— Editorial Preface to the 12th (Revived) Issue of The Opposition Party
By Zheng Cunzhu Translator: Lu Huiwen
Thirty years ago, a brief yet blazing fire of democracy ignited in mainland China. Though it was brutally suppressed, the flame was never truly extinguished. It lives on in the memories of exiles, between the lines of forbidden texts, and in the silent sacrifices of countless individuals. Today, as we relaunch this publication in the free world, we do so not only as a relay of thought, but also as an act of historical responsibility.
In its darkest days, The Opposition Party spoke faintly of hope. Today, it returns with greater clarity of purpose and a renewed mission. As the official publication of the China Democracy Party, we are not merely chroniclers of history or observers of the present. We are architects of a democratic future—presenting policy proposals, building a blueprint for institutional reform, and voicing systematic dissent as a true opposition force.
“The wind is bleak and the Yi River cold; the hero departs, never to return.”
This ancient line is both a farewell and a promise of reunion. Between the repressive old China and the open, free world, The Opposition Party stands as a bridge, a signpost, and a spark that shows the way.
Today’s Opposition Party is no longer a mere collection of texts for archival purposes. It is a forward-looking institutional design. We send printed copies to universities, libraries, and local government offices inside China, and into the hands of researchers and allies in Taiwan, the United States, and Europe. We present the voice of democracy in multiple languages, so that “China’s opposition party” may not only survive behind bars, but flourish in the realm of thought.
We will unite all volunteers, intellectuals, and ordinary citizens willing to take part in this project of our time. We will gather voices from inside and outside China to debate and shape models for institutional practice. In the pages of this magazine, we will showcase the strength of organization, the depth of thought, and the light of humanity.
If history tends to repeat itself in silence, then it is only through writing and belief that we can pass the torch across generations.
The revived Opposition Party will move forward with resolve. We believe:
“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step; and one day, China shall be free.”
“What are you still holding on to?” someone once asked.
I replied, We are not holding on to a fantasy of tomorrow, but to a place where those silenced can still find a voice.
The martyrs who died with conviction are watching us. The pioneers of our movement are still our honorary editors.
This magazine is called The Opposition Party.
It was born under the weight of chains, in the earliest days of the China Democracy Party—within civilian homes in Zhejiang, beside underground printing presses, in interrogation rooms on nights that never made the headlines.
Its first eleven issues were the weakest yet most defiant voices of an era.
They were acts of resistance carried out in the dark.
In an age where everything bowed to money, this magazine bore the spiritual burden of a wounded nation.
Its founder, Mao Qingxiang, was imprisoned for years for staying true to his beliefs.
His successors—Nie Minzhi, Chen Shuqing, Wang Rongqing—were arrested one by one, and some were even persecuted to death.
After the eleventh issue, The Opposition Party was forcibly discontinued. Those who once held pens were put into prison uniforms. Original manuscripts were confiscated during police raids.
But that was not the end.
It was silence, not surrender.
It was waiting, not defeat.
Twenty-seven years later, in Los Angeles—in a place where truth can still be spoken, where the flag of the China Democracy Party still flies high—Issue 12 of The Opposition Party returns.
This magazine is soil we till together, to one day harvest together.
It is more than the reappearance of a party journal.
It is a passing of the torch.
A declaration of spirit.
A return of memory.
These are words written from cells, from exile, from fear.
They are letters to comrades, to the departed, and to the country still trapped in darkness.
We look back on a difficult journey.
We document each step toward democracy.
We explore paths forward.
We build the vision of a future China.
We do not expect it to awaken the masses.
We do not presume it can upend any system.
We simply believe that as long as this world has not entirely collapsed, words remain the most direct path to the soul.
So we write—
We write about the ruptures in history.
We write about the violence of power.
We write because the flame of freedom has never been extinguished—only buried deep within hearts, waiting for the wind to rekindle it.
Today is that moment.
The Opposition Party you hold in your hands is not a replica of the past—it is a continuation of what they were unable to finish.
To be part of it is to pay the highest tribute to those who came before.
To read it is proof that your conscience is still alive.
To share it is to offer someone else a chance at freedom.
— For Voices Not to Be Forgotten, for Missions Yet Unfinished
By Geng Guanjun, Translator: Lu Huiwen
In 1998, The Opposition was born amid the lingering chill of White Terror—no more than a cry on paper. It was an age charged with hope yet shackled by iron bars, when a band of patriots wielded pens like swords, kindling pinpoints of light in the night to illuminate speech that had been sealed off. The magazine once soared briefly, only to be struck down by violence; yet it never vanished—merely waited out the silence for the day of return.
Today, we proclaim: The Opposition is back in print.
This is not merely the return of a periodical; it is the awakening of a generation’s conscience. We return not out of nostalgia, but in answer to a deeper crisis of our times. China is caught in an unprecedented political winter: spaces of freedom are shrinking, prisoners of conscience languish behind bars, dissenters are branded “enemies,” and the people’s voices are filtered out by algorithms and flattened by propaganda machines. In such an era, silence is impossible.
We resume publication to uphold the spirit of being in opposition: never bowing to power, never compromising with lies; scrutinizing authority, chronicling truth, and sounding a faint yet unmistakable civic voice.
We resume publication for friends who still write poems and ponder behind bars; for citizens silenced, exiled, or reviled—and yet unbroken; for history to remember the true faces of this age.
We know the cost of standing in opposition is heavy. Yet we also know that the very survival of opposition is the key to this nation’s future freedom.
Join us in rekindling that small, unquenchable flame.
Let us believe: even when everything seems under control, as long as the opposition endures, nothing is ever fully subdued.
International Day for Civilized Dialogue — Declaration (No. 1)
By: Civilized Dialogue Platform
Editor: Hu Lili · Final Editor: Luo Zhifei Translator: Lu Huiwen
Dear fellow citizens,
On this meaningful occasion of June 10, the International Day for Civilized Dialogue, voices are once again rising to call for the creation of genuine dialogue platforms in our society.
The recent experience of “Brother 800,” a 28-year-old textile worker from Yibin, Sichuan, has laid bare the severe lack of mechanisms for civil discourse. In pursuit of unpaid wages, he sought help from the local police, who referred him to the labor bureau. The labor bureau in turn sent him to the arbitration team, which advised him to go to court or appeal to the petition office. The court and petition authorities both claimed his case was too “minor” and could take a long time to process—and suggested he go back to the labor bureau. The labor bureau finally stated it was powerless and told him to report to the police.
This cycle of bureaucratic buck-passing left him with nowhere to turn. In despair, he resorted to an extreme act to denounce a system that offers no voice:
“If you won’t give me an answer, I’ll give you mine.”
In 2018, Chi Yonghui, a native of Cangzhou, Hebei, working in Shenzhen, also exploded in fury over withheld wages. He set fire to a factory, resulting in tragic loss of life. These repeated tragedies show that the International Day for Civilized Dialogue is not a mere slogan, but a pressing issue that our society must confront.
Building a Civilized Dialogue Platform must begin with protecting the rights of the vulnerable and applying appropriate limits to the power of the strong. Only then can true equality in dialogue be achieved. If the weak cannot become equal partners in conversation, then the state, enterprises, government, or even families become nothing more than instruments of the privileged—irrelevant to the average citizen.
When a person is not treated with fairness, they will not feel a sense of belonging, nor will they cherish or uphold the system. On the contrary, indifference, resistance, or even destruction may become their only irrational responses.
Dear citizens,
It is time to advance our nation’s journey toward civilization. The cornerstone of a civilized society is safeguarding every citizen’s legal rights, promoting mutual understanding and friendship, and resolving social conflicts through proper channels.
We call on all citizens to participate, to build bridges of communication, and to demonstrate the openness and inclusiveness of Chinese civilization in this new era.
Our Proposals:
Be practitioners of civilized dialogue:
Approach others with openness, listening, understanding, and respect.
Promote equal, constructive exchanges.
Promote the Chinese cultural wisdom of “Reversal is the movement of the Tao” (反者道之动):
Use social media to share daily moments of this “movement of the Tao,” reflect the diversity it creates, and highlight the role of centrist and neutral forces in maintaining social balance.
Be ambassadors for an inclusive society:
Begin with neighborhood and community interactions to co-create a spiritual home of harmony and mutual respect.
We call for the following concrete actions:
1. Organize or join civil rights groups, and help establish and run diverse dialogue platforms;
2. If local government platforms already exist, actively participate in their activities;
3. Based on your availability and ability, join specific projects or participate in online/offline events;
4. Starting from the date of this announcement, we are recruiting volunteers from the public.
Anyone who willingly provides their contact information is considered a volunteer for the International Day for Civilized Dialogue and will serve as a local bridge-builder for dialogue initiatives.
Volunteer Representatives (in order of participation):
• Chen Xi, citizen of Guiyang, Guizhou — Phone: 19391111229 (same on social apps)
• Hu Mingjun, citizen of Chengdu, Sichuan — WeChat: A13550171681 (same on social apps)
• Chen Shuqing, citizen of Hangzhou, Zhejiang — WeChat: wxid-wmhnbocidh4k22
• Tang Haoming, citizen of Huaihua, Hunan — Phones: 13212390018 / 13974518171 (same on social apps)
• Liu Shaoming, citizen of Ganzhou, Jiangxi — Phone: 18802016201 (same on social apps)
• Xu Guoqing, citizen of Guiyang, Guizhou — Phone: 13984086628 (same on social apps)
• Yao Lifa, citizen of Qianjiang, Hubei — Phone: 13339728964 (same on social apps)
• Chen Liyong, citizen of Dezhou, Shandong — Phone: 18005449982 (same on social apps)
⸻
We warmly welcome citizens of the Republic to join the initial activities of the Citizens’ Dialogue Alliance.
Let us work together to build a more just, rational, and understanding society—one step closer to a truly civilized new era.
The day after the application was submitted, Wang Youcai was taken in for interrogation by state security for eight hours. Though they let him go home afterward, he effectively lost his freedom—a plainclothes officer was stationed at his door to monitor him. This young officer, surnamed Jiang, would go on to become deeply entangled with the CDP, making a name for himself in the regime’s ongoing struggle with the democracy movement in Zhejiang, climbing the ranks along the way.
After learning that Wang Youcai had been placed under surveillance, many of his once-passionate comrades sensed the danger and quickly retreated to protect themselves. None continued the China Democracy Party’s efforts. Wang’s grand vision for reform and governance had no successor to carry it forward. At the time, Wang had a former classmate working in the Zhejiang Provincial Party Committee’s Organization Department, who secretly handed him a directory of all provincial-level cadres. Wang printed copies of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights and planned to mail them, along with the CDP Founding Declaration, to these officials. His hope was to promote democratic reform from within the system.
But now, he was alone. With no one to help, Wang personally stuffed and mailed the documents himself. Being a bookish intellectual, he wasn’t seen as particularly dangerous. Moreover, since China was still in a “honeymoon” period with the U.S., the authorities hadn’t yet moved toward a full crackdown. The plainclothes officer assigned to watch him often wandered off, bored, leaving room for visitors to drop by Wang’s home. Even when seen, the guard rarely interfered. One visitor even asked, “What’s in it for me if I join your party? Do I get money or a government post?” Wang could only smile wryly.
The officer, surnamed Jiang, eventually asked to join the CDP himself. Wang agreed and admitted him. Officer Jiang likely misunderstood the political climate, thinking the CDP might truly be established. He tried to hedge his bets, keeping one foot in each camp.
Back in the day, the little informant Jiang Xiaomin has finally made it onto the list of evildoers, and in this lifetime has climbed up to become a deputy director of the Public Security Sub-bureau.
Wang Youcai was arrested, not because of immediate necessity, but because the Chinese Communist Party needed a scapegoat. When international pressure rose, he was released. But whether he was in prison or out, he had no opportunity to participate in party affairs. His arrest and sentencing were purely political—a wrongful case. And I was the one who caused it.
Before his final arrest, we met in a teahouse across from Yue Temple. When I extended my hand, he pulled his back. He was deeply upset that I had taken the CDP in a direction opposite to his vision—onto the streets. In hindsight, I truly feel I wronged him and caused him great trouble.
In late November, during Wang’s trial, the gallery was filled with plainclothes security agents. Afterward, Zhang Jianhua, head of the National Security Unit in Shangcheng District, casually remarked to me, “Wang Youcai said it was you, Zhu Yufu, who ruined him.” I dismissed it as an attempt to drive a wedge between us. But now, thinking back—it was probably true.
While Wang was under house arrest, I had already begun recruiting and organizing under the guidance of Wang Bingzhang and Wang Xizhe. I even took Wang Rongqing to visit Wang Youcai. Wang may have later heard that Wang Rongqing was unreliable, which further soured his view of me. I also tried to recruit several other Democracy Wall veterans, but they declined, saying, “If you brought in Wang Rongqing, we’re out.” I figured that was just a convenient excuse to avoid risk. Years later, after Wang Rongqing passed away, they still never joined.
To his credit, Wang Rongqing was enthusiastic in the early stages and contributed significantly. I also have evidence that he kept in contact with the secret police and passed them information—a way to hedge his bets. Logically, he should have been caught in the first wave of arrests, but he wasn’t. Only in his final years, when most of us had already been detained, did he provoke the police enough to be arrested and sentenced. In any case, since the CDP advocated openness and rational discourse, the intelligence he offered held limited value (though Mr. Yan Zhengxue, who was deeply betrayed by Wang, saw it differently). When Wang was detained, I helped him apply for medical parole, spoke with his ex-wife and brother to secure their support, and launched a fundraising campaign on his behalf.
On June 29, the fourth day after the registration application, a young man came to my house in the afternoon.
He introduced himself as Zhu Zhengming. After a short chat, he invited me to meet at 7 p.m. at the southeast corner of Wulin Square near the telecom building. He appeared kind and scholarly, so I agreed.
I arrived on time but waited nearly an hour. To this day, I don’t know why he made me wait so long. Finally, he showed up riding a small motorbike. Without dismounting, he motioned for me to follow. I got on my own bike and trailed him for about a kilometer to a large construction site—possibly where the new Hangzhou municipal government building now stands. He stopped by a landscaped strip and told me to wait. Then he disappeared into a thicket. I saw a dark figure briefly flash behind the trees. Zhu asked the person, “Did you bring it?” The man replied, “Yes.” Zhu said, “Go get it.” The figure vanished into the dark again, returning with a thick stack of papers. His body moved awkwardly—I soon realized he had a leg disability.
They approached my motorbike together. I could sense their tension and became nervous myself. Whatever it was, I figured I’d better take it first and ask questions later. I opened the storage box, and they placed the stack inside. It was the Founding Declaration of the China Democracy Party. I locked the box, and everyone seemed to relax a bit.
Zhu then formally introduced the man to me—his name was Wu Yilong. Wu asked, “Old Zhu, what are you going to do with those?” I felt a chill. I hadn’t asked for any of this. They clearly felt it wasn’t safe to hold onto themselves. Zhu said, “Take good care of them, Old Zhu.” I replied, “There’s nothing to keep. I’m going to distribute them on the street.”
Wu asked, “Who’s going with you?” I said, “No one. I’ll go alone.” I knew how risky this was—even if no one handed out leaflets with me, it would’ve been helpful to have someone watching from a distance in case I got arrested. But Wu just twitched his nose, adjusted his glasses, chuckled quietly, and said nothing more. I began to doubt his character. (Years later, I asked Wang Youcai about these two men. He told me that Wu Yilong had only joined shortly before Wang was arrested, and he didn’t know much about him.)
On Tuesday, June 30, 1998, I cleared all my work at the office in the morning. After lunch, I got on my small motorbike, ready to hit the streets with the Declaration. In my mind, I recited words of courage: “A warrior’s path—what is there to fear?” and “Though a thousand stand in my way, I go forth!”
Still, I couldn’t shake a lingering sense of fear.
As I was heading down Caihe Road, I planned to stop by Wang Rongqing’s place and ask him to keep a distant watch over me—at least to ensure that if I disappeared, someone would know.
Just a few hundred meters from his place, at a fork in the road bustling with passersby, I stopped my motorbike, pulled out the Declaration, and began handing it out. After I had distributed all the leaflets and was preparing to leave, a plainclothes officer blocked my path and said, “Don’t go!” I instantly understood I had fallen into police hands.
Without hesitation, I picked up a public phone at a nearby vendor stall and called Wang Donghai. Thankfully, he answered right away. I told him, “I’ve been detained while distributing the Declaration of the China Democracy Party. Please tell my wife, Jiang Hangli, not to wait for me for dinner. I don’t want her to worry.”
The plainclothes officer escorted me roughly 700–800 meters to Kaixuan Police Station, where he reported the incident and conducted an initial interrogation. I later learned that this officer’s name was Wang Zhenghong. He made a brief report but didn’t give me a hard time—he set me aside and ignored me.
Inside the station, a group of young officers were watching the World Cup with great enthusiasm. Toward evening, several others came in, gathered around me, and unexpectedly began discussing topics like “democracy” and “human rights.” These officers appeared to be relatively well-educated. One of them quoted the old saying, “When the granaries are full, people know honor and shame,” and argued that since China was still poor, it wasn’t yet the right time for democracy. Once the economy improved and the populace became more educated, democracy would come naturally. Another officer chimed in, “Your intentions might be good, but China is too big. If society descends into chaos, it’s the people who will suffer.”
I replied, “Deng Xiaoping once said, ‘Without reforming the political system, economic reform will never succeed.’ Political and economic reforms are like two legs—only when both move together can we progress. It’s been 20 years since economic reforms began, but the political system hasn’t budged. If we want continued social progress and to safeguard economic gains, political reform is absolutely essential.
“Our current political system was designed to eliminate private ownership and capitalism—that’s an aberration. Economic reform cannot be a temporary workaround; it must be backed by institutional change. Back when Deng pushed for reform, he faced fierce opposition from conservative elders. That resistance has led to the current distorted reality. But those people are gone now. The new generation of leaders should have the wisdom and courage to bring political reform to the agenda. And the risks you fear? They’re not insurmountable. Just like economic reform started in special zones, we can create ‘political special zones’ where democracy is trialed by a few first.”
Ten years later, in 2007, during my second imprisonment, I met Wu Weihu, then serving a suspended death sentence. He had been the police chief of Jianggan District in Hangzhou back in 1998. He told me, “When I heard someone was openly handing out flyers for a new political party, I was stunned. Everyone was focused on making money—was he mentally ill or something?” He immediately reported it and sent over a team of educated officers to “evaluate” me. That led to my grueling day of defending democracy, arguing until my mouth was dry and my voice hoarse.
On the other end, when Wang Donghai received my call, he immediately notified Wang Youcai. Wang rushed over, clearly shaken. I had become the first person arrested since the founding of the China Democracy Party, and his kind-hearted nature made him feel responsible.
Wang Donghai suggested notifying Lu Siqing of the Hong Kong-based Information Center for Human Rights and Democracy. But Wang Youcai opposed it, fearing it would provoke the authorities into harsher treatment. Still, Wang Donghai insisted on sending the news.
As it happened, the day after Lu Siqing issued a press release—July 1, 1998—marked the first anniversary of Hong Kong’s return to China. Multiple Hong Kong newspapers, TV channels, and radio stations picked up the story. Without intending to, I had become the “whistleblower” for China’s growing suppression in Hong Kong.
Wang Youcai felt it was necessary to inform my wife of my arrest. He and Wang Donghai went together to my home. Upon hearing the news, my wife remained remarkably calm. After all, she had already been through this kind of thing following the 1989 Tiananmen crackdown, and that time had been far more dramatic. Back then, Zhang Baoyu, head of political security in Jianggan District, raided our home and those of my in-laws, siblings, and even my mother. I was detained for 27 days under “shelter and investigation,” and two letters were confiscated—one from Democracy Forum in Beijing and another from my old friend Xu Zhenglian, sent on June 4, 1989 (before he knew of the massacre). In the end, I was released, but when I returned to work, the Party Secretary of the Housing Bureau, Zheng Mingqing, dismissed me from my post as union leader, demoting me to a property manager in a lower office.
(Ten years later, Zheng Mingqing himself was sentenced to 11 years for corruption.)
Wang Youcai had been bracing himself for tears, shouting, or blame from my wife—but none of that came. Surprised, he turned to Wang Donghai and said, “Zhu Yufu must either be working with the authorities—or he’s one of the bravest activists we’ve got.”
Author: Zhu Yufu · Editor: Lu Huiwen · Chief Editor: Luo Zhifei
Translator: Lu Huiwen
Dr. Wang Bingzhang Ignites the Nation
In early February 1998, Dr. Wang Bingzhang arrived in Hangzhou during his whirlwind tour across China, dubbed “sweeping through the nine provinces.” That day, my old friend Mao Qingxiang invited me for morning tea at the “Kaiyuan Teahouse” on Kaiyuan Road to catch up with some friends from the Democracy Wall era. He never mentioned Dr. Wang’s arrival.
At the teahouse, I saw familiar faces—Wang Donghai, Mao Qingxiang, Wang Rongqing, and Qi Huimin—but none of them were drinking tea, nor had they even sat down. I sensed something odd in the atmosphere, but didn’t press the issue. I simply pulled up a chair and sat down.
Before long, Wang Donghai left. Then Mao Qingxiang. Qi Huimin chatted briefly with me before also excusing himself “to the restroom,” and never came back. That left just Wang Rongqing and me sitting awkwardly, making small talk. Eventually, feeling out of place and without purpose, we each left in disappointment.
I later learned that they had taken Wang Rongqing and me along as decoys. Within the dissident circle, there were concerns that Wang Rongqing was unreliable, and I—having withdrawn from activism after the Democracy Wall movement—was also viewed with caution. They feared that bringing us to meet Dr. Wang might jeopardize his safety. To ensure their own meeting at the Children’s Palace would go unnoticed, they left us behind at the teahouse to distract the security police.
Ironically, none of the people who went to meet Dr. Wang actually recognized him. They only remarked afterward that the visitor was well-mannered and introduced himself as “a doctor.” In recounting the conversation, they all remembered that “this man” spoke about founding a political party. However, everyone felt the risks were too high and the timing was not right—perhaps later, they said. Since I was still viewed with some suspicion, I didn’t comment. I was simply left with a sense of regret for having missed the chance to meet Dr. Wang in person.
One day in April, I stopped by Wang Donghai’s home—my office at the Shangcheng District Housing Bureau was nearby, and I often dropped in on him during lunch breaks. That day, Wang Donghai seemed unusually serious. He asked me, “Yufu, what do you think about founding a political party?”
“Great idea,” I replied.
“Why? Isn’t that too risky?”
I said, “A nation’s vitality relies on thunder and storm. Political reform has stagnated. The regime wants economic gains from the West, but refuses to align with global democratic norms or fulfill its long-promised political reforms. Western liberals deceive themselves, indulging in the regime’s propaganda. The future is bleak. The government doesn’t want to antagonize the West just yet—it still solemnly swears ‘not to return to the old path.’ But all we hear are footsteps on the stairs—no one actually comes down. Now might be a relatively low-risk moment for us to push for action.”
“For years, we’ve lived under the tyranny of a beast. Now it’s growing weak, trying to appear benevolent to the West. It claims it no longer brutalizes its people, and the West believes it—thinking appeasement has worked. But no one wants to expose its true nature. It lies on this vast land, pretending to sleep, while ordinary people find it harder and harder to survive. We might as well give it a push—either it shifts and gives people some breathing room, or it reveals its true form: devouring us.”
“But have you thought this through?” Wang Donghai asked. “Starting a political party is a red line. You’ll end up in prison.”
“Yes,” I said. “If we commit to the democratic movement, we must be mentally prepared for prison. The vested interests won’t easily give up their privileges. I heard the regime recently claimed it would sign the UN’s International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights. That’s a significant signal—it might mean they’ll soon lift the ban on forming parties. Of course, they also might not. Some people would ask: If the ban is going to be lifted, why take the risk now? Why not wait and start a party legally then? The problem is…”
“They’ve already played this hat trick many times throughout history,” I said. “As pro-democracy activists, we act as a pressure group. By proactively making our demands, we can turn their own strategy back on them. Let’s kick the ball into their court—let their actions be exposed to public scrutiny.”
“Look at Taiwan. If it hadn’t been for the Democratic Progressive Party’s persistent resistance, Chiang Ching-kuo might never have lifted the party ban, and Taiwan wouldn’t have made its democratic transition. When the ban was lifted, dozens of new parties popped up overnight, but most of them folded just as quickly. Only the DPP won the people’s hearts—because they had fought during the White Terror, endured prison, made sacrifices. That’s what made them a responsible and committed political party.”
Wang Donghai didn’t respond directly, but I could tell he agreed. I knew then that the seed Dr. Wang Bingzhang had planted back in early February was beginning to sprout. They were seriously considering forming a political party.
At that time, I still hadn’t met Wang Youcai. Back in 1996, my old friend Chen Liqun encouraged me to write a memoir about the 1978–1979 Hangzhou Democracy Wall movement. I wrote The Fire Thief: A Memoir of the 1979 Democracy Movement in Hangzhou. After reading it, Liqun gave it to Wang Youcai. Wang’s response was, “You guys did great back then!” and he expressed an interest in meeting me. Liqun relayed that back to me.
On June 25, 1998, our workplace had arranged a “Legal Awareness Training” session at the Shangcheng District Housing Bureau on Zhongshan Middle Road. During lunch, I stopped by Wang Donghai’s home. No one was there—the front and inner doors were open. On the table in the center of the living room lay a stack of papers. I picked them up. One was the Declaration on the Founding of the China Democracy Party; the other was an application to the Zhejiang Provincial Civil Affairs Bureau to establish the Zhejiang Preparatory Committee of the China Democracy Party. The listed applicants were Wang Youcai, Wang Donghai, and Lin Hui.
Reunited with Lin Hui after many years since registration.
About ten minutes later, I heard footsteps in the hallway. Someone stopped at the doorway. A moment later, I heard Wang Donghai say…
“This must be Zhu Yufu,” I heard Wang Donghai say. It turned out the man approaching the doorway was Wang Youcai. He had stopped in his tracks at the sight of a large man wearing a helmet sitting in the room, startled—he thought the police had already shown up before they even submitted the application.
The three of them entered, and when the misunderstanding was cleared up, we all laughed. Wang Youcai then explained their plan to submit the application to the Civil Affairs Bureau that afternoon and asked what I thought of it. I immediately thought of Donghai’s wife, Cheng Yunhui, who was heavily pregnant and nearing delivery. If anything were to happen to Donghai, she’d be left in a very difficult situation. So I told Donghai, “Let me take your name instead. If something happens to you, who’s going to take care of Ah Hui?” But to my surprise, Donghai replied, “If I don’t come back, you take care of Ah Hui. I trust you with that.” Wang Youcai added, “The decision has already been made. Don’t change it. If we end up inside, you all keep the work going from the outside.”
By 1 p.m., it was time for them to head to the Civil Affairs Bureau, and I needed to return to work as well. We all walked downstairs together. In the narrow alley of Dongtaiping Lane, a sudden cool breeze blew, rustling our hair. I shook hands with each of them to say goodbye. Lin Hui held onto my hand tightly—at that moment, the ancient line “the wind whistles at the Yi River” surfaced in my heart.
All afternoon, I worried about their safety. After 3 p.m., I called Donghai several times, but he didn’t pick up. Finally, just before 5 p.m., he answered. I asked how the application went. Donghai said the staff at the Civil Affairs Bureau told them they’d never dealt with this kind of request before. They were asked to leave the materials for further review by higher-ups. The officials said the only way to process it was under the “Regulations on the Registration of Social Organizations,” which required a list of more than 50 founding members, resumes of all officers above the rank of Secretary-General, and a minimum of 50,000 RMB in startup funds.
Wang Youcai had timed this well. That day, President Clinton was arriving in Xi’an on his state visit to China, making it unlikely that the authorities would arrest political dissidents and create international headlines. Moreover, Zhejiang’s Party Secretary at the time, Li Zemin, was known to be relatively open-minded and unlikely to backtrack on reform.
As news of the China Democracy Party’s formation spread, a reporter from Germany’s Der Spiegel asked Li Peng about it. Li Peng responded, “This will never be allowed.” Shortly after, Zhang Dejiang replaced Li Zemin and began preparing a crackdown on the CDP in Zhejiang. After Li Peng’s remarks, Jiang Zemin declared that the CDP must be eliminated “in the bud.” In 2002, still seething, Jiang visited Zhejiang under mounting international pressure and gave a speech about his “Three Represents” theory. He said, “Strange things have happened in some places—unresolved and unreported,” distancing himself from the party formation incident, as if he had known nothing about it for over half a year. Ironically, the CDP’s very existence forced the Communist Party to rebrand itself as the “party of the people” and roll out the so-called “Three Represents” theory.
Even as Wang Youcai submitted the application to the Zhejiang Civil Affairs Bureau, he had already made the move public online. Within hours, it became a focal point for overseas media. Calls and requests for interviews poured in. Overseas pro-democracy activists rallied in support and began strategizing. Dr. Wang Bingzhang was tireless in his efforts to coordinate with us. Alongside Wang Xizhe and Lian Shengde, he was among our most active overseas supporters. I received calls from Dr. Wang almost daily. He told me in no uncertain terms: “This is a brief window of opportunity. Don’t wait for the Clinton honeymoon to end, or for them to ‘finish reviewing’ and come down hard on you. Use this breathing space to expand quickly.” He said, “Yufu, go out there on the streets and recruit CDP members. Meet one, develop one. Grow fast. Once you gain momentum, it won’t be so easy for them to crush you.”
— Commemorating the 36th Anniversary of the Tiananmen Massacre and the Unveiling of The Trash of History
By Hu Lili Edited by Luo Zhifei Translator: Lu Huiwen
On June 1st, 2025, in the sweltering heat of Yermo, California—where temperatures soared above 90°F—voices of conscience echoed across the Mojave Desert. Pro-democracy advocates from around the world gathered at the Liberty Sculpture Park to commemorate the 36th anniversary of the Tiananmen Square Massacre and witness the unveiling of a powerful new sculpture: The Trash of History.
At 2:00 PM (PDT), the event officially commenced in front of the Tiananmen memorial. Attendees began with a moment of silence and prayer for those who gave their lives in the pursuit of freedom. One by one, members of the China Democracy Party took the stage to honor the fallen and denounce tyranny. The event reached an emotional crescendo with a stirring speech from democracy activist Mr. Chen Chuangchuang, who shouted:
“Never forget June Fourth! Blood debts must be repaid! Overthrow the tyranny! The CCP must fall!”
His rallying cry pierced the desert silence and stirred every heart.
During the ceremony, new party members stood solemnly before the memorial and took an oath of lifelong commitment to the cause of democracy in China.
Around 4:00 PM, attendees joined together in a collective rendition of The Wound of History—a song composed by the Republic of China in 1989 to support the Chinese student movement. This was followed by another solemn moment of silence in honor of those killed on June 4th, a gesture of reverence toward history and its sacrifices.
The unveiling of the sculpture then began, led by key guests including Tiananmen student leader Wang Dan; Chen Chuangchuang, Executive Director of the China Democracy Party Coordinating Committee; sculpture donor Feng Yanfai; Professor Lee Yu-tan of National Chengchi University; and Taiwanese political commentator Ba Jiong.
Created by renowned artist Chen Weiming, The Trash of History features a massive bulldozer crushing the heads of eleven figures beneath its wheels and scoop—faces representing tyrants such as Karl Marx, Vladimir Lenin, Joseph Stalin, Adolf Hitler, Mao Zedong, and Deng Xiaoping. The sculpture is a bold statement: those who rule through absolute power and bring catastrophe to humanity will, inevitably, be cast into the dustbin of history.
Democracy activists and 1989 movement veterans from Cuba, the United States, New Zealand, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and beyond each took to the microphone to share their reflections and hopes for the future. Their voices formed a collective strength that renewed the courage and resolve of all who were present.
民主未至，奔赴不息；自由未得，抗争不止。 在庄严与激昂交织的氛围中，纪念仪式圆满落幕。
Democracy has yet to arrive, but the march does not cease.
Freedom is not yet won, but the struggle never stops.
Amid an atmosphere charged with solemn remembrance and unyielding defiance, the commemoration concluded with honor and hope.
