Author: Zhang Shancheng Executive: Wang Mengmeng Editor: Li Congling Translated:Lyu Feng
A heavy night presses upon the Nine Provinces,The iron curtain towers like a mountain—blood still unstaunched.
The people’s cries of sorrow have not ceased,The ghosts of the Red Calamity bear ancient hate.
When walls are torn down, hearts unite,Rage burns and surges like the sea.To overthrow tyranny is everyone’s duty,To judge the despot is a task without rest.
Through darkest hours breaks the faintest dawn,Freedom’s light spreads across the divine land.Justice endures through the ages of history,And truth shall one day strike down the demon.
On this mournful Eleventh, mountains and rivers weep,Blood cries out to honor the nation’s wounds.Though tyranny rages in brutal strength,Freedom alone shall live forever.
Abstract:In the early morning of September 18, 2022, a bus transporting close contacts of COVID-19 cases in Guiyang, Guizhou Province, overturned, killing 27 people. Behind this tragedy lay the deeper cause—the “zero-COVID” policy.
In the early hours of September 18, 2022, a bus carrying quarantined close contacts in Guiyang, Guizhou Province, overturned, resulting in 27 deaths at the scene. Three years later, this tragedy continues to pain the public’s conscience.
This was by no means a mere “traffic accident.” Its roots lay in the utterly absurd “zero-COVID policy.” To conceal the truth, the authorities forced the bus to depart in the middle of the night; to carry out orders, the driver—exhausted and clad in protective gear—was made to drive through the darkness. In the name of “social-level zero cases,” living human beings were treated as objects to be moved and disposed of at will. The result was that twenty-seven lives, which should never have been lost, were crushed beneath the wheels of policy.
The government’s so-called apology was not a gesture of respect for life, but an act of self-protection for the system. They said there had been “work deficiencies” and that next time things would be done “more carefully.” Those words mean only that the bureaucratic machine will continue to turn coldly, and that sacrifices will go on being consumed. To call a tragedy born of policy merely a “safety accident” is to insult the dead all over again.
What is truly terrifying is not the overturned bus, but the obedience and helplessness of the people. “Sigh… let’s just follow the arrangements,” became their final words. That blind trust and forced submission are precisely the numbness the system cultivates. But this time, it led straight to death.
Three years later, we must speak plainly: this was the crime of the zero-COVID policy, the price of an inhuman system. Those twenty-seven were not unlucky—they were driven to their deaths. To remember them is to keep asking: how many more lives must be lost before such madness ends?
Two Jokes：”Inspecting the Asylum” and “Whose Power Is Greater”
Author: Li Kun Editor: Li Kun Responsible Editor: Luo Zhifei Proofreader: Li Jie Translator: Lyu Feng
Inspecting the Asylum
In order to show his concern for the grassroots, Xi Jinping one day personally visited a psychiatric hospital. After giving a speech, he walked under the guidance of the hospital’s leaders while the patients applauded enthusiastically.
Xi approached the first person in the applauding crowd, shook his hand, and asked, “How are you feeling? Are you getting used to the food here?”The “patient,” visibly moved, saluted and replied, “Reporting, Comrade Leader, I’m with the Central Guard Bureau. We’re eating very well.”
The director of the Guard Bureau quickly explained, “That’s for security reasons.” Xi looked displeased and moved on to shake hands with another man in a patient’s gown.This one said, “Thank you, Leader. I’m the office director—hope you’ll promote me more often.”
Xi became even more irritated. He then went to the back row and reached out to a man clapping most vigorously.He tried to shake hands, but the man ignored him and kept clapping furiously. Xi pulled his hand and said cheerfully, “I can see you’re all quite happy here!”The man yanked his hand back, slapped Xi across the face, and shouted, “You dare stop clapping—don’t you want to eat anymore?!”
Whose Power Is Greater
During a massive military parade in China, all kinds of weapons rolled down Chang’an Avenue: mechanized infantry, artillery, tanks, self-propelled guns, drones, tactical missiles, and strategic nuclear missiles—each more destructive than the last.
At the very end of the procession, however, came two short, fat men carrying briefcases.Xi Jinping, watching from the viewing stand, was astonished:“These two—are they more powerful than nuclear missiles? Who are they?”
The Minister of Public Security said, “They’re not from my department.”The Minister of Defense said, “Never seen them.”Premier Li Qiang replied, “I know them. One works at the National Bureau of Statistics making up data, and the other’s from the Foreign Ministry—he writes the speeches.”
I am Hu Dewang, a member of the China Democratic Party.On September 13, 2025, I launched the 755th Jasmine Action, protesting the Chinese Communist Party’s crimes against humanity — including the atrocity of live organ harvesting.
In my speech, I denounced the CCP’s evil nature and called on everyone to recognize its inhuman essence, to expose its shameless crimes, and to rise together in resistance against tyranny.
Dictators will ultimately fall, but the voice of the people will transcend time and space, leaving an eternal echo.
Let us proclaim loudly to the dictators:
Your so-called “myth of immortality” is nothing but an absurd lie! What truly lives forever is the human spirit’s pursuit of freedom and the courage to resist oppression!
Lyu Feng, a member of the China Democratic Party, joined the volunteer ranks of the Liberty Sculpture Park in September 2025, taking concrete action to support the just cause of the Hong Kong people in their pursuit of freedom. By participating in the park’s daily maintenance and volunteer work, he contributes through his own labor and dedication to the struggle against the CCP’s tyranny and to the promotion of democratic ideals. His efforts bring strength and courage to the resistance of the people of Hong Kong and all those oppressed. He calls on overseas pro-democracy groups to unite in solidarity and mutual support.
The Promissory Notes and Schoolchildren of a Ruler Whose Word Is Law
Author: Zhang Zhijun Editor: Li Kun Executive Editor: Luo Zhifei Translation: Lyu Feng
There is a piece of “good news” that everyone is talking about with excitement:“The state treasury needs to be patched up.”
The “hole” in question is not a gap under the city wall, but an unfathomable bronze basin—once full, now empty.And once empty, it begins to echo, summoning forth new “regulations.”
These new rules are crafted with bureaucratic precision:Anyone wishing to enroll in school must first pay a “security policy.”The document has a refined name — social insurance.
No one objects to the idea of “insurance.” But once this policy is laid out, it becomes a threshold —and across that threshold, words are inscribed:“Those who do not pay shall not attend school.”
Children are caught right at this threshold —their toes resting on the bright, polished tiles of the schoolhouse,their heels still pressed into the muddy earth of home.
Parents, one after another, pass the money forward —as if dosing medicine to their child.The medicine is bitter,so they all frown—and swallow their smiles.
The issuers said it was “for the children’s long-term good.”“Long-term” sounds pleasant — it’s a pandemic-era word.But the long term always lives in the future — far away, empty.So people send today’s bread ahead to that future,as if tomorrow will bake bread and send it back.Yet yesterday’s bread was already taken “for national use,”and now today’s bread is taken again, “for national use.”The more that’s collected, the emptier the “national use” becomes —like a warehouse with its heart scooped out, echoing louder the more hollow it is.
The authorities issued a notice — complete with charts, arrows, and smiling faces.Beneath the smiley faces it read:“For fairness, for the future, for stability — please cooperate in payment.”Cooperate is such a lovely word — who wouldn’t wish to cooperate?Cooperation is like dancing:dance badly and you’re called “reactionary,”dance well and you’re photographed for the newspaper.So everyone learns to cooperate.Cooperation becomes a new virtue.March in rhythm — and you’re safe.Miss a beat — and even your child’s pencil case may tumble into the gutter.
I once went to see an old woman selling tofu on the street.She was aged, but her hands still smelled faintly of grass.She laid out her tofu on the stall, white as snow.A child ran up to buy a piece with a few coins he’d saved.The old woman was about to give him changewhen, from the loudspeaker on a nearby bulletin board, a voice blared:“Pay social insurance before registering for school.”The child’s eyes widened — like a mirror pressed into mud.The old woman sighed, pushed the money back again and again,and finally handed the tofu to the child.The tofu filled his belly;his school registration, like that bulletin, remained unmoved at the doorway.
In the city, there was a gentleman who called himself an intellectual.He wrote lively columns in the papers.One day he published an article:“Social insurance is a good remedy — if everyone pays, the world will be at peace.”The headline gleamed like a waving banner.Beneath it, a footnote read:“For the disadvantaged, exemptions are available — by application only.”
Procedure is a fine friend.Its purpose is to push people around — warmly, like a furnace; endlessly, like a ball.And the more the ball is pushed, the smaller it becomes.At last someone cried out: “The ball’s fallen into the ditch!”So a new announcement came: “We must strengthen implementation.”Implementation sounds good —but when you “land” too many measures, the ground turns to mud.In that mud hide countless little nouns — subsidy, exemption, deferment —each like a hollow life ring, bobbing in circles, but on dry land.
There was even a place called the “White-Slip Window,”where the “non-payers” could file appeals.The line was long — a sleeping snake whose head reached the counter and tail wound down the street.The clerk behind the window wore a uniform and a steady smile,smooth as a persimmon skin.She spoke politely, typed rhythmically,and at last called up a family:an old father clutching his documents,a daughter with the tears of last night still in her eyes.The clerk reviewed the papers, tapped a few keys,and said evenly:“You may apply for installment payment.”The old man froze, like an old clock wound one turn too far.Installment — such a sweet word,sweet because it’s far away;swallow it, and the aftertaste is bitter.
I asked a child, “If you don’t pay social insurance, can you really not go to school?”He blinked hard and nodded.In that nod there was no warmth — only the reflex of obedience.So parents tried everything: borrowing, selling, renting, calling distant relatives.They borrowed from tomorrow, sold today, rented out the old house,and called into the echo of an empty city.Someone sold a family watch to get a few claim slips;someone pawned an ancestral mirror — the carvings worn smooth,and in its reflection appeared another’s face.
The strangest place in town was the “School Enrollment Review Office.”On its door was red paper reading:“Those who have not paid social insurance — enrollment suspended.”Under the light, the red looked almost like blood,but not quite — more like glossy xuan paper brushed with false radiance.Inside, several teachers in uniform worked with a professional chill —cold as iron pots.Their questions sounded proper:household income, payment receipts, proof of hardship.When the answers were done, they closed their ledgers and said:“We will process this according to procedure.”Everything outside procedure they called “a special case,”and in every “special case,” a human life lay folded.
Occasionally, these cases appeared on television.The host beamed and repeated clichés like“Laying the foundation for the welfare of all.”On screen, the smaller the child’s back, the more solemn the music.In that music mingled the names of several ministries —too many condiments in one dish,until flavor was all that remained and the food itself was gone.The real dish had been taken and divided —so finely that only a bone remained in the bowl.And still someone praised it as “nutritious,”offering the bone as a gift to those too short-sighted to see beyond it.
A neighbor once told me at night:He’d heard the treasury had a “black hole”filled with last year’s projects, vanity constructions, and leftover slogans.The hole had been covered many times, sprinkled thick with explanations:“Fiscal conditions stable, steady progress assured.”The stability was like a gray cloth stretched smooth —so smooth you could not see the cavity beneath.Then someone proposed an idea:why not fill the hole with the cash from every household pocket?Those with few bills worried; those with many laughed.The laughter was loud, ringing with the word “nation” —like a plaque struck by a mallet.The worried ones lowered their heads so farthat even a shake of dissent seemed untimely.
I read the newspaper and saw an advertisement on the street:“Universal protection, shared future.”The word shared was printed large, like an umbrella spread wide.Beneath it, people clutched their own belongings —some their children, some their bills.No umbrella can block the cold wind creeping in along its ribs.In that wind, some tremble; others pretend not to feel it.Those who pretend not to feel often walk the farthest.And those who go far return with shining cards in their pockets — payment receipts.Their faces are like a balance scale:on one side, a child; on the other, a document.The brighter the document gleams, the more the child tilts toward the edge.
The worldly-wise recite old sayings:“In the past we paid taxes — taxes had rules.Now we pay insurance — insurance is full of stripes.”The stripes, they say, are tiger skins — beautiful and dangerous.The old man shook his head again and again:“People keep throwing themselves into convenience,waiting for others to calculate the inconvenience on their behalf.”I asked an old scholar, “Is there any way out?”He glanced at me and said:“Speak the truth, but speak it slowly.First watch their smiles; then check their ledgers.”When he finished, he smiled faintly — like a cashier closing his till.
At times I too am afraid.In the deep of night, only the clock remains — tick, tick.I count the ticks as if counting an invisible tax.Outside, an occasional light flickers —perhaps those who still study with hope.Their shadows stretch across the wall,as if trying to walk out the windowinto the halo marked “Students with valid registration may enter.”But even the brightest halo has its boundary.Beyond it lie the tangible things of life:rice, bedding, repair bills.These things are thick, warm, edible.The halo is thin, distant, fit only for lighting dreams.
Later I remembered an old saying:“There is nothing difficult under heaven, if one sets one’s heart to it.”But here it should read:“There is nothing difficult under heaven —except being poor and still expected to show enthusiasm.”Demonstrated enthusiasm casts false shadows under streetlights.People take fright at their own silhouettesand forget their true road.Then they come to me again —asking how to write letters, how to appeal, how to prove their poverty.
Yet proving poverty can prove many things —except a child’s childhood.A child’s childhood needs time, laughter,and hands uncut by paperwork.Paper cuts heal slowly and leave bruised scars.
I feel a heaviness inside me —like a ledger pressed to my chest.The ledger is full of numbers, formulas, and missing pages.On one missing page, a few small words are written:“That year, for the sake of the future,we sold the children’s present.”Sold to whom?To a name called “the State.”
The State — such a grand word, crowned with its own halo.Beneath that halo, people grope in their pockets,pulling out a few crumpled bills —their printed letters rubbed blank from overuse.Can blank money still buy a smile?Perhaps — but the smile is thin,and beneath it, one can hear the turning of ledger pages.Beside that sound, even the brightest laughter seems pale.
Still, I smiled —not out of joy,but like the last drop of toothpaste squeezed from its tube —shiny on the surface, hollow within.I thought of folding this essay into a receiptand handing it to the authorities.But I feared it might be stamped,so I tore it into pieces and buried them in a drawer.Drawers are made to hold things down;pressed long enough, even things lose their shape.If someday someone opens that drawerand finds these fragments,perhaps they will piece them togetherinto the face of a child.
And if that child asks me,“Is this my face?”I will say,“Yes — only it isn’t complete.”The child will blink, puzzled.Then I will remove my hat,like a teacher who failed his exam,and awkwardly hand it to himto shield his head from the sun.
