2 Prison, I ran into Xu Hua. Xu said that later on Chen Yigang was about to be promoted to deputy director of the detention center, but he took bribes from an economic criminal, tipped him off, and when it came to light, his career tanked. In fact, the signs of Chen’s corruption were already visible back then.
3. The Devious Human HeartLife in the detention center was better than before. Once a month we could go to the exercise yard, to bathe in the thin autumn sun within those stone walls. The hastily laid ground from years ago had badly weathered; plant roots had pushed it up and cracked it. In the wide gaps among broken grave markers and chunks of concrete, dried leaves of Eucommia had piled up. I thought of my youth—just over the ridge of Taoyuanling. I had worked and lived for eighteen years in the Hangzhou Botanical Garden. How many times had I forgone nature’s charms to bury myself in books at the library in every spare moment? How many nights had I lain awake in the howling mountain winds, thinking of China’s past glory, of a century of disaster, and of tomorrow’s way out? On the top of Leidian Mountain, in a little hut amid snow and wind in 1978–79, I hand-copied big-character posters, one after another, calling for freedom, democracy, and human rights—giving voice to long-repressed human longing. And now, “Shall a life such as this be counted desolate?” “Once I planted willows in fair Jiangnan; now I watch them wither by a bleak river.” Our bodies are perishable; the cause of human progress is not. Devoting myself to the democracy movement is the sublimation of my life. If one hopes to reap, one must first sow. I am convinced that “stability” maintained by violence, fear, and deceit cannot be true stability: “This tree sways and droops; the life in it is all but spent.”
In the dark, damp cell, a gloomy atmosphere hung thick—even the air felt treacherous. Once a person is reduced to a “criminal,” especially in danger, an extreme instinct for survival draws out the negative side of human nature usually kept under wraps: mutual suspicion; scheming to stand out and feel superior; boasting and lying as if whistling in the dark to bolster courage; bullying others to compensate for the humiliation done by power; striking at others to regain psychological balance. Each time a newcomer arrived, they would give him a harsh “initiation,” staging pranks to destroy what little dignity he had left. I knew this base behavior was a by-product of police violence—the more zealous usually those most abused and humiliated by the police. I recall Mr. Lu Xun’s observation: “When the weak are humiliated, they draw the knife against someone weaker; when the strong are humiliated, they draw the knife against someone stronger.” After Ah Q was beaten by Master Zhao, he went to vent on the little nun. Those with little shame to begin with would flatter and fawn. As the proverb goes, “Whoever enters a pack of wolves must learn to howl, or he will be eaten.” Sometimes, perhaps, one unconsciously absorbs a passive, deformed personality—and if so, the authorities have achieved their goal of “reform.” I was careful and on guard.
4. Decay Laid BareBefore I was brought in, the guards had already told the boss not to subject me to an “initiation” (做规矩), and also not to let me see others being put through it. Several “official crimes” (职务犯)—people who had held positions and used them to take bribes—were brought to our cell: one surnamed Zhou, a bureau chief at the division rank, who had once listened to a lecture by Bao Tong; another surnamed Zhu, a veteran traditional Chinese medicine doctor and a chair of a so-called “democratic party.” Similar age, education, and background made us natural conversation partners.
They spoke deftly and had independent views on current realities. Of course, as officials they had worn protective coloration and shouted with the chorus: “Ah, how splendid the Emperor’s new clothes!” As the saying goes, “At the point of death, words are kind; as a bird nears its end, its call is sad.” Before his execution, the Hebei graft-lord Li Zhen bared his heart. Seeing the sudden changes in the Soviet Union, Eastern Europe, and Poland, he reckoned the Communist system wouldn’t last, and witnessing the bleak fate of “honest officials” after regime change, he thought to grab what he could while he could. Like Qu Qiubai’s Superfluous Words, I believe Li Zhen told the truth. Signs of crisis and decay were plain to all; the procession of the corrupt only revealed that more and more people understood. Even the “minimum program” and “maximum program” had become hazy and unrecognizable. How many still held true faith? Those who sang the highest notes in normal times often had unspeakable aims, for ordinary people say: “Ten officials, ten are corrupt; without corruption nothing gets done. We don’t fear how much you take, as long as you stand on our side.”
I also learned that while cracking down on and persecuting the CDP, the authorities feared awakening the political consciousness of the eight “democratic parties,” feared they might refuse to remain vassals. They even issued special documents to brainwash them, ordering them to be on guard and strictly prevent CDP members from joining their organizations, lest the monopoly be broken and the authorities face a rival at court.
5. “Initiation”Long detention, monotonous days, and uncertainty about one’s fate piled up unbearable psychological pressure. Some naturally cruel thugs were blood-addicted, taking pleasure in harming others. In exchange for serving as the guards’ “eyes and ears,” they enjoyed tacit indulgence. I heard more than once of incidents where bullying the weak escalated and someone was killed. The victims were often young migrant thieves from other provinces.
After a spell of uneasy peace, someone couldn’t resist and resumed “initiation.” In deep winter, when a newcomer arrived, the first task was “hygiene”—strip naked and have cold water poured over you. According to your age, you got one ladle per year, chilling you to the bone. Next came “flying an airplane”: the newcomer faced the wall and bent over until the back of his neck touched it, arms spread. A thug behind him would yank his ears left and right while chanting questions like where the plane had arrived and what it was doing there; if the answers displeased him, he would rain down kicks and punches. When tired, they switched to the next “program.” The third—“frying eggs”—was downright vicious: the thug grabbed the newcomer’s testicles, stretched them tight, and snapped them hard with the middle finger of his other hand. The newcomer would turn white in an instant, break out in a cold sweat, double over in pain, and collapse. These were the standard routines; there were also improvisations like slapping oneself and gladiator “entertainment.” The private salt trafficker was the most zealous and tireless. Instinctively I loathed such behavior; though I could not step in to stop it, my face could not hide my disgust. Dr. Zhu felt the same. This plainly irked the salt trafficker. Before long, he picked a quarrel with Dr. Zhu. When I comforted the doctor, I showed my contempt for the trafficker and thus made an enemy of him.
Dr. Zhu had been detained in another locality and transferred to the Hangzhou Detention Center. In a hospital construction project, he accepted a 50,000-yuan bribe from a contractor. The contractor tried to cut corners; bookish and conscientious, Dr. Zhu refused to acquiesce and insisted on quality, whereupon the contractor informed on him. After some time in custody, he gradually found his footing and said: “So many Party officials taking hundreds of thousands, millions, tens of millions—most are never investigated. I didn’t pervert the law; I refused to endanger project quality and was framed by a contractor. Are the authorities targeting me because, as a member of a ‘democratic party,’ I’m an easy mark, so they won’t let me go?” The gambit worked; within days he was released.
(5) The Verdict1. Final StatementOn September 23, the procuratorate delivered the Indictment. It was the same bullying tone the Communist Party had maintained for fifty years. By this standard template, our sentences had long been pre-set; what remained was to go through sham procedures to fool people. Facing a long term, I knew time is the fabric of life. “Of three score and ten years, few live to see them,” as the saying goes: I would lose a seventh of my life. In an age of revelry, hedonism, and sensual indulgence, I seemed a fool. Many around me mocked and sneered. Was it worth sacrificing myself for them? As I wrestled with the question, a light went on in my heart: “Could it be that grand China has no men?” What I fought for was the five-thousand-year civilization of our ancestors and the unending generations of our descendants. At the very least, I did not want to be condemned by them years hence: “How could you tolerate such a life?” Now I can at least say calmly: “I strove for her; I fought for her; I sacrificed for her.” After all, I labored for human progress, not its opposite; I resisted the counter-current of the age, not its flow. A passage in the Analects once moved me deeply: “The Master sighed: ‘Birds and beasts cannot be part of my company. If not with my fellow men, then with whom? Should the Way prevail in the world, I would not need to change it.’” Dark clouds gathered above me; I would be bound to the Caucasus and suffer the eagle’s beak in my liver. At this moment, I understood the commonplace phrase “willingly and gladly” in all its depth—my heart was sweet.
Because I needed to write a Defense Plea, I borrowed paper and pen from the guards. They gave me only two sheets (afraid I would write other materials). I wrote My Final Statement in Court:—
Esteemed procurators, judges, ladies, and gentlemen:I am an ordinary Chinese citizen. In a country that claims to have “the truest democracy,” I expressed my political views and explored paths of political reform, hoping thereby to promote social progress, curb corruption, and maintain social stability—no person of sound mind would consider this a crime.Because of speech—because a citizen exercised basic political rights—I have been charged with “subverting state power.” Such actions precisely reveal a lack of confidence in “state power” on the part of certain people and show their wanton mockery of its authority. At the end of the twentieth century, when modern politics is being widely accepted by humanity, it is a tragedy for contemporary China that a Cultural-Revolution-style Cold War mentality remains so strong.Every version of China’s Constitution, no matter the amendments, explicitly contains the clauses “freedom of association” and “freedom of speech.” In particular, in the first half of 1998 the Chinese government clearly stated it would sign the U.N. International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, and on October 5, 1998, formally signed it at U.N. headquarters. This signifies China’s recognition of and commitment to the Covenant and its international obligations. Multiparty politics, the hallmark of modern governance, has been adopted by more and more countries and regions. No state has ever been “overthrown by multiparty democracy.” Regimes fall because rulers grow conservative and ossified, moving against the tide of history, and because of their abuse of power and corruption. In such a political climate, when Wang Youcai and others proposed forming the CDP Zhejiang Preparatory Committee and openly filed for registration with the Zhejiang Department of Civil Affairs, I believed they were exercising the political rights citizens ought to enjoy.When, after days of being told the application required “study,” I personally felt our democratic politics had taken a great step forward. On June 30, I therefore distributed the CDP founding declaration; on July 10, I was placed under “residential surveillance” for this. In late August, the political-security police repeatedly sought to “lift” the surveillance and even released Wang Youcai, who had been arrested. When my surveillance was lifted, I promised not to engage again in street politics; I have kept that promise to this day. On December 17, Wang was sentenced; the police repeatedly told me it was for accepting overseas funds.Still more puzzling: from the first issue of At the Opposition onward, copies were mailed or delivered to government and public-security organs at all levels, and no one intervened. Based on this tacit tolerance, I contributed one article each to issues 8 and 9. Yet today, after nine issues, certain people have plucked out a few words, wrenched them out of context, and matched them to charges. This runs counter to the vaunted “rule of law” and calls to mind the Anti-Rightist “lure the snake from its hole” tactic. If the above truly amounted to “subversion of state power,” how could the authorities have been so numb, failing to enforce the law? Today’s accusations are nothing more than “if we wish to condemn, any pretext will do”—they cannot withstand facts or the verdict of history. Such a grave charge wielded so arbitrarily can only be seen as a mockery of law. Moreover, our aim was only to explore a path to democratic politics; we had no intent to “subvert.” China opposes power politics internationally—why the double standard at home? As explorations and preparations, our actions had no direct or indirect consequences—whence the crime of subversion?In living memory, under decades of leftist influence, the authorities “manufactured” large numbers of political and conscience prisoners. Countless unjust, false, and wrong cases have been condemned by the world and later redressed as history has moved on—badly damaging China’s international image and social development. Is this to continue?Humanity is about to enter the twenty-first century. Surveying global trends, those living in the information age must have their own understanding. China has made great strides in twenty years of economic reform. The 15th Party Congress proposed political reform in keeping with the times. It is undeniable that today corruption is severe, power lacks checks and balances, legal consciousness is weak among some, and abuses of power exacerbate social conflict. It is precisely out of such concerns that my friends and I are exploring new paths of political reform. Peace, reason, and openness are our basic principles. I have repeatedly stressed: we advocate dialogue, not confrontation; we advocate pushing forward social reform, not overthrowing; we advocate theoretical inquiry, not street politics. This is how I have always conducted myself. In today’s materialistic age, I pursue an ideal—an ideal already realized in many countries and regions, where people’s quality of life has greatly improved. Why should the Chinese people not enjoy democracy, this common treasure of humankind?You can, to suit certain people’s needs, hastily indict and convict me. This may be my personal misfortune, but I believe it is our society’s misfortune; it signals a serious regression in human rights and the repetition of decades of “errors” and “rule by man.” I grieve for my long-suffering motherland, and I rejoice for my sacrifices for her. Her progress requires the blood of her children. For my ideals, I will give my freedom and dignity, even my life. As Lu Xun said: “China is full of hidden arrows; those who step forward easily lose their lives.” Yet I believe we are writing history—for this, I have no regrets!Here I make a confident prediction:In accord with the law of human progress;In line with the norms of the international mainstream;In keeping with the inevitable course of history;In obedience to the free choice of the people—Democratic politics will arrive before long. At that moment, an independent, impartial, and rational people’s court will tell me: —Acquitted!Thank you all.Zhu YufuOctober 25, 1999
2. The IndictmentThe date was filled in on the day of trial. A few days after Zhang Zhefeng of the municipal procuratorate delivered the Notice of Rights, the detention center took me out again. At the doorway of the guardroom—right on the boundary between yin and yang—a middle-aged plainclothesman with a sickly, gaunt face handed me the Indictment. What I remember most was his scornful tone: “You can write your written Defense Plea and give it to us. People like you, once in court, go on and on with endless speeches.” Later I learned from the judgment that his name was Fu Zhangxuan. This verdict would make him a historical figure. Before long, those who had “rendered meritorious service” for the vested-interest group in this filthy political judgment were all rewarded by their masters: Zhang became chief procurator of Chun’an County; Fu became president of the Yuhang County Court. (After I returned home I searched everywhere for that Indictment but could not find it. Instead I turned up a Seizure List that itemized “Overseas assistance funds of 2,300 yuan; one copy of the Hangzhou People’s Procuratorate Indictment.” Has the Party truly lost all shame? The support funds I received after imprisonment were clearly not “operating expenses” but living assistance from friends to my family. To treat even my own Indictment as contraband—there can be no second government like this on earth. They knew how filthy its contents were.)
There was not a word from my family. In principle, there was nothing secret about our case: our speech was public; our articles were public; our application for registration was public. Yet the authorities were especially tense, as if facing a mortal enemy. Not a single of my letters to my wife requesting daily necessities (filled out per the detention center’s standard form) was mailed. In days of extreme want, three or four days after the “Cold Dew” solar term in mid-October, I finally received clothing from home. On the delivery slip I saw my wife’s elder brother’s signature. From that signature, I could tell her family understood my choice. What a place of humiliation and awkwardness a detention center is! As a geological engineer, how often had he come to such a place? One can imagine the arrogance of the warders, so high-handed before “prisoners’ relatives.”
My wife has four elder brothers and was doted on as the only little sister. The household was naturally full of tolerance and warmth. When she decided to join her life with mine, though my mother-in-law knew I had taken part in “counterrevolutionary” Democracy Wall activities and worried for her daughter’s future, hoping her sons would stop her, they chose to understand and respect her choice. Now, their worst fears had come true. In China’s current political ecology, the tragic fates of past political victims are vivid; how many families sobbed their hearts out. Could a delicate woman raise a twelve-year-old daughter alone—and shoulder, over long years, political, economic, and social pressures? I was anxious beyond words. (I later learned that the entire pharmacy department at my wife’s hospital had its annual bonuses docked because of my sentence; her pressure can be imagined.) I have no regrets for my life choice or the hardships I suffered—but my wife had no obligation to suffer for me. Looking around, the road to human progress, paved with blood and fire, has many solitary walkers. In 1989, when I was “detained for investigation” for nearly a month for “participating in turmoil,” my one-year-old daughter did not recognize me when I returned home. Facing such harsh reality, my wife once said, worried: “If you choose this road, you shouldn’t have a family or a child!” Now, my brother-in-law brought clothing—and a strong message: my wife had resolved to face hardship with me.
3. “Man Jiang Hong”The corridor lights cast the latticework of bars into the dim cell, slanting shadows like black hands clutching everyone’s heart, lending a touch of eeriness and dread. In the late autumn night, the fine mountain rain drummed on every ear—it was the hour for heavy thoughts. Long past lights-out, I knew no one slept. Some wrestled with whether to confess; others weighed heavier versus lighter sentences. My thoughts roamed freely across time and space: Wen Tianxiang had known this atmosphere; Zhang Cangshui had suffered it; the Six Gentlemen of 1898 had lived it. This, precisely, is where the “righteous qi” of the world gestates. Yue Fei, Qiu Jin, Xu Xilin—would this land around West Lake forever be shrouded in baleful air? “I tend well my vast, vital breath”—amid West Lake’s hills and waters, righteousness endures. Gradually I silently recited Wen Tianxiang’s “Song of Righteousness” and drafted in my head Feelings in Prison (to the tune “Man Jiang Hong”):
Miscellanies take form—Who will set downThis song of righteous breath?
Five thousand years—The procession of sages—One unbroken thread.
Wenshan’s head, Cangshui’s blood;The 1898 martyrs—livers and guts sundered like Kunlun.
For the greater good,Who would cling to a few remaining years,Trembling?
The chronicle endures—Let us strive to match it.Virtue is not left lonely—Why spare the flesh?
Hardest to bear—My shame toward my gentle wife and tender child.For country I never wished to leave my home,Yet I wave farewell, counting ten long years.
When I return,Let the warm wind brush my face—New governance stands.
4. LawyerOn October 23, I was taken out again. Seated in the interrogation room, I realized the person before me was the lawyer my wife had hired. At the time, the law did not allow lawyers to plead “not guilty” for us. I remember when Wang Youcai was arrested in 1998, I sought a lawyer for him. At Wang’s insistence, the lawyer had to argue not guilty. That lawyer was an old acquaintance—youthful in spirit, bold in battle. Twenty years later, he could only tell me his difficulties: “Our licenses are issued by the justice department. If they revoke mine, never mind me—many in my firm will have no income.” Several lawyers from other places had come wanting to defend Wang. When they heard the demand for a not-guilty plea, they beat a retreat and asked several thousand yuan in travel expenses before going home.
I said if he couldn’t argue not guilty, forget it. The lawyer immediately replied: “This is your wife’s heartfelt wish.” The words struck my soft spot; I could not refuse her arrangement. Only later did I learn that before obtaining my consent, on October 18 he had already taken 2,800 yuan in fees from my wife, and only after five more days—now just two days before trial—did he come to the detention center to get my authorization. How were they supposed to investigate or prepare a defense? Where are the guardians of justice in our society? Where is our nation’s moral conscience? For money, they could prey on a lone mother and child, taking advantage of others’ peril. (After my release, Hu Xiaoling, Mao Qingxiang’s wife, told me their lawyer behaved even worse; by comparison, mine was “better.”) A truth I had long known somehow hazed over when it touched me: without collusion, how does one get a share of the spoils?
I also pitied them—a group castrated by power. On the way back to the cell, guard Chen Yigang, with a trace of irony at the corner of his mouth, said: “Any lawyer who can get you people acquitted would become the most famous lawyer in China. I think you’d better save your money.” (In hindsight, there was kindness in that. He had long worked there and knew the decisions from on high. Our cases were mere formalities; he didn’t want others to profit from our misfortune, nor to see me suffer insult on top of injury.)
After my return, a fellow detainee, Zheng Shanlong, held for organizing prostitution, asked about the lawyer and was surprised: that man had been “hanging around Nanchang” with him a few years earlier—when did he become a lawyer? Later, in both the detention center and the prison, mention of lawyers drew universal gnashing of teeth. Poor petty thieves, once arrested, had no debts at home; hire a lawyer and they were mired in debt, losing both freedom and money. Overseas friends, sympathetic to my plight, gave my wife 2,000 yuan for legal fees. Zheng Gang of the political-security section at the Shangcheng Sub-Bureau heard of it and immediately coerced it out of her (there was an unverified claim that of seized cash, the handler could pocket 60–80% in kickbacks, which explains why Zheng worked so hard to hunt for money—and why he abandoned me at the Xiaoshan repatriation station). The squalor was all of a piece.
5. Xu GuangOn the evening of October 24, the guards notified me that the trial would be the next day. My cellmates busied themselves finding clothes for me to wear in court. But we couldn’t find the outerwear from home; even the books I’d brought were gone. Likely the labor squad’s doing—I had seen a bespectacled “labor squad” member carrying my thick Essays of Zhou Zuoren days before. I asked the guards; they didn’t investigate, but found me a coat left behind by a death-row inmate—my “formalwear” for court. Boss Xu cared for me and gave me a bottle of mineral water in case I got thirsty while responding—but in court the right to speak is monopolized by the “prosecutor” and the “judge”; there would be little chance for my voice.
On October 25, 1999, as with all “people’s courts” and inquisitions in history, a ruling party that had seized power by violence put on a show of suppressing a vastly weaker opposition party. The detention center treated this as a major political task. In the early morning, a guard took me out. Near the bend at that border of yin and yang, they suddenly told me to stop, hurried ahead to do something, and, from my sense of it, hid someone in front so that I would not see him nor he me. Then they took me to an empty room by the guardroom and told me to squat facing the wall. Though my back had improved somewhat from crawling on the plank, I could not squat. Still less would I, having stood tall for basic human rights and suffered persecution, bow to a criminal clique. I told the man to fetch a stool. He ordered me not to look around, found a chair, and had me sit. My eyes could not “watch all six directions,” but my ears “listened in all eight.” Bit by bit, from stray bits of talk, I suspected the person they had hidden was Xu Guang—and soon it was confirmed.
Before my arrest, I had met Xu Guang twice. The first time, he brought his young, lovely wife and an infant to my home. The two of them still had the strong air of students. Knowing how cruel political persecution was in China, we in the CDP had no wish to “drive the young into the blades,” as the CCP had. I worried for their fate. I thought of Yin Fu, Rou Shi, Hu Yepin…young men brimming with ideals of freedom and democracy, sacrificed to vile political plots. May such tragedy not befall this dear young couple. I thought of my responsibility—to protect them as far as possible. The second meeting was the day before my arrest, at a moment when black clouds pressed down upon the city. Xu brought an article he had written, “You Can’t Arrest Them All.” It was impassioned and righteous; in it I saw his readiness to die—“Give me liberty or give me death!”—the proud spine of our nation, the spirit of “Shall grand China be without men?” What I could never understand is that Xu, a hot-blooded youth who had never formally joined the CDP, was sentenced to five years, while those with longer histories and bigger names, who showed up everywhere, remained unscathed. The authorities were no fools; they knew who their true adversaries were. After my release I learned that Xu, after severe political persecution, finally went through a divorce. A similar crisis had threatened my own family. Clearly, the authorities aimed not only to break our bodies, but also to crush our spirits.
6. MotherMany police vehicles were marshaled in the detention center courtyard. After a flurry of activity, Mao Qingxiang, Xu Guang, and I were loaded into three prison vans (since I was listed as the second defendant on the indictment and Wu Yilong was held at the provincial detention center, I was placed near the front). A police car with sirens blaring cleaved the way as we sped toward the Hangzhou Intermediate People’s Court along Chenghezia. By custom, all our friends were locked in police stations that day until proceedings ended. On the square by the Children’s Palace near the court, many citizens had gathered after hearing the news. As the vans turned and slowed, I saw Zhang Jianhua (then head of the political-security section of the Shangcheng Sub-Bureau) in plainclothes with a briefcase, driving people away under the cedars. Those driven off clustered on the other side of the street, unwilling to disperse. The road was blocked several hundred meters from the court; a street-cleaning truck was kept outside, its workers pleading with the police. Our convoy roared through.
Suddenly, I saw my mother—standing unsteadily at the court gate, peering about. My younger sister, Xiaoyan, held her firmly. The van braked hard and turned right; a blast of dusty air swirled over my mother, ruffling her white hair. A nameless emotion surged up from deep within me, and I couldn’t help shouting: “Mother!” The police on either side tensed up at once, squeezing me in and shouting, “Don’t shout! Don’t shout!”
The van drove into the inner courtyard before stopping. I got out and looked around—my mother was nowhere to be seen. Several bailiffs hurriedly pushed me inside. It seemed like a row of annexes; on the outer side was a caged holding area. The three of us were held in separate inner and outer rooms to prevent us from meeting. As Wu Yilong was brought in from the provincial detention center and passed by me, I said, “Wu Yilong—the glorious moment has arrived.” It’s a line from La Marseillaise. He clearly understood and flashed me a bright smile. Outside the iron cage, plainclothesmen with briefcases paced proudly. The way they looked at us was as at trophies—or rather as stacks of bonus cash. In their gaze I saw pettiness.
From where I stood, I could see into a small room opposite a small courtroom, where someone was adjusting monitoring equipment; a person who looked like an official seemed to be overseeing things. A young bailiff, seizing a moment when no one was looking, quietly came over and said he wanted to learn about the CDP—could I give him the website? Regrettably, I had been under arrest for some time and could not answer.
The scene had an obvious air of pageantry. A large number of bailiffs chatted while adjusting their belts and gear, muttering: today, we have to be especially prim—this required, that required—these getups haven’t been worn in ages.
Editor: Zhou Zhigang Responsible Editor: Luo Zhifei translator：Ming Cheng
Abstract: On September 3, 2025, a military parade was held in Tiananmen Square to commemorate the 80th anniversary of the victory of the Chinese People’s War of Resistance Against Japanese Aggression and the World Anti-Fascist War. On the surface, China is extremely confident, but in fact, it has exposed its order anxiety.
In the military parade two days ago, the stands were full of people, and the camera shone every button brightly. But as long as you turn down the volume, you will hear another voice: this is not the confidence of the national power, but the anxiety of order. The photo of Putin, Xi Jinping and Kim Jong-un in the same frame is packaged as a “historical moment”, which is actually more like a price list. It does not rely on promises to win trust but uses symbols to raise transaction costs: sanctions are more difficult to negotiate, energy is more difficult to break, and arms trade is more difficult to pinch. Photos cannot change the reality, but they will change the model of other people’s accounting; images have become chips on the negotiating table, but the price is borne by the lives of ordinary people – exchange rates, freight rates, tariffs, unemployment, and finally they will enter the vegetable market from news subtitles.
There is also an intriguing scene in the details of the concierge: as soon as the person left, the cup and seat were wiped immediately. Some people use “pay attention to hygiene” to make a round field, and those who know it know that it is a muscle memory of anti-exorction. Saliva, dandruff, fibers and fingerprints are all clues that can be used; erasing traces is not to pursue cleanliness, but to be afraid of being seen. True self-confidence is to allow the truth to stay; when “people leave, things are clear, and traces disappear” is written into the process, it shows that fear has become a part of the system. Internally, this process requires everyone to “don’t make mistakes”; externally, it is equivalent to openly admitting a kind of vulnerability: power needs to rely on tracelessness to maintain a sense of security.
Don’t take the young face of Kim Jong-un’s daughter in the camera as a variety show. Give the title, position and camera in advance, not to celebrate childlike, but to train “habits” and “convinced”. In a system that attaches great importance to bloodline, succession is not for reform, but to maintain stability itself; the earlier it is revealed, the more it shows that the current legal capacity is insufficient, and it needs to be made up with future inheritance. Taking the continuity of power as the only long-term value is a poor imagination: when the system cannot continuously produce persuasive power, it can only continuously produce successors. The audience is required to be moved, the system is required to obey, and the problem is required to be silent.
The changes in the team are named “system combat, information-led, and sky-based integration” by the commentary. To translate human language, it is to hide the old, stupid and accountable part, and bring out the new, cool and easy-to-tell story part. In the past, the big pocket that piled up the sky, the network and the electromagnetics is being divided into several “professional modules”; the “polar nuclear ability” of the rocket has been held high, and the link, perception and anti-destruction are put into a new box. On the surface, it is professional, but in fact, it is also the reorganization of accountability and narrative – like the accountant divest bad debts to subsidiaries and then announces that the main ledger has become beautiful. Real modernization is not only to connect the “sky-network-earth-end” into a closed loop, but also to put the boundaries of power, budget transparency, civilian control, and military-civilian relations under the sun; if it is just a change of words and add terms, it is called a modernization narrative, not modernization itself.
Putting these fragments together, the conclusion is not difficult: the same frame is to raise the price, wipe is to seal, take over is to consolidate power, and to change the formation is to maintain stability. The whole ceremony is peaceful internally and increased externally. It is still 100,000 miles away from “confidence”. For the surrounding people, there will be more moments of “two to choose one”; for the people, it is necessary to be moved and pay the bill and remain silent. When toughness is used as an anesthetic, accountability will be characterized as provocation, discussion will be classified as disturbance, and reason will be ridiculed as weakness. The drumbeats will be more even, the lens will be denser, the steps will be neater, and the space for turning will become narrower and narrower. On the surface, it is iron and blood, but in fact, it postpones the cost to a darker corner and transfers the risk to more silent people.
The real sense of security of a country is not to make the opponent afraid, but to make oneself not to be afraid: not to be afraid of the facts being exposed, not to be afraid of public opinion to ask questions, not to be afraid that power will be replaced. There is no need to erase the shadow of the cup, and there is no need to erase the shadow; there is no need to write “unspeakable” in the process, and there is no need to write “unplaceable” in the family tree. Otherwise, what we practice today is the formation, and what we practice tomorrow is silence; what we practice today is the drumbeat, and what we play tomorrow is guilt. The square can be paved larger, and the camera can be set higher, but what can’t be installed is the postponed bill and the suppressed truth.
It’s okay to donate emotions, but the price must be calculated.
Abstract: Zhang Xuefeng’s “donation of 50 million” has attracted heated discussion, but enthusiasm cannot replace reason. Donations must be clearly directed and supervised, and the cost of war needs to be calculated openly. Passion should be subject to institutional constraints, and accountability is the bottom line.
Author: Tuo Xianrun
Editor: Li Congling Responsible Editor: Luo Zhifei Translator: Cheng Ming
Zhang Xuefeng said in class, “As soon as the gunshot sounds, I will immediately donate 50 million; not to mention 50 million, 100 million should be donated.” The applause is dense, and the hot search is hot. On the surface, it is passionate and responsible, but on the inside, it is a dangerous paradigm: outsourcing complex public issues with a sentence of “donation” to emotions and replacing reasoning with a burst of applause. Of course, donation is not an original sin. The question is – to whom to donate, for what, and in exchange for what. If you avoid these three questions, the larger the number, the thicker the cover.
Why does “hitting Taiwan” need a professional lecturer to mobilize the military? Of course, he can express his position, but local politics is packaged as chicken blood in the classroom. When the war is told as an inspirational story, the light in the classroom becomes the light of the stage. The most easily ignited are young people without cognition; the first to be involved is themselves. The first-ranked person in the war is never the son of the vested interests, but the children of ordinary families. The group with real resources goes to closed-system schools and walks through invisible channels to the public; their security boundaries have often been strengthened by the family and the system. Blood is shared, but the risk is not.
“Knowing what it is, not knowing why” is the common disease of this kind of public opinion field. After watching a few videos and memorizing a few slogans, I thought that I had mastered “history is inevitable”. But if it’s really on paper, you ask him three things: First, who will make up his mind? Second, who will go to the battlefield? Third, who will settle the bill? There is often no answer. What’s worse, when someone tries to ask about the distribution and supervision mechanism of donations, they will immediately be labeled as “unpatriotic”. If morality is regarded as a hammer, the problem is naturally a nail; when questioning is defined as incompatibility, reason is squeezed out of the field.
Why is the narrative of “donating 50 million” so touching? Because it turns complexity into simplicity and individuals into heroes. You don’t need to understand how financial sanctions are transmitted to employment and exchange rates, you don’t need to know how sea-air linkage lengthens the supply chain, and you don’t need to calculate how much financial space will be swallowed up by disability pensions, survivors’ security and refugee resettlement. You just need to be passionate, you just need to applaud, you just need to forward “You see he is going to donate” in Moments. Emotions are released, and no one pays for it in reality. But the reality is that every bullet has a price, every transportation has a cost, and every pension is followed by the breakdown of a family. People who regard war as an “inspirational scene” often never calculate “post-war life”.
Donations should be an extension of public rationality: the source is clear, the flow is transparent, and it can be audited. But in the narrative of “patriotism is justice”, donations are easy to slip into “moral tickets”. If you don’t donate, you have no conscience; if you ask, you have ulterior motives. Therefore, the details that should be asked the most are always evaded by “Don’t ask so much”. Did the money aid the front line or into the publicity budget? When you arrive at the victim’s family, or do you fall into the etiquette project? Is there an independent third party to do the whole chain verification? Is there a public annual report and person in charge? If you don’t have these, the more donations you make, the less accountability you have, and the easier it is for your blood to be abused.
Then say “thinking”. Many people think that “dare to speak harshly” is thoughtful, and “resounding position” is profound. In fact, the minimum standard of thought is to be willing to open up one’s own position: why do I think so? What if I’m wrong? Am I avoiding the cost? If you don’t even have the courage to “falsify”, the so-called “thought” is just an echo of the slogan. True independence is not to change a set of more fierce words, but to acknowledge complexity, calculate the price, and respect the evidence.
This does not mean opposing donations, on the contrary. Donation can be donated, but “procedural justice” should be regarded as part of the donation. To which institution to donate, who is the legal person, where is the annual financial report, how to split the use of funds, how to verify the beneficiaries, and how to correct the failure cases, these are the “invisible contract terms” of donations. If there is no clause, don’t talk about “long-termism”; if you dare not sign, don’t talk about “responsibility”. Blood can be sincere, but public affairs cannot rely on sincere transactions, it must rely on the system. It also does not mean denying the goal of unification. You can agree or disagree; but regardless of your position, you should give a practical explanation of “cost-benefit-distribution”. To shut your mouth with a sentence of “the general trend of history” is equivalent to admitting that you have no answer. True political maturity is reflected in not avoiding “who sacrifices, to what extent, where the compensation comes from, and how long it lasts”. Only by writing these in black and white words can we talk about strategy and righteousness.
In a context of promoting preferences, the scarcest thing is not passion but putting passion in a cage. The classroom should not become an emotional mobilization station, and public figures should not use grand words to steal specific responsibilities. When you fill people with “donate 50 million”, you should also be prepared to be asked every detail of “going, supervision, responsible person”; when you call on young people to embrace the blood, you should tell them how to face disability, unemployment, debt and trauma. Otherwise, this is not responsibility, but hype.
At this point, I only ask for one small thing: put three cold questions on the door of each “hot-blooded speech” – why, for whom, and what. Why do you have to do this? For whose benefit? What’s the result? If any question is vague, there should be no next step. If you can answer, write the answer as a system clause and accept continuous verification; if you can’t answer, put down the microphone and return the applause to silence.
Of course, we need love, but we need to be sober more than love; we also need to be generous, but we need rules more than generosity. Donation is good, and accountability is the bottom line; war drums can be heard, but the account must be calculated. May every emotional surge eventually become a transparent report; may there be a letter of responsibility that can be questioned behind every slogan. Until then, please leave your enthusiasm for the real crisis, and leave your reason for every “donation” decision.
