作者：鲍朴

By Bao Pu

This article’s English translation, published for the first time here by China Unofficial Archives, follows the short introduction in Chinese below. The English translation is provided by the author.

文章中文版已刊发于新世纪网站和波士顿书评等平台。中国民间档案馆首发文章英文翻译版。翻译版由作者提供。

编辑注：

作为毛泽东的最后一位合法妻子、“文化大革命”的旗手、“批林批孔运动”的领导者，江青是文革研究绕不开的一个人物。

2026年5月，《江青年谱》一书由香港新世纪出版社（New Century Press）出版。在这本书中，多年来致力于文革历史研究的中国独立学者余汝信，详细梳理了江青的生平，如其所言，“考证、对勘和辨析相关史料”，对江青的人生以及和毛泽东、文化大革命的关系，提供了另一个研究的视角。

这本书也是新世纪出版社继《陈伯达年谱》、《康生年谱》两本书之后，出版的又一部年谱研究著作。也是该出版社为了纪念“文革六十周年”而出版的系列书籍之一。

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新世纪出版社于2005年在香港成立，创始人是鲍朴——他的父亲鲍彤曾任前中共中央总书记赵紫阳的政治秘书。当时，纵使中国的出版审查制度还没有今天如此严厉，但与文革研究有关的书籍，一直很难在大陆出版，鲍朴带领新世纪出版社，在一度享有言论自由的香港，做了卓有成效的尝试。

2012年，哈佛大学教授、著名学者麦克法夸尔（中文名马若德）的著作《文化大革命的起源》，由新世纪出版社出版了三卷中文版。此书是中国之外研究文革的重要著作，对文革研究者、关心中国当代历史真相的中文读者来说，意义重大。

与此同时及其后，新世纪出版社又接连出版多部与文革有关的著作，包括被打成“林彪集团”的黄永胜、吴法宪、李作鹏、邱会作等关键人物的回忆录。这些回忆录，从亲历者的角度，为研究文革以及共产党历史提供了重要资料。

《江青年谱》一书的作者余汝信，出生于广东梅州，据他自述，青少年时期的他在广州亲身经历文革，由此埋下了未来研究文革的想法与兴趣，并一直留意资料的收集。本世纪初他脱离体制后，开始了独立研究。目前已出版的有文革有关的著作包括：《香港1967》，《红卫兵兴衰录》（编注）、《“九一三”回望》等。2016年，他的《风暴历程——文革中的中国人民解放军》一书由新世纪出版社出版。

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1938年，24岁的江青在延安与毛泽东结婚，从此命运与毛泽东绑在了一起。文革结束之后，江青更成了一个符号与象征的人物。1981年1月25日，江青被判处死缓，剥夺政治权利终身。1991年5月14日，她在秦城监狱中服安眠药自杀。

如鲍朴所言：江青成为“文革旗手”绝非偶然，当然离不开毛的授权。江青也确曾尽其所能，忠实执行文革精神。她所推动的几部样板戏，尤其是《红色娘子军》，一方面展示了“阶级斗争女权”及其造就的结果，更重要的是，展示了从苏联输入的极端意识形态与文艺形式，在中国文化环境中被推向极端后的状态。

作为文革的符号与象征人物，江青早年的经历如何？和所谓“四人帮”之一的康生是否在年轻时就相识？她在上海的婚姻状况如何？她和毛在结婚前是否有传言中的“约法三章”？谁参加了江青和毛泽东的婚礼？在中国，因为官方对文革历史一直讳莫若深，人们对真实的江青其实知之甚少，一些被民间窥探和长久以来流传的说法，并不符合事实。在作为《江青年谱》序言的《江青史料十辨》一文中，余汝信做了一些解答。

本书出版后，鲍朴于2026年5月发表《中国传统史观下的文革历史——江青年谱出版杂记》一文。该文中文版刊发于新世纪网站和波士顿书评上。读者可以通过链接查看。民间档案馆编发其英文版，以飨英文读者。

在这篇文章中，鲍朴回顾了人物年谱的价值。他写道：“人物年谱是中国传统史学中一种颇具特色的著述形式，其早期形态至少可追溯至北宋时期的《杜工部年谱》，即杜甫年谱。年谱将相关史料依时间先后逐条编排。”

鲍朴认为，文革研究至今，分为三部分，包括官方叙事（以十一届六中全会《关于建国以来党的若干历史问题的决议》为代表），其二是民间社会研究，其三是海外华人与西方学术研究。前者与后两者，往往发生冲突。

鲍朴在这篇文章中也写道：

1980年，在审判庭上，江青自辩道：“你们逮捕审判我，这是丑化毛泽东主席。审判我就是丑化亿万人民，丑化亿万人民参加的无产阶级文化大革命。”殊不知，当年追随其后、投入文革的所谓“亿万人民”，在毛死之后竟会顷刻间消失得无影无踪……

正如资深记者高瑜评论鲍朴的文章时所说：文革结束后，江青作为“反革命集团成员”，和“林彪反革命集团”一起，承担了本来应该由具有无上权力的毛泽东承担的文革罪责。而“这是中共执政77年的历史中说不通，也不符合历史真实的荒唐之处。”

对鲍朴来说，今年是文革爆发六十周年，适逢《江青年谱》出版，而他的这篇出版杂记，也正如“再思历史的一篇祭文”一般。而余汝信所撰的这本《江青年谱》也正可视为文革研究中一种另辟蹊径的探索。

Editors’ Note:

Jiang Qing Chronology is a new book by Hong Kong’s New Century Press. Jiang Qing, as Mao Zedong’s wife and one of the most prominent proponents of the Cultural Revolution, is a critical figure in the history of the People’s Republic of China. Bao Pu, the head of New Century Press, penned the following notes on the publication of Jiang Qing Chronology. The original Chinese version has appeared on multiple Chinese-language websites. The China Unofficial Archives is publishing the English version, provided by Mr. Bao Pu, for the first time.

The Cultural Revolution from the View of Traditional Chinese Historiography

—Notes on the Publication of Jiang Qing Chronology

By Bao Pu

The publication of Jiang Qing Chronology coincides with the 60th anniversary of the Cultural Revolution that was launched in mainland China in 1966. Consider this a eulogy, and a reflection on history. Since its founding, New Century Press of Hong Kong has published several works on the Cultural Revolution. In our most recent years, we have focused on publishing biographical chronicles such as Kang Sheng Chronology and Chen Boda Chronology. Jiang Qing Chronology is the final work in this series.

What is a Chinese “Chronology” (年譜)?

Chinese biographical chronicles or chronologies are a distinctive form of writing in traditional Chinese historiography, with their early forms traceable at least to the “Biographical Chronicle of Du Fu” (《杜工部年谱》), written during the Northern Song Dynasty. Unlike contemporary historical narratives, which prioritize ease of reading, biographical chronicles arrange relevant historical materials chronologically. However, they are not merely compilations of historical data, nor are they simply “spreadsheets”.

Like other traditional historical genres, biographical chronicles involve both deconstruction and construction, reflecting the historian’s selection, judgment, and organization of materials, representing a unique perspective. The Biographical Chronicle of Liu Xiang and Liu Xin (《刘向父子歸年谱》), published in 1930, is a significant 20th-century example. The author, Qian Mu, wrote this book directly to address the famous reformer Kang Youwei’s 1900 Study of the Forged Classics of the New Learning (《新学作伪经考》), reflecting a specific historical context. In his book, Kang Youwei alleged that Liu Xin of the Western Han Dynasty forged ancient books to assist Wang Mang in compiling the Outline of National Reconstruction for his usurpation of the throne. This claim, presenting ancient books as “material evidence” and identifying an imperial “motive” seemed to be the solving of a cold case. Its impact at the time was significant. Kang’s claim cast suspicion on all the ancient classics. Classics of Poetry《詩經》, Zuo Zhuan《左傳》, and The Rites of Zhou 《周禮》 should be considered “forgeries”. Even the Records of the Grand Historian《史記》 and The Songs of Chu《楚辭》should be suspected of having been “altered”.

However, Qian Mu, then a school teacher, traced the evolution of various schools of classical studies over the approximately 120 years from the Western to the Eastern Han Dynasty, to prove that Kang’s claim was fundamentally untenable. Qian Mu’s work can be seen as a saviour of classical studies at a time of an existential threat, and Qian Mu himself a pillar of traditional Chinese historiography against the tide of the times.

The Incomprehensibility of Cultural Revolution History

Yu Ruxin, author of the series “Biographical Chronologies of the Cultural Revolution,” hails from Meixian, Guangdong, and comes from an overseas Chinese family. His father returned to China during World War Two to study and participated in the resistance against Japanese invasions in northern Vietnam. He devoted his life to the study of pre-Qin history and taught related subjects at universities. During the Cultural Revolution, Yu remembers his father comparing articles written on the same topic by different authors to tease out the truth. This method of historical research left a deep impression on the young Yu Ruxin, and eventually formed the basic principles of his research on the history of the Cultural Revolution.

The existing research on the history of the Cultural Revolution can be broadly divided into three main lines: the official narrative, also known as “official history”; the memoirs of ordinary people; and the analyses of overseas Chinese and Western academics.

The official narrative was largely set by 1981, defining the Cultural Revolution as “an internal turmoil wrongly initiated by leaders, exploited by counter-revolutionary groups, and bringing serious disasters to the Party, the country, and all ethnic groups.” At the time, Deng Xiaoping instructed that research on the Cultural Revolution should be “broad rather than detailed.” However, “the devil is in the details” (a German idiom), or “God is in the details” (Flaubert’s Madame Bovary); that is, without details, there is no way to judge the ultimate nature. As a result of this policy, the details provided by social memory and overseas scholarship could not align with the official characterization. Instead, they gradually diverged, forming differing frameworks of understanding, such as traumatic memory, nostalgic narratives, reflective narratives, and academic reinterpretations. Yu Ruxin’s biographical chronology is an exploration and attempt at a different approach.

The current division between theory and practice in the study of Cultural Revolution history is temporarily irreversible. This is because official history, personal memories, and overseas and Western scholarship each has its own inconsistencies in historical understanding. By “consistency”, I refer to the “understanding of the changes of ancient and modern times” as described by grand historian Sima Qian, meaning that there must be a reasonable explanation for events preceding and following them.

First, let’s discuss official history. Jin Chongji, an expert on the history of the CCP and modern China, once said, “Most people think the ten years of the Cultural Revolution are difficult to write about, but actually, the most difficult to write about are the ten years before that.” This statement reveals at least two things. First, it indicates that the origins of the Cultural Revolution should be traced back to a series of historical events in the ten years prior, from 1956 to 1966. Second, regarding why the Cultural Revolution occurred, it is still difficult to offer a sufficiently clear and coherent explanation. The official characterization of the Cultural Revolution is: “ten years of internal turmoil.” However, if, excluding direct external intervention, even official historians struggle to explain the causes of such a major “internal turmoil,” then the fundamental nature of this nationwide political movement is naturally difficult to define. This will inevitably lead to a series of intractable problems.

Next, let’s revisit the social memory of the people. In the early 1980s, many victims of the Cultural Revolution were gradually rehabilitated. Simultaneously, social memories of the Cultural Revolution were released, primarily in the forms of “scar literature” and “youth education literature.” Subsequently, memoirs of former high-ranking Party and military figures who had been victimized during the Cultural Revolution were published, such as those of Huang Yongsheng, Wu Faxian, Li Zuopeng, and Qiu Huizuo, the top generals of the so-called “Lin Biao Group.” Yu Ruxin, author of the “Biographical Chronologies of the Cultural Revolution Series,” participated in the publication of Qiu Huizuo’s memoirs as an “editor by special invitation,” thus establishing his first connection with our publishing house.

Several fundamental questions of right and wrong in the Cultural Revolution remain unanswered to this day. For example, how could these people, who devoted their lives to the Party with absolute loyalty, be labelled an “anti-Party group” overnight? After the 2000s, with the advent of the internet age, discussions in this field of memory expanded significantly. However, its expansion has always sought to limit itself to the confines of existing official characterizations. The initial mainstream of grassroots social memory primarily consisted of narratives of grievances from the victims and their families. However, as the saying goes, “every wrong has its perpetrator, every debt its debtor.” The most difficult to reconcile in such narratives is the fact that while the victims are made visible, the perpetrators are often difficult to identify. More importantly, the victims spanned a wide range of social groups, from the highest levels of the Party and the State to ordinary citizens, and this complexity made the motive and “intent to harm” increasingly elusive.

Subsequently, social memory further diverged, presenting a situation of multiple conflicting voices. Victims’ families demanded deeper accountability, while liberal intellectuals attempted to push for a more thorough political reflection; a very small number of former Red Guards and eyewitnesses attempted to publicly “apologize,” but because no one was willing to accept the ethical responsibility associated with such apologies, it only reignited controversy. Meanwhile, some “Neo-Leftists” harbor nostalgia for the egalitarian demands, anti-bureaucratic passion, and mass political participation of the Cultural Revolution, and attempt to downplay the violence, some even hoping for an overturning of the official characterization.

As for research by overseas Chinese and Western academia, a definitive conclusion on the fundamental nature of the Cultural Revolution has yet to be reached. In 2012, our publishing house published a complete Chinese translation of Roderick MacFarquhar’s three-volume The Origins of the Cultural Revolution. This work provides a meticulous and thorough analysis of the causes and consequences of the Cultural Revolution, tracing its political roots back to 1956. This chronological assessment corroborates the assertion by official historian Jin Chongji that the decade before the Cultural Revolution was “even more difficult to write.” One of the book’s significant contributions lies in the author’s assertion that throughout the Cultural Revolution, while none of the CCP’s top leaders—from Peng Dehuai, Liu Shaoqi, and Lin Biao to Deng Xiaoping and Zhou Enlai—willingly participated in the Cultural Revolution, none openly showed disloyalty to Mao Zedong. On the contrary, each did his utmost to faithfully carry out Mao’s will. Nonetheless, all these henchmen of Mao were to suffer tragic fates, to varying degrees. Of course, there are differing opinions in overseas academia regarding MacFarquhar’s work, such as the criticism that the author overemphasizes the impact of high-level relationships over institutional factors.

In a broader academic context, the center of Western Sinology had shifted from Europe to the United States earlier in the 20th century. During the process of social science development, this gradually led to the formation of the Harvard school, represented by John King Fairbank, and other research directions. A fundamental viewpoint of this academic approach is that a comprehensive understanding of modern China cannot be achieved solely through existing Western ideologies and terminology. MacFarquhar was a key figure in the Harvard school. In the epigraph of his book The Origins of the Cultural Revolution, he quotes from the Ming Dynasty novel Water Margins by Song Jiang (aka. All Men Are Brothers in Pearl Buck’s English translation): “Our names are writ upon the Heavens, nor may the men of Earth despise us. In this day we unite our purpose, and until we die we will not be divided in it…” Yet, the tension is contained in the following ominous warning to those who “begin well” but “ends ill”: “let the Spirit of Heaven search among us and the Demons of the Earth encompass us, for surely this one will die by sword or arrow or thunder will fall upon him to destroy him. Then let him lie forever in Hell, that in ten thousand cycles of life he may not come to life again.”

As for other overseas and Western scholarship, it largely follows the development of “modernization theory” and the subsequent rise of “postmodernism.” The former often presupposes a certain “universality” of Western culture, while placing Chinese culture in a position of “particularity”; the latter can be seen as a reflection on and deconstruction of various previous “orthodox ideologies.” In the field of China studies, Jonathan D. Spence is a representative figure. His writings combine the remnants of Hegelian historical philosophy with the tradition of empiricism, skilfully using historical materials and details to tell highly readable narratives about China. Hsu Cho-yun’s bragged about Spence to promote his book: “Give him a phone book, and he can write up stories from the first page of names to the last person.” This is certainly high praise of his narrative talent, but also makes one wonder: is such a narrative history or fiction?

While Spence has no specific works on the Cultural Revolution, he has a fairly clear assessment of Mao Zedong, the initiator of the Cultural Revolution, namely, his “monstrous and ridiculous” nature. In his view, Mao was just one among a string of rulers, “in China’s long tradition of formidable rulers who wielded extraordinary powers neither wisely nor well,” ruling only by the “force of their own character”. This judgment is satisfying to the anti-tradition modern reader, including many Chinese, but it fails to explain how Mao Zedong was able to change China faster and more powerfully than any ruler in history, his influence even surpassing that of the First Emperor, Qin Shi Huang. Jonathan Spence’s assessment is perhaps limited by his following of Hegel’s assertion that Chinese history was shaped by the emperor acting as a “high magician”. In Hegel’s assessment, China does not truly have any history, at least not the kind of real human history he defines as driven by the Zeitgeist.

To return to the main point, let’s go back to the Cultural Revolution. According to the official narrative, the Cultural Revolution was undoubtedly a failure, hence the later need to “correct past mistakes.” The problem lies here: Mao Zedong ruled for only 27 years, yet he spent ten of those years paving the way for the “unprecedented internal turmoil” of the next ten years. Doesn’t this confirm Jonathan Spence’s view of a horrific absurdity? Within the historical context of the People’s Republic of China, which is less than eighty years old, both the Cultural Revolution and Mao Zedong are still difficult to define; how should they be judged as seen in their place within the millennia of Chinese history?

These unresolved historical questions are the starting point for the exploration of the “Biographical Chronologies of Cultural Revolution Series.”

Firstly, it can be seen that in writing the chronological series, official history, grassroots social memory, and overseas and Western academic research are all indispensable. While official history certainly has many gaps, its information remains essential. Jin Chongji said, “Criticize Lin Biao and Confucius: why connect Lin Biao and Confucius? When we were writing about how Chairman Mao criticized Confucius, (Hu) Qiaomu asked us to understand that the Chairman fell into a contradiction in the process of exploring and moving forward, especially in his later years.” However, official historians have provided no further explanation as to what contradiction Mao fell into.

Chinese historiography has a tradition of “profound meaning in concise words.” Even the smallest remarks of official historians can possess profound historical implications. The so-called “Cultural Revolution,” in its name and its intention, was indeed a revolution against the very essence of Chinese cultural tradition. This accounts for the “coherence” and the “incompatibility” of the Cultural Revolution, Mao Zedong, and even the history of the People’s Republic of China within the grand narrative of Chinese history, which is ultimately related to Confucius. A breakthrough is urgently needed on this important issue for our understanding of the progression of Chinese civilization.

Secondly, in the preface to Jiang Qing Chronology, author Yu Ruxin uses concrete examples to illustrate that “all historical materials included in this chronology have been repeatedly verified, compared, and analyzed by the editor using common sense and logical reasoning.” This statement is based on specific reasons. As the first work in the “Chronology Series of Cultural Revolution Figures,” Kang Sheng Chronology: The Life of a Chinese Communist was published in 2023. Upon its release, some argued that the book was an attempt to “rehabilitate” Kang Sheng. The so-called “reversal of verdict” refers to the accusation that the chronology “deliberately” avoids mentioning Kang Sheng as “evil”. The criticism was that Kang Sheng was closely involved in numerous wrongful convictions and miscarriages of justice during the Cultural Revolution; therefore, from the perspective of the victims and their families, and indeed all those who resent the consequences of the Cultural Revolution, such a portrayal is clearly unacceptable.

Subsequently, “Another Edition” of Kang Sheng’s chronology was published in response by a critic who proclaimed Kang Sheng as “both a treacherous and vicious villain and a highly talented scholar well-versed in traditional Chinese culture,” which is “the basic assessment of Kang by Chinese academia.” It also fully affirms the official conclusions of the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection’s “Report on the Investigation of Kang Sheng,” describing Kang Sheng, in the author’s words, as “a truly wicked person who harmed countless people and committed numerous murders.” This effort by Kang Sheng Chronology: Another Edition is actually rather revealing: its intention is to suppress any attempt to exonerate Kang Sheng, the accepted “bad guy”, to “reverse” the “reversal of the verdict.” In other words, it returns to the official historical characterization of Kang Sheng (blamed post-mortem for the Cultural Revolution) and also stays within the limits by officialdom to shift all blame to those labelled as the “counter-revolutionary group.” This inevitably calls to mind the saying: “daring only to attack the dead tiger.” If Jiang Qing Chronology were to elicit a response similar to Kang Sheng Chronicle: Another Edition, the outcome is predictable.

This leads to a more historically interesting question: terms used in China such as “struggling against”, “friends versus foes”, or “good versus evil” — born out of class-struggle dialectical materialism, full of absolutist judgments, all products of the Cultural Revolution. Now deeply ingrained in the minds of modern Chinese people, they run counter to the “middle way” valued in traditional Chinese culture. Another Edition falls into the logic of the Cultural Revolution. The “modern way of thinking” of its authors is widespread and prevalent today, shared among even those who see each other as political opposites. Given this, should the Cultural Revolution be considered a success for Mao Zedong, both self-proclaimed and acknowledged as its initiator? To some extent, this scenario demonstrates the continued consequences of the disconnect between official narratives and historical accounts.

Why do official histories, grassroots social memories, and overseas and Western scholarship all present inconsistencies regarding the Cultural Revolution? What is the crux of the problem? The answer lies in the historical narrative style familiar and admired by contemporary Chinese people, which can only record the “changes” in history, essentially losing the ability to identify the “constants” of traditional Chinese history. Western social science-based historiography lacks this tradition of distinguishing between “constants” and “changes.” But this is beyond the scope of this article.

There is a Chinese proverb describing towns on the banks of an ever-shifting Yellow River: “Thirty years east of the river, thirty years west of the river.” Sixty years after the Cultural Revolution, is China on the east or west side of the river? Faced with this question, contemporary Chinese people find that they don’t actually understand the history of the Cultural Revolution very well. All they can be certain of is that the times have indeed changed. Therefore, their understanding of the Cultural Revolution likely remains in a state of “ten people, ten interpretations; a hundred people, a hundred interpretations”.

Perhaps we could take Jiang Qing Chronology on an exploratory trip, by examining it in the spirit of the ancients.

First, both Mao Zedong and Jiang Qing are deceased. According to Chinese tradition, once gone, they do not transform into “Satan”, nor can they continue to be treated as “human.” The First Emperor of China, Mao Zedong, and Jiang Qing are all, in essence, simply “ancestors.” And towards ancestors, Chinese tradition advocates the attitude of jing (敬, respect/honor), considered a primary virtue. (At this point, many Chinese will be cursing me, but that’s alright). Let’s first examine the meaning of jing in the spiritual world of the ancients. jing does not in any way mean what is now meant by the term “worship”. Instead, jing is a cultivated personal virtue, manifested in inner focus, caution, and clarity. It can be said that jing is a concentrated expression of the fundamental seriousness and responsibility the ancient Chinese felt towards the world, and the starting point for all cognition and understanding. Cursing can satisfyingly vent emotions, but cultivating jing allows one to begin to comprehend the world and one’s place in it.

Early Practices of Feminism

Jiang Qing, originally named Li Yunhe, was born in 1914. Just three years before her birth, the end of the imperial system in 1911 had already altered the course of Chinese history. Her life’s starting point naturally fell within the torrent of the modern revolution, making her one of the earlier generations of “modern Chinese” who had effectively severed ties with traditional Chinese culture.

The May Fourth Movement erupted in 1919, with women’s liberation one of its core issues. Like many intellectual women of her time, Li Yunhe’s early pursuits were naturally women’s liberation and gender equality. However, due to her unique circumstances, the path she took was exceptionally tortuous.

During her performing career in Shanghai, Li Yunhe used the stage name “Lan Ping” and was chosen to play Nora in Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. Nora appears as an innocent and cheerful wife, but in her husband’s eyes, she is not an equal, but rather an appendage with decorative and malleable value. In the end, Nora leaves her husband and even her own children, an act that shocked many audiences in Europe at the time. The play not only pioneered a critique of the marriage system and gender roles in European society at the time, becoming a significant milestone in women’s liberation, but was also a forerunner of realist drama. Both of these aspects had a profound impact on Li Yunhe’s life.

A Doll’s House premiered in Europe in 1879 and debuted in Shanghai in 1935, a span of 56 years. Half a century may seem a long time, but placed within the context of the thousands of years of change in gender relations and institutions in Europe and China, until then mostly developed separately, these 56 years are strikingly short. During Lan Ping’s active period in Shanghai, the character of Nora was no longer merely a foreign figure on a stage; it acquired a tangible significance in Li Yunhe’s real life.

Behind this, however, was more than just one dramatic personal experience, but the rapid transformation of China’s urban elite culture. This change was not a natural evolution of China’s own gender order, but rather the transplantation of an entire set of women’s liberation issues grafted from Western historical experience onto Chinese society within a very short period. This issue touches upon not only the personal fates of Lan Ping or Li Yunhe, but also on how the entire modern Chinese spiritual world is being restructured and rewritten, which goes far beyond the scope of this article.

Lan Ping was a stage figure of women’s liberation, while Li Yunhe was a practitioner of women’s liberation in real life. Faced with hostile rumors in the newspapers, she stated, “I am absolutely not like Ruan Lingyu, who committed suicide or retreated because of ’the fear of gossip’,” thus demonstrating her distinctively strong will. Furthermore, as she said, “I began to love other people. Under these circumstances (the breakup with Tang Na), what does it have to do with him that I loved someone else?” (Chronology, 1-2 June 1937). This further shows that while pursuing women’s liberation, she had a clear understanding of what kind of man she wanted, or more accurately, what kind of man she didn’t want. The gossip was about nothing more than a few romantic relationships. In 1930s China, it was not uncommon for men to have multiple wives and concubines; therefore, even if her rumored lovers were ten or a hundred times more numerous, from the perspective of “gender equality,” it was not entirely unreasonable.

Li Yunhe’s understanding of women’s liberation clearly goes beyond simply leaving the traditional family. “If Nora leaves the family, will she no longer be manipulated? Could she become a real person?” she asks in her “Actor’s Monologue” (Chronology, 27 June 1935). From her conversations with American historian Roxane Witke, it’s clear that her true ideal of womanhood was the figure in the 1933 Hollywood film “Queen Christina”. Historically, Queen Christina of Sweden ascended the throne at the age of six in 1632 and reigned for twenty-two years. She was a lifelong reader, educated like a man per her father’s instructions, and deeply interested in religion, philosophy, and the arts, attempting to build Stockholm into a “Northern Athens.” However, even more symbolic than these achievements was her rejection of traditional female roles: she often dressed as a man, and refused arranged political marriages, thus shocking her countrymen and all of Europe. The film concocts a secret affair as the reason for her abdication of the throne, choosing instead to live free with a man beneath her station. If Nora represented a departure from the traditional family order, then Christina symbolized a rebellion against the entire gendered social order. Li Yunhe’s aspirations are perhaps closer to the latter.

It is precisely under this spiritual orientation that Li Yunhe’s life path could not remain confined to the urban cultural sphere, but inevitably shifted towards a broader and more intense political arena. Before the Xi’an Incident in 1936, ordinary Chinese people saw the CCP, at best, as a bunch of heroic outlaws, gathered in rebellion. After the Xi’an Incident, its political status underwent a fundamental change; they were seen as entering the halls of power and recognized as part of China’s orthodox and legitimate structure. The large-scale migration of left-wing intellectuals to Yan’an began under these historical conditions, and Li Yunhe was among them.

Jiang Qing’s Relationship with Mao Zedong

In the summer of 1937, Li Yunhe arrived in Yan’an. During her time in Yan’an, she changed her name from “Lan Ping” (blue apple) to “Jiang Qing,” (river qing, a light green-blue associated with the finest jade, or the sky) implying that she had surpassed her former self, marking a new and higher stage in her life. The following year, at the age of 24, Jiang Qing married Mao Zedong. It should be noted that at that time, Mao Zedong was still 11 years away from finally seizing power, and in the historical context of 1938, almost no one could have foreseen his future rise to power. Jiang Qing chose Mao Zedong the man, rather than for his nascent power. When rumors of Lan Ping’s affairs in Shanghai were reported to Mao by those within the Party who opposed their marriage, he “became furious and tore up the letter on the spot” (Chronology, November 1938). Mao’s character is self-evident.

The relationship between Jiang Qing and Mao Zedong is extremely difficult to summarize simply. Given Mao Zedong’s absolute power, he was undoubtedly in a dominant position in their relationship and could not have been “used” by Jiang Qing. To the historian Roxane Witke, Jiang Qing openly reveals her admiration for Mao: “I worshipped him.” Before 1949, Jiang Qing was undoubtedly Mao’s soulmate. However, in 1966, with the issuance of the “May 16th Circular” and the official launch of the Cultural Revolution, when even Mao Zedong had to pause to consider the moment, he wrote a candid heartfelt letter to Jiang Qing. It was a rare occurrence and the letter is considered one of the most important historical documents for understanding Mao Zedong’s inner world (Chronology, 8 July 1966).

Jiang Qing may not have been politically astute, but she certainly understood theatre, and Mao Zedong knew this. Literature and performing arts were the most concrete and actionable aspects of the Cultural Revolution, so Jiang Qing’s rise to “standard-bearer” of the Cultural Revolution was no accident. Her rise was by Mao’s authorization, and she faithfully implemented the spirit of the Cultural Revolution to the best of her ability. The “model operas” she promoted, especially “The Red Detachment of Women”, showcased the final de-gendering of class-struggle feminism. Furthermore, they manifested Western ideologies and artistic forms imported from the Soviet Union and pushed them to an extreme within a Chinese cultural environment. There has never been anything like it, before or since.

In July 1973, Mao Zedong, in conversations with Zhang Chunqiao, Wang Hongwen, and others, further distanced himself from Zhou Enlai (Chronology, 4 July 1973). Zhou was perhaps the last remaining confidante among his former “brothers,” all the others having fallen foul of Mao before him, one by one. In August of the same year, Mao launched his last political movement, the “Criticize Confucius” campaign. By then, the isolated Mao had only Jiang Qing left to rely on, and she remained relentlessly zealous. (Chronology, 5 August 1973) It seems plausible that if Mao were asked who was closest to him and who he most trusted throughout his life, he would choose Jiang Qing. Therefore, the official narrative attributing the main responsibility for the Cultural Revolution’s internal turmoil to the so-called “Jiang Qing counter-revolutionary clique” is historically illogical. If Jiang Qing was “anti-Party,” it would be more accurate to say that Mao Zedong was “anti-Party”. In the actual initiation and operation of the Cultural Revolution, the two were inseparable, two sides of the same coin.

If we acknowledge that the Cultural Revolution was a dramatic upheaval in Chinese history, then the historically significant question is: what “changed” and what remained “unchanged”? The Cultural Revolution is described as “unprecedented”; if we consider its most shocking aspect, what truly makes it “unprecedented” lies in the unprecedented extremes of Chinese criticism and negation of Confucius during this period. Reaching any historical “ultimate” point is never easy; and the answer to how the Cultural Revolution achieved this can actually be partly found in the life experiences of Jiang Qing.

Jiang Qing was born in 1914, and Mao Zedong was born in 1893, a difference of 21 years. But these 21 years were more like a lifetime than a generation, for during that time, China experienced the First Sino-Japanese War of 1895, the abolition of the imperial examination system in 1905, and the revolution of 1911 that ended thousands of years of imperial rule and gave birth to the Republic of China.

Jiang Qing’s earliest spiritual leader was the author Lu Xun, and the founding ideas of her life grew out of the anti-traditional, anti-Confucius May Fourth Movement of 1919. Born 21 years earlier, Mao Zedong was educated in the traditional culture, and clearly revered Confucius during his youth and even in his prime. His four-character poem “Sacrifice at the Mausoleum of the Yellow Emperor,” written in 1937, is evidence of this. Phrases such as “illustrious ancestor, founder of our Chinese civilization,” “establishing this great undertaking, standing tall in the East” and “truly witnessing Heaven and Earth,” all demonstrate that his spiritual world had not deviated from traditional Chinese culture.

Why Mao Zedong increasingly turned against Confucius in his later years is a complex historical trail that takes us far beyond the scope of this article. In Chinese history, anti-Confucianism is not uncommon, starting in Confucius’ own day. But none wielding great power could push it to such an extreme. The overwhelming momentum of the anti-Confucian movement during the Cultural Revolution was undoubtedly due to Mao Zedong’s unprecedented personal power with the unwavering commitment of Jiang Qing as the “standard-bearer.” The combination of these two factors resulted in a force so great that it forced Feng Youlan, the most revered living Confucian scholar, into becoming an advisor to the “Liang Xiao” group (a “mass criticism group” at Peking and Tsinghua Universities). In the “Liang Xiao” reports, Confucius was denounced as “a restorationist fanatic turning back the clock of history; a hypocritical and cunning political swindler; a vicious and brutal tyrant; an ignorant parasite; and a stray dog ​​constantly running into obstacles.” Such anti-Confucian rhetoric and the momentum it generated was truly unprecedented in the millenia of Chinese civilization.

Lu Xun was Jiang Qing’s first spiritual mentor

“A three-foot layer of ice is not formed in a single day.” As mentioned earlier, while MacFarquhar successfully traced the political origins of the Cultural Revolution to 1956, he ultimately failed to place it within the broader context of Chinese history by further exploring its ideological origins. In fact, anti-Confucianism had extremely deep ideological roots in the 20th century, and many of its concepts are now common knowledge among Chinese people in the 21st century. However, this is another vast issue, so we will only briefly mention one aspect to illustrate its point.

Professor Qin Hui, the author of the preface to Jiang Qing Chronology, points out that attributing Mao Zedong’s historical problems to Jiang Qing, using the so-called “female calamity” argument, is utterly absurd. On the other hand, he also believes that Jiang Qing’s feminism, as represented by “The Red Detachment of Women”, was unsuccessful.

This so-called “female calamity theory” attributes political failures to women. It was Lu Xun, Jiang Qing’s spiritual mentor, who is responsible for misleading contemporary Chinese intellectuals to believe that this attitude originates from traditional Chinese historical narratives. The most frequently cited example is the story of “the illustrious Zhou dynasty, destroyed by Bao Si”. The legend has the King of Zhou putting out a warning of an enemy attack at the Great Wall, triggering a surge by the military guards, but there is no attack, just a joke meant to bring a smile to the face of his beautiful concubine Bao Si; it is seen as the beginning of the end of the King’s legitimacy leading to the fall of the Zhou Dynasty. Even the Chinese saying “beautiful woman leads to disaster” has subtly changed its meaning over time: originally, “beautiful woman” simply referred to Bao Si, and “disaster” referred to dragon saliva. In later interpretations, it has gradually been interpreted as “beautiful woman” is synonymous with “disaster.”

There is a parallel that can be found in the story of Adam and Eve in the bible. In the story of Genesis, Eve was tempted by the serpent to eat the forbidden fruit, thus triggering the so-called “original sin”; she took a bite of the apple first, then shared it with Adam, ultimately leading to their expulsion from the Garden of Eden. Western traditional interpretations often understand this as female weakness and rebellion. However, the crux of the problem lies precisely here: in the idea of “temptation.”

It is here that Lu Xun infused the late 19th-century Western interpretation of Genesis into Chinese history, creating a new spin on Chinese legends. In February 1936, in his essay “A Jin,” he rejects the depictions of the most famous women of Chinese legend: “I have never believed that Wang Zhaojun’s departure to the border would bring peace to the Han Dynasty, or that Mulan’s joining the army would protect the Sui Dynasty; nor do I believe the old tales of Daji destroying the Yin Dynasty, Xi Shi ruining the Wu Dynasty, or Yang Guifei causing chaos in the Tang Dynasty. I believe that in a patriarchal society, women could never possess such great power, and the responsibility for rise and fall should be borne by men. But male authors throughout history have generally placed the blame for defeat and ruin on women; these were truly worthless and spineless men.”

However, a careful reading of traditional Chinese historical records reveals that the attributions of responsibility are actually quite clear: it is the men who are the subject of temptation; it is the men who make the decisions and suffer loss of reason, and ultimately, it is the men who lose power. In other words, the true bearer of historical responsibility was the monarch, not the woman. Attributing the downfall of a nation to Bao Si is absurd, yet this was how Lu Xun interpreted the legends. Following this logic, it seems that God should have cast out of Paradise the apple and the serpent, rather than Adam and Eve. The problem lies precisely in the fact that while such arguments satisfied the edgy contemporary postures critical of the past, it also misled and oversimplified the deeper lessons of historical responsibility, temptation, and decision-making.

In Lu Xun’s view, in all the pages of Chinese history, there is nothing but “cannibalism” and the so-called “female calamity” is merely another excuse for men to shirk responsibility in the face of historical defeat. Ironically, it was precisely Jiang Qing, the “standard-bearer of the Cultural Revolution,” who spearheaded the “Criticize Lin Biao and Confucius” campaign, that reintroduced the term “cannibalism” into the mouths of the proletariat, transforming it into an accusation against Confucius: “Confucius’s ’benevolence’ was ’cannibalism’.”

Confucius was not Aunt Zhao

During the “Criticize Lin Biao and Confucius” campaign, the deep-seated and radical anti-traditional thought accumulated since the 20th century erupted in a concentrated burst; the resulting nationwide participation echoed the proverb “ the wall falls when everyone pushes together”. In Dream of the Red Chamber, Ping’er defends Aunt Zhao: “Good ladies, ’the wall falls when everyone pushes together’! Aunt Zhao is confused and acting irrationally, but it’s because she is always blamed for anything that goes wrong.” During the Cultural Revolution, almost everything in Confucian tradition appeared to be swept away; the “wall” of Chinese tradition was undoubtedly torn down, and even every brick examined.

However, half a century later, history shows that Confucius is not like the fragile Aunt Zhao. The traditions established by Confucius are not like a crumbling wall that can be permanently abandoned once it is torn down. Violence cannot truly destroy it, nor can words truly eradicate it. Confucius said, “Those who understand me will only know me through the Spring and Autumn Annals (his rare and seminal work)! Those who condemn me will only know me through the Spring and Autumn Annals!” Mao Zedong and Jiang Qing, from Confucius’s perspective, are merely another “condemnation.” Such figures are not unprecedented in Chinese history; their rise, their influence, and their fates all have their own legitimate place among the ancestors of past dynasties.

According to the official histories, written in the tradition established by Confucius, the great legalist statesman Shang Yang successfully reformed the state of Qin, eventually leading to their conquest of all other states in China and unification under one ruler, the First Emperor. However, his overly strict enforcements and harsh methods incurred resentment. When the former crown prince ascended the throne, the once powerful reformer became a wanted man. Fleeing overnight, he was ultimately undone and executed thanks to a strict law he himself had enacted—thus, the saying: “the law brings ruin upon oneself.”

After Mao Zedong’s death, Jiang Qing was immediately arrested and inexplicably became identified as the leader of the so-called “anti-Party clique.” At that time, the vast majority of Chinese who had previously participated in the “Criticize Lin Biao and Confucius” campaign, were, after Mao’s death, still shouting “Inherit Chairman Mao’s legacy!” while simultaneously cheering the “crushing” of the “Gang of Four” which included Mao’s widow. Such an absurd scenario is rare even in history. The Chinese people, who had once upheld their values through historical lessons, seemed to have completely lost their ability to distinguish right from wrong.

In 1980, in court, Jiang Qing defended herself, saying, “Your arrest and trial of me is a defamation of Chairman Mao Zedong. Trying me is a defamation of hundreds of millions of people, a defamation of the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution in which hundreds of millions of people participated.” Little did she know that these “hundreds of millions of people” who had followed Mao to participate in the Cultural Revolution had vanished without a trace the instant after Mao died. She continued, “I’ve been married to Chairman Mao for 38 years. How could I oppose him?... My feelings for Chairman Mao are proven by history. During the war years, when we evacuated Yan’an, I was the only female comrade who stayed on the front lines to follow Chairman Mao. Where were you all hiding then?!” The only response she received was a burst of frivolous and mocking laughter from the back of the courtroom. Thus, her painstakingly crafted “women’s liberation” narrative, reminiscent of the “Red Detachment of Women” centered on class struggle, was utterly destroyed. Jiang Qing’s fate, somehow, once again proved the historical inevitability of “bringing ruin upon oneself.”

Mao Zedong himself concerned himself with the history of Xiang Yu, the King of Chu (the stage subject of the movie “Farewell, My Concubine”). In his 1962 speech at the Seven Thousand Cadres Conference, he said, “ Xiang Yu, the Hegemon-King of Western Chu, disliked listening to differing opinions… If these comrades never change, they will inevitably have to ’bid farewell to their concubines’ one day.” Even more famous are two lines from a poem by Mao: “We should pursue the fleeing enemy with our remaining strength, not seek fame like the Hegemon-King.” Xiang Yu was actually depicted as a tragic hero in history, with “the strength to uproot mountains and the spirit to overshadow the world,” and his loyal concubine who chooses suicide rather than leave his side at his downfall, is an important part of this historic image. Mao, well-versed in Chinese history could not have been unaware of this, yet in Mao’s writing, Xiang Yu was reinterpreted as someone who sought fame and fortune, ultimately leading to his downfall. This reinterpretation of traditional history has undoubtedly had a profound impact on the psychology of modern Chinese people.

In terms of contemporary politics, Mao Zedong is certainly more like the cruel First Emperor of China. And like the First Emperor whose first Chinese empire lasted only 15 years, Mao, no matter how violently he applied the Cultural Revolution, ultimately had no control over the history that followed him. After Mao’s death, Jiang Qing sent a wreath, simply signed “Your student and comrade-in-arms”; and on 14 May 1991, she ultimately chose suicide, just seven months after the fall of the Soviet Union. Looking back over the vast expanse of history, does the fate of Jiang Qing not mirror the concubine of Xiang Yu?

Ultimately, lessons of the mandate of heaven from traditional Chinese belief continue to ring through history, surviving even the Cultural Revolution. The spiritual world of Chinese civilization far exceeds the scope that modern Chinese people can comprehend today; and such a spiritual world cannot be fully explored by mere rationality.

May 6, 2026, Hong Kong

Recommended archive:

Jiang Qing Chronology

[The views expressed by the author of this article do not necessarily reflect the position of the China Unofficial Archives.]

作者：董郁玉

By Dong Yuyu

The English translation follows below.

编者按：

近日，据媒体报道，已身陷囹圄四年多的中国记者董郁玉被检查出心律失常，肺部发现肿瘤。他的家人呼吁当局实行人道主义，让董郁玉取保送医，以接受更好的治疗。

董郁玉1987年毕业于北京大学，1989年因参与天安门抗议，被下放劳动一年，后回到《光明日报》工作，曾任评论部副主任。2022年2月董郁玉在北京失去自由，2024年被以“间谍罪”判刑7年，尽管官方未能提供定罪证据。董郁玉是中国资深的记者和评论作家，同时也是一位学养丰富的政治学研究者，在1998年就与人合著出版《政治中国——面向新体制选择的时代》一书，呼吁宪政民主与民主。

2013年，董郁玉曾在《炎黄春秋》刊文评论哈佛大学教授麦克法夸尔的三卷本著作《文化大革命的起源》，对这本书的价值，以及如何看待毛泽东与文革的关系做了深入分析。今年正值文革爆发六十周年，本站精简此文，重新刊发，并在此呼吁全球知识界关注董郁玉的案件以及他的处境，希望这位因言获罪的知识分子能得到人道主义的对待。

哈佛大学教授罗德里克·麦克法夸尔著的三卷本《文化大革命的起源》（以下简称《起源》）的中译本，于2012年由香港新世纪出版社出齐。该书的第一卷和第二卷，在1980年代和1990年，曾由中国内地的出版社删节后出版。

这部专述文化大革命起源的通史，从文革前10年的1956年写起，到1966年文革爆发时止，分成《人民内部矛盾1956—1957年》、《大跃进1958—1960年》和《浩劫的来临1961—1966年》三卷，共计1430多页，实可谓皇皇大著。《起源》对来自官方与民间的海量历史资料，条分缕析，多方考证；细致甄别，贯通因果。以至句句有根，事事有据，旁征博引之全面，在中外文革研究领域中，尚不见出其右者。

对于中文读者来说，更重要的则在于，《起源》以文革起源为全书叙事的脉络，其成书的逻辑却迥异于中共党史的逻辑。整部书都是在中共官方党史、或者说是联共（布）党史的话语体系之外，从国家政治的角度，契入构成文革起源的国家政治运作，使读者既能身临其境去体味文革的种种细枝末节，又能与文革拉开必要的观察距离，而不至深陷文革起源历史的具体是非中，而不可自拔。

1. 谁的文革？

在传统的中共党史话语体系中，党即是国，国即是党；党史就是国史，国史就是党史。于是，各种官定的中国国家现代史乃至近代史，其叙事结构与内容，与中共党史的历史唯物主义叙事结构及其内容毫无二致，雌雄不辨。这种国史党史同为一体的叙事结构，几无政治权力来源、国家权力合法性、政治责任和政治道德的位置，而尽是革命、路线、领袖和阶级的范式。

正是在这种范式的阐释中，在国史混同于党史的情况下，“无产阶级文化大革命”不是以中国的国家政治灾难和社会灾难被叙事，而是被当成了一个党在革命征途上的一次挫折被叙事。并且，这个挫折被有选择、有限制地展开叙事，以证明党因为战胜了挫折、纠正了造成挫折的错误，而变得比以前更加强大。

当然，人们不能“对事实发火”（西方格言——编者注）。从《起源》一书中，读者可见，在1949年以后的国家政治架构和社会结构中，所谓“无产阶级文化大革命”，确实把中国国家历史和中国共产党党史从某种角度上重叠在了一起。而同样的事实，如果放置于不同的叙事结构当中，得出的结论可能是大相径庭的。

以国家历史为叙事框架，中国共产党是一个掌握全部国家政治权力的政治组织，文化大革命则是这个政治组织为国家制定政策并实施的结果。

而以中共党史为叙事框架，国家、社会、公民就很难在其中找到厕身之处。中国共产党则在不同的执政阶段中，被分割成了代表不同路线的“左、中、右”派别；这些派别又被划分成“好人”与“坏人”的不同群体。如是，在面对其对国家负有的政治责任方面，中国共产党就不再是一个掌握了国家全部的政治权力，从而应对国家负有全部政治责任的政治组织，而是由其中的四人帮、或所谓改革派、保守派代表整个党，并承担某个阶段的政治责任——这样，文化大革命不再是这个政党的政策输出和权力运行的结果，而是四人帮、林彪等“坏人”当道、“好人”受难的结果，是右派不识时务、左派错整右派、“中间派没有觉悟”等一堆党内事务。

这种叙事框架，把文化大革命当作中共党内事务，实则掏空了执政党对国家的政治责任。或者说把执政党对国家的政治责任，变成了厘清并公布谁是党内的“好人”、谁是党内的“坏人”，谁是党内的“七分好人、三分坏人”，谁是党内的不折不扣、彻彻底底的“坏人”，谁又是党内的胸怀“好心”却不得不办了错事、坏事的好人等党内是非。

如此一来，党内“好人”的受难，便可替换国家的政治灾难；党内“坏人”的罪错或某个派别对党负有的党内责任，亦可顶替整个党对国家负有的全部政治责任。在这样的叙事逻辑中，依党内是非而划定的“好人”与“坏人”，不是构成党的整体的不同部分，而是“好人”代表党，“坏人”——通过把他们开除出党——则似乎成了与党组织无关的一部分人，由此便可摆脱这些“坏人”施政而带来的整个政党对国家应负的政治责任。也因此，党内的“坏人”不仅仅是党的敌人，也被用来充当国家的“公敌”。

麦克法夸尔《起源》的最大叙事特点，就是没有在中共党内划分出“好人”与“坏人”，进而诠释他们所主张政策的好、坏。没有“好人”“坏人”，当然也就没有国家政治责任的党内替罪者。中共党史叙事中的“好人”与“坏人”，在麦克法夸尔的《起源》中，都是中共党的一分子；就大的政治目标而言，他们都是为中共党的执政利益而怀相同的政治理想、存相同的政治动机、有相同政治目的的同志。这种不分“好”“坏”的客观叙事，最大限度地还原了文化大革命起源的历史过程。

2. 谁的政策？

对国家政治而言，一项公共政策，在实际中发生的效果，总是会强化或削弱政策制定者与实施者的政治威信，从而强化或削弱他们的政治地位和党内政治权力。这是党内政治斗争的动力所在，也是所有权力斗争发生的重要因由（参见《浩劫的来临1961—1966年》第449—451页）。因此，政策的制定与实施，正是麦克法夸尔契入文革起源之处。

《起源》一书把文革缘起的研究范围扩展至1956年，也正是因为中共在这个时期的政策，开始引发一些灾难性的后果，并由于党内权力结构和政治制度的限制而难以被纠正，以此为文革的爆发累积了政治能量。麦克法夸尔注意到，“1956年发生了两个关键性的事件——中国合作化的完成和苏共二十大的召开——它们随后引发了一连串的事件，最终明显地，也许是不可避免地，导致了文化大革命的发生”（《人民内部矛盾1956—1957年》第15页）。

毛泽东在1955年7月31日的一个报告中，对那些在农村合作化运动中持谨慎态度的官员进行了嘲笑，说他们“像一个小脚女人，东摇西摆地在那里走路”。当然，可能连毛泽东自己都没有想到，压指标、下命令的军事指挥方式在和平时期会产生什么样的效果：农业合作化只用了4个月的时间就完成了。这个速度，让毛泽东自己规定的14个月的时间都相形显得过分保守了。几亿农民世代延续的生产方式，在短短4个月的时间里被彻底改变。正是这个“伟大的成就”，空前膨胀了毛泽东的意志。也正是在1956年底，他信心满满地宣布：“这一年过去，社会主义的胜利就有很大的把握了。（本段引文均见《人民内部矛盾1956—1957年》第21页）”

但是，一项公共政策的实施，不似一项军事命令的执行那样可以迅速见分晓。农业合作化在4个月之内被迅速完成了。然而，这个政策的实施速度，加倍放大了其原本存在的问题。而这些问题，又不能像打扫战场那样，在短时间内被打扫干净。为此，具体实施政策的人，必须采取补救措施来为这个政策善后，并由此产生分歧——这也是党内政治权力斗争的起源。

当然，在毛泽东一言九鼎的中共党内权力格局中，身处“一线”的政策实施者，与置身“二线”的政策设计者毛泽东的分歧，只能以前者向毛泽东低头检讨而消弭。然而，所有政策的参与者都清楚，此时，失去更多政治威望的不是检讨者，而恰是毛泽东本人。而毛泽东由此产生的对失去政治权力的焦虑，和堆积于胸的块垒，直至10年后的1966年，才被毛泽东一吐为快（参见《浩劫的来临1961—1966年》第452—453页）。

《起源》一书，以中共党的政策制定和实施为经，以党内权力斗争为纬，为文革起源串通起了因果链条。并且，《起源》也常常以寥寥数笔来交代中共在其历史上党内权力斗争的脉络，为读者建立起相关的阅读背景。

毛泽东亲自发动的“无产阶级文化大革命”的最重要目的之一，无疑就是要铲除“以刘少奇为首的资产阶级司令部”，除掉那个在政策制定与实施上有自己的一套，并总是以检讨的姿态来蚕食自己政治地位的刘少奇（参见《浩劫的来临1961—1966年》第453页）。不过，正如《起源》所述，从中共党内权力派系的渊源上讲，刘少奇应为毛泽东最亲密的战友之一。刘少奇堪称是毛泽东在中共党内如日中天地位的最力建造者。如果没有刘少奇在延安整风时不遗余力的帮衬，没有刘少奇在中共七大政治报告中提出“毛泽东思想”这一具有超越性的意识形态主导思想，以及其他无数任劳任怨、鞍前马后的铺路和善后，毛泽东在党内说一不二的威望，就不会在曾经“山头”林立的中共党内如此快和如此牢固地建立起来。

3. 谁的责任？

共产党在进行内部的权力斗争时，虽然没有公开的、制度化的既定政治程序，但并不等于说，共产党内部的权力斗争毫无遵循。从各国共产党内部权力斗争的历史看，在党内权力斗争中的胜出者，无不是其意识形态的忠实体现者。

而正是意识形态的至高无上性，为那些残酷的党内权力斗争方式，提供了合理性以及正当性的支持。权力斗争的胜者，一定要申明其拥护、遵循和代表那个支撑党的意识形态；权力斗争的失败者，也一定被冠以反对、违背和篡改了党的意识形态。

1945年，刘少奇在中共七大政治报告中提出了“毛泽东思想”以后，共产党内部的实体性政治权力与共产党意识形态的结合，就具备了现实的基础——把党的意识形态附体于个人，某种程度而言，也就等于把这个人化身为了党的意识形态。事实上，马克思和列宁都没有经历过这样的“待遇”（参见《浩劫的来临1961—1966年》第314—322页，第448—449页）。

正是这样的“附体”，让毛泽东在党内的政治地位具有了“神性”。这个“神性”就体现在毛泽东的言说、政策设计、权力与党的意识形态的紧密结合上。而1945年之后中共所取得的一系列革命成就，都成了这个“神性”的证明。

问题也正在这里。如果共产党的事业一帆风顺，那么，不会有人去怀疑这个神祗的灵性。但是，当党的最高领导人设计、制定的政策在实际中遭遇失败时，让其去承担因此而产生的政治责任，这就不啻让那个丧失了保佑灵性的神祗去担当凡间的具体罪错。在这样的政治架构中，反对毛泽东制定的政策，反对毛泽东，反对毛泽东思想，反对党的指导思想，反对党的意识形态，反对党，反革命……就都成了一回事情。由此，在党内政治权力斗争中，“战无不胜的毛泽东思想”为毛泽东奠定了不败的基础（参见《大跃进1958—1960年》第299—302页，《浩劫的来临1961—1966年》第171—181页）。

历史的吊诡之处在于，正是提出“毛泽东思想”的刘少奇，成了其所打造的这个政治神祗的最大祭品。这也正是麦克法夸尔的不解之处：“刘几乎肯定从未想到过任何政变，但他却未作任何抵抗，这确实是很奇特的。相反地，他1966年5月顺从地主持了打倒他的主要政治盟友的会议。”（《浩劫的来临1961—1966年》第451页）

当然，在这样的政治架构中，对毛泽东那些在国家政治实践中已然遭遇到多重失败的种种政策感到无能为力的，还不止是刘少奇。在党的意识形态附于毛泽东之身时，那些曾亲眼见证过神祗灵性的同志们，看着“这位带领他们从漫长的革命征途走向胜利的人，现在又以某种捷径，带领他们向乌托邦发起了冲刺”的时候，“谁会去提醒作为神的毛说，大自然可以驯服，却不可被践踏；人们可以移山，却不能创造奇迹；政治革命可以在十年或者甚至一天里成功，但思想革命却需要几个世纪”？（《大跃进1958—1960年》第314页）

也正是这样的“人神”一体，使毛泽东具有了党内其他任何人所不可能具有的政治优势。这种政治优势，是毛泽东发动文化大革命的政治本钱——毛泽东是“毛泽东思想”的化身，“毛泽东思想”是中共党的指导思想，因此，毛泽东也是中国共产党的化身。这个现实，正是毛泽东发动的文化大革命几近彻底颠覆了党的组织结构，却能给除他自己以外的所有人扣上“分裂党”的帽子，他本人则凌驾全党之上的根本原因。

这样的现实，也是中共在日后整理文革瓦砾之时，颇有投鼠忌器之感，难以将毛泽东与作为中共指导思想的“毛泽东思想”彻底剥离，并且要“确立毛泽东同志的历史地位”，“坚持和发展毛泽东思想”，以及对过去的事情“宜粗不宜细”（引文均见《关于建国以来党的若干历史问题的决议》）的根源。

中共执政地位的确保，需要作为其指导思想的“毛泽东思想”；而“毛泽东思想”的存续，又需要确保毛泽东的历史地位；要确立毛泽东的历史地位，就必须对过去的事情“宜粗不宜细”；“宜粗不宜细”，才有当下中国大陆文革历史研究的冷清局面……然而，也正是在这样环环相扣的制约和限制中，党对国家应负的政治责任，文化大革命给国家造成的灾难，都始终没有得到细致言说的机会。也正因此，今日中国，在相当多的人的想象中，文革竟然有了玫瑰色调的魔幻色彩，由此，也才会公然出现“重庆模式”（指薄熙来主政重庆期间推行的一系列政策）的政治实践。

至今，“毛泽东思想”让毛泽东仍旧站在中共历史的制高点上。这，也许正应了天安门上毛像仍在神坛般位置的事实——“毛主席万岁！” 以文化大革命爆发为止点的《起源》一书，也正是用“毛主席万岁”这句耐人寻味的“最高指示”，结束了这三部探讨文革发生起源的皇皇大著（《浩劫的来临1961—1966年》第454页）。

本期档案推荐：

《政治中国：面向新体制选择的时代》

《文化大革命的起源》

《炎黄春秋》

【作者观点不代表中国民间档案馆立场。】

Whose Cultural Revolution? Whose Responsibility? — Dong Yuyu’s Review of The Origins of the Cultural Revolution

By Dong Yuyu

Editors’ Note:

According to recent media reports, Chinese journalist Dong Yuyu, who has been imprisoned for more than four years, has recently been diagnosed with arrhythmia and a lung tumor. His family is now calling upon the authorities to exercise humanitarianism by granting him medical parole, allowing for better treatment.

Dong graduated from Peking University in 1987. In 1989, he was sent down for a year of hard labor due to his participation in the Tiananmen protests. He later returned to work at Guangming Daily, eventually serving as the deputy director of the commentary department. Dong was detained in Beijing in February 2022 and was sentenced to seven years in prison on charges of espionage in 2024, even though prosecutors provided no evidence of the crime. A veteran journalist and columnist, Dong is also an accomplished political commentator. As early as 1998, he co-edited Political China: Towards an Era of Choices for a New System, in which he advocated for constitutionalism and democracy.

In 2013, Dong published a review in the historical magazine Yanhuang Chunqiu regarding the late Harvard Professor Roderick MacFarquhar’s three-volume work, The Origins of the Cultural Revolution. In it, Dong provided an in-depth analysis of the book’s value and the relationship between Mao Zedong and the Cultural Revolution.

As this year marks the 60th anniversary of the Cultural Revolution’s outbreak, the China Unofficial Archives has condensed and republished his article. We join in calling for the global community to pay attention to Dong Yuyu’s case and his current plight, in the hope that he—criminalized for his speech—will receive humanitarian treatment.

The Chinese translation of the three-volume work The Origins of the Cultural Revolution (hereafter Origins), by Harvard Professor Roderick MacFarquhar, was fully published by the Hong Kong New Century Press in 2012. Abridged versions of the first and second volumes had previously been published by mainland Chinese presses during the 1980s and 1990s.

This general history of the Cultural Revolution’s origins begins in 1956—ten years prior to the event—and concludes with the outbreak in 1966. Divided into three volumes—Contradictions Among the People 1956–1957, The Great Leap Forward 1958–1960, and The Coming of the Cataclysm 1961–1966—the work totals over 1,430 pages and is a truly monumental achievement.

Origins meticulously analyzes and cross-references a massive corpus of historical data from both official and private sources. Through rigorous differentiation and the integration of cause and effect, the work ensures that every sentence is rooted in fact and every incident is supported by evidence. Its exhaustive citations remain unparalleled in the field of Cultural Revolution studies, both in China and abroad.

For Chinese readers, it is especially significant that Origins adopts the genesis of the Cultural Revolution as its narrative thread while following a logic entirely distinct from that of official Chinese Communist Party history. The entire work exists outside the discourse of official Party history—or rather, the historiographical framework of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (Bolshevik). By approaching the Chinese state’s political operations that birthed the Cultural Revolution from a political science perspective, the book allows readers to experience the minute details of the era while maintaining the observational distance necessary to avoid becoming hopelessly entangled in the specific historical polemics of the time.

1. Whose Cultural Revolution?

In the traditional discourse of Chinese Communist Party history, the Party is the state and the state is the Party; thus, Party history and national history are synonymous. Consequently, the narrative structure and content of various official modern Chinese histories are indistinguishable from the historical materialist framework of the Party itself. This integrated structure leaves almost no room for discussions of the source of political power, the legitimacy of state authority, political responsibility, or political morality; instead, it is defined entirely by the paradigms of revolution, political lines, supreme leaders, and social class.

Within this interpretive framework, where national history is conflated with Party history, the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution is not narrated as a political and social catastrophe for the Chinese nation. Instead, it is depicted as a mere setback encountered by the Party on its revolutionary path. Furthermore, this setback is narrated selectively and with limitations to prove that the Party became stronger by overcoming the obstacle and correcting the errors that caused it.

However, one cannot get angry at facts. Origins demonstrates that within the post-1949 political and social architecture, the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution did indeed cause national and Party history to overlap from a certain perspective. However, when these same facts are placed within different narrative structures, the resulting conclusions can be diametrically opposed.

Within a national history framework, the Chinese Communist Party is a political organization wielding total state power, and the Cultural Revolution is the result of policies formulated and implemented by that organization.

Conversely, it is difficult for the state, society, or the individual citizen to find a place within the Party history framework. The Chinese Communist Party is instead fragmented into “Left, Center, and Right” factions representing different political lines during various stages of governance; these factions are then subdivided into “good” and “bad” actors. Consequently, regarding its political responsibility to the nation, the Party is no longer viewed as a unified organization holding total power—and thus total responsibility. Instead, specific groups—such as the Gang of Four, the Reformers, or the Conservatives—are made to represent the Party and bear the responsibility for specific periods. In this view, the Cultural Revolution was not the result of the Party’s policy output and exercise of power, but rather the result of “bad people” like the Gang of Four and Lin Biao holding sway while “good people” suffered. It becomes a matter of internal Party business: the Rightists being out of step with the times, the Leftists wrongly purging them, and the “Middle-roaders” lacking sufficient consciousness.

This framework treats the Cultural Revolution as an internal Party affair, effectively absolving the ruling party of its political responsibility to the state. Responsibility is reduced to the task of identifying and announcing who within the Party was “good” or “bad,” who was “70% good and 30% bad,” who was thoroughly “bad,” and who was a “good person” with “good intentions” who nonetheless committed errors.

In such a logic, the suffering of “good” Party members replaces the political catastrophe of the nation. The crimes of “bad” actors—or the internal responsibility a faction owes the Party—supplant the total political responsibility the entire organization owes the state. By defining “good” and “bad” actors based on internal Party standards, the “good” represent the Party while the “bad”—by virtue of their eventual expulsion—become an external group. This allows the organization to distance itself from the political responsibility arising from the “bad” actors’ governance. Thus, these internal villains are framed not only as enemies of the Party but as public enemies of the state.

The defining characteristic of MacFarquhar’s Origins is its refusal to categorize Chinese Communist Party actors as “good” or “bad” in order to justify or condemn their policies. Without these moral categories, there are no internal scapegoats to carry the burden of the state’s political responsibility. In MacFarquhar’s narrative, those labeled as “good” or “bad” in official accounts are all simply members of the Chinese Communist Party. Regarding their broader political objectives, they are comrades sharing the same political ideals, motives, and goals for the benefit of the Party’s rule. This objective, non-judgmental narrative restores the historical process of the Cultural Revolution’s origins to its fullest extent.

2. Whose Policy?

In national politics, the practical effects of a public policy will always either bolster or diminish the political prestige of its creators and implementers, thereby affecting their standing and intra-Party power. This is the engine of internal political struggle and a primary cause of power contests (cf. The Coming of the Cataclysm 1961–1966, pp. 449–451). MacFarquhar thus enters the history of the Cultural Revolution’s origins through the lens of policy formulation and implementation.

Origins extends its scope back to 1956 because the Party’s policies during that period began to yield disastrous consequences that could not be corrected due to the constraints of the power structure and political system. This accumulated the political energy that eventually fueled the Cultural Revolution. MacFarquhar observes that two pivotal events in 1956—the completion of agricultural cooperativization and the 20th Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union—triggered a chain of events that led “clearly, and perhaps inevitably,” to the Cultural Revolution (Contradictions Among the People 1956–1957, p. 15).

In a July 1955 report, Mao Zedong mocked officials who were cautious regarding the rural cooperativization movement, comparing them to “a woman with bound feet, swaying as she walks.” Likely even Mao did not anticipate the effect his military-style command—based on quotas and orders—would have in a time of peace: agricultural cooperativization was completed in just four months. This speed made even Mao’s original fourteen-month timeline appear excessively conservative. The production methods of hundreds of millions of peasants, sustained for generations, were overturned in a mere four months. This “great achievement” led to an unprecedented inflation of Mao’s personal will. By the end of 1956, he confidently declared, “Now that this year has passed, the victory of socialism is largely assured” (Contradictions Among the People 1956–1957, p. 21).

However, the implementation of public policy does not yield immediate results like a military command. While the policy was executed rapidly, its speed magnified inherent flaws. These problems could not be cleared away as quickly as a battlefield. Consequently, those implementing the policy had to adopt remedial measures, leading to the internal disagreements that serve as the root of political power struggles.

In a power structure dominated by Mao’s absolute authority, disagreements between those on the “first line” of implementation and Mao—the designer on the “second line”—could only be resolved by the former offering self-criticisms. Yet all participants understood that, in such moments, the one losing the most political prestige was not the one offering the critique, but Mao himself. Mao’s resulting anxiety over his waning power and his deep-seated grievances would not find release until ten years later, in 1966 (cf. The Coming of the Cataclysm 1961–1966, pp. 452–453).

Origins weaves a causal chain by using policy formulation as its longitude and power struggle as its latitude. Furthermore, the work frequently provides concise context regarding the history of internal Party struggles to provide necessary background for the reader.

One of the primary goals of the “Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution” was undoubtedly to dismantle the “Bourgeois Headquarters headed by Liu Shaoqi.” Mao sought to eliminate a man who possessed his own approach to policy and who systematically eroded Mao’s status through the very act of offering self-criticisms (cf. The Coming of the Cataclysm 1961–1966, p. 453). Yet, as Origins notes, Liu Shaoqi was historically one of Mao’s closest comrades and the primary architect of Mao’s absolute authority within the Party. Without Liu’s tireless support during the Yan’an Rectification and his introduction of “Mao Zedong Thought” as a transcendent ideology during the 7th National Congress, Mao’s undisputed prestige would not have been established so firmly or so quickly within a party previously defined by competing factions.

3. Whose Responsibility?

While internal power struggles within the Communist Party lack public or institutionalized procedures, they are not without a specific logic. History shows that the victors in these struggles are invariably those who present themselves as the most faithful embodiments of the Party’s ideology.

This ideological supremacy provides the necessary rationality and legitimacy for the brutal methods employed in these struggles. The victor must claim to represent and follow the ideology that sustains the Party, while the loser is branded as one who has opposed or distorted it.

Following Liu Shaoqi’s elevation of “Mao Zedong Thought” in 1945, the union of substantive political power and ideology found a concrete foundation. By attaching the Party’s ideology to a specific person, that individual became the personification of the ideology itself—a status that even Marx and Lenin never enjoyed (cf. The Coming of the Cataclysm 1961–1966, pp. 314–322, 448–449).

This incarnation endowed Mao’s status with a divine quality, manifested in the total fusion of his rhetoric, policy designs, and power with the Party’s core ideology. The revolutionary successes following 1945 served as the empirical proof of this divinity.

This is the crux of the problem. As long as the Party’s cause prospered, the deity’s efficacy remained unquestioned. However, when the supreme leader’s policies failed in practice, holding him accountable was equivalent to charging a god with mortal sins. In such a system, opposing Mao’s policies became synonymous with opposing Mao himself, his Thought, the Party’s guiding principles, the ideology, the Party, and the Revolution itself. Thus, in the arena of internal struggle, the “invincible Mao Zedong Thought” provided Mao with an unassailable foundation (cf. The Great Leap Forward 1958–1960, pp. 299–302; The Coming of the Cataclysm 1961–1966, pp. 171–181).

It is a historical irony that Liu Shaoqi, the man who codified “Mao Zedong Thought,” became the primary sacrifice to the political deity he helped create. MacFarquhar finds this compliance perplexing: “Liu almost certainly never contemplated a coup, yet his lack of resistance is truly singular. Instead, in May 1966, he submissively presided over the very meetings that struck down his primary political allies” (The Coming of the Cataclysm 1961–1966, p. 451).

In this political architecture, Liu was not the only one rendered powerless against Mao’s failing policies. Once Mao became the personification of the ideology, his comrades—who had witnessed his earlier “miracles”—found themselves watching as the man who led them to victory now led them on a reckless sprint toward utopia. MacFarquhar asks: “Who would dare remind Mao-as-god that nature may be tamed but not trampled; that men can move mountains but cannot perform miracles; and that while a political revolution can succeed in a decade or a day, an ideological revolution requires centuries?” (The Great Leap Forward 1958–1960, p. 314).

This “man-god” fusion gave Mao a political advantage unmatched by any other figure. This advantage was the political capital that allowed him to launch the Cultural Revolution. Because Mao was the embodiment of both the Party’s Thought and the Party itself, he was able to launch a movement that nearly destroyed the Party’s organizational structure while simultaneously accusing everyone else of splitting the Party. He alone stood above the organization.

This reality also explains why the Chinese Communist Party, when sifting through the wreckage of the Cultural Revolution, felt restricted by the fear of “breaking the vase while aiming at the rat.” It was nearly impossible to fully detach Mao from the ideology that guides the Party. Consequently, the Party insisted on “establishing Comrade Mao Zedong’s historical position,” “persisting in and developing Mao Zedong Thought,” and the principle of being “broad rather than detailed” regarding the past (cf. “Resolution on Certain Questions in the History of Our Party Since the Founding of the People’s Republic of China”).

The preservation of the Party’s ruling status requires the survival of “Mao Zedong Thought,” which in turn requires the preservation of Mao’s historical standing. This necessitates the “broad rather than detailed” approach to history, which accounts for the current stagnation of Cultural Revolution research in mainland China. Within this cycle of constraints, the Party’s political responsibility to the nation and the catastrophe inflicted upon the state have never been fully articulated. As a result, in the imagination of many today, the Cultural Revolution has acquired a rose-colored, magical quality, allowing for the emergence of political practices like the “Chongqing Model,” which the now-disgraced politician Bo Xilai implemented while he was the mayor of Chongqing.

To this day, “Mao Zedong Thought” ensures that Mao remains at the commanding heights of Chinese Communist Party history. This is perhaps best exemplified by his portrait on the Tiananmen Gate that confirms his position on the altar: “Long Live Chairman Mao!” MacFarquhar’s Origins, a monumental study of the factors leading to the catastrophe, appropriately concludes with this same poignant “supreme instruction”: “Long Live Chairman Mao!” (The Coming of the Cataclysm 1961–1966, p. 454).

Recommended archives:

Political China: Towards an Era of Choices for a New System

The Origins of the Cultural Revolution

Yanhuang Chunqiu (China Through the Ages)

[The views expressed by the author of this article do not necessarily reflect the position of the China Unofficial Archives.]

作者：舒衡哲

By Vera Schwarcz

The English original follows below.

编者按：1983年春天，年轻的美国学者舒衡哲（Vera Schwarcz）在北京与哲学家梁漱溟多次见面，此文中她追忆了当时的情景。彼时的中国，文革过去未久，经历浩劫的知识分子们惊魂未定——梁漱溟也曾在文革中被红卫兵逼迫亲手毁坏父亲梁济的墓园。在舒衡哲的记忆中，被外界称之为“最后一个儒家”的梁漱溟，并未被摧毁精神。幸存于文革浩劫之后，已年届九旬的他，依然是那个精神与真理的求索者，言行打动人心。今日的读者，也可从此文窥见1980年代早期中国知识分子的部分境况。

那一年的北大校园，美丽的春天如期而至。我也回到了自己的母校，并与知识界的同道们重逢。我在1980年的夏天，离开了这里，那时，我作为文革结束后首批赴北京大学的美国交换学者之一，刚刚完成了一年半的学习。当时，我就知道自己还会回来——因为我在撰写一部关于张申府（原名张崧年，哲学家，中共早期创始人。北大哲学教授张岱年之兄——编者注）的著作。然而，出乎我的意料，这次回来，我采访到了梁漱溟，并被他深深地打动——梁和张申府早在1911年辛亥革命前的顺天学堂时期，就已是老友。

与梁漱溟的会面，对我的人生产生了持久的影响。这是一位真正的求索者——终其一生，他都在深刻的精神层面追寻着真理。他的追寻，已远远超越了张申府（以及我在中国与西方所认识的许多学者）生命中充溢的政治与哲学困境。不过，如果不是因为我彼时正在做张申府的口述史研究，我或许会永远错过梁漱溟，也不会在1983年4月29日的那个春日，敲开他北京寓所的门。

在我们会面之前，我的同事Guy Alitto（美国汉学家艾恺，其著作《The Last Confucian》，也即《最后的儒家：梁漱溟与中国现代化的困境》一书于1986年出版——编者注），曾写信给梁漱溟，介绍我做的关于五四运动的研究。随后，我也给梁写了信，请教他关于和张申府漫长友谊的一些问题。4月29日早晨，我在北大校园里接到电话：梁先生已准备好，并急切地希望在当天下午两点半见到我。

我叫了一辆出租车，来到北京城中心一栋略显破旧的公寓楼。登上九楼，开门的是一位帮佣的女工，她身后，梁漱溟正等着与我握手——一位已九旬高龄，却依然极为清醒敏锐的老先生。

那天晚上，我在日记中这样写道：“能遇见这位贤者，是何等的福分。他令人印象深刻。固然体弱，但却如此谦逊、敏锐、细致而体贴。他的品德中没有一丝虚假。他对道德的执着闪耀其间。这与张申府那种自信而仓促的叙述形成了鲜明对比。”

在我见到梁漱溟之时，我已采访张申府将近两年时间。在我面前，张早先的清晰，以及乐于详述自己思想与经历的热情，已逐渐减退。到了1983年5月，我和他的许多谈话都围绕一个主题：张如何将自己视为二十世纪中国最重要的哲学家——而我已学会对他宏大的自我评价有所保留。但与梁漱溟的相遇，为我打开了一条全新的思考路径：在梁身上，我得以见证一种超越哲学的生命。

梁漱溟让我窥见了一位饱经折磨之人的内在世界——他始终在苦难之上寻求一条精神之路，并试图抵达某种可以疗愈历史创伤的持久真理。

我后来又三次拜访了梁漱溟。分别是同年5月的6日、14日、17日。我们于5月27日告别。每一次见面，我们似乎都更为亲近，更为坦诚。我不再急于提问关于顺天学堂的问题，也不急于比较他与张申府对罗素的不同看法。我只是慢慢啜饮茶水，注视着他瘦削的面庞，在寂静无言之中，体会他内心的宁静。

这多次的见面，让我对梁漱溟与张申府的旧日情谊渐次了解，也同时有幸听到他关于自身精神探索的片段——尽管这些内容与张的哲学探究之间，并无直接关联。

5月14日，我们进行了最长的一次谈话——整整三个小时。梁漱溟一如既往地热情迎接我。他穿着旧旧的中山装，光头上戴着一顶毛线帽。他看起来不苟言笑，事实上，他始终是一位严肃的求索者，对世界如此，对自己亦然。他那深陷的双眼直视着我，我们坐下来，开始交谈：

“无论别人如何称呼我——比如你那位美国同事阿利托称我为‘最后的儒家’——我首先是一个佛教徒。我一直不吃肉。我也一直在试图理解苦难的根源，并努力在自己和他人的生命中，将其拔除。”

说完这番话，他的声音渐渐低沉，仿佛放置在我们之间的那株盛开的红色仙人掌，吸走了他的声音。我第一次走进他家时，就注意到了这株仙人掌——在整齐排列的书籍之间，它格外醒目。那次我拍照时，他没有戴帽子。我隐约觉得，那株生机勃勃的仙人掌正映照着这位老人的性格——在中国二十世纪翻天覆地般的动荡岁月中，他始终葆有那一份被细心培植的顽强精神以及道德上的独立。

张申府与梁漱溟都以思想独立为傲。张以其独特的才智探索西方哲学，而梁则不断探究他所称的“民族心理的基础”。谈及两人的差异时，梁始终称他为“张先生”——这种礼貌出自长期修养的谦逊与对他人的尊重：

“张申府先生，比我更了解西方。他亲自见过、读过的都更多。我不会读外文，虽然学过多年英语，但久未使用，几乎已经忘记了。张先生在这方面帮了我很多。他懂多种外语，而且掌握得很好。我常常依赖他借书、讨论那些被翻译成中文却并不可靠的西方著作。我们当时在北大的兴趣就不同。我研究佛教认识论，张先生研究数理逻辑。至于他的哲学……”

说到这里，梁的声音渐渐消散。他显得疲惫。我告辞时，他又邀请我再来。显然，这些谈话对他而言，其意义不仅只是为我提供一些参究的资料。

三天后再访，他愿意进入更为个人化的话题。我们谈到他与张申府在对罗素的看法上的差异。与我口述史的主角张申府不同，梁对罗素“理性主义可以解决一切人生问题”的主张持批评态度。他曾一度对Henri Bergson（即亨利·柏格森，法国哲学家——编注）感兴趣，但后来通过融合中西思想，形成了自己的精神道路。

梁并不直接批评张的观点，但通过谈话，他让我逐渐看清，是哪些经验塑造了他自己独特的世界观。张申府曾加入又退出共产党，而梁则努力保持在政治纷争之外。1936年，张申府因学生运动被短暂监禁时，梁曾前往北平探望；1957年张被划为右派时，梁与他的友谊也没有断绝，并曾去探望困境中的张。同样，在文化大革命期间，张申府也尽力与梁保持着联络。

在我真正见到梁漱溟之前的两年，张申府曾动情地对我讲述梁在1960年代的遭遇：

“我的老朋友梁漱溟，被一再殴打。红卫兵闯入他家，逼他下跪，用鞭子抽打，还烧了他的书。我尽可能地去看他。他当时真是一个被摧毁的人。”

然而，1983年夏天坐在我面前的这位老人，精神是如此完整，看不出破碎的迹象。他对自身尊严有清晰的意识。事实上，他始终葆有某种深层的信念核心，才得以穿越最黑暗的年代。

在一次次交谈中，我逐渐将话题引向梁在文化大革命中的经历。此前，我从其他学者那里得知，红卫兵曾强迫梁漱溟拆毁其父梁济（清末著名学者，1918年于北京积水潭投水自尽——编者注）之墓。但直到他亲口讲述，我才真正想象出那种屈辱：他被拖到北京郊外，被迫举起铁锤，砸毁父亲的坟墓。说到此处时，他的眼中再次泛起泪水。更令人震惊的是，在毁墓之后，红卫兵还向他索要费用——因为他体力不支未能完成毁墓工作，对方“代劳”，而他必须为此付费。

回到我们见面的这一时刻。尽管1983年的梁漱溟仍承受着沉重的悲伤，但他的目光清澈，声音柔和而坚定。让我深受鼓舞的，正是他的“气节”——一种西方词汇难以完全表达的灵魂正直。

正是这种气节，使1983年的这次相遇如此深刻——即使在同一个月里，我还采访了周扬（中共文艺理论家，曾领导左翼文艺运动——编者注）与许德珩（曾是五四运动学生领袖，“九三学社”创始人——编者注）两位，并几乎每日与张申府会面。在这些幸存的老一代人中，唯有梁漱溟，以一种精神力量之光闪耀其间。

虽然我们未谈及我自己的犹太传统，但他感受到我对他的理解，他似乎认为我拥有一种能够超越语言表层、把握其意义的世界观。

5月27日告别那天，我们谈话不多。我们都明白，这很可能是此生最后一次相见。梁的语速比平时更慢。他幽默地讲起，金岳霖曾对胡适说过：“你少说了一句‘我是哲学的外行’。”（据一些文章记载，西南联大时期，胡适曾发表关于哲学定义的文章，金岳霖看完后对胡适说：“文章很好，可惜你少说了一句话。”胡适问是哪句，金岳霖以此作答。——编者注）

在门口，他握住我的手，沉默地握了几分钟，低着头，不与我对视。那晚我在日记中写道：“多么体贴而充满敬意的告别！我感受到他的情意，也感到他在这种缓慢流逝的时间中教给我某种重要的东西。”

如今，43年过去了，我仍在试图理解梁漱溟在1983年春天教给我的东西。他给我提供的关于张申府的资料，对我后来撰写《Time for Telling Truth is Running Out》（耶鲁大学出版社1992年出版。中文版译名为《张申府访谈录》）确有帮助。但我们的会面，远不止于信息的交流，而是有更深沉的内在精神意义。

我有幸与一位在二十世纪最艰难的岁月中，始终追随内心之声的人相处。这种“内在的音乐”，至今仍在激励我——每当我看到那张老人与红色仙人掌的照片时，它仿佛在低语：“忠于你对真理的理解，相信它会引导你前行，无论群体的教条多么喧嚣、诱人。”

编者补注：

梁漱溟：1893年（光绪年间）出生于京师（即后来的北京），1988年辞世。是20世纪中国著名的思想家、教育家、社会改造运动者。原名焕鼎，字寿铭，后以漱溟行世。1917年入北京大学任教，七年后投身农村，从事乡村建设运动。抗战胜利后曾参与国共和谈，参与创建民盟。1949年后任全国政协委员、常委及宪法修改委员会委员等，曾遭毛泽东点名批判。著作有《东西文化及其哲学》、《印度哲学概论》、《乡村建设理论》、《中国文化要义》与《人心与人生》等。

舒衡哲：Vera Schwarcz，著名的犹太裔美国汉学家，也是诗人和作家。美国卫斯理安大学东亚研究中心荣休教授。她是1979年中美建交后首批官方交换学者，于1979-1980年在北京大学中文系进修，长期致力于中国现代史研究，尤其在五四运动、口述史领域成果显著。代表作有《中国启蒙运动——知识分子与五四遗产》《张申府访谈录》、《漫漫回家路：一部中国日志》等。关于她更多的写作与出版，请读者参见她的个人网站：

https://betweentwowalls.com/。

本期推荐档案：

舒衡哲：《中国启蒙运动：知识分子与五四遗产》

舒衡哲：《张申府访谈录》

梁漱溟：《乡村建设理论》

【本文为中国民间档案馆首发，转载时请务必在正文之前注明“本文首发于中国民间档案馆”，并加上原文在中国民间档案馆网站或者中国民间档案馆Substack的链接。】

【作者观点不代表中国民间档案馆立场。】

A Spiritual Seeker: Conversations with Liang Shuming, May 1983

By Vera Schwarcz

The spring of that year blossomed with familiar beauty on the campus of Beida (Peking University). I had returned to my 母校 (alma mater) with many connections to the intellectuals’ world. When I left in the summer of 1980 (after a year and half of study as one of the first American exchange scholars at Peking University) I knew that I would come back to work on a book about one of the founders of the Chinese Communist Party, the philosopher Zhang Shenfu. I did not, however, anticipate how deeply moving it would be to interview one of his old friends, Liang Shuming. Meeting Liang Shuming left an enduring impact upon my life.

Here was a Chinese seeker for deep spiritual truths that went far beyond the politics and philosophical dilemmas that filled the life of Zhang Shenfu (and many other academics I know in China and in the West). Even today, I look back at my time with Liang and see the enduring wisdom that he offered me.

If I had not been working on an oral history of Zhang I would never have found my way to the door of Liang Shuming’s apartment on April 28th, 1983. My colleague Guy Alitto, who had published his book The Last Confucian: Liang Shu-ming and the Chinese Dilemma of Modernity in 1986 had written to Liang about my work. I then followed up with a letter with questions about his long-standing friendship with Zhang Shenfu. On April 29th in the morning I got the call at Beida: Liang Shuming was ready and eager to see me at 2:30 the same day. I took a taxi and made my way up to the 9th floor of a modern, but shabby apartment building in central Beijing. A housekeeper opened the door. Behind her, Liang was waiting to shake my hand—a 90 year old and very alert gentleman.

In my journal that evening after our two-hour conversation I wrote: “What a blessing to have met this sage. He was most impressive. Frail, to be sure. But so, so humble, alert. So careful and caring. Not a false note in his 品德 (moral character). His ethical stubbornness shines through. So different from the arrogant confidence and hasty tales of Zhang Shenfu.”

By the summer of 1983, I had been interviewing Zhang Shenfu for two years. His early lucidity and eagerness to share complex details about his life and thought had diminished. Many of our conversations during that May revolved around a single theme: How Zhang considered himself the most important philosopher in 20th century China. I had learned to discount some of these grandiose claims. But meeting Liang Shuming opened an entirely new avenue for reflection: Here I was invited to witness a life that went beyond philosophy. Liang allowed me to glimpse the inner landscape of a much-tortured man who kept seeking a spiritual path beyond grief to some enduring truth that might heal the wounds of history.

I returned to Liang Shuming’s apartment three more times: On May 6th, May 14th, May 17th and finally to say goodbye on May 27th 1983. Each time, I felt we became closer, more open with each other. I did not have to rush through my questions about the Shuntian Academy, where he had studied with Zhang before the 1911 Revolution, about how his views of Bertrand Russell differed from those of Zhang. I sipped my tea more slowly, allowed my gaze to linger on Liang’s thin face without words, and took in the wisdom of his inner quiet. Over the course of these visits, I was allowed into the circle of Liang Shuming’s old affection for Zhang Shenfu, while at the same time I was privileged to hear bits about his own spiritual quest that had nothing to do with Zhang’s philosophical explorations.

On May 14th we had our longest talk—three hours. As usual, Liang Shuming greeted me warmly, standing up in his worn Mao jacket, a woolen cap on his bald head. His thin face does not break into a smile easily. He is a seeker who is serious. Even severe with the world. And with himself. His deep set eyes remain fixed on mine as we sit down to talk:

“I am a Buddhist first and foremost, no matter if some—like your American colleague Guy Alitto—would call me “the last Confucian.” I still eat no meat. I still seek to understand the cause of suffering and try to root it out in my life and in the lives of those around me.”

After making this strong statement, Liang’s voice fades away, as if sucked up by the thirsty red cactus blooming between us. I had noticed the plant the first day I walked into Liang’s apartment. It stood out starkly among the well-ordered books. Liang wore no cap in the photograph that I took during that visit. The vigorous cactus, I sensed, mirrored the old sage’s stubborn character, his fierce sense of ethical independence nurtured with care over the traumatic decades of the Chinese revolution.

Zhang Shenfu and Liang Shuming were two friends who prided themselves in their independence of mind. Zhang had used his quirky intelligence to explore Western philosophy while Liang Shuming kept probing what he called “the foundations of our national psychology.” Speaking to me about their differences in outlook, Liang was careful to always refer to “Mr. Zhang”—a genuine politeness that came from his well practiced humility and respect for others:

“Mr. Zhang Shenfu, you see, knows far more about the West than I. He has seen and read more about it first hand. I can’t read foreign languages, though I have studied English for years. I haven’t used it for so long that I have quite forgotten how to read it. Mr. Zhang helped me a great deal with this. He knew many foreign languages and he knew them well. So I could rely on him to lend me books and talk about authors who were translated, but translated unreliably into Chinese. We were interested in different things, even back then at Beida. I was working on Buddhist epistemology, Mr. Zhang on mathematical logic. As for Mr. Zhang’s philosophy…”

Liang Shuming’s voice trailed off, tired. I could see that he was weary, his words growing vague. As I took my leave he invited me back again. Clearly, our conversations were important to him, not just a source of information for me.

And indeed, when I came back three days later, my aged host was willing to venture into more personal terrain. We spoke about the important differences between his views about Bertrand Russell and Zhang’s uncritical admiration of the British eccentric. Unlike the subject of my oral history, Liang Shuming was critical of Russell’s claims that rationalism can solve all of life’s problems. He retained for a while his interest in Henri Bergson, but then fashioned his own spiritual path by engaging both Western and Asian modes of thought. Liang Shuming never criticized Zhang’s views directly, but he allowed me to see more and more what experiences had made his own worldview unique.

Whereas Zhang Shenfu joined and later left the Communist Party, Liang Shuming tried to stay above the fray of politics. When Zhang Shenfu was jailed briefly in 1936 for his role in the student movement, Liang came to visit him in Peiping. When he was labeled a rightist in 1957, Liang Shuming remained Zhang’s friend and made a point of visiting him in times of distress. Similarly, Zhang Shenfu went out of his way to stay in touch with Liang Shuming during the Cultural Revolution. In one of our interviews, two years before I actually met Liang, Zhang Shenfu spoke movingly about Liang’s troubles in the 1960s:

“My old friend Liang Shuming was beaten over and over again. Red Guards came to his house, forced him to kneel, and whipped him. They burned his books. I tried to visit him whenever possible. He was such a broken man.”

Yet the man who sat facing me in the summer of 1983 was anything but broken in spirit. He had a clear sense of his own dignity. He had managed to hold on to some deep core of belief that had carried him through the darkest times.

Slowly, over the course of our visit, I inched my way to the subject of his experiences during the Cultural Revolution. I knew from other scholars how Liang Shuming had been forced by the Red Guards to demolish the grave of his own father, Liang Ji. But I had no sense of how humiliating it had been to be dragged by these youths to the outskirts of Beijing. Until our conversations, I had not pictured in my mind’s eye, the aged sage forced to pick up a hammer to smash Liang Ji’s grave. I had not seen the tears in his eyes, which came up again as he told me that the Red Guards sent a bill to his house after the horrific outing. Since Liang Shuming had no strength to finish the demolition, they did it for him and Liang was forced to pay for the destroyers’ time.

Despite the heavy sorrows that Liang Shuming still shouldered in 1983, his gaze was clear, his voice soft but firm in telling me what he had gone through. Each time we parted I left more inspired by his 氣節 (moral spirit)—a kind of soulful integrity that no Western lexicon can convey. This made our meeting so impactful in 1983—even in a month in which I was also privileged to also interview Zhou Yang and Xu Deheng in addition to my daily meetings with Zhang Shenfu. Among all these aged survivors, Liang Shuming sparkled with the light of spiritual strength. Although we did not speak about my own Jewish traditions, he felt appreciated by me and sensed that I had a worldview that helped me to grasp the meaning of his words beyond the sounds they made between us.

On May 27th, when I went to his apartment to say goodbye, we said rather little. We both knew that this was likely to be our last meeting in this life. Liang Shuming spoke slower than usual. He told me with humor how Jin Yuelin once said to Hu Shih: “Too bad you did not acknowledge that you were an outsider (外行) to philosophy.” At the door of his apartment, Liang Shuming took hold of my hand and held it for a few minutes without words. His head was bowed, eyes not meeting mine. As I wrote in my journal that night: “What a caring and respectful goodbye! I felt his affection and that he was teaching me something important in this slowing down of time between us.”

Now, forty-three years later, I am still trying to decode what Liang Shuming taught me in the spring of 1983. The information about Zhang Shenfu was useful as I wrote my book: Time for Telling Truth is Running Out (Yale University Press, 1992). But there was much more than information in our meetings. I had been privileged to be in company of a man who had followed the inner music of his soul during the toughest decades of 20th century history. That music inspires me to this day whenever I look at the photograph of the aged sage and the red cactus. It seems to whisper: “Stay true to your own vision of truth, trust that it will carry you no matter how loud or tempting the dogmas of the mob.”

Recommended archives:

Vera Schwarcz: The Chinese Enlightenment: Intellectuals and the Legacy of the May Fourth Movement of 1919 (University of California Press, 1986)

Vera Schwarcz: Time for Telling Truth is Running Out: Conversations with Zhang Shenfu (Yale University Press, 1992)

Liang Shuming: Theory of Rural Reconstruction (1937)

[This article first appeared in China Unofficial Archives. When reposting, please ensure that the following is included at the beginning of the reposted text: “This article was first published by the China Unofficial Archives,” accompanied by a link to the original article on the China Unofficial Archives website or Substack.]

[The views expressed by the author of this article do not necessarily reflect the position of the China Unofficial Archives.]

作者：何义

By He Yi

The English translation follows below.

编者按语：

1962年9月的苏州，林昭与27岁的黄政相遇。通过深入的交流，两人确认彼此志同道合，以林昭为主，他们共同拟定了《中国自由青年战斗联盟纲领》等三份文件，提出八条主张，认为中国应该实行“总统制、军队国家化、发展民主、引进外资”等……这些观点，可谓石破天惊。1962年11月林昭被收监，1963年10月黄政被捕，林昭于1968年4月29日遇害。黄政熬过15年的刑期，再经历6年多的申诉，直至1985年底，才获得平反。

2025年9月29日，黄政在苏州溘然长逝。2026年清明，艾晓明教授编辑了《黄政纪念集》，纪念这位远非如林昭那样知名的同案难友。中国民间档案馆独家刊载这份档案，同时刊发何义所写的评论文章，作为林昭罹难58周年纪念。

1962年3月，因《星火》案牵连而被捕的林昭，得到保外就医的机会。夏秋之交，她在苏州逗留期间，认识了劳教农场释放回来的青年黄政。他们有过20多天的深度交流，两人共同策划成立“中国自由青年战斗联盟”，并制定了纲领和行动计划。同年11月，林昭被再次关押，黄政保存了她的手稿。1963年10月2日，黄政起草并刻印了《给统治者的一封公开信》，以及《告人民大众书》。由于公安机关早已安插线人，黄政次日被抓捕，并先于林昭被判处15年徒刑。

今天，林昭已成为中国人反抗极权、为自由献身的代表人物，而她的同案难友黄政的名字却很少被人知晓。很多关心中国当代政治反抗史的读者，也不熟悉黄政与林昭在苏州的这段案情。2025年9月29日，黄政在苏州离世，享年90岁。感谢艾晓明教授先后发出讣告、访谈和纪念文章，由此我才知道黄先生仙逝和他的独特经历。

黄政，出生于1935年，比林昭小三岁，祖籍安徽砀山，1950年考入华东军政大学，随后参军入伍，到朝鲜参战，1955年回国。他的父亲黄尔恒曾任汪伪时期的地方警务官员，在肃反前夕被捕，羁押数年后瘐死。黄政因父亲问题受到影响，在部队中曾被隔离审查。1957年反右期间，黄政被打成极右分子，1958年送苏北农场劳教，在随后的大饥荒中死里逃生。1961年底他被释放后，曾回砀山老家，目睹了大跃进、大饥荒给安徽农村带来的惨烈后果。1962年8月底，他经由友人朱红介绍而认识了林昭，两人在思想上产生了强烈共鸣，并开始策划联络同道，成立组织。在“星火”案同人全部系狱后，他与林昭开始了薪火相传的行动。

《黄政纪念集》的封面和封底，呈现了林昭的长诗《海鸥——不自由毋宁死》的意境。诗中的勇士挣脱镣铐，投身大海，最终化身为冲出水面的海鸥，它是林昭所讴歌的自由战士的象征。

纪念集分为三辑，分别为回忆、访谈与研究：第一辑收入了黄政生前回忆林昭的和讲述其冤案经历的两篇文章；第二辑为黄政在世纪之初和十多年前接受胡杰、艾晓明访问的实录；第三辑为艾晓明撰写的两篇研究文章，针对这个案子的特殊性和人物的独特经历，一篇讨论黄政冤案中所呈现的线人政治，第二篇为黄政家事寻踪，后者通过黄政的亲人以及家庭的历史，探讨了1950年代初期的政治运动对家庭的冲击。通过蒙冤者与其子女的命运，作者剖析了出身论的缘起及其荒谬性。

1. 林昭二次入狱前，在苏州发生了什么？

有关林昭1960年第一次入狱，中国民间档案馆2025年8月曾刊出的顾雁长文《“她走上了夏瑜的道路”——我与林昭》（上、下）里，讲的已比较清楚：林昭与《星火》案的主要人物有思想共鸣，但对涉及“纲领”、“组织”和“行动”时，她保持了一定的距离。也是因为这个原因，顾雁将1962年林昭在保外就医期间的政治活动，称之为“另起炉灶”。那么，林昭在这段时间，为什么会有这样一个看似激进的转向呢？从黄政写的纪念文章里，可以得到部分答案。

据黄政回忆，1962年8月间，他经难友朱红介绍，认识了在苏州居家养病的林昭。这时的黄政不止是反右的受害者，也是苏北劳教农场大饥馑劫难的幸存者；而林昭从狱中出来已有半年多。他们都经历了反右以后的现实苦难，也几乎同时成为失去父亲的儿女——林昭的父亲彭国彦1960年在女儿被捕后绝望自尽；黄政的父亲黄尔恒经过在1961年死于不明不白的长期羁押。

林昭与黄政都曾是献身共产革命的热血青年：黄政从军干校毕业后，即赴朝鲜参战；林昭原本是共产党的新闻教育培养出来的大学生。现实的打击令他们清醒，并自觉选择了反对者的立场。1962年9月7日以后，在大约二十天的时间里，以林昭为主，他们共同拟定了《中国自由青年战斗联盟纲领》、《行动计划》、《初期组织形式》三份文件。

《中国自由青年战斗联盟纲领》里，包括八项政治主张：

1. 国家应实行地方自治联邦制

2. 国家应实行总统负责制

3. 国家应实行军队国家化

4. 国家政治生活实行民主化

5. 国家实行耕者有其田制度

6. 国家允许私人开业，个体经营工商业

7. 国家应对负有民愤者实行惩治

8. 应当争取和接受一切友好国家援助

这些主张可谓切中时弊，文革结束后，有关市场开放、允许个体经营的主张已经得到尝试；而涉及民主政治的目标，即使在今天的中国，有些也仍然难以企及。由此可见，它在当时是具有强烈的预见性和挑战性的。比起林昭来，黄政与张春元一样上过战场，而他在农场和农村的亲身经历，更是林昭所没有的。在那样深重的劫难中幸存下来，黄政与林昭互相激励，他们亲自抄写了那几份文件，并且交换保存，以示同心协力，患难与共。

回到前面的问题：林昭何以从入狱前的思想者，在此时转变为政治反抗团体的发起人，成为直接行动者？阅读黄政的回忆和访谈记录，我认为，她是自觉地承担了《星火》同仁入狱前未尽之事。也可以说，她并不是如顾雁所说的另起炉灶，而是直面险境，前赴后继。正如艾晓明所说：“她的《星火》难友希望：既然释放了你，你要活下去。但对她来说，活下去却不是首要考虑；而证明独裁者错了，彻底错了，才具有最大的迫切性。这个迫切性超越了生存本身，因此，她不要苟活，她要解决当局不能这么做（错下去）的问题。”

上述八项主张中的一部分，也延续了《星火》同仁的观点。例如，张春元1962年在狱中的一份交待材料里，就曾写下他的观点：“按人重新分配土地，以田定产，以产定税，收入归己，废除统购，贸易自由。”同时，“对商业，我们主张在现有条件下……放宽一些商业经营的限制，主要是商贩和民用商业的限制，藉以繁荣市场和补助国营商业的不足。”很可能，他入狱前与林昭数次见面时，已经谈到这些观点。林昭虽然还没有决定加入《星火》的行动，但她完全赞同他们的观点。在《星火》同人的远见卓识被封禁扑灭时，她决定继承这份责任，使之抵达公众。

黄政的回忆，让我们得知林昭1962年保外候审期间的勇敢的思考。她在苏州时期的手稿和言行，成为新的“罪证”，使她在1965年被重判20年，黄政也以15年的生命时光为之服刑。晚年的黄政一直审慎地保存着对这些思想结晶的记忆，并在访谈中进行了阐述。艾晓明在她的访谈记录之前，加上了研究性的札记，她梳理了林昭-黄政冤案的形成过程；而胡杰的访谈更为深入，其中尤其重要的是黄政谈他入狱后的经历以及争取平反的艰难。两篇访谈在黄政生前从未发表，为的是使黄政晚年能享有基本的安宁，不至于再因为言论而被治罪。

2. 极权统治下的线人政治

在林昭与黄政的冤案中，有一位引人注目的人物，他就是朱红。朱红是一位诗人，1980年代因诗作的发表而声名鹊起；现在是知名的苏州地方志专家。在文革中，他曾被当作林-黄冤案中的“漏网之鱼”而受到迫害；但在黄政的回忆中，朱红是他的患难之交，也是亲自把他引入陷阱的人。

艾晓明《线人政治与诗人往事》这篇文章，对这场冤案中“三人行”展开了分析。她让我们看到极权政治中更为险恶和影响长久的悲剧：友情的蜕变和人性的耗损。难友利用友情来协从作恶，不仅颠覆了人伦常态，也给双方留下终生的阴影。通过对朱红的经历、诗作和当年政治环境的分析，作者呈现了底层右派小人物精神上的变形记。不同于一般曝光卧底者的文章，艾晓明将朱红表现出的这种屈服，归之于制度性后果，它是政治高压下的人格变异，也是政治迫害带来的创伤后遗症。

从《黄政纪念集》中，可以看出艾晓明研究当代社会史个案的方法特点。她注重收集史料，包括口述访谈、未曾发表的回忆录以及来自民间收藏的故纸。她因此能够以新颖的史料梳理出一个小人物的生命轨迹，让读者看到，一个时代的暴力如何将其扭曲。

朱红原本是黄政和林昭的好友，他与林昭有过诗的交流，他们写诗的风格不同，但彼此间也有读书人的惺惺相惜。因为朱红的回忆，我们才得以读到林昭的另一首长诗《美呵》。

艾晓明没有将线人的面貌脸谱化，她将侧重点放在国家机器摆布线人的机制运作上，她分析了控制线人的话语策略以及线人在制造冤案过程中所起的作用。从中可见，在“以阶级斗争为纲”的年代，“特情”是必不可少的办案工具，由各级线人织就的思想监控网络，给当事人和整个社会带来严重的后果：“线人利用师生、亲友关系，将人与人之间的珍贵连接转化为监控和政治迫害的形式，从而瓦解了人性的根基，败坏了道德操守。意识到线人的存在，人们必须互相防范，因此加剧了存在的孤立和原子化。而随着人际关系的恶化，原本脆弱的受害者再难找到心灵的庇护所，因而也更容易沦为牺牲。”

在这样的背景下，再来看朱红的诗作，诗人与社会、诗歌与政治的关系也就呈现出复杂交错的意义。艾晓明讲述了朱红的生活经历与其早年地下写作的风格，并将他的作品与林昭的诗作进行比较，从而说明，他们本来的关系是诗友和难友，至少也是同路人。但由于生存压力和制度性的操控，朱红当年做出了违背良心的选择。这使人们在重读他平反以后的诗作时，也有复杂的感受。一方面，朱红纪念林昭的诗篇，呈现了时代的变化和新的感悟；另一方面，联系到诗人当年的作为和林昭被枪杀的命运，也令人扼腕叹息诗人的道德失守，并反省文字的自我美化功能。这一切，并不是要对朱红本人进行道德审判，相反，作者肯定了朱红在回忆中自我解剖的文字；她更希望人们思考的是那些制度性的原因，在这个脉络下，我们才有可能提出，作为诗人，应该怎样坚守道德来应对政治的逼迫。

3. 寻回失落的亲情

1985年12月14日，经过漫长且几乎无望的申诉，黄政终于获得了无罪判决。之后，他同淑玉女士喜结连理，共同走过了后半生四十载岁月。婚后不久，他对妻子说：“我还有几个弟弟妹妹呢，我要找到他们。”经过十年寻访，1995年，他与失散的手足们终于在老家砀山团圆。此时，距离黄政的父亲黄尓恒含冤去世，已过去了三十多年。

从黄政与林昭的冤案出发，艾晓明对黄政经历的研究，延展到其家族成员的历史，她在《历史的伤口与弥合——黄政家事寻踪》一文的按语里写道：

“为什么在访谈冤案之后，还要去寻访家史？通常，人们会认为这些是私人生活，没有那么重要……我的出发点是这样：黄政的厄运，是从他父亲黄尔恒在肃反前被审查开始的。父亲的过往，仿佛是一种原罪，他因此被抛出生活常轨，被开除团籍，被划右派……他对现实的疑问由此开始……那么，他父亲究竟是个什么样的人？他的死对他产生了什么样的影响？如果说那个时代的家庭出身是原罪，那这种“罪”是怎样设定的？”

1935年，黄政出生于中国乡村一个旧式家庭，他的父亲黄尔恒（1906-1961）先后有四房妻妾，除黄政的生母早逝，其余三位，一位一直居住在农村，一位在离婚后漂泊到西北，最后远至新疆；还有一位是新四军女战士，早年参加革命，因为被捕而屈为黄妻，终于在他入狱后得以离婚，但依然受到牵连。在黄政去世后，艾晓明通过口述访谈、书信残片、老照片，以及黄政留下的手迹等家庭史料，力图再现黄家的四房女人、子女与其原生家庭和领养家庭的人生坎坷。

每个家庭的历史，都有自己独特的复杂性以及疑难点。在3万多字长文里，艾晓明聚焦于1950年代政治变迁冲击下旧家庭的解体，重点描述了“唯成分论”所造成的家庭悲剧，并深刻剖析了这种观念的荒谬。

从黄家故事里，我们能看到，有大量普通的中国人，在土改、镇反、肃反这些早期的政治运动中遭受迫害，相比于右派知识人群体，他们留下的证言要少得多。

而从黄政寻亲这个聚散离合的复杂故事里，又可以看到，寻找失散的亲人，重写家史和回归亲情，这种努力具有修复历史创伤、重塑人伦关系的深意。其实，如果对中国基层社会有所观察和研究，不难发现，近几十年来，续修家史、族谱，宗亲联谊、聚会，包括形成固定的宗亲社团……已经是一个较为普遍的社会现象。可以说，这是对传统社会宗亲观念的回归，其中也不乏在竞争社会里聚力互惠的考虑；但就认识长辈历史，凝聚亲情这一点而言，它对极权政治具有不可低估的抵抗意义。

在这篇文章中，我们也能看到一位思想斗士的仁爱情怀。黄政从他的牺牲里，没有得到名望、地位或任何物质利益的补偿，年过半百才成家，但他得到了妻子的理解和终生不渝的爱。这与当年《牧马人》带来的社会轰动与舆论共识有关，但在私人生活中得到持久的敬重，则是来自黄政自身的人格魅力。他以高度自律、无私的人品和家庭责任感，赢得了同父异母众多弟妹和亲属的敬重。他对亏欠了子女们的父亲，也做出了身为长子的交待：他将飘零离散了四十多年的弟弟妹妹们一一找回——尽到了他所称之为的“做人的本分”。

由此，艾晓明肯定了寻亲与纪念行为的社会价值：“被整死、关死的人不能复生，但生者依然可以做些什么……这个寻亲故事发生在家庭内部，却有着在最小的社会细胞上修复人性的意义……即使社会的正义迟迟未到，个人、家庭仍可以努力在先，去抚平创伤，重建记忆。这是他弥合历史伤口的努力，也是他留给亲人的精神遗产。”如同这部纪念集，也是在表明这样一种对待历史的态度，让每一个人的生命得到记录，让记忆可以流传：“每一个蒙难者，都值得一份人生档案。”

今年的4月29日，是林昭殉难58周年。重读黄政的故事，对于纪念林昭与她那时代的勇士们，有着特别的意义。勇者的生命虽然饱经磨难，但其思想的冲击力势必超越生命本身，并将长久地滋养后来的人们。

本期档案推荐：

艾晓明：《黄政纪念集》

【本文为中国民间档案馆首发，转载时请务必在正文之前注明“本文首发于中国民间档案馆”，并加上原文在中国民间档案馆网站或者中国民间档案馆Substack的链接。】

【作者观点不代表中国民间档案馆立场。】

Lin Zhao’s Co-Defendant Huang Zheng: An Unknown Yet Courageous Thinker

By He Yi

Editors’ Note:

During a period of about 20 days in Suzhou in September 1962, Lin Zhao, one of the best-known figures of resistance during the Cultural Revolution, engaged in a consequential exchange of ideas with Huang Zheng, a young man from Suzhou. As kindred spirits, they drafted three documents, including the “Program of the China Free Youth Combat Alliance,” proposing that China should implement “a presidential system, the nationalization of the military, the development of democracy, and the introduction of foreign capital.”.. Although Lin Zhao gained great fame as a poet, an activist, and a Christian martyr, Huang Zheng passed away quietly in September 2025, largely unknown to the public. To commemorate Huang, Professor Ai Xiaoming has edited a book of recollections about Huang, titled Huang Zheng: A Memorial Volume. China Unofficial Archives is the first platform to share a digital copy of this book on the 58th anniversary of the execution of Lin Zhao.

In March 1962, following her first arrest as a co-defendant in the case of the underground journal Spark, Lin Zhao was released on medical parole. That September, she spent 20 days in Suzhou in deep communication with a local 27-year-old named Huang Zheng. Together, they planned the establishment of the “China Free Youth Combat Alliance” and formulated its program and action plan. In November 1962, Lin Zhao was detained again, but Huang preserved her manuscripts, which became evidence for his prosecution. On October 2, 1963, Huang drafted and printed two essays called “An Open Letter to the Rulers” and “A Message to the Masses.” Because the police had already planted informants, Huang was quickly arrested and sentenced to 15 years in prison, preceding Lin Zhao’s sentencing.

Today, Lin Zhao has become a symbolic figure for Chinese people resisting totalitarianism and sacrificing their lives for freedom, yet the name of her co-defendant, Huang Zheng, is rarely known. Many readers interested in the history of contemporary Chinese political resistance are unfamiliar with the details of the case involving Huang Zheng and Lin Zhao in Suzhou. Huang passed away in Suzhou on September 29, 2025, at the age of 90. I only recently learned of his passing through the Huang Zheng: A Memorial Volume.

Huang Zheng was born in 1935, three years later than Lin Zhao. Originally from Dangshan, Anhui Province, he was admitted to the East China Military and Political University in 1950 and enlisted in the army. He later served in the Korean War before returning to China in 1955. His father, Huang Erheng, had served as a local police official during the Nationalist era; he was later arrested during the Suppression of Counter-revolutionaries campaign and died in custody. This had a direct impact on Huang Zheng, who was singled out for investigation while still in the military.

In 1957, during the Anti-Rightist Campaign, Huang Zheng—who had by then returned to Suzhou for work—was labeled an “ultra-Rightist.” He was sent to a labor farm in Northern Jiangsu for re-education, where he narrowly survived the Great Famine. Following his release at the end of 1961, he returned to his hometown in Anhui and witnessed the devastating toll the Great Leap Forward and the famine had taken on the countryside. By early 1962, after returning to Suzhou, he met Lin Zhao. The two found a profound intellectual resonance with one another. Alongside Lin Zhao and the Spark case group, Huang Zheng stands as yet another courageous thinker of that era. The front and back covers of Huang Zheng: A Memorial Volume feature imagery of the sea and seagulls, a reference to Lin Zhao’s long poem “The Seagull—Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death.” The warrior in the poem, who breaks free from shackles to plunge into the sea and eventually transforms into a seagull, serves as a symbol for the freedom fighters of Lin Zhao’s era.

The memorial collection is divided into three volumes: Reminiscences, Interviews, and Research. It includes two articles by Huang reflecting on Lin Zhao, as well as transcripts of interviews he gave to Hu Jie and Ai Xiaoming. Those two in-depth interviews were never publicly released during his lifetime. The third volume consists of two articles by Ai Xiaoming: the first examines the informant politics revealed by Huang’s wrongful conviction, while the second traces Huang Zheng’s family history. Through his family’s story, she presents the fates of the victims of injustice and their children during the political campaigns of the early 1950s, focusing on the origins and absurdity of the theory of class origin.

1. What happened in Suzhou before Lin Zhao’s second imprisonment?

Lin Zhao’s first imprisonment in 1960 was thoroughly recounted in Gu Yan’s long article, “‘She Chose a Martyr’s Path’: Lin Zhao and Me” (Parts 1 and 2), first published by the China Unofficial Archives in August 2025. While Lin Zhao shared an ideological resonance with the main figures of the Spark case, she maintained some distance from their formal programs and organizational actions. For this reason, Gu described Lin Zhao’s political activities during her 1962 medical parole as “starting a new stove,” meaning Lin Zhao began organizing a new program of her own. Why, then, did Lin Zhao turn toward radical actions like forming an organization and drafting a program during this period? Partial answers can be found in Huang Zheng: A Memorial Volume.

According to Huang, he was introduced to Lin Zhao in August 1962 by their friend Zhu Hong while Lin Zhao was recuperating at home in Suzhou. At the time, Huang was not only a victim of the Anti-Rightist Campaign but also a survivor of the Great Famine in the labor reform farms of Northern Jiangsu. Lin Zhao had been out of prison for over six months, and reality had dealt them both painful lessons. Crucially, both had recently lost their fathers: Lin Zhao’s father, Peng Guoyan, committed suicide in despair in 1960 after her arrest; Huang’s father, Huang Erheng, died in 1961 after a long-term detention.

Lin Zhao and Huang Zheng were originally passionate youths dedicated to the Communist revolution: Huang had fought in Korea immediately after graduating from a military cadre school, and Lin Zhao was a college student trained in the Communist Party’s journalism system. It was the heavy blows of reality that pushed them toward resistance. Over roughly twenty days in September 1962, with Lin Zhao taking the lead, they exchanged dissenting views and, as kindred spirits, drafted three documents: the “Program of the China Free Youth Combat Alliance,” an “Action Plan,” and a “Form of Initial Organizational.”

The Alliance’s program included eight political propositions: the Chinese state should implement a federal system and local autonomy; it should adopt a presidential system; the military should be nationalized and not controlled by the Communist Party; the political system should be democratized; land should belong to the tillers and not the state; private industry and commerce should be developed; the country should accept unconditional aid from friendly nations and introduce foreign capital; and those responsible for the Great Famine and previous political campaigns should be punished.

These propositions targeted the core issues of the time; even in today’s China, they remain largely unattainable goals. This shows that even during those catastrophic years, there were clear-headed and profound thinkers among Chinese intellectuals; however, their foresight was suppressed from the start, never reaching the public.

To return to the earlier question: Why did Lin Zhao shift from being a thinker to a direct political actor and organizer? Through the Huang Zheng: A Memorial Volume, we can learn that she was consciously fulfilling the unfinished business of her Spark colleagues, such as establishing an organization, drafting a program, and connecting with fellow dissenters. She was facing danger head-on, continuing the work of those who had fallen. Ai Xiaoming noted: “Survival was not her priority; proving the dictator completely wrong was the most urgent task—one that transcended survival itself. She refused to live an ignoble life; she wanted to address the fact that the authorities could not be allowed to continue their wrongdoing.”

Some of these eight propositions were continuations of the views held by the Spark group. For example, in a 1962 confession written in prison, Zhang Chunyuan, a key organizer of the underground journal Spark, stated: “Land should be redistributed according to the population, with income belonging to the individual, the abolition of unified procurement, and free trade.” He also advocated “relaxing restrictions on commercial operations to allow markets to prosper and supplement the deficiencies of state-owned commerce.” It is likely that Zhang and Lin Zhao discussed these ideas, though she had not yet decided to join their actions at that time.

Huang’s reminiscences provide insight into Lin Zhao’s deep reflections following her release. Her manuscripts from her time in Suzhou became evidence used against her, and Huang sacrificed 15 years of his life in prison for them. In his later years, Huang carefully and persistently preserved the memory of these intellectual achievements. Ai’s research notes, which accompany the interview records, trace the development of this unjust case. Hu Jie’s interview is even more thorough, specifically covering Huang’s experiences in prison and his difficult struggle for legal rehabilitation. These interviews remained unpublished during his lifetime to ensure he could live out his final years in peace, free from further persecution. With his passing, they have finally been released to honor this pioneer.

2. Informant Politics Under Totalitarian Rule

A striking figure in the wrongful convictions of Lin Zhao and Huang Zheng is Zhu Hong, the person who introduced them. Zhu later rose to fame in the 1980s as a poet and is now an expert on Suzhou local history. Zhu was also persecuted during the Cultural Revolution as a “fish that escaped the net” in the Lin-Huang case. However, Huang’s recollections reveal that Zhu was actually a key public security informant in the case.

Ai Xiaoming’s article, “Informant Politics and a Poet’s Past,” explores the erosion of friendship under extreme political pressure. When a close friend becomes an informant, it subverts ethics and leaves lifelong scars on everyone involved. Through an analysis of Zhu’s life, poetry, and political surroundings, Ai Xiaoming presents a different kind of tragedy—that of the low-level “Rightist.” Unlike typical exposés, she attributes Zhu’s fear-based compliance to systemic forces, viewing it as a form of post-traumatic stress caused by political persecution.

Ai Xiaoming’s research methodology is evident in the Huang Zheng: A Memorial Volume. She focuses on gathering historical evidence—oral interviews, unpublished memoirs, and discarded documents from private collections—to reconstruct the life of an ordinary person and show how the violence of the era distorted it.

This evidence includes Zhu’s own accounts. Originally a friend to both Huang Zheng and Lin Zhao, he expressed his remembrance of Lin Zhao in poems written after the case was rehabilitated in the 1980s. It was also through him that another of Lin Zhao’s long poems, “How Beautiful,” was preserved.

Ai Xiaoming avoids caricaturing the informant. She does not deny the literary merit of Zhu’s poetry, but she uses case details to argue that his work is “self-beautifying,” or as she puts it, “Having weighed the costs of prison against survival, he chose to align with the government.”

Ai Xiaoming’s primary goal is to illustrate how the informant system is used to manufacture counter-revolutionary cases and to analyze the authorities’ strategies for controlling these individuals. Throughout various political campaigns, the authorities have used special agents to “solve” cases, with devastating effects on the individuals involved and society as a whole. Through her analysis of the Lin-Huang case and others, Ai concludes: “Informants exploit relationships between teachers and students, friends and relatives, turning precious human connections into tools of surveillance and persecution. This destroys the foundations of humanity and corrupts moral integrity. Because the presence of informants forces people to be wary of one another, it increases social isolation and atomization. As interpersonal relationships collapse, fragile victims lose their last sanctuary and become easier targets for sacrifice.”

Ai Xiaoming’s work also explains how this system of special agents functions and how its traps are set, pondering whether it is possible for an individual to choose conscience over compliance when faced with the overwhelming power of the state.

3. Reclaiming Lost Family Ties

On December 14, 1985, after years of nearly hopeless appeals, Huang Zheng was finally declared innocent. He later married Shu Yu, and they spent forty years together. Early in their marriage, he told her, “I still have siblings, and I want to find them.” After a decade of searching, he was finally reunited with his long-lost siblings in their ancestral hometown of Dangshan, Anhui Province, in 1995—more than thirty years after their father, Huang Erheng, had died in detention.

Expanding her research from the Spark case, Ai Xiaoming explored the history of Huang’s family. In the article’s introduction, she writes:

Why investigate family history after researching a wrongful conviction? Usually, people consider these to be private matters of little importance... My perspective is different: Huang Zheng’s misfortunes began when his father, Huang Erheng, was investigated prior to the Campaign to Suppress Counter-revolutionaries. His father’s past was treated as a kind of original sin that derailed Huang Zheng’s life—he was expelled from the Youth League and labeled a Rightist。 This is where his questioning of reality began. What kind of man was his father? How did his death affect Huang Zheng? If family background was considered an original sin in that era, how was that guilt constructed?

Huang Zheng was born in 1935 into a traditional, polygamous household. His father, Huang Erheng (1906–1961), had four wives and concubines. Huang Zheng’s biological mother died young, and the others led difficult lives: one remained in the countryside, another drifted to the Northwest and eventually Xinjiang after a divorce, and a third—a former New Fourth Army soldier—was forced into the marriage after her arrest because of Huang Erheng’s status as an official. She remained stigmatized even after divorcing Huang Erheng after he was imprisoned. Using oral histories, fragments from letters, old photographs, and Huang Zheng’s own notes, Ai Xiaoming attempts to reconstruct the hardships faced by these four women and their children.

Every family history has its own complexities. In her 30,000-character essay, “The Wounds and Healing of History—Tracing Huang Zheng’s Family Story,” Ai Xiaoming examines the collapse of traditional families under the political shifts of the 1950s. She focuses on the tragedies caused by “class-status determinism” and critiques the absurdity of that ideology.

The story of the Huang family reveals that a vast number of ordinary Chinese people were persecuted during early political campaigns like Land Reform and the Suppression of Counter-revolutionaries. Unlike the intellectual Rightists, these people left behind far fewer testimonies.

Furthermore, Huang Zheng’s complex journey to find his siblings shows that the effort to reclaim lost family and rewrite family history serves to heal historical trauma and restore human relationships. This trend of compiling family histories and genealogies, or holding clan reunions, has become a common social phenomenon in recent decades. While this represents a return to traditional values or a way to build networks in a competitive society, the act of understanding one’s elders and reclaiming family ties also serves as a form of resistance against totalitarian politics.

This family history also reveals the compassionate nature of a political fighter. Huang Zheng gained no fame, status, or wealth from his sacrifices, but he earned the lifelong love of his wife and the deep respect of his siblings. He also fulfilled his duty as the eldest son to a father who had been unable to care for his children by reuniting the siblings who had been scattered by political upheaval—fulfilling what he called “the basic duty of being human.”

Ai Xiaoming concludes by highlighting the social value of these efforts: “Those who were killed or died in prison cannot be brought back, but the living can still take action. This story of seeking to reunite with relatives took place within a family, but it represents the healing of humanity at its most basic level. Even if social justice is delayed, individuals and families can work to heal wounds and reconstruct memory. This was his effort to close the wounds of history and the spiritual legacy he left to his family.” Professor Ai Xiaoming’s work reaffirms a vital stance toward historical truth: “Every victim deserves an archive of their life.”

April 29, 2026, marks the 58th anniversary of Lin Zhao’s martyrdom. Rereading Huang Zheng’s story provides a unique way to honor Lin Zhao and the brave people of her time. Though their lives were marked by suffering, the power of their ideas transcends their physical existence and will continue to inspire those who follow.

Recommended archive:

Ai Xiaoming: Huang Zheng: A Memorial Volume

[This article first appeared in China Unofficial Archives. When reposting, please ensure that the following is included at the beginning of the reposted text: “This article was first published by the China Unofficial Archives,” accompanied by a link to the original article on the China Unofficial Archives website or Substack.]

[The views expressed by the author of this article do not necessarily reflect the position of the China Unofficial Archives.]

The English translation follows below.

2026年，是文革爆发60周年与结束50周年。与往年不同，从2025年底延续至今，由于在中国互联网平台哔哩哔哩（B站）上，一系列对电影《芳华》的解读视频突然走红，竟意外地在年轻人中掀起了一股怀念文革和毛泽东的风潮。

电影《芳华》（改编自严歌苓同名小说）于2017年公开上映。其时代背景是文革末期、1979年中国对越战争以及1980年代初，讲述的是一群解放军文艺兵的故事，有青春怀旧的意味。严歌苓在接受季风书园访谈时，曾谈及，她的创作初衷，是反映文革浩劫对一代中国人造成的心理扭曲和持续的社会影响。不过电影后来为了能上映，剧组做了很多审查处理。吊诡的是，时隔八年，当B站主播以中国Z世代熟悉的穿越风格，将《芳华》二次解读，称“毛泽东发动文革，是为了代表人民反对特权官僚阶级”时，却得到了中国年轻世代的巨大共鸣。

在当下的中国社会，这样的情绪其来有自——一方面，年轻人面临巨大的就业压力和种种社会不公，看不到出路；另一方面，在严苛的信息审查下，他们的情绪没有宣泄的出口，也难以理解文革的真相。此时，通过所谓主流的文艺作品和叙事，怀念曾赞美年轻人是“八九点钟太阳”的毛泽东，将毛发动的文化大革命理解成一场“伟大的反特权运动”，反而成了他们几乎唯一可以拥有的言论空间了。

这种误读背后，真实的文革到底面目几何，似乎没有那么重要了——《芳华》的解读视频，在爆火之后遭到下架，国内视频网站上此前允许存在的关于文革的内容——大多为正面评价文革的，也开始搜索不到。如此一来，文革变得更加神秘，“肯定文革”，反而又成了另外一种政治异议——一种被压迫的叙事。

至此，文革结束50年来，无数人试图挖掘和保存的真相，再次面临被埋入历史更深处的命运。然而，也有许多的亲历者、幸存者和研究者，拒绝沉默，也拒绝用捕风捉影、牵强附会来搪塞厚重的历史。中国民间档案馆网站上，已收纳的与文革有关的档案，上百个书籍、文章、期刊和影像，正是这些有心人持续努力的成果。

充满暴力与死亡的历史证言

2002年，由宋永毅担任主编的《中国文化大革命文库》光碟由香港中文大学中国研究服务中心制作出版。收录了近3000万字的文献，内容包括了文革前后的中共中央文件、指示、公报、领袖首长讲话、重要报刊社论，以及重要的大字报、小报、传单等等。这是全球第一个大型、专业化的文革数据库，背后蕴藏了许许多多参与者的心血。这一文库后来也经历了持续的修订与扩充。民间档案馆设立了相关条目予以介绍。

民间档案馆收集的关于文革的档案，有一些是系统性的学术研究著作，如《文化大革命的起源》，《“砸烂旧世界”——文化大革命的动乱与浩劫》，《文化大革命十年史》，分析毛泽东在文革中作用的《毛泽东和文化大革命：政治心理与文化基因的新阐释》等等。更有文革亲历者、中国作家杨继绳的《天地翻覆——中国文化大革命史》这样的深度记录与研究。还有《历史的代价:文革死亡档案》，对文革中的暴力与死亡事实予以记录。以及《极端年代的公民政治》等书籍，还有中国官方出版社早期曾出版的《四清运动实录》、《广西文革大事年表》等资料。不过目前馆藏中数量最多的，还是亲历者从个体角度对文革的回忆与追述。

这些讲述者中，有从劳改营中死里逃生的幸存者，如《梦断苗溪：一个劳改幸存者的回忆》，以及巫宁坤的《一滴泪》；有历经狂热后痛苦反思的红卫兵，如《1966：我们那一代的回忆》，以及《红卫兵兴衰录：清华附中老红卫兵手记》；也有揭露鲜为人知的文革内情的体制内高官，如《我所亲历的政治运动》，《劫后长忆——十年动乱纪事》；还有文革中因勇于发声而身陷囹圄的反抗者，如《反文革第一人及其同案犯》和《牛鬼蛇神录——文革囚禁中的精灵》。经由这些亲历者的讲述，文革不再是抽象的符号，而是有血有肉的个体被裹挟于政治运动、并被革命蹂躏和绞杀的历史证言。

革命的边缘地带

在中国长期严苛的言论钳制之下，非官方的历史叙事已属边缘。但像大多数此类叙事一样，在边缘之外往往还有一个更加边缘的地带。民间档案馆收录了十余个关于文革中边缘群体的档案，试图回答：文革期间的妇女、农民、非汉族人，他们在哪里，又经历了什么？

《妇女与中国革命》介绍了妇女在文革中继承“妇女能顶半边天”的组织逻辑，获得摆脱家庭和学校控制的自由，但同时面对当局对性别差异的选择性否定，有时不得不用比男性更加激烈的行为来表达政治热忱，以及忍受各种性别不平等状况的复杂处境。1986年出版的《上海生死劫》，被认为是中国第一部以笔述实录方式反思文革的独立回忆录，作者郑念记述了她从文革开始到八十年代初出国这段时间的个人经历，展现女性在暴政之下如何维持尊严、坚持抗争。纪录片《还卜琴父以美丽》和《我的母亲王佩英》则通过影像追述文革中站出来表达反对的女性的生命故事，呈现个体命运在当时制度与政治环境中的波折。而新近出版的《画说我的一生》，则以漫画的方式，试图还原一个亲历文革的女性的思想历程。

在以汉族人为主体的地理中心之外，政治暴力也并未收敛。《杀劫：镜头下的西藏文革》，《长城外的造反派：汉族青年眼中的内蒙古文革与民族屠杀》，以及纪录片《麦地冲的歌声》，通过亲历者口述和影像记录，呈现出文革在不同地域与民族、文化、信仰、定居殖民主义交叠而产生的更加复杂的图景。

过去一年来，民间档案馆和维吾尔研究者合作，收录了不少关于东突厥斯坦（新疆）的档案，其中多个档案涉及维吾尔知识分子对于文革的个人回忆。虽然大部分档案仅有维语版本，但我们对档案本身和作者个人都提供了较为详细的中英文介绍，以方便读者了解这些鲜为人知的历史人物及其经历。

文革中另一个常被忽略的群体是农民。《血的神话：1967年湖南道县文革大屠杀纪实》，通过大量机密文件和访谈资料，呈现农民在文革期间遭受的系统性暴力。《文革时期中国农村的集体杀戮》则对此做了深入的学术研究。专题摄影作品《大地留痕》，捕捉了道县这片血染的土地上至今未褪的历史痕迹。纪录片《罪行摘要》中，导演依循22份泛黄的浙江省衢州市十里丰农场“犯人登记表”的复印件，走访了14位在文革中被判为“现行反革命”的浙江农民，用镜头记录下他们对自己获罪、服刑、以及出狱后几十年人生的讲述。

文革影像：官方美学掩盖下的个人苦难

民间档案馆目前收录了20多个文革影像档案，大部分是纪录片。这些纪录片同样以文革中的个体生命故事为主，其中有知识分子、前文工团成员、清洁工，也有武斗受害者的后人、农民、知青，还有信仰基督教的苗族人……从普通个人的视角，展现这段惊涛骇浪的历史。同时，我们也收录了《为革命画画》、《红色美术》两部纪录片，以及图片展《文化大革命的文化：毛泽东时代中国的个人崇拜与红色印记》，呈现文革期间的政治宣传和领袖崇拜如何渗入、影响，甚至重塑普通人的生活。

通过这些影像档案，我们能看到，面目模糊的狂热政治宣传与个人苦难如何形成强烈对比，却仿佛平行世界，而一直到今天，极权政治下的荒诞不经，依然未得到正视与清理。也正因如此，放大个人形貌、声音和讲述的纪录影像，也成为民间社会抵抗官方宏大历史叙事的重要方法。

中国民间档案馆收集的文革档案，可以通过专题网页浏览。您也可以通过档案馆的“全部馆藏”页面，点击搜索框右侧的“更多筛选条件”，在“主题”下选择“文化大革命”，来浏览所有相关档案。目前馆藏还在进一步充实之中，谢谢您的关注。也欢迎通过邮件订阅民间档案馆的简报，看到更多关于档案的内容。

【本文为中国民间档案馆首发，转载时请务必在正文之前注明“本文首发于中国民间档案馆”，并加上原文在中国民间档案馆网站或者中国民间档案馆Substack的链接。】

Editors’ Note: Archival Recommendations on the 60th Anniversary of the Cultural Revolution

The year 2026 marks the 60th anniversary of the outbreak of the Cultural Revolution and the 50th anniversary of its conclusion. A trend in China that began in late 2025 has persisted: a series of videos interpreting the film Youth went viral on the Chinese video platform Bilibili, unexpectedly sparking a wave of nostalgia for the Cultural Revolution and Mao Zedong among the younger generation.

The film Youth, adapted from Yan Geling’s novel of the same name, was released in 2017. Set against the backdrop of the late Cultural Revolution, the 1979 Sino-Vietnamese War, and the early 1980s, it tells the story of a group of soldiers in a People’s Liberation Army performing arts troupe, imbued with a sense of youthful nostalgia. In an interview with Jifeng Bookstore in Washington, DC, Yan Geling noted that her original intention was to reflect the psychological distortions and lasting social impact the catastrophe of the Cultural Revolution inflicted on a generation of Chinese people. However, to ensure the film adaptation could be screened, the production team subjected it to significant censorship. Paradoxically, eight years later, when Bilibili creators re-interpreted Youth using a time-travel narrative style familiar to Gen Z, they claimed that “Mao Zedong launched the Cultural Revolution to represent the people against a privileged bureaucratic class.” This interpretation has resonated deeply with China’s youth.

In contemporary Chinese society, these sentiments are not without cause. On one hand, young people face immense employment pressure and various social injustices, seeing no clear path forward. On the other hand, under strict information censorship, they have no outlet for their frustrations and struggle to understand the actual truth about the Cultural Revolution. Consequently, reminiscing about Mao Zedong—who once famously called the youth “the rising sun at eight or nine o’clock in the morning”—and framing his Cultural Revolution as a “great anti-privilege movement” has become one of the few remaining avenues for public expression.

In the wake of this interpretation, the actual reality of the Cultural Revolution seems to have lost its importance. After the Youth commentary videos exploded in popularity, they were removed from the Chinese Internet. Furthermore, previously permitted content regarding the Cultural Revolution on domestic video sites—mostly material that viewed the era positively—has also become unsearchable. As a result, the Cultural Revolution has become even more mysterious; affirming the Cultural Revolution has evolved into a new form of political dissent—a suppressed narrative.

Thus, fifty years after the Cultural Revolution ended, the truths that countless individuals have worked to uncover and preserve are once again at risk of being buried deep in history. However, many witnesses, survivors, and researchers refuse to allow this history to be glossed over with groundless rumors and forced associations. The China Unofficial Archives website has collected over a hundred books, articles, journals, and videos related to the Cultural Revolution—the results of these dedicated individuals’ efforts.

Historical Testimonies of Violence and Death

In 2002, the Chinese Cultural Revolution Database, edited by Song Yongyi, was launched by the now-defunct Universities Service Centre for China Studies at The Chinese University of Hong Kong and other institutions. It contains over 30 million Chinese characters of documentation, including Chinese Communist Party Central Committee files, directives, communiqués, and speeches by high-ranking leaders before and after the era, as well as important newspaper editorials, big-character posters, flyers, and more. This represents the world’s first large-scale, professional database on the Cultural Revolution, built upon the painstaking work of many contributors. The China Unofficial Archives has established dedicated entries to introduce this collection.

The Cultural Revolution materials gathered by the China Unofficial Archives include systematic academic works such as The Origins of the Cultural Revolution, “Smashing the Old World”: Havoc of the Chinese Cultural Revolution (1966-1968), and The Ten-Year History of the Cultural Revolution. It also includes works analyzing Mao Zedong’s role, such as Mao Zedong and the Cultural Revolution: A New Interpretation from Perspectives of Political Psychology and Cultural Gene. Notable in-depth records include the three-volume The World Turned Upside Down: A History of the Chinese Cultural Revolution by writer and witness Yang Jisheng, as well as The Price of History: The Cultural Revolution Death Files, which documents the era’s violence and fatalities. Other titles include Citizen Politics in Extreme Times: A Mass History of the Cultural Revolution and early official materials like A Chronicle of the Four Cleanups Movement and the Chronology of Major Events During the Cultural Revolution in Guangxi Province. However, the majority of the current collection consists of personal memoirs and firsthand accounts from those who lived through the era.

These narrators include survivors who escaped labor camps, as seen in Broken Dreams at Miaoxi: Recollections of a Laogai Survivor and Wu Ningkun’s A Single Tear. They include former Red Guards who moved from fanaticism to painful reflection, such as 1966: Memories of Our Generation and The Rise and Fall of the Red Guards: A Handbook of the Old Red Guards at Tsinghua High School. There are also high-ranking officials within the system who exposed clandestine details, such as Personal Experiences of Political Campaigns and Long Memories after the Havoc: A Chronicle of Ten Years of Turmoil. Finally, there are the stories of rebels imprisoned for speaking out, such as The First Man against the Cultural Revolution and His Co-Conspirators and Captive Spirits: Prisoners of the Cultural Revolution. Through these accounts, the Cultural Revolution ceases to be an abstract symbol and becomes a historical testimony of flesh-and-blood individuals caught in a political movement, ravaged and destroyed by revolution.

The Margins of the Revolution

Under China’s long-standing and severe censorship, unofficial historical narratives are already marginalized. The China Unofficial Archives has collected over a dozen files on marginalized groups during the Cultural Revolution, seeking to answer: where were the women, peasants, and non-Han ethnic groups, and what did they endure?

Women and China’s Revolutions describes how women adopted the organizational logic that “women hold up half the sky” to gain freedom from family and school control. Yet, they simultaneously faced a selective denial of gender differences by the authorities, sometimes feeling compelled to act more aggressively than men to prove their political fervor while enduring complex gender inequalities. Life and Death in Shanghai, published in 1986, is considered the first independent memoir of the Cultural Revolution written as a factual record. Author Zheng Nian recounts her life from the start of the revolution to her departure from China in the early 1980s, illustrating how a woman maintained her dignity and resisted under tyranny. The documentaries To Justify Bu Qinfu and My Mother Wang Peiying use film to recount the lives of women who stood up in opposition, showing how individual fates were twisted by the political environment. More recently, Liu Haiou’s My Forty Years in China uses comic strips to reconstruct the intellectual journey of a woman who lived through the era.

Political violence was even more unrestrained outside the Han-centric geographic heartland. Forbidden Memory: Tibet During the Cultural Revolution, A Chinese Rebel beyond the Great Wall: The Cultural Revolution and Ethnic Pogrom in Inner Mongolia, and the documentary Songs from Maidichong use oral histories and visual records to present a more complex picture. These works show how the Cultural Revolution intersected with ethnicity, culture, faith, and settler colonialism.

Over the past year, the China Unofficial Archives has collaborated with Uyghur researchers to include numerous files regarding East Turkestan (Xinjiang), including personal memories from Uyghur intellectuals. Although most of these files are in Uyghur, we provide detailed Chinese and English introductions to the authors and the content to help readers understand these little-known historical figures.

Peasants are another group frequently overlooked. The Killing Wind: A Chinese County’s Descent into Madness during the Cultural Revolution utilizes confidential documents and interviews to reveal the systematic violence peasants faced. Collective Killings in Rural China during the Cultural Revolution provides an in-depth academic study of this phenomenon. The photography series Traces in the Land captures the lingering historical marks on the land of Dao County. In the documentary Summary of Crimes, the director follows photocopies of 22 yellowed “Prisoner Registration Forms” from a farm in Quzhou, Zhejiang, interviewing 14 peasants who were labeled “active counter-revolutionaries.” The film records their stories of conviction, imprisonment, and the decades following their release.

Cultural Revolution Visuals: Individual Suffering Masked by Official Aesthetics

The China Unofficial Archives currently holds over 20 visual archives, mostly documentaries. These films also focus on individual stories, featuring intellectuals, former performing arts troupe members, cleaners, descendants of victims, peasants, and Christian Miao people. From these personal perspectives, they reveal a turbulent history. We have also included the documentaries Painting for the Revolution and Red Art, along with the photo exhibition The Culture of the Cultural Revolution: Personality Cult and Political Design in Mao Zedong’s China. These demonstrate how political propaganda and leader worship penetrated and reshaped ordinary lives.

Through these visual records, we see the stark contrast between fanatical political propaganda and individual suffering—two seemingly parallel worlds. Even today, the absurdities of totalitarian politics have not been fully addressed or reconciled. For this reason, documentary images that amplify individual voices and faces have become a vital tool for civil society to resist grand official narratives.

You can browse the Cultural Revolution archives through our special topic page. Alternatively, visit the “Works” page, click “more filters” next to the search box, and select “Cultural Revolution” under “Theme.” As our collection is continuously growing, we thank you for your support. We also invite you to subscribe to our newsletter via email for further updates.

[This article first appeared in China Unofficial Archives. When reposting, please ensure that the following is included at the beginning of the reposted text: “This article was first published by the China Unofficial Archives,” accompanied by a link to the original article on the China Unofficial Archives website or Substack.]

作者：舒凡

By Shu Fan

The English translation follows below.

一年前，我还不知道刘海鸥是谁。作为“95”后的我，出生在文革结束近20年之后，读过一些关于文革的作品，但对那一代人——尤其是女性，如何度过文革十年，以及她们一生因此所受的影响，并不能通过自身去理解。对“红卫兵”、“造反派”、“思想改造”的理解，也仅是文字层面的。

我最初是被她的自传体“文革连环画”《画说我的一生》一书吸引，逐渐了解到，她也是家族自传《半壁家园：刘辽逸家事百年》的作者。她的作品，曾被中国民间杂志《记忆》连载和选登。她的父亲是著名翻译家刘辽逸，1951年起长期在人民出版社工作，介绍苏俄文学，是《战争与和平》的译者。刘辽逸早年追随共产党，不惜与家族决裂——她的祖父带领大家族去了台湾，只有父亲这一支留在了大陆。新政权下，刘海鸥的父母作为知识分子，并不受待见——文革时期，他们都被下放牛棚。刘海鸥出生于1947年，算是“生在红旗下，长在新中国”。她在大连出生，在北京度过童年和青少年，成长期经历了文革，曾去新疆等地串联，文革结束后在北大读哲学研究生，1980年代开始任教。后来，她在强大的计划生育压力下生了二胎，最终离开了中国。

和其它关于文革的回忆录不同，刘海鸥出版于2023年的这本自传，每一节叙事都配上了中国人熟悉的连环画。她清醒而明确地向世人袒露自己的经历，自己的思考，自己的发现：她曾经非常“左”，在文革刚开始的时候，她竭力改造思想，希望成为真正的“革命者”，但最终发现：革命原来是一种特权，她是造反派的“革命对象”。

在一章一章阅读她的人生时，我屡次被她的文字逗笑，有时候她的语气好像我钟情的女性脱口秀演员，机灵、快速、敏捷，而且犀利、迅猛，直击要害。用现在的网络语言来说，好像一个段子手，用夹杂着幽默的叙述口吻，并保持着写作者的独立与抽离态度。我认为，这在文革时期成长起来的人的写作中尤为罕见——那不是一个鼓励人，更不是一个鼓励女性拥有独立视角的时代。在一个消灭人的个体性，要求人全然泯入整体的时代，她始终没有完全泯灭掉自己的个体性，而且把这一切都写和画了下来：

例如，在她小时候的认知里，长头发的是女性，短头发的是男性，所以当她看到毛泽东的照片时，她对毛的性别曾陷入深深困惑——因为毛主席的头发不长也不短，以至于她在坐黄包车的时候，不由自主地问司机，毛主席是不是不男不女；在爱的表达被禁止的时代，她偷瞄长相英俊、气质忧郁的男同学（后来这位男同学因精神问题进了医院）；在文革中武斗激烈的兰州和新疆，她和同伴们在炮火中一起打扑克牌。

她也写和画下来：出生于知识分子家庭的她，怎么进行自我改造——她曾站在火车轨道上，想象自己是舍身救人的“革命英雄”欧阳海，但却发现自己很恐惧，不能无私地为他人献身，而对自己的“阶级改造不彻底”感到愤懑；她热烈加入革命队伍，满怀热情地贴大字报，却因为体型，被红卫兵嘲笑叫刘企鹅，还被铁锨毒打，满身伤痕地回家，却从未向家人诉说过；她目睹自己所在学校的老师，被红卫兵折磨至死的过程……

《画说我的一生》一书中，有640幅连环画。文字和画面的结合，让作者在叙述文革中的经历时，能有效地呈现出个人与时代交织、冲撞、矛盾的画面。例如其中的一幅画，一个青少年女性一面背诵阶级斗争的语录，满脸正义感，但一面，脑海里缭绕出莫扎特的音乐旋律，于是她举枪对准了这个脑海里出现的莫扎特——这个画面对我——作者的诉说对象、一个后辈来说，冲击力是不同寻常的，我既觉得新鲜、欣喜，又觉得同情——为看到一个活生生的人而欣喜，而能感其所感。

就像文革是一个高度集体化的运动一样，其实，后来对文革的叙述也常常是集体化的，例如1980年代，一场对文革记述与反思的文学运动，也曾被概括为“伤痕文学”。对文革这样一段复杂的历史，因为很多事情过于沉重、暴力与荒诞，也很容易被奇观化和浪漫化，让后代的阅读者难以相信——究竟发生了什么？

所以，当我看到B站（指中国青年网络平台 Bilibili)上青年们对文革怀旧，对毛的虔诚与热爱重返时，几乎可以理解，并觉得那是一种诱人的情绪——我们最终可以实现人人平等，人人都可以过上幸福而不受苦的生活——这也许跟当时积极参加自我改造的刘海鸥的感情动力并无差别，但是文革究竟是什么？为什么今天的人会轻易陷入对文革的怀旧中？

进而我们也可以追问，为什么文革中的标语对现在的年轻人来说都是诱人的？——再把现在的我们和50年前的青年联系在一起，为什么个体可以在一场运动中丧失人性，被话语和权力统治，肆无忌惮地伤害权力所针对的对象？而与之相对的，是什么，让个体在一场席卷所有人、破坏人性的运动中，仍能保留人性的完整？

在书中，刘海鸥也曾多次反思自己，在文革中为何那么“糊涂”，以及为何这场运动可以迅速、强势地裹挟每一个个体。在读研究生时，她的题目也是“中国人为什么会这样”，研究文革中的群众究竟是怎样参与其中的。她认为，中国的文化传统和思维模式中对权威的顶礼膜拜；“随大流”的集体思维习惯；以及非黑即白的思维，还有生存至上的实践理性哲学，都在极端的高压环境之下，成为了文革的推手。

1990年代，刘海鸥生了一场大病，那时她曾感慨，人为什么不能活得轻松一点呢,不再关心那些沉重的命题呢?可事实上，她这一代人的生命，始终跟政治直接地、暴力地交织在一起，她难以做到不再关心——所以，从那时起，她开始书写自己的经历，最后形成这部画传。她说，选择用连环画的形式来表达，是她发现年轻人对那段历史兴趣不大。她的女儿7岁時跟着她到了澳洲，不会读中文，她的初衷，就为了让自己的孩子能理解这段历史，把自己的真实经历，“留给孩子、留给后代。”

（以下访谈内容经过整理。）

舒凡：《画说我的一生》的记录从童年开始，前几章的画作基调是温暖、明亮的，到了文革前夕这样的调子被切断了，画面直接重现了文革中非常沉重、暴力的经历，比如你自己被殴打，以及目睹老师被殴打，其中一位被学生殴打致死等。对你来说，重现这段经历是这个创作中最沉重、最痛苦的吗？

刘海鸥：其实到了我这个年龄，很多事情已经看开了。在创作时，我并没有特别强烈的痛苦感，因为我已经把当下的自己和过去的经历分开来看，是以一种“旁观”的状态在回忆。

不过文革中有一件事，对我打击最大，是我被打的那一段，我40年来没有对任何人说过，连父母都不知道，因为当时觉得非常羞耻。起因是我把（毛主席）“万寿无疆”误写成“无寿无疆”，被当作“反动”问题，后来在学校被造反派殴打。当时家里人并不清楚情况，我父亲也没有问我。直到他去世后，我和姐姐争执，她误以为是我带红卫兵抄家，说我是多么多么左，爸爸对这件事多么不满意，我才意识到这件事一直没有向家人解释清楚。后来我把事情告诉了母亲，一边说一边哭，这是我第一次在她面前哭。后来我又给姐姐写了很长一封信，解释前因后果，她看后向我道歉。把这件事说出来之后，我才真正放下了。

舒凡：为什么当时觉得不能告诉父母呢？

刘海鸥：当年没有告诉家人，一方面是觉得羞耻，因为觉得这是我的错，另一方面也是不想让父母难过，被打得那么惨嘛。直到跟姐姐吵架的时候，我才意识到家里人一直有这样的误解，我爸爸就是带着这样的误解走的。我告诉母亲的当晚，她把脸转过去一晚上一句话也没说，我知道她很难过，但她没有说什么，只是整晚沉默。

舒凡：你在这里提到羞耻感，让我想到你在文革初期想要彻底“改造自己”，去第一个贴大字报，却遭到红卫兵羞辱，他们给你起了“刘企鹅”的外号。，你也在提到文革中遭受的羞辱几乎都与“胖”有关。还有其他女性，像喻瑞芬老师，最后被折磨致死，她单独被揪出来，也跟她胖有直接关系。我很好奇，为什么“胖”会成为一种被羞辱甚至被针对的原因，尤其是对女性而言？

刘海鸥：这种羞辱其实从小就存在。当时，电影、小说和绘画中地主资本家都以大腹便便的形象出现，所以很多人把“胖”与剥削阶级联系在一起，认为胖是因为吃得好、家庭条件好，所以看到胖的人，就容易把这个人归为“有问题”的阶级。当然，当时社会整体都很贫困，大多数人都很瘦，而我因为家庭条件较好，从小吃得好一些，就显得稍微胖一点，因此经常被骂、被起外号，也从小缺乏自信。我小时候在学校就有小孩追在身后骂我，甚至后来当老师后，也一直被羞辱，被人叫缩脖坛子。

在文革中，这种偏见被放大，变成一种带有阶级意味的攻击。对女性来说，除了政治上的打击，还会叠加对外表的羞辱，显得更强烈。另外，当时男性胖子本来就很少见，所以这种针对更多落在女性身上。总体来说，这是阶级观念和社会偏见共同作用的结果。

舒凡：这样的经历会让您对自己的女性身份有不一样的感受吗？会不会觉得如果不是女性，就不会受到这样的对待？

刘海鸥：我觉得没有。当时我并不觉得是因为性别才被针对，而是因为“胖”被当作阶级问题的象征。那时的逻辑主要是按阶级来区分，而不是按性别。整体社会的阶级观念非常强烈，这个盖过了所有别的标准。

舒凡：你在文革中一方面努力进行自我改造，甚至否定自我，但另一方面又始终保留着对音乐、艺术、自然的感动，在这样一场近乎癫狂的运动中，你没有参与对他人的伤害。在那样一个破坏人性的环境中，是什么让你保留了人的完整性？

刘海鸥：从小的家庭环境和本性来看，我其实是一个天性自由的人，这一点一直没有真正改变，只是被压抑，或者不断压缩了。六十年代初文艺界有过一次解放，引进外国音乐电影，跟我的天性是合拍的。另外，我父母都属于自由知识分子，家里的大量外国经典文学和家庭环境推崇的自由思想，也塑造了我比较强的个体意识。

后来在不断的政治运动中，我一方面努力按照“阶级观念”改造自己，打磨自己，另一方面内心始终有疑问，也保留着对自由和美的感受，这种内在冲突一直存在。当时我在学习那些英雄事迹，比如欧阳海，也努力按照那种标准要求自己，但有一次听到莫扎特的音乐，我一下子晕了，那种被压抑已久的情感一下子释放出来，可紧接着，我又会觉得这种感受“不对”，认为这是不符合当时思想要求的，需要压制。这种自我否定越来越强，也与当时整个社会愈发“左”的氛围是一致的。

不过，在心里，我对自由的感受并没有消失，同时也一直存在疑问，并非完全接受那些观念。只是整体上，还是跟随当时的社会和政治方向走。

等到文革结束、被全面否定时，我突然意识到，过去十几年的信念和自我改造几乎全部被推翻，这对我是一次巨大的打击，相当于自我被彻底否定。

舒凡：您提到过，这种否定之否定给您带来了巨大的痛苦，现在的您会怎么分析这种痛苦呢？

刘海鸥：十一届三中全会对文革的全面否定，相当于把我这一代人好不容易建立起来的信仰一下子击垮了，这让我非常困惑和痛苦。不过这种痛苦没有持续太久。随着改革开放，文学、电影、音乐等重新出现，这些被压抑已久的东西一下子与我产生共鸣，迅速被重新唤醒。

可以说，我原本的天性只是被压抑，一旦环境放开，就很快恢复、生长。后来我考入北大哲学系读研究生，这对我的思想启蒙作用很大，导师们思想开放，他们讲的东西一下子就打开了思路。我接触到的西方古典哲学，就是讲人类的认知之路，也对我很有启发，也促使我对过去的信念进行了再一次的反思与否定，也进一步重建了自己的认知。

舒凡：您觉得文革对人性破坏最严重的方面是什么？比如告密、失去信任，还是羞辱与折磨他人？

刘海鸥：我觉得最大的破坏是对人性的整体摧毁，包括良知和道德的崩塌。那种“打倒一切、怀疑一切”的氛围，使很多人失去了基本的价值标准。这种影响不仅发生在当时，还会延续到下一代，形成长期的后果。不过也不能一概而论，我的看法可能有偏颇，也需要谨慎看待。

舒凡：我在阅读有关您的经历时，发现您笔下的新疆那一段的串联经历可能层次最为丰富，在激烈的武斗中，有独立成长的女孩、新婚女性的家庭、等待团聚的人，以及兵团中的上海女性。一面是武斗的炮火，一面是人们的日常生活、街头飘扬的维族音乐，这和我们常见的文革叙述（如《牛棚杂忆》）很不一样。新疆是否可以说是您在文革中感受到人性最丰富的地方？

刘海鸥：当时并没有“人性”这样的自觉概念，因为在那个年代，“人性”甚至被视为负面的词汇。我的感受更多是来自日常经验，而不是抽象思考。其实不只是新疆，文革中的任何地方都同时存在“两种世界”：一部分人积极投入运动，另一部分人大多数仍在过自己的日常生活。新疆也是如此——一方面武斗非常激烈，甚至有枪炮声；另一方面，小贩照常做生意，人们照样生活。

所以文革并没有对所有人产生同样的冲击。有些人是受害者，尤其是知识分子；但也有一些人并未受到根本影响，甚至在某种程度上成为“受益者”。比如有人从混乱中获取资源，或对既有秩序的破坏中获利。因此，他们对文革并不强烈反感。

就我个人而言，这种体验并不限于新疆。在贵阳，我会在破旧街巷中听到小提琴声，看到居民窗帘的非常美丽的图案和色彩。但与此同时，又会被革命歌曲激发出强烈的激情。所以这种状态是一种持续的摇摆：一方面是对美、音乐与日常生活的感受，另一方面是被时代情绪裹挟的热血与激动。这两种力量始终并存。

舒凡：那您觉得新疆、贵阳这些城市和政治运动的中心北京有什么不同？比如在北京，人们是否更统一、更全面地投入运动？

刘海鸥：文革初期（1966年夏到秋），北京的“红色恐怖”非常强烈，气氛高度紧张，稍有不慎就可能遭遇严重后果。但到后来，随着红卫兵外出串联，北京反而出现短暂的缓和，人们逐渐恢复一些日常生活。我自己在1967年基本都在外地，没有长期待在北京。

总体来说，各地情况相似：一方面是激烈的派性斗争和暴力冲突，另一方面仍然存在普通人的日常生活。这种“两种世界并存”的状态，是文革时期的普遍现象，而不仅限于某一个地方。

舒凡：除了文革中的获益者之外，我也从我的爷爷奶奶辈观察到，有一些人——很多是知识分子，自身经历了文革的折磨，也没有动摇过对党的信念，仍然相信党始终是伟光正的。您提到自己是在生二胎（1986年左右）时——你把那段时间描述为人生中最残酷、最无人性的遭遇，“伟光正”的光环在您心中完全黯然失色。可以理解为，二胎时期的经历最终导致了这种信念完全的崩塌吗？

刘海鸥：对于我而言，这种信念的崩塌和生二胎经历是有直接关系。那时，我必须向党组织报告并获得许可——20天内，他们试图干预、甚至剥夺我肚子里的小生命。我那时已经临近预产期了，但党组织却千方百计地要我流掉孩子。他们多次开会、谈话，使用各种手段，目的只有一个。这是我第一次直接面对一个系统性威胁生命的情况：这个系统不是来保护你、让你活下去的，而是要让你的孩子死。这种直接、面对面的生命威胁，让我绝不能退缩。我只能硬着头皮顶住，坚决捍卫孩子的生命——这是我必须硬扛、绝不退步的时刻。

相比之下，文革时期针对个人的压力主要是红卫兵、派系斗争，而不是系统直接针对一个生命。在二胎的经历中，我必须硬扛、坚持到底才能保护孩子。这种系统直接对生命的剥夺，是我经历过最残酷、最无人性的事情。

舒凡：您生完二胎几年后，移居澳洲，写到海鸥南飞，终于感受到自由。这种自由的感受对当时的您来说是什么样的？

刘海鸥：就是可以按照自己的意愿生活和表达思想。不用在表达的时候，同时想着表达的后果，可以没有顾忌地，写自己想写的东西，表达自己的想法，能够放心做自己想做的事，不需要自己主动去想，我这样表达了会被别人怎么理解。

舒凡：您在书里提到，当您被人羞辱，叫刘企鹅的时候，女儿看到这里说，“企鹅很可爱”啊，您感慨，要怎么让没有经历过这个时代的人，能认识到一个没有人性的社会对人的伤害呢。有时候我也觉得对于文革，还有中国历史上其他的政治暴力，因为参与者对暴力的参与程度之深、之骇人，再加上审查和压制，本身缺少探索真实的渠道和资源，后人更愿意选择不相信，觉得这些暴力是虚构的。您觉得，作为亲历者，怎样把这种真实传递给后代呢？

刘海鸥：我觉得其实没有特别有效的办法。即使我写出来，也有人不相信，甚至怀疑经历是编造的。我无法证明这些事情。但像大饥荒时期的惨状——饿死、吃人——在我家乡是真实发生过的，而且有很多例子。只是现在亲历者和见证者几乎都去世了，知道的人越来越少，很多只能靠二手讲述。

这些历史本来就被掩盖，比如当年的死亡数据曾被下令销毁。我们只能从零散的记录、家族记忆中拼凑，比如人口突然减少、逃荒被阻拦、亲人饿死在途中等。这些如果不被记录，后人就更难相信。

我能做的只是写下来、出版，让更多人看到，哪怕只是少数人。当作一种历史档案保存下去。我自己印书、送人，也希望他们看完后能放到图书馆传播。例如我女儿看完后，就开始感兴趣，也想从自己的角度记录这些历史。

推荐档案：

刘海鸥：《半壁家园》

刘海鸥：《画说我的一生》

【本文为中国民间档案馆首发，转载时请务必在正文之前注明“本文首发于中国民间档案馆”，并加上原文在中国民间档案馆网站或者中国民间档案馆Substack的链接。】

【作者观点不代表中国民间档案馆立场。】

On the Cultural Revolution, Human Nature, and Being a Woman: An Interview with Liu Haiou

By Shu Fan

A year ago, I didn’t know who Liu Haiou was. As a “post-95er,” I was born nearly 20 years after the Cultural Revolution ended. While I had read some works on the era, I couldn’t grasp how that generation—especially women—endured those ten years, or how their lives were shaped by the aftermath. Concepts like “Red Guards,” “Rebel Factions,” and “Ideological Remolding” remained purely academic to me.

I was first drawn to her graphic autobiography, My Forty Years in China. There, I learned she was also the author of the family memoir Broken Line. Her work has been serialized and featured in the independent Chinese magazine Remembrance. Her father was the renowned translator Liu Liaoyi, who translated War and Peace into Chinese. In his youth, Liu Liaoyi followed the Communist Party, even at the cost of breaking with his family; while her grandfather led the rest of the clan to Taiwan, only her father’s branch remained on the mainland. However, her parents were soon sent to makeshift prisons called “cow sheds” during the Cultural Revolution.

Liu Haiou was born in Dalian in 1947, spent her youth in Beijing, experienced the Cultural Revolution, and traveled to Xinjiang for “revolutionary networking,” which involved traveling the country by rail to meet other young “revolutionaries.” After the revolution, she became a philosophy graduate student at Peking University and began teaching in the 1980s. Later, under the intense pressure of the One-Child Policy, she had a second child and eventually left China.

Unlike other memoirs of the era, Liu’s 2023 autobiography pairs every narrative segment with the kind of comic strips familiar to the Chinese public. She soberly and explicitly exposes her experiences, thoughts, and discoveries. At the start of the Cultural Revolution, she strove to reform her thinking to become a true revolutionary, only to discover that revolution was a privilege—and that she was the target of the rebels’ revolution.

Reading her life chapter by chapter, I was frequently moved to laughter. At times, her tone resembles the female stand-up comedians I admire: witty, sharp, hitting the mark with lightning speed. She employs a humorous narrative voice while maintaining the independent, detached perspective of a writer. I find this quality exceptionally rare among those who grew up in the Cultural Revolution—an era that did not encourage anyone, least of all women, to maintain an independent viewpoint. In an age that demanded the total erasure of individuality in favor of the collective, she never fully lost herself, and she has captured that struggle in both words and drawings.

For instance, as a child, she believed that women all had long hair and men all had short hair. Consequently, she was deeply confused by Mao Zedong’s appearance; because his hair was neither long nor short, she once found herself asking a rickshaw puller if Chairman Mao was neither male nor female. In an era where expressions of love were forbidden, she stole glances at a handsome, melancholic classmate (who was later committed to a psychiatric hospital). In Lanzhou and Xinjiang, amid the fierce fighting of the Cultural Revolution, she and her companions played poker while artillery shells fell around them.

She also documented her attempts at self-reform as the child of intellectuals. She once stood on train tracks, imagining herself as the revolutionary hero Ouyang Hai sacrificing himself to save others, only to realize with resentment that she was too terrified to be truly selfless—a sign, she felt, of her “incomplete class transformation.” She joined the revolutionary ranks with fervor, pasting big-character posters, yet her peers mocked her as “Liu the Penguin” because of her build. She was once beaten with a shovel and returned home covered in bruises, yet she never told her family. She also witnessed her school teachers being tortured to death by Red Guards.

My Forty Years in China contains 640 comic strips. This combination of text and imagery allows her to vividly depict the collision between the individual and the era. In one drawing, a teenage girl recites quotes on class struggle with a face full of self-righteousness, while the melodies of Mozart linger in her mind. In response, she aims a gun at the Mozart in her head. For a member of the younger generation like me, this image is incredibly striking. I felt a mix of freshness and deep sympathy—delighted to see a living, breathing human being, yet able to feel her internal pain.

Just as the Cultural Revolution was a collective movement, subsequent narratives have often been collectivized—such as the “Scar Literature” of the 1980s that portrayed the trauma and suffering of the Cultural Revolution. Because the history is so heavy, violent, and absurd, it is easily sensationalized or romanticized, making it hard for later generations to believe what actually happened.

Therefore, when I see the youth of Bilibili expressing nostalgia for the Cultural Revolution—with a return to piety and love for Mao—it is almost understandable. I sense that it is an alluring emotion: the belief that we can finally achieve equality for all and that everyone can lead a happy life free from suffering. This emotional drive is perhaps no different from what motivated Liu Haiou when she actively participated in self-reform back then. But what exactly was the Cultural Revolution? What did Mao Zedong’s charismatic words actually do to the human soul? Why do people fall so easily into nostalgia for that era?

And why are the slogans of the Cultural Revolution so seductive to China’s youth today? Connecting our present selves with the youth of fifty years ago, how can individuals lose their humanity during a movement, allowing themselves to be dominated by discourse and power while harming those targeted by that power? What is it that allows a person to preserve their integrity in a movement that sweeps up everyone and destroys human nature?

In her book, Liu Haiou reflects many times on why she was so lost during the Cultural Revolution, and how the movement could engulf every individual so rapidly and forcefully. As a graduate student, her research topic explored why the masses actually participated in the Cultural Revolution. She believes that Chinese cultural traditions and thought patterns—the blind worship of authority, the collective habit of following others, black-and-white moral judgments, and a philosophy of practical rationality that prioritizes survival above all—acted as the catalysts for the Cultural Revolution.

After falling ill in the 1990s, she once lamented in an article: why can’t people live more lightly and simply care about nothing? Yet her life, like the lives of her entire generation, has always been directly and violently intertwined with politics. In reality, she found it impossible to stop caring. Since the 1990s, she has been writing about her experiences, a process that eventually culminated in this graphic memoir. She chose the format of a comic book because she noticed that young people had little interest in that period of history. Her daughter, who was seven when the family moved to Australia and cannot read Chinese, was also a primary motivation; Liu used drawings to ensure her child could understand this history. As she puts it: “My original intention was simply to leave the truth of this history to my child and to future generations.”

The following interview content has been edited for conciseness and clarity.

Shu Fan: My Forty Years in China begins with your birth and childhood. The tone of the early drawings is warm and bright, but this shifts abruptly on the eve of the Cultural Revolution. Your art recreates heavy, violent experiences—being beaten yourself, witnessing your teachers being attacked, and seeing one teacher beaten to death. Was recreating these moments the most painful part of the creative process?

Liu Haiou: At my age, I’ve moved past many things. I didn’t feel an intense sense of pain while drawing because I’ve learned to separate my current self from my past. I revisit those memories as a bystander.

However, the incident that hit me hardest was my own beating. I didn’t speak of it to anyone for forty years; even my parents didn’t know it because I felt such deep shame. It started because I once wrote the phrase “Long Life With No End” [in praise of Mao Zedong] in a slogan but accidentally wrote “No Life” instead of “Long Life.” It was treated as a reactionary act, and I was beaten by students. My family didn’t know the details, and my father never asked. It wasn’t until after he passed away, during a dispute with my sister, that I realized the extent of the misunderstanding. She thought I had been a radical who led Red Guards to raid our own home, and that our father had been deeply disappointed in me. I realized then that the truth had never been explained. I finally told my mother, crying the whole time—it was the first time I ever cried in front of her. Later, I wrote a long letter to my sister explaining everything, and she apologized. Only after speaking out was I truly able to let go.

Shu: Why did you feel you couldn’t tell your parents at the time?

Liu: Part of it was shame; I felt it was my fault. Another part was protection—I had been beaten so badly that I didn’t want them to suffer by seeing my pain. I didn’t realize until that argument with my sister that they had lived with that misunderstanding, and that my father passed away believing it. The night I told my mother, she turned her face away and remained silent all night. I knew she was grieving, but she didn’t say a word.

Shu: That sense of shame reminds me of when you were mocked as “Liu the Penguin.” You mentioned that many instances of humiliation during the Cultural Revolution were linked to being “fat.” You noted that even though many people had more serious political issues than Teacher Yu Ruifen, she was singled out and tortured to death specifically because of her weight. Why did “fatness” become a target for humiliation, especially for women?

Liu: That humiliation started in childhood. Back then, many capitalists were portrayed as fat in films, fiction, and drawings, so being “fat” was associated with the exploiting classes; the logic was that you were only fat because you ate too well or came from a privileged background. In a society of widespread poverty where most were thin, my relatively comfortable upbringing made me look “fat” by comparison. I was mocked and nicknamed from a young age, which destroyed my self-confidence. This continued even when I became a teacher.

During the Cultural Revolution, this prejudice was weaponized as a class-based attack. For women, political persecution was often layered with body-shaming, making the experience even more intense. Furthermore, “fat” men were very rare at the time, so this specific type of targeting fell primarily on women. It was a confluence of class ideology and social prejudice.

Shu: Did these experiences change how you viewed your identity as a woman? Did you ever feel you were treated this way specifically because you were female?

Liu: I didn’t feel that way at the time. I didn’t think I was being targeted for my gender, but rather because my weight was seen as a symbol of class status. Back then, the logic was defined almost entirely by class rather than gender. Class identity overrode every other standard.

Shu: During the Revolution, you tried to remold yourself and even practiced self-negation, yet you maintained a connection to music, art, and nature. In such a frenzied movement, you never participated in harming others. How did you preserve your humanity in such a destructive environment?

Liu: By nature, I have always been a person who values freedom. That core never changed; it was just suppressed. There was a brief cultural liberalization in the early 1960s where foreign music and films were introduced, which resonated with my natural inclinations. Additionally, both my parents were liberal intellectuals. Our home was filled with foreign classics and a spirit of free thought, which gave me a strong sense of individual consciousness.

During the political movements, I tried to polish myself according to “class ideals,” but I always harbored internal doubts and a love for beauty. This conflict was constant. I would try to emulate heroes like Ouyang Hai, but the moment I heard Mozart, I was overwhelmed. My suppressed emotions would come out like a flood, only for me to immediately feel wrong for having them, as they didn’t align with the ideological requirements of the time. This self-negation grew stronger as the society turned further to the left.

Deep down, however, my sense of freedom never died. I wasn’t entirely sold on those concepts; I was just drifting with the social and political currents. When the Cultural Revolution ended and was officially denounced, it was a massive shock. Realizing that the beliefs I had spent a decade building were false felt like a total negation of my existence.

Shu: You’ve said that this “negation of the negation” was incredibly painful. How do you view that pain today?

Liu: When the Communist Party officially denounced the Cultural Revolution, the faith I had painstakingly built collapsed instantly. It was agonizing. But that pain didn’t last. As Reform and Opening Up began, literature, film, and music returned. Those suppressed parts of me were reawakened almost immediately.

My true nature had only been dormant; once the environment allowed it, it grew back quickly. Getting into the philosophy department at Peking University was also crucial for my enlightenment. My professors were open-minded, and Western classical philosophy—studying the history of human thought—helped me reflect on my past beliefs and rebuild my understanding of the world.

Shu: What do you consider the most destructive aspect of the Cultural Revolution?

Liu: I think the greatest damage was the wholesale destruction of morality and conscience. The atmosphere of “overthrowing everything and suspecting everyone” stripped people of their basic values. This impact didn’t end with that generation; it persists as a long-term consequence.

Shu: In your writing, the sections on Xinjiang seem the most vivid. Amidst the violence, you describe independent girls, newlywed families, and people waiting to be reunited. You contrast the sounds of artillery with daily life and Uyghur music. This feels very different from traditional “cow shed” memoirs of the Cultural Revolution. Was Xinjiang where you found human nature to be at its most vibrant?

Liu: At the time, I didn’t have a conscious concept of “human nature,” as the term was actually viewed negatively back then. My observations came from daily experience. In truth, every part of China during the Cultural Revolution existed in two worlds. Some were fully immersed in the movement, but the majority were just trying to live their lives. Even in Xinjiang, you could hear gunfire on one street while vendors sold goods on the next.

The Revolution didn’t affect everyone the same way. While intellectuals were victims, others were essentially unaffected or even beneficiaries who gained resources or power from the chaos. Those people don’t harbor a strong resentment toward the era.

For me, this duality wasn’t unique to Xinjiang. In Guiyang, I could hear a violin playing in a dilapidated alley or see beautiful patterns on someone’s curtains. At the same time, I would feel the surge of passion from a revolutionary song. I was in a constant state of oscillation between a love for beauty and the feverish emotions of the era. Those two forces always coexisted.

Shu: Was there a difference between places like Xinjiang or Guiyang and the political center of Beijing?

Liu: In the early stages in 1966, Beijing was gripped by Red Terror. The atmosphere was incredibly tense. But as the Red Guards left for “networking,” [traveling the country by rail to meet other young people and exchange experiences] the city actually experienced a brief lull. I spent most of 1967 traveling, so I wasn’t in Beijing for long. Generally, though, this coexistence of two worlds was a universal phenomenon across the country.

Shu: I’ve noticed that some in my grandparents’ generation—even intellectuals who were tortured—never wavered in their belief that the Party is “great, glorious, and correct.” You mentioned that it was during your second pregnancy in 1986—which you described as the most inhumane experience of your life—that this halo finally vanished. Did that experience cause your faith to collapse?

Liu: Yes, the collapse of my faith was directly linked to that pregnancy. I had to report my pregnancy to the Community Party organization and seek permission. For twenty days, they tried to intervene and essentially rob me of the life in my womb. I was near my due date, yet they used every possible tactic to force an abortion. It was the first time I faced a system that was a direct threat to life—a system that wasn’t there to protect you, but to kill your child. I couldn’t retreat. I had to stand my ground and defend my child’s life.

During the Cultural Revolution, the pressure came from Red Guards or factions, but this was the system itself systematically targeting a life. That direct attempt to deprive someone of life was the most cruel and inhumane experience I have ever had.

Shu: To end on a lighter note—a few years after that, you moved to Australia. You wrote that the “Seagull” (the meaning of Haiou in Chinese) flew south and finally found freedom. What did that freedom feel like?

Liu: It was the ability to live and speak according to my own will. I no longer had to weigh the consequences of every word I spoke or wrote. I could express myself without worrying about how I would be interpreted or scrutinized. I could finally just be myself.

Shu: You noted that when your daughter read about you being called a “penguin,” she just thought penguins were cute. You wondered how to explain the harm of an inhumane society to someone who never lived through it. Sometimes I feel that because the violence was so deep and the censorship so strong, the younger generation finds it easier to believe these stories are fictional. As someone who lived it, how do you pass this truth on?

Liu: Honestly, I don’t think there is a perfect way. Even when I write it down, people will doubt it or claim I fabricated it. I can’t prove it in a scientific sense. For example, the cannibalism and starvation during the Great Famine were real events in my hometown, but as the witnesses die off, these truths fade into second-hand stories.

Much of this history was intentionally suppressed—even death records were destroyed. We have to piece the truth together from family memories and scattered records, such as a sharp decrease in population, being prevented from leaving famished areas, and witnessing family members die due to starvation. If we don’t record them, they will vanish.

My only option is to write and publish, even if only for just a few people. I treat my work as a historical archive. I print my own books and give them away, hoping they find their way into libraries. My daughter is now very interested and wants to record this history from her own perspective.

Recommended archives:

Liu Haiou: Broken Line

Liu Haiou: My Forty Years in China

[This article first appeared in China Unofficial Archives. When reposting, please ensure that the following is included at the beginning of the reposted text: “This article was first published by the China Unofficial Archives,” accompanied by a link to the original article on the China Unofficial Archives website or Substack.]

[The views expressed by the author of this article do not necessarily reflect the position of the China Unofficial Archives.]

作者：Adam

By Adam

The English translation follows below.

1975年8月初，先后在台湾花莲与福建晋江两度登陆的7503号台风，并没有在这两地造成巨大损失。没人想到，几天后，它会在内陆中原引发罕见强降雨，62座位于河南境内的水库溃坝，决堤而出的洪水冲过原野和城市，加上瘟疫，夺走数万生命，成为人类历史上惨痛的一页。

这是一场当时没有任何报道的灾难。1975年正值中国文革，“阶级斗争”为纲，政治运动挂帅，对灾难的应急响应十分迟滞，救援物资也极度匮乏。部分官方史料称死亡人数超过8万人，但一些民间研究认为，死亡人数远超这个数字，相当多的人死于灾后蔓延的疾疫之中。

河南驻马店是这场大洪水中的重灾区，也是我的家乡。童年时的我，常听父亲说，当年洪水来临的时候，他只有10岁，因正值暑假，去了新乡他的外婆家，才躲过了这场劫难。而我的舅老爷一家，新建的房子半夜被大水冲走，全家人因邻居大声喊叫惊醒，才逃到距离不远、地势稍高的马路上，得以幸存。而另一户人家，则没有那么幸运，四个孩子中，有两个被洪水冲走……如今，51年过去了，这些记忆，存在于家乡父老的偶尔闲谈中，但极少被官方历史提及。2020年起，我回到故乡，寻访亲友，也通过有限的文史资料，试图去了解自己家乡这段惨痛的历史。

罕见大雨中，62座水坝相继垮塌

大洪水发生的原因之一，是极端的暴雨天气，但溃坝导致的数万人死亡，却难逃人祸的影子。

根据当时的气象记载，7503号台风在晋江登陆之后，气流逐步转向北方。与所有深入内陆的台风一样，它的强度逐渐减弱。到8月6日凌晨，它抵达此次的最西点——湖南常德境内。但由于南半球的寒潮活动导致跨赤道气流等特殊气象，7503号台风的低压系统，在陆地上罕见维持了足足百余小时。空前巨量的水汽由千里之外的大海长驱直入，从5号到8号，在河南南部造成了三轮灾难性的强降雨。

根据作家钱钢在《世界最大的水库垮坝惨案——1975年驻马店大水》一文中记录，这场暴雨，“降水强度极强，在暴雨中心——位于板桥水库的林庄，最大6小时雨量为830毫米，超过了当时世界最高记录（美国宾洲密士港，1942年）的782毫米；最大24小时雨量为1060毫米，也创造了我国同类指标的最高记录。”

暴雨肆虐之时，河南境内的板桥、石漫滩两座大型水库，以及竹沟、田岗两座中型水库，还有58座小型水库，在短短数小时内相继垮坝溃决。驻马店、许昌（含1986年后独立出来的漯河市）、周口、南阳和舞阳工区（今平顶山代管的舞钢市），以及河南这5个地区的30个县市，还有毗邻的安徽阜阳临泉县都遭受了洪灾。

根据《河南省驻马店地区75·8抗洪志》（驻马店地区水利局组织编撰，1998年由黄河水利出版社出版）记载，溃坝发生在午夜时分，当时人们正在睡梦中。石漫滩水库的溃坝是1975年8月8日零时，十分钟后，板桥水库相继垮塌。

事实上，在这两座大型水库垮塌之前，8月7日晚上21时之前，在确山、泌阳两地已有7座小型水库溃坝；22时，中型水库竹沟水库溃坝。此时，遂平县城内水深已齐腰。板桥水库垮坝后，距水库最近的沙河店镇首先被大水吞噬，全镇6000余人中至少有827人遇难。而与沙河店镇一河之隔的文城公社，因为听不到河对岸在比划什么，也错过了自救的机会，伤亡惨重。

据记载，板桥水库的垮坝涌波，以平均约每秒6米的流速顺流而下，在溃坝后三个小时左右已漫流到遂平县，水流扩宽至10公里。遂平县城附近的平地水深在4．5米左右，京广铁路线遂平车站的铁轨水深就约3米。

从一些记载中能看到，当大水已吞噬村庄，进入城市时，有效的救援还没开始。时任副总理纪登奎的儿子纪坡民，曾在《我所了解的“1975年河南水灾”》一文中写道：

“8月8日晚，我父亲和刘建勋（时任河南省第一书记）还在洛阳（解决大企业文革派性斗争问题），省委副书记、省革委生产指挥部指挥长王维群突然打来电话报告，驻马店地区板桥水库出事了！因通信中断，具体情况还不清楚。我父亲和刘建勋当即连夜返回郑州，听取汇报，了解情况，安排布置抗洪救灾，向中央报告，要求派军队支援。”

可见，大雨持续了数天，河南省委既没有预见到灾难性降雨溃坝的可能，还在洛阳忙文革派性斗争问题，得知板桥水库溃坝时，已过了整整将近一整天，且具体情况还不清楚。

据钱钢记述，1975年8月9日8时，驻马店地委曾发出特急电报——“我区5日至8日连降特大暴雨，平均降雨量800毫米，平均积水2米左右，一片汪洋，板桥水库8日0时40分垮坝，遂平县城被淹没，有许多人死亡。由于暴雨洪水造成严重灾害，300多万人被洪水包围，有的被困在房顶、树上已有两、三天，万分危急！”

除了大洪灾的凶猛，钱钢从驻马店地区的档案资料中查到一部分残缺不全的电话记录、情况通报。这些原始记录，披露了水库垮坝后，驻马店人于水深火热中的悲惨景况：

“8月13日——新蔡、平舆东部水仍上涨，1小时2公分，全区200万人在水中；汝南：10万人被淹(指尚飘浮在水中)，已救4万，还有6万人困在树上，要求急救；全县20万人脸肿腿肿，拉肚子，无药……一直到8月16日，全地区120万人还在水里。洪水过后，发病率迅速上升，次生灾难严重，除了疾病，也没有食物，有的地方仍在堤上吃小虫吃树叶……”

“社会主义高潮”中兴建的水库

其实，这场旷世灾难，早在1957年大跃进期间就埋下了影子。据钱钢文章记述，1950年代初，河南曾加固板桥、石漫滩两座水库。在这两所水库扩建后，大跃进开始了，“中原地区的水库建设蜂拥而上，一发而不可止。”“仅1957-1959年，驻马店地区就修建水库100多座。一大批新水库的催生婆，是正轰鸣于中国大地的‘社会主义高潮’”。

据记述，在大跃进中的1958年，河南总结了漭河流域兴建山区水利的经验。当时的国务院副总理谭震林来河南视察时，将其归纳为“以蓄为主，以小型为主，以社队自办为主”，并说：“现在山区问题解决了，要把漭河经验向平原推广。”水利专家陈惺曾当即指出：在平原地区以蓄为主，重蓄轻排，会对水域环境造成严重破坏等等。但这位专家的忠告无人理会，还被打成右倾分子下放。“以蓄为主”的经验后来被大范围推广到安徽，丘陵地区涌现大批小水库，造成淮河流域后来数十年间致命的“肠梗阻”症。

陈惺后来曾在《治水无止境》一书中总结，河南洪灾的主要原因之一，是1949年之后水利建设规划决策的失误。包括：重蓄轻排导致设计的排水闸不足，以及1950年代后大跃进式的水利建设，大量存在质量隐患，没有及时排除。事实上，大跃进时期，大量中小型水库水坝本身，就是政治产物，从设计到质量都缺乏严谨的规划与施工。

文革背景之下，尴尬的防汛

今天回望能看到，文革中，河南和全国各省一样，干部们忙于应对各种政治运动，在防汛方面，完全缺少避险意识和物资准备。

举一个例子——根据于为民、叶树鑫《75.8浩劫内幕纪实》（1990年由黄河文艺出版社出版）披露，8月6日，驻马店地区革命委员会的生产指挥部指挥长刘培诚，前往板桥视察，曾召集水库管理局、板桥公社和驻军负责人联席会议，部署抗洪抢险：有的主张加高大堤，有的主张炸开副坝泄洪，减轻对大坝的压力。各种意见相持不下，会议延续了一个多小时，直到最后，人们才突然发现，有关抗洪抢险的一切方案都无法实施。水库革委会副主任尴尬地告诉大家：防汛仓库里没有铁锹、草袋，更没有一两炸药，只有几根小木棍和几只民兵训练用的木柄手榴弹。

事实上，这场巨大的灾难并非没有防范的可能。根据谌旭彬《中国当代最惨溃坝事故，当年媒体无只字报道》文中介绍，8月6日23时，板桥水库的水位已经高达122.91米，而设计规定的最高蓄水位只有110.88米，主溢洪道闸门抬高出水面，输水道也于7日凌晨1时全部打开泄洪，但水位仍在急剧上涨。当时有人建议全部开闸泄洪，甚至扒开口子泻洪，但根本无人愿意承担责任，给出决策。

事实上，1975年的驻马店，深陷在文革的浩劫之中，山头林立，各派力量忙于内斗，防汛事务早被抛到了九霄云外。

消失于报端的“75·8”大洪水：不能让毛主席周总理受刺激

如此巨大的灾难，1975年的中国媒体没有半个字的报道。多年之后，新华社记者张广友在《炎黄春秋》发文披露了其中的部分内幕：

慰问团长、国务院副总理纪登奎，我们过去就认识。他平易近人，很关心记者，关心宣传报道。在慰问团到达灾区之后，他曾经几次同我交谈。他说：“这次中央慰问团既是慰问团，又是‘工作团’。在做好慰问工作的同时，要尽可能地协助地方政府做些工作，解决抗洪抢险和救灾工作中的一些实际问题。”

我问纪登奎：这次水灾如何报道？他说：“中央领导已经决定这次水灾不作公开报道，不发消息，特别是灾情不仅不作公开报道，而且还要保密。”我对此不理解，当即反问：为什么？这么大范围的大水灾能保住密吗？他说：“这是中央领导的决定，已经告诉你们总社领导了，但这不是说你们就没有什么事儿了。你们的任务，不仅是同慰问团一道去灾区现场进行慰问；而且还要搞些内参，宣传抗洪抢救中的先进人物、先进事迹，如：舍己为人，舍小家顾大家，一方遇灾，八方支援的共产主义风格等；特别是要抓住一些重要问题深人实际，做些调查研究……”

80年代初，纪登奎从中央领导岗位下来之后，到国务院农村发展研究中心工作，我们经常见面。有一次在闲谈中我们说起那次水灾不让公开报道和那份调查报告的事儿，他说：不叫公开报道是怕产生副作用，影响稳定；那个时候正是毛主席和周总理重病期间，不让公开报道，也是怕他们受刺激，内部报道也只能选择极少量给他们看，这种内部报道不会给他们看的；至于那份调查报告我看到了，是一份很有说服力的好材料，但是，已经顾不上了……”

——（张广友，《目睹1975年淮河大水灾》，载《炎黄春秋》）

原来，当时官方对这场大灾难不仅不公开，反而要求保密的一个重要原因，是怕“影响稳定”，尤其是因为毛主席和周总理病重，“不能让他们受刺激”。

到底死了多少人？本地记忆与独立的历史记录匮乏

2005年，美国《探索频道》把这场大洪灾称为世界“十大人为技术灾难”之一。但在中国，因为长期的人为屏蔽，知道这场灾难的人一直寥寥。

大洪灾过去14年之后，1989年7月，由前中国水利部部长钱正英作序的《中国历史大洪水（上）》一书，以“内部发行版”的形式出版，书中首次从官方角度披露了部分灾情。

该书披露，在“75·8”大洪灾中，河南省有29个县市、1700万亩农田被淹，其中1100万亩农田受到毁灭性的灾害，1100万人受灾，26000多人死难，致使纵贯中国大陆北京至广州的铁路(京广线)冲毁102公里，中断行车18天，影响运输48天，直接经济损失近百亿元。

1990年3月，河南日报记者于为民，叶树鑫出版了报告文学《75·8劫难纪实》，作为公开出版物，较为完整的呈现了灾情，成为第一本关于“75·8”洪水的专著。

近年来，带着对那一段历史的好奇，我在河南当地搜寻关于这场大洪灾的记录。发现与之有关的著作很少。其中官方编著的书，除了前述由驻马店地区水利局编著的《“75·8”抗洪志》；还有中央党史研究室，中央档案馆2002年编著的《1975年淮河大水灾亲历记》（《中共党史资料第84辑》）；以及河南水利厅2005年7月编《河南“75·8”特大洪水灾害》。

在地方上，豫南各市县政协整理的《文史资料》，如《驻马店文史资料》，在第四、第八和第九辑上，有“75·8”洪水专题，主要是曾在政府部门工作的救灾参与者的回忆征集。

在周口市项城的档案馆，有县委卷宗记录了这次“抗洪”，还有一套项城县抗洪救灾指挥部编印的《抗洪救灾报》。这份报纸是项城唯一一套关于“抗洪救灾”的地方报纸。2010年，项城市政协资料编辑部根据这些资料，和当年抗洪救灾亲历者的回忆，编辑整理出了一本《项城75·8抗洪救灾资料集》（张甫堂刘雅君，周口日报）。

这些由水利部门主持编纂的档案，更多是围绕气象水文如何影响工程，导致灾难，以及最终如何恢复水利工程，也涉及如何组织救灾和恢复生产，但都是从国家角度。是国家权力意志的叙述，而少见对灾难深层原因的反思。

2010年前后，中国媒体曾有较为短暂的一个宽松时期，当时有南方周末、南方都市报、炎黄春秋等媒体，通过报道提供了一些丰富的细节，尤其是在2010年大洪灾发生35周年之时。

自媒体兴起后，逐渐有了一些以普通人为主体，第一人称视角的回忆。一些参与救灾的老兵，例如来自武汉军区舟桥部队的老兵，也有一些是医护人员的回忆，但更多来自本地亲历者的记忆依然十分稀缺。

2021年7月，河南再次发生严重水灾，据报道，有13座水库告急。我痛心地看到，在我的家乡，曾经历过“758”惨痛水灾的河南人，依然缺乏准备与避险意识。从应急响应到未能及时通报泄洪，瞒报遇难数字等等，似乎又在重复46年前的“75·8”洪水暴露出的问题（参见《河南郑州“7·20”特大暴雨灾害调查报告》）。

这场文革中发生的旷世洪灾到底死了多少人？至今，还是一个谜。

根据《纪登奎、乌兰夫慰问驻马店水灾》一文（刊登于驻马店《文史资料》第二辑，作者魏世昌）记载，8月15日，中央慰问团在当地影剧院召开慰问大会，时任副总理纪登奎出席这次大会。其间，纪登奎将地委书记苏华和地委副书记魏世昌叫去，询问这次洪灾可能死了多少人，两人报告说“可能死十多万人。”——这也是有据可查的汇报给中央的第一个死亡统计数字。

8月20日，也即溃坝后12天，根据河南省委初步统计的数字，全省死亡85600多人，连同外地在灾区死亡的人数在内，最多不超过10万人。当时河南省委认为这个数字比较准确。中央慰问团在写给中央的关于河南、安徽灾情报告中，引用了这个数字。

但前述新华社记者张广友曾随中央慰问团第一时间深入灾区采访，他认为原先报的85000人的数字多了，最多不超过4万人，这个数字和官方数字接近。而在《河南省驻马店地区75·8抗洪志》一书第83页，当地水利局给出的数据是，在驻马店地区，“淹死22564人，病死1633人，受伤92096人”。

2005年美国《探索》频道的节目，以及一些民间的说法，则认为死亡人数超过20万。这个数字，不仅包括垮坝当晚熟睡中的直接受难者，也包括几天后爆破泄洪、分洪的受难者，还有灾后瘟疫蔓延，以及饥饿等死去的人。

51年过去了，可以确定的一件事情是，直到今天，因为中国的相关信息并不公开透明，这场大洪灾中真正的死亡人数，依然成谜。

推荐档案：

《中国历史大洪水》（上）

《河南省驻马店地区75.8抗洪志》

《项城75.8抗洪救灾资料集》

《75.8浩劫内幕纪实》

延伸阅读：

钱钢：世界最大的水库垮坝惨案——1975年驻马店大水

江华、喻尘：水墓：河南“1975.8”特大洪水祭（2010年南方都市报）

腾讯历史：中国当代最惨溃坝事故，当年媒体无只字报道

【本文为中国民间档案馆首发，转载时请务必在正文之前注明“本文首发于中国民间档案馆”，并加上原文在中国民间档案馆网站或者中国民间档案馆Substack的链接。】

【作者观点不代表中国民间档案馆立场。】

The “75·8” Flood in Henan— A Disaster Masked Amidst the Chaos of the Cultural Revolution

By Adam

In early August 1975, Typhoon No. 7503, which made landfall twice in Hualien, Taiwan, and Jinjiang, Fujian, did not cause significant losses at first. No one imagined that, a few days later, it would trigger a rare and torrential downpour in China’s inland central plains. Sixty-two dams located within Henan Province breached; the floodwaters that burst through the dikes swept across fields and cities.

This disaster, known in the west as the Banqiao Dam failure, received no media coverage at the time. 1975 was during China’s Cultural Revolution, where class struggle was the guiding principle and political movements took command. The emergency response to the disaster was sluggish, and relief supplies were desperately scarce. Some official sources put the death toll at over 80,000, but unofficial investigations have shown that the death toll may far exceed this figure, as many perished from diseases as a result of the flood.

Zhumadian, Henan Province, was the hardest-hit area in this great flood and is also my hometown. As a child, I often heard my father say that when the flood arrived that year, he was only 10 years old. Because it was summer vacation, he had gone to his grandmother’s house in Xinxiang and thus escaped the catastrophe. However, the newly built house of my great-uncle’s family was swept away by the flood in the middle of the night. The whole family woke up because a neighbor shouted loudly, allowing them to escape to a road not far away on slightly higher ground and survive. Another family was not so lucky; of their four children, two were swept away by the flood. Today, 51 years have passed, and these memories exist in the occasional small talk of the village elders back home, but are rarely mentioned in official history. Starting in 2020, I returned to my hometown, visiting relatives and friends, and also attempted to understand this tragic history of my hometown through limited literary and historical materials.

62 Dams Collapsed One After Another Amid Torrential Rain

One cause of the great flood was the rainstorm and the unusual meteorological conditions that enabled it to penetrate so deep inland. But the deaths of tens of thousands, especially due to the dam breaches, were caused by humans.

According to meteorological records at the time, after Typhoon No. 7503 landed in Jinjiang, the airflow gradually turned north. Like all typhoons that penetrate deep inland, its intensity gradually weakened. By the early morning of August 6, it reached its westernmost point—the vicinity of Changde, Hunan. However, due to special meteorological conditions such as cross-equatorial airflow caused by cold wave activity in the Southern Hemisphere, the low-pressure system was able to remain at typhoon-level winds on land for a full hundred-plus hours. An unprecedented and massive amount of water vapor drove straight in from the sea thousands of miles away, causing three rounds of catastrophic torrential rain in southern Henan from the 5th to the 8th.

According to records in the article “The World’s Largest Reservoir Dam Breach Tragedy — The 1975 Zhumadian Flood” by the writer Qian Gang, this rainstorm’s “precipitation intensity was extremely strong. At the center of the storm — Linzhuang, located at the Banqiao Reservoir — the maximum 6-hour rainfall was 830 mm, exceeding the world record at the time (782 mm in Smethport, Pennsylvania, USA in 1942); the maximum 24-hour rainfall was 1060 mm, which also created the highest record for similar indicators in our country.”

While the rainstorm raged, two large reservoirs in Henan, Banqiao and Shimantan, as well as two medium-sized reservoirs, Zhugou and Tiangang, plus 58 small reservoirs, breached and collapsed within a few hours. Zhumadian, Xuchang (including Luohe, which became an independent municipality after 1986), Zhoukou, Nanyang, and the Wuyang Industrial Zone (now Wugang City, administered by Pingdingshan), as well as 30 counties and cities across these five regions of Henan, along with the adjacent Linquan County in Fuyang, Anhui, all suffered from the floods.

According to the “Records of the ‘75·8’ Flood Fighting in Zhumadian Region, Henan Province” (compiled by the Zhumadian Regional Water Resources Bureau and published by the Yellow River Water Conservancy Press in 1998), the dam breaches occurred around midnight while people were asleep. The breach of the Shimantan Reservoir was at 00:00 on August 8, 1975; ten minutes later, the Banqiao Reservoir collapsed.

In fact, before these two large reservoirs collapsed, by 21:00 on the night of August 7, seven small reservoirs had already breached in Queshan and Biyang; at 22:00, the medium-sized Zhugou Reservoir breached. At this time, the water in Suiping County town was already waist-deep. After the Banqiao Reservoir breached, Shahedian Town, closest to the reservoir, was the first to be swallowed by the water. At least 827 people died out of a total population of over 6,000. Wencheng Commune, separated from Shahedian Town by a river, missed the opportunity for self-rescue because they could not hear what was being signaled from the other side of the river, resulting in heavy casualties.

The surge from the Banqiao Reservoir breach flowed downstream at an average speed of about 6 meters per second, and roughly three hours after the breach, it had spread to Suiping County, with the flow widening to 10 kilometers. The water depth on the flat ground near Suiping County town was about 4.5 meters, and the water depth on the tracks at Suiping Station on the Beijing-Guangzhou Railway line was about 3 meters.

It can be seen from some records that when the water had already swallowed villages and entered cities, effective rescue had not yet begun. Ji Pomin, son of then-Vice Premier Ji Dengkui, wrote in the article “What I Know About the ‘1975 Henan Flood’”:

On the evening of August 8, my father and Liu Jianxun (then First Secretary of Henan Province) were still in Luoyang (solving the problem of Cultural Revolution factional struggles in large enterprises). Wang Weiqun, Deputy Secretary of the Provincial Party Committee and Commander of the Production Command Post of the Provincial Revolutionary Committee, suddenly called to report that something had happened at the Banqiao Reservoir in the Zhumadian area! Due to the interruption of communications, the specific situation was not yet clear. My father and Liu Jianxun immediately returned to Zhengzhou overnight to listen to reports, understand the situation, arrange flood control and disaster relief, report to the Central Committee, and request military support.

It is evident that although the heavy rain lasted for several days, the Henan Provincial Party Committee neither foresaw the possibility of catastrophic rainfall leading to dam breaches, nor were they focused on it, as they were busy with Cultural Revolution factional struggle issues in Luoyang. By the time they learned of the Banqiao Reservoir breach, nearly a whole day had passed, and the specific details were still unclear.

According to Qian Gang’s account, at 08:00 on August 9, 1975, the Zhumadian Regional Party Committee sent an urgent telegram — “Our region experienced extraordinary rainstorms from the 5th to the 8th, with an average rainfall of 800 mm and average water accumulation of about 2 meters. It is a vast ocean. The Banqiao Reservoir breached at 0:40 on the 8th, Suiping County town was submerged, and many people died. Due to the serious disaster caused by the rainstorm and flood, more than 3 million people are surrounded by floodwaters, some have been trapped on rooftops or in trees for two or three days, and the situation is extremely critical!”

In addition to the ferocity of the flood, Qian Gang found some incomplete telephone records and status reports from the archives of the Zhumadian region. These original records disclosed the tragic conditions of the people of Zhumadian in their dire straits after the dam breaches:

August 13 — the water in eastern Xincai and Pingyu is still rising, 2 cm per hour, 2 million people across the region are in the water; Runan: 100,000 people submerged (referring to those still floating in the water), 40,000 rescued, 60,000 still trapped in trees, requesting emergency rescue; 200,000 people in the county have swollen faces and legs, diarrhea, no medicine… Until August 16, 1.2 million people in the entire region were still in the water. After the flood, the incidence of disease rose rapidly, and secondary disasters were severe. Besides disease, there was no food; in some places, people were still on the dikes eating insects and tree leaves…

Reservoirs Built During the “Socialist Upsurge”

In fact, the shadow of this unprecedented disaster was planted as early as the Great Leap Forward in 1957. According to Qian Gang’s article, in the early 1950s, Henan reinforced the Banqiao and Shimantan reservoirs. After the expansion of these two reservoirs, the Great Leap Forward began, and “reservoir construction in the Central Plains surged forward and could not be stopped.” “From 1957 to 1959 alone, more than 100 reservoirs were built in the Zhumadian region. The midwife for a large batch of new reservoirs was the ‘Socialist Upsurge’ then roaring across the land of China.”

According to accounts, during the Great Leap Forward in 1958, Henan summarized the experience of building mountainous water conservancy in the Manghe River basin. When then-Vice Premier Tan Zhenlin came to Henan for inspection, he summarized it as “focusing on storage, focusing on small-scale projects, and focusing on self-management by communes and brigades,” and said: “Now that the problem of mountainous areas is solved, the Manghe experience should be promoted to the plains.” Water conservancy expert Chen Xing immediately pointed out: focusing on storage in the plains while neglecting drainage would cause serious damage to the water environment, and so on. But the expert’s advice was ignored, and he was labeled a right-deviationist and sent down. The “storage-focused” experience was later widely promoted to Anhui, and a large number of small reservoirs emerged in hilly areas, causing a fatal “intestinal obstruction” in the Huai River basin for decades to come.

Chen Xing later summarized in the book “Water Management Has No End” that one of the main reasons for the Henan flood was the failure of water conservancy construction planning and decision-making after 1949. This included: emphasizing storage over drainage leading to insufficient designed drainage sluices, and the Great Leap Forward-style water conservancy construction after the 1950s, where many quality hazards existed and were not eliminated in time. In fact, during the Great Leap Forward, a large number of small and medium-sized reservoirs and dams themselves were political products, lacking rigorous planning and construction from design to quality.

Embarrassing Flood Prevention Under the Backdrop of the Cultural Revolution

Looking back today, it is clear that during the Cultural Revolution, like other provinces across the country, cadres in Henan were busy dealing with various political movements. In terms of flood prevention, there was a complete lack of risk-awareness and material preparation.

To give an example — according to Yu Weimin and Ye Shuxin’s Account of the Inside Story of the 75·8 Catastrophe (published by Yellow River Literature and Art Press in 1990), on August 6, Liu Peicheng, Commander of the Production Command Post of the Zhumadian Regional Revolutionary Committee, went to Banqiao for an inspection and convened a joint meeting of the Reservoir Management Bureau, Banqiao Commune, and military leaders to deploy flood fighting and rescue efforts: some advocated raising the dikes, while others advocated blowing up the auxiliary dam to discharge the flood and reduce pressure on the main dam. Various opinions were deadlocked, and the meeting lasted for more than an hour. Until the very end, people suddenly discovered that none of the plans for flood fighting and rescue could be implemented. The Vice Chairman of the Reservoir Revolutionary Committee told everyone embarrassedly: there were no shovels or straw bags in the flood prevention warehouse, let alone an ounce of explosives—only a few small wooden sticks and some wooden-handled grenades used for militia training.

In fact, this disaster was not impossible to prevent. According to Chen Xunbie’s article “The Most Tragic Dam Breach Accident in Contemporary China, Not a Word Reported by the Media at the Time,” at 23:00 on August 6, the water level of the Banqiao Reservoir had already reached 122.91 meters, while the highest designed storage water level was only 110.88 meters. The main spillway gate was raised above the water surface, and the water transport channels were all opened for discharge at 01:00 on the 7th, yet the water level was still rising sharply. At that time, some suggested opening all gates for discharge or even digging openings to release the water, but absolutely no one was willing to take responsibility and provide a decision.

The “75·8” Great Flood That Vanished From the Press: Cannot Let Chairman Mao and Premier Zhou Be Provoked

Even though it was such a huge disaster, the Chinese media in 1975 did not report a single word. Many years later, Xinhua News Agency reporter Zhang Guangyou revealed some of the inside story in an article in the now-defunct independent history journal Yanhuang Chunqiu:

I already knew the head of the condolence delegation and Vice Premier of the State Council, Ji Dengkui. He was approachable and cared much about reporters and publicity reports. After the delegation arrived in the disaster area, he spoke with me several times. He said: ‘This Central Condolence Delegation is both a condolence group and a “working group.” While doing a good job in condolence work, we should assist the local government as much as possible to do some work and solve some practical problems in flood fighting, rescue, and disaster relief.’

I asked Ji Dengkui: How should this flood be reported? He said: ‘The central leadership has already decided that this flood will not be reported publicly; no news will be released. Especially the disaster situation itself—not only will it not be reported publicly, but it must also be kept secret.’ I didn’t understand this and immediately asked back: Why? Can a flood of such a large scale be kept secret? He said: ‘This is the decision of the central leadership, and your general office leaders have already been informed. But this doesn’t mean you have nothing to do. Your task is not only to go to the disaster sites with the condolence delegation; you should also create some internal references (neican) to promote advanced figures and deeds in the flood rescue, such as: sacrificing oneself for others, sacrificing the small family for the big family, and the communist style of “one place in trouble, eight places support”; especially, you need to grasp some important issues, go deep into reality, and conduct some investigations and research.’

In the early 80s, after Ji Dengkui stepped down from his central leadership position and went to work at the State Council’s Rural Development Research Center, we met often. Once, in casual conversation, we spoke about the fact that the flood was not allowed to be reported publicly and that investigation report. He said: Not allowing public reporting was for fear of creating side effects and affecting stability; at that time, Chairman Mao and Premier Zhou were seriously ill, and not allowing public reporting was also for fear that they would be provoked (upset). Internal reports could only have a very small amount selected for them to see, and this kind of internal report wouldn’t be shown to them; as for that investigation report, I saw it, it was a very persuasive piece of material, but by then, it could no longer be attended to…’

— (Zhang Guangyou, “Witnessing the 1975 Huai River Great Flood,” published in Yanhuang Chunqiu)

It turns out that one important reason the official side not only kept this huge disaster private but also demanded secrecy was for fear of “affecting stability,” especially because Chairman Mao and Premier Zhou were seriously ill and “could not be provoked.”

How Many People Actually Died? Local Memories and the Scarcity of Historical Records

In 2005, the American “Discovery Channel” called this great flood one of the world’s “Top 10 Man-Made Technological Disasters.” But in China, because of long-term artificial blocking, very few people know about this disaster.

Fourteen years after the great flood, in July 1989, the book “Great Floods in Chinese History (Part 1),” with a preface by former Chinese Minister of Water Resources Qian Zhengying, was published in the form of an “internal distribution edition.” The book disclosed part of the disaster situation from an official perspective for the first time.

The book revealed that in the “75·8” Great Flood, 29 counties and cities and 17 million mu (15 mu = 1 hectare) of farmland in Henan Province were flooded, of which 11 million mu of farmland suffered devastating damage. 11 million people were affected, and more than 26,000 died. This resulted in 102 kilometers of the railway (Beijing-Guangzhou Line) that runs through mainland China from Beijing to Guangzhou being washed out, interrupting traffic for 18 days and affecting transportation for 48 days, with direct economic losses of nearly 10 billion yuan.

In March 1990, Henan Daily reporters Yu Weimin and Ye Shuxin published the reportage “Account of the 75·8 Catastrophe.” As a public publication, it presented the disaster situation relatively completely and became the first monograph on the “75·8” flood.

In recent years, carrying curiosity about that period of history, I have searched for records of this great flood in Henan. I found that there are very few books related to it. Among the officially compiled books, besides the aforementioned “Records of the ‘75·8’ Flood Fighting” compiled by the Zhumadian Regional Water Resources Bureau, there is also “Experiences of the 1975 Huai River Great Flood” (Chinese Communist Party History Materials Vol. 84) compiled by the Central Party History Research Office and the Central Archives in 2002; as well as “The ‘75·8’ Extraordinary Flood Disaster in Henan” compiled by the Henan Water Resources Department in July 2005.

These archives, compiled under the auspices of water conservancy departments, focus more on how meteorology and hydrology affected the engineering projects, leading to the disaster, and how to eventually restore the water conservancy projects. They also involve how to organize disaster relief and restore production, but all from the perspective of the state.

Locally, the “Literary and Historical Materials” organized by the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference (CPPCC) of various cities and counties in southern Henan, such as “Zhumadian Literary and Historical Materials,” have specials on the “758” flood in the fourth, eighth, and ninth volumes, mainly consisting of collections of memories from relief participants who once worked in government departments.

In the archives of Xiangcheng, Zhoukou City, there are county committee files recording this “flood fighting,” as well as a set of “Flood Fighting and Disaster Relief Newspaper” printed by the Xiangcheng County Flood Fighting and Disaster Relief Command Post. This newspaper is the only set of local newspapers in Xiangcheng regarding “flood fighting and disaster relief.” In 2010, the Xiangcheng CPPCC Materials Editorial Department edited and compiled a “Collection of Materials on the 75·8 Flood Fighting and Disaster Relief in Xiangcheng” (Zhang Futang, Liu Yajun, Zhoukou Daily) based on these materials and the memories of those who experienced the flood fighting and relief at the time.

Around 2010, Chinese media was in the midst of a relatively brief period of relaxation. At that time, media such as Southern Weekly, Southern Metropolis Daily, and Yanhuang Chunqiu provided some rich details through reporting, especially on the 35th anniversary of the great flood in 2010.

After the rise of self-media, memories with ordinary people as the subject and from a first-person perspective gradually appeared. There are accounts from some veterans who participated in the rescue, such as veterans from the Wuhan Military Region Bridge-building Units, and also some from medical personnel, but accounts by local eyewitnesses remain scarce.

In July 2021, severe flooding occurred in Henan again. According to reports, 13 reservoirs faced an emergency. I saw with heartache that in my hometown, Henan people who had experienced the tragic “75·8” flood still lacked preparation and risk-awareness. From the emergency response to the failure to promptly report flood discharges, the concealment of casualty figures, etc., it seems that the problems exposed by the “75·8” flood 46 years ago are being repeated (see “Investigation Report on the ‘7·20’ Extraordinary Rainstorm Disaster in Zhengzhou, Henan”).

How many people actually died in this unprecedented flood that occurred during the Cultural Revolution? To this day, it remains a mystery.

According to the article “Ji Dengkui and Ulanhu Condole the Zhumadian Flood” (published in Zhumadian “Literary and Historical Materials” Vol. 2, author Wei Shichang), on August 15, the Central Condolence Delegation held a condolence meeting at the local theater, attended by then-Vice Premier Ji Dengkui. During the period, Ji Dengkui called over Regional Party Secretary Su Hua and Regional Party Deputy Secretary Wei Shichang to ask how many people might have died in this flood. The two reported, “It’s possible more than 100,000 people died.” — This is also the first death statistic reported to the Central Committee that can be traced.

On August 20, 12 days after the dam breaches, according to preliminary statistics from the Henan Provincial Party Committee, more than 85,600 people died in the whole province; including those from elsewhere who died in the disaster area, the total would not exceed 100,000 at most. At that time, the Henan Provincial Party Committee believed this figure was relatively accurate. The Central Condolence Delegation cited this figure in the report on the disaster situation in Henan and Anhui written for the Central Committee.

However, the aforementioned Xinhua reporter Zhang Guangyou, who went deep into the disaster area for interviews with the Central Condolence Delegation at the first opportunity, believed that the originally reported figure of 85,000 was too high and that it was no more than 40,000 at most. This figure is close to the official figure. On page 83 of the book Records of the 75·8 Flood Fighting in Zhumadian, the data provided by the local Water Resources Bureau is that, in the Zhumadian region, “22,564 people drowned, 1,633 died of disease, and 92,096 were injured.”

In 2025, the Discovery Channel program and some unofficial figures put the death toll at 200,000. This figure includes not only the direct victims while sleeping on the night of the dam breaches but also the victims of the explosion-assisted flood discharges and diversions a few days later, as well as those who died from the spread of plague and hunger after the disaster.

Fifty-one years have passed, and to this day, because the information is not open and transparent, the true death toll of this great flood in fact remains a mystery.

Recommended Archives:

Great Floods in Chinese History (Part 1)

Chronicles of the August 1975 Flood Control in Zhumadian Prefecture, Henan Province

Collection of Materials on Flood Control and Disaster Relief in Xiangcheng, August 1975

Inside Account of the 75.8 Catastrophe

Extended Reading:

Qian Gang: The World’s Largest Reservoir Dam Breach Tragedy — The 1975 Zhumadian Flood

Jiang Hua, Yu Chen: Water Tomb: Commemorating the Henan “1975.8” Extraordinary Flood (2010 Southern Metropolis Daily)

Tencent History: The Most Tragic Dam Breach Accident in Contemporary China, Not a Word Reported by the Media at the Time

[This article first appeared in China Unofficial Archives. When reposting, please ensure that the following is included at the beginning of the reposted text: “This article was first published by the China Unofficial Archives,” accompanied by a link to the original article on the China Unofficial Archives website or Substack.]

[The views expressed by the author of this article do not necessarily reflect the position of the China Unofficial Archives.]

作者：海伦

By Hai Lun

本文原文为英文。

The English original follows below.

1951年，30岁的巫宁坤正在芝加哥大学英美文学系攻读博士。他收到一份来自北京的电报，邀请他回国。两年前刚刚成立的中华人民共和国，此时正需要人才，号召像他这样的海外学子归国，为建设“新中国”贡献所长。作为一名曾在二战期间担任美国“飞虎队”翻译的爱国青年，巫宁坤欣然接受了邀请。然而，随之而来的，是他在毛泽东时代的中国所遭遇的，长达近三十年、几乎从未间断的迫害与艰辛。巫宁坤在他1993年出版的回忆录《一滴泪》（A Single Tear）中详述了这段往事，并将其总结为：“我归来，我受难，我幸存。”

作为翻译家的巫宁坤，将这部最初用英文写就的回忆录又译成中文，并于2002年在台湾出版。至今，20多年过去了，该书始终未在大陆正式出版，但其扫描版则一直在互联网上流传，供那些在中国可以翻墙，也想追寻“毛时代”社会真相的人阅读。随着时间推移，这本书也积累了大量的读者，成为反映毛泽东时代知识分子苦难的著名回忆录之一。在中国，巫宁坤书中记述的许多内容，尤其是文化大革命，至今仍无法被自由讨论。今年是文革爆发60周年，以及文革结束50周年的纪念年份，重新审视这本书，有着重要的意义。

即使以那个时代的标准衡量，巫宁坤遭受的苦难也远超常人。事实上，从美国归来不久，他就在1950年代中国频繁的政治运动中成为斗争对象，只因为他曾在西方接受教育，并曾经和国民党军队有联系（主要与他曾任“飞虎队”随军翻译有关）。回国后，他一开始在燕京大学（后北京大学）任教，1951年11月任教于南开大学，1956年调任北京外事干部学校（后来的北京国际关系学院）。1957年中共发动的“反右运动”中，他响应党的号召，发表了一些批评意见，旋即被划为“极右分子”。此后的三年里，他被迫远离妻儿，去接受劳动改造。一开始他被押送去了臭名昭著的东北兴凯湖农场，后来，又被转往北京附近的一所监狱。正值大饥荒期间，在那里他几近饿死。

1961年获释后，巫宁坤被送往他妻子任职的安徽大学，终于和家人短暂团聚。好景不长，文革爆发，此时他的“右派”身份再次成为梦魇，他被关进了改造阶级敌人的“牛棚”。“牛棚”的日子同样难熬，在严密的监管之下，他不得不进行无休止的自我批评。与此同时，他的家庭也几乎分崩离析。他的女儿巫一毛，文革开始时才是个8岁的孩子，父母的遭遇让她失去了一切庇护。一直到中年之后，她写下自己的回忆录《暴风雨中一羽毛》，并在其中提及惨痛的往事：1966年，无人照顾的她，在看完病独自回家的途中，遭到一名解放军强奸。时隔一年之后，她再度遭到强奸，这次施暴者是他父亲的一名老同事。

后来，巫宁坤与全家一同被下放到农村。直到1979年，巫宁坤的“极右”帽子才被摘掉。此时的他，已年近六旬，戴着“阶级敌人”的帽子生活了22年。在饱受摧残的岁月里，巫宁坤觉得自己就像“一根会思想的芦苇，听任社会主义政治风云的摆布”。作为接受了西方教育的学者，巫宁坤对中国共产党的那套政治运作一窍不通。从始至终，他既没有通过给自己编造罪名来取悦审讯者的天赋，也不擅长为了保护自己而假装忏悔。

他回忆，每当他被迫交待罪行时，总会在心中默诵那些西方文学经典中的名句。对他而言，批斗会上歇斯底里、无比狂热的群众，正如莎士比亚所言，“充满了喧哗与骚动，却毫无意义”。他拒绝承认强加在他头上的反革命指控，因为他信奉林肯的教诲：“当该抗议时却保持缄默，这种罪行足以让人变成懦夫。”

当巫宁坤被送往劳改农场，背着木柴蹒跚走过冰原时，他曾想象莎士比亚戏剧《麦克白》中的场景：“从伯南森林来的移动丛林，向被围困在邓西嫩‘紫禁城’里的麦克白推进”。

这些文学典故，在西方读者看来或许有些脱离语境，如同在掉书袋，但正是他早年的英美文学训练，那些经典文学，让巫宁坤得以在精神上和正在遭遇的惨痛处境保持距离。这种保持自我的能力——无论这个自我与环境多么格格不入——是一个人能在毛泽东时代残酷的政治运动中存活下来的关键。正是凭借这种能力，巫宁坤才没有像他的许多同侪那样陷入愤怒与绝望。他的书中，就记录了许多这样的悲剧：著名学者赵萝蕤（也正是她请当时的燕京大学校长写信请巫宁坤回国），在丈夫陈梦家被划为右派后精神失常；巫宁坤安徽大学一名同事的妻子江楠，在乡下被强奸，因为当地医生拒绝为她实施堕胎手术，她自缢身亡。

巫宁坤最终幸免于难，但后来的人生中，他始终在艰难地尝试与自己的痛苦达成和解。那些中共的老革命们，经常宣称自己将苦难视为对信仰的考验——但巫宁坤不是虔诚的共产主义信徒，他无法接受这种说法，他深知自己的心在别处——当在“反右运动”中遭受数轮围攻之时，他得知妻子怀上了他们的第二个孩子。

“我毕竟是一个有妻儿老小的凡人， 我没有当殉道者的准备。”他在心里想，“我的血肉之躯是软弱的。” 也正是这样的心路经历，让巫宁坤最终转向了写作。他在序言中写道，自己记录下这一切，只是为了回答一个问题：“我的受难与幸存是否徒劳？”

为了回答这个问题，巫宁坤细致追忆半个世纪前的往事。他在描述1950年代至1970年代间自己反复遭受迫害的场景时，指名道姓，并大段引用当时的对话，读来宛如直接取自日记。

和其他毛时代的知识分子回忆录——如杨绛的《干校六记》或高尔泰的《寻找家园》——相比，《一滴泪》似乎并没有致力于升华那些痛苦的记忆，而更倾向于史实式的记录。巫宁坤写下了他能记住的一切：他对自己所遭遇苦难背后的权力结构，或者那些施暴者身份背景的信息描述并不多——或许是因为长期身处排斥与孤立中，让他难以洞察这些内幕。但他不遗余力地记录下所见所闻，如清河监狱的饿殍，或红卫兵对安徽大学同事的暴行——这些个体生命的故事，若不是他的记录，早已湮没于历史。

巫宁坤笔下的经历也不全是纯粹的残暴。文革期间，他在农村合作社劳动时，惊喜地发现，负责监视他的贫下中农学生竟然热爱阅读。两人在深夜畅谈鲁迅和《红楼梦》，并因此结下了友谊。然而，这很快给那名学生带来了灾难——也成了攻击目标，巫宁坤被迫参加了一场针对这名学生的恶毒的批斗会。

后来，监管人员换成了另一个贫下中农学生——一个心软的孤儿。这个学生从来不对被监管的人大声呵斥。他向巫宁坤说，当村民们奉命“挖资本主义墙角”，而砍掉他心爱的桃树时，他哭了。就在那时，他知道自己“永远成不了一个好的革命者”。因缺乏革命精神，这名学生被送回了生产队，而他那些更积极革命的同学，则被提拔并进了城。

巫宁坤的妻子李怡楷是他生命中持久的慰藉与支柱。书中有几章内容正是基于她的叙述。她在南开大学是巫宁坤的学生，1954年毕业后和他成婚。不止一次，是李怡楷的机智与坚毅将巫宁坤从深渊中救起。三年大饥荒期间，当巫宁坤在劳改农场因营养不良濒死时，李怡楷不懈地奔走，最终帮助争取到了保外就医。1973年，当巫宁坤在农村“接受再教育”时，李怡楷跨省奔波，为丈夫争取更好的待遇。正是这些努力，最终促成了巫宁坤被调回城市，重返教职。

当1951年回到中国时，巫宁坤曾以为等待他的，将是在燕京大学的课堂上，为学生讲授乔叟和莎士比亚的教学生涯，然而，命运为他准备的却是革命与流放。他被发配到东北的冰原和安徽的穷乡僻壤，被工人欺辱，也被农民算计——这的确是一种“再教育”，他几乎因此丧命。

但巫宁坤并没有沉溺于“如果当年……”的假设。书中写道，在他刚从作为右派被劳改三年释放后的一天，妻子曾问他是否后悔回国。

巫宁坤说：“我不可能作出其它选择。我的这个决定，是我的一生，我的梦与幻想，我的长处和短处，以及一切因缘际会的结果。”

话虽如此，1979年，巫宁坤摘掉右派帽子后，在北京与一位美国老友重逢的场景，仍然让人唏嘘。那位朋友正是诺贝尔奖得主李政道。两人曾是芝加哥大学的同窗，1951年巫宁坤回国时，李政道到港口为他送行，当时李政道直言自己不打算回国，因为“不想被洗脑”。

28年后，在北京一家宾馆里，巫宁坤看着坐在桌子对面的李政道，感到这一切太过讽刺：对方“在‘美帝国主义的堡垒’安居乐业，回到共产中国荣膺‘爱国主义者’的桂冠……我响应号召回到祖国，却被划为人民公敌，受尽无产阶级专政下劳动改造和牛棚的煎熬，几乎成为饿莩，葬身一抔黄土。”

1993年，当《一滴泪》在美国出版时，内容激怒了北京当局，其中包括当时将巫宁坤划为右派的北京国际关系学院的退休干部。校方随即停发了巫宁坤夫妇的退休金，并收回了他的住房，令这对老夫妇一度无家可归。漂泊两年后，他们最终定居在美国弗吉尼亚州莱斯顿的一家老年公寓里。在那里，巫宁坤似乎终于找到了平静。在2014年的一份自述中，他写道：“一间简单的卧室就是我们的天堂，一个远离世俗纷扰的避风港。”晚年的他，享受着老友以及前学生时期同事的造访，其中还包括来登门致歉的当年的施暴者。

2019年巫宁坤去世时，他的故事在大陆鲜为人知。人们了解他多是通过他翻译的西方名著，其中包括《了不起的盖茨比》。当年在燕京大学，这本书曾是他被批斗的“罪证”，激进的学生指责他用这本书“毒害新中国青年的思想”。

几十年后，随着中国国门开启、经济腾飞，人们正是通过巫宁坤精妙的译笔，才了解了不受约束的资本主义带来的可能性和危险性。巫宁坤翻译此书也有个人寄托——他在译后记中写道，菲茨杰拉德深陷于他的时代，却能冷静地描绘出那个时代的冷酷与沉沦。在这本书的作者和他一起被划为“阶级敌人”后，巫宁坤觉得他欠这位爵士乐时代的记录者一个公道，因此要“为他平反，还他公正”。

一次，在陪妻子去马里兰州罗克维尔参加弥撒时，巫宁坤偶遇了菲茨杰拉德的墓地。那是一个毫不起眼的合葬墓，墓碑上刻着菲茨杰拉德和妻子泽尔达的名字，紧邻着车水马龙的街道。墓碑前的石板上刻着《了不起的盖茨比》那句著名的结尾。巫宁坤与妻子在墓前徘徊。他指着那行字，妻子轻声读了出来：

“于是我们奋力向前，逆水行舟，被浪潮不断地推向过去。”

本期推荐档案：

巫宁坤：《一滴泪》

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I came, I suffered, I survived: A Single Tear and Chinese Intellectuals under Mao

By Hai Lun

Wu Ningkun was 30 years old and a third-year PhD student in American and English literature at the University of Chicago in 1951 when he received a cable from Beijing inviting him to return home. The People’s Republic of China, founded two years earlier, was calling for overseas Chinese like Wu to contribute their expertise to building the New China. A patriot who served as a translator for the American Flying Tigers during the Second World War, Wu happily accepted the invitation. What followed was close to three decades of near-unremitting persecution and hardship in Mao’s China, which he recounted in his 1993 memoir A Single Tear and summed up as “I came, I suffered, I survived.”

A Chinese version of A Single Tear, which Wu translated from English himself, came out in Taiwan in 2002. Although the book has never been published in Mainland China, scanned versions of it have circulated on the Internet, available to people interested in learning about the Mao era and equipped with the technology to circumvent the Great Firewall. Over time it acquired a sizable readership and became one of the best-known memoirs on intellectuals’ sufferings under Mao. Much of what Wu wrote about, chief among them the Cultural Revolution, still cannot be freely discussed in China. As the 60th anniversary of the outbreak of the event arrives this year, it is worth revisiting the book.

Even by the standards of the time, Wu suffered more than most. Because of his Western education and links to the Nationalist Army, Wu became a target for attack soon after his return. After brief stints teaching English in universities in Beijing and Tianjin, he was labeled an “ultra-rightist” during the Hundred Flowers campaign for the criticisms of the party he had been coaxed into giving by school authorities. He spent the next three years doing hard labor, away from his wife and small children, first in the notorious Xingkai Lake prison farm in the northeast, then in a prison near Beijing, where he nearly starved to death.

Upon his release in 1961, Wu was sent to Anhui University, where his wife was working at the time. Family life resumed, only briefly. Wu’s rightist label came back to haunt him when the Cultural Revolution broke out, condemning him to the “cow shed” — a term for makeshift holding cells for those the party deemed class enemies, where he was monitored constantly and forced to go through repeated self-criticisms. The family was scattered. His daughter, Emily Yimao Wu, who was eight years old when the Cultural Revolution started, later revealed in her memoir Feather in the Storm that she was raped twice in 1966 and 1967, once by a People’s Liberation Army soldier and once by a former colleague of her father’s.

Later sent down to the countryside with the rest of his family, Wu was not cleared of his ultra-rightist charge until 1979, after the end of the Cultural Revolution. By then nearly 60, Wu had lived as a class enemy for 22 years. Throughout his years of persecution, Wu felt himself “a thinking reed at the mercy of the whim of the socialist political wind.” A West-trained academic unacquainted with the ways of the Chinese Communist Party, Wu had no talent of drumming up past sins to satisfy his interrogators, nor was he good at performing contrition on demand.

When he was under pressure to confess, Wu had a way of recalling to himself lines from famous works of Western literature. To him, the mass hysteria at a struggle session was “full of sound of fury, signifying nothing,” as Shakespeare put it. He refused to acquiesce to the counterrevolutionary accusations leveled against him, for he stood by Lincoln’s words “To sin by silence when they should protest makes cowards out of men.”

Later, Wu was sent away to a labor farm, where, trudging across icy plains with a bundle of chopped wood on his back, he fancied himself “part of the moving grove from Birnam wood advancing upon Macbeth besieged in his ‘Forbidden City’ of Dunsinane.”

Those literary references may strike western readers as pedantic and out of context, but they were crucial in helping Wu to mentally distance himself from his harrowing experiences. The ability to preserve an inner self, however at odds with its surroundings, proved critical to surviving Mao’s brutal campaigns. Thanks to it, Wu was able to resist succumbing to the anger and hopelessness that consumed many of his peers, whose tragic stories littered the book: Lucy Chao, a famous literary scholar and Wu’s colleague at Yenching University, developed schizophrenia after her husband, the archeologist Cheng Mengjia, was labeled a rightist. Jiang Nan, the wife of one of Wu’s colleagues at Anhui University, hanged herself after she was raped by workers in the countryside and refused abortion by local doctors.

Wu survived in the end, but he struggled to come to terms with his sufferings. Unlike the diehard revolutionaries who saw their tribulations under Mao as tests to their faiths, Wu, never a devout Communist, could not bring himself to that view. He knew his heart lay elsewhere. In the aftermath of the Hundred Flowers campaign, during which Wu suffered numerous rounds of attacks, he discovered his wife was pregnant with his second child.

“I was a family man now and I was not prepared to be made a martyr,” Wu thought to himself, “for my flesh was very weak.” In the end, Wu turned to writing. He wrote in the book’s prologue that documenting his experiences was his attempt to answer the question: “Have I suffered and survived in vain?”

This purpose shows in the meticulousness with which Wu recounted events dating back as long as half a century ago. His descriptions of repeated victimization between the 1950s and the 1970s, crowded with names and extended dialogues in direct quotes, could have been lifted directly out of his diary.

Compared to other noted memoirs of the period, such as Six Chapters from My Life ‘Downunder’ by Yang Jiang or In Search of My Homeland by Gao Ertai, A Single Tear seems less interested in sublimating painful memories than in historic record keeping. Wu wrote down all he could remember: He provided little contextual information, like the power dynamics in his workplaces or the backgrounds of his torturers, perhaps because the ostracism and isolation he faced meant he had little insight into those questions. But he took pains to record what he saw, like the deaths by starvation at Qinghe Prison or the Red Guards’ violence towards his colleagues at Anhui University, individual stories that would otherwise have been lost to history.

Wu showed that there was more to his experience than sheer brutality, though those respites tended to be fleeting. When Wu lived in an agricultural commune during the Cultural Revolution, he was delighted to discover that the peasant student assigned to watch him had a love for reading. The two bonded over late-night conversations about Lu Xun and The Dream of the Red Chamber. That soon made the student a target of attack himself, in a vitriolic struggle session Wu was forced to attend.

The handler was soon replaced by another peasant student, a soft-hearted orphan who never raised his voice at his charges. The orphan knew he “would never make a good revolutionary,” he confessed to Wu, when he teared up at the deaths of his favorite peach trees in the hands of villagers ordered to “dig up roots of capitalism.” Deemed lacking revolutionary spirit, the student was sent back to his rural commune while his more zealous classmates won promotions to urban work units.

A lasting source of solace and support in Wu’s life was his wife Li Yikai, whose narration of her own experience forms the basis of several chapters of the book. She met Wu when she took his class at Nankai University and married him after her graduation in 1954. More than once, it was Li’s resourcefulness and resolve that saved Wu from the abyss. During the Great Famine, when Wu was dying of malnutrition in state prison, Li tirelessly lobbied Wu’s former work unit to intervene on Wu’s behalf, eventually helping to secure his release. In 1973, when Wu was confined to the countryside during Mao’s initiative to have intellectuals “receive reeducation from peasants,” Li travelled across provinces to plead and wrangle with party bureaucrats for better treatments for her husband. Those efforts led to Wu’s return to the city and reinstatement to the ranks of university faculty.

Wu had come back to China expecting a career teaching Chaucer and Shakespeare in the ivory tower of Yenching University. Instead, revolutions and exiles took him to the frozen plains of Manchuria and the rural hamlets of eastern Anhui. They put him under the mercy of bullying workers and scheming peasants. It was a reeducation of a kind, and it nearly cost Wu his life.

But Wu knew better than to indulge in counterfactuals. Once, having just been released from a three-year imprisonment following the Hundred Flowers campaign, Wu was asked by his wife whether he regretted returning to China.

“I could have made no other choice than the one I did,” he said. “My decision was a natural outcome of my life, my dreams and illusions, my virtues and failings, and the chance of circumstance.”

Yet one cannot help but feel for Wu when, soon after shedding his rightist label in 1979, he had the chance to reunite with a friend from America who was visiting Beijing. The friend was Tsung-Dao Lee, a Chinese-American physicist who won the Nobel Prize in 1957. A native of Shanghai and contemporary of Wu’s at University of Chicago, Lee saw Wu off when he boarded the China-bound ship in 1951, saying that he personally would not consider returning home because he “did not want to have his brain washed.”

Twenty-eight years later, as Wu sat across the table from Lee in his Beijing hotel, the irony was hard swallow: Lee, “secure in the ‘imperialist fortress of America,’ was hailed as a patriot in Communist China” on his visit and “an honored guest of the state,” Wu thought to himself. Whereas he, “recalled to serve the motherland, was denounced as an enemy of the people and had survived labor camps, starvation, and proletarian dictatorship.”

When the book was published in the United States in 1993, its revelations angered authorities in Beijing, among them retired cadres at the University of International Relations, where Wu was labeled an ultra-rightist in 1957. The school suspended pensions for Wu and his wife and confiscated their apartment, rendering the elderly couple homeless. After two years of drifting, the couple permanently settled in a senior living facility in Reston, Virginia. There Wu seemed to finally find peace. “A simple one-bedroom was our paradise, a place to escape demoralizing worldly affairs,” he wrote in a self-published memoir in 2014. In retirement, he enjoyed visits from friends, former students and colleagues, and on several occasions, attackers from the past who came to apologize for their offenses.

When Wu passed away in 2019, his life story was little known inside Mainland China. Instead, he was best remembered as a translator of Western fiction, most notably The Great Gatsby. The book had been a piece of incriminating evidence in one of Wu’s earliest sessions, in which activist students at Yenching University accused him of using it to “corrupt the young minds of the New China.”

Decades later, when China opened up and its economy began to soar, it was to Wu’s masterful translation of the book that people turned to understand the possibilities and perils of untrammeled capitalism. Wu had his personal reasons for translating the book: Fitzgerald was deeply embedded in his time, Wu wrote in its epilogue, and yet he was able to coolly depict it in all its amorality. Having together been condemned to the ranks of class enemies, Wu felt he owed it to the chronicler of the Jazz Age to “rehabilitate him and give him back justice.”

Once, while accompanying his wife to a mass in Rockville, Maryland, Wu chanced upon F. Scott Fitzgerald’s grave. An unassuming headstone inscribed with the names of Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda stood on a small plot next to a street where cars zipped by. In front of it lay a ledger stone that bore the famous last line of The Great Gatsby. Wu lingered at the grave with his wife. He pointed at the sentence, and his wife spoke the words softly:

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

Recommended archive:

Wu Ningkun: A Single Tear

[This article first appeared in China Unofficial Archives. When reposting, please ensure that the following is included at the beginning of the reposted text: “This article was first published by the China Unofficial Archives,” accompanied by a link to the original article on the China Unofficial Archives website or Substack.]

[The views expressed by the author of this article do not necessarily reflect the position of the China Unofficial Archives.]

作者：王不骧

By Wang Buxiang

The English translation follows below.

2025年末，中国社交媒体上意外出现了一股“反清复明”的潮流。满清王朝在灭亡了100多年后，再度招来汉人主体民族的忿恨。以抖音用户“吃瓜蒙主”为代表的意见领袖，在短视频平台上传播了一整套备受欢迎的历史叙事——被称为“1644史观”。

概括而言，这套叙事分为两部分，第一部分是历数清朝的无恶不作：1、满清政权不认为自己是中国；2、满清政权实行了大量针对汉人的歧视性政策（比如设立专供满人居住的满城、屠杀汉人、大兴文字狱）；3、清朝毁灭了大量明朝留下的重要典籍，让明朝积累的先进科技成果毁于一旦，使得中国在近代快速衰落，否则今天的中国应该是世界第一强国，中国人民应该过上了“上四休三”的幸福生活，中国的衰落应该从1644年满清入关开始算起；4、清朝签订了大量丧权辱国的条约。

第二部分是怀念明朝的种种伟大之处，其中当然有许多穿凿附会或阴谋论的内容：1、明朝有开明、接纳批评的政治环境；2、明朝女性地位高（证据是有女将军、女官，女性平民出嫁时可以穿皇室的衣服）；3、明朝有先进的科技成果，许多西方的发明（蒸汽机、微积分）都是抄袭自明朝的《永乐大典》，这一部分和早已流行的“西方伪史论”循环论证，在抖音、小红书等社交媒体开启了病毒式传播。

皇汉、新清史与官方话语：谁在解构中国的历史合法性

短视频博主“吃瓜蒙主”是这股风潮中的核心人物，她的抖音粉丝在一个月内涨到500万。有网民表达自己的情感受到了冲击，“崩溃了，每天起来都时不时流泪哭泣，悼汉人之荣光，恐满妖之残忍……”而这并非孤例，有网民说自己跟同事讲满清之恶但同事都不愿意听，有人接话“好多人都麻木了”。在受“吃瓜蒙主”影响的人眼中，“悼明”、揭露清朝的罪恶是一种觉醒、一种启蒙。

“吃瓜蒙主”是一个典型的爱国博主，她所发的短视频，涵盖了主流意识形态喜闻乐见的内容。有仇日的、批判LGBTQ的、攻击“境外势力”的，嘲讽美国、印度的。即便如此，她还是被全网封禁了，自11月后不再更新视频。

在“悼明”的话题引发巨大讨论后，2025年12月底，浙江省委宣传部在其官方账号“浙江宣传”上发表文章，批评1644史观“与境外某些旨在解构中国历史连续性的叙事形成了呼应，为那些试图否定中国统一多民族国家历史合法性的论述提供口实”。浙江宣传点名美国的新清史学派，认为其强调清朝的“满洲特性”，是为分裂论调提供依据。

2013年，中国中央办公厅印发了一份内部文件《关于当前意识形态领域的通报》，提出在意识形态领域有七大危险。包括西方宪政民主、普世价值、公民社会、新自由主义、西方新闻观、历史虚无主义、质疑改革开放。

当时官方忌惮的历史虚无主义，主要是针对中共党史、中华人民共和国史的非官方解读，比如否定毛泽东、肯定国民党抗日战争中的“正面战场”。直到2024年中国社科院的清史研究中心成立，才开始有阵地、旗帜鲜明地把新清史当成历史虚无主义的靶子来反对。

如果要做一个极其粗糙的概括，可以说，中国官方认可的清史研究，是主张清朝统治者成功地进行了“汉化”，所以清朝并非一个异族政权；而新清史研究认为清朝保留了大量满洲性，这种满洲性是清朝得以成功统治的原因。

在中国官方的视角里，2025年底的民间民粹力量（“皇汉”群体）仇视满清、鼓吹反清复明，和西方历史学家研究清朝的满洲性、内亚性，本质上都是在动摇中共统治下的中国的合法性——如果清朝的统治是异族入侵中国，继承了清朝国土版图的中华人民共和国也变得十分尴尬，而且西藏、新疆等非汉人族群地区的独立主张也变得合乎逻辑。

尽管新清史学派的代表学者之一欧立德（Mark C. Elliott），在他于2016年台湾中央研究院史语所的一个演讲中曾回应：“据我所知，无论是我，柯娇燕、罗友枝还是濮德培，没有人这么说（清朝不等于中国），恐怕这是一种误解。”——他提及的这几位学者，被认为是美国第一代新清史研究的代表。不过这不妨碍去学术脉络化的新清史的研究，在中国官方眼中成为一种有分裂中国立场的学术生产。

从“入关学”到“悼明”：赢的时候是满清，输的时候怪满清

有意思的是，民间的观念是如何再度燃起“反清”的意识的？

在中国互联网上，“反清复明”的潮流已经不是第一回，甚至是一再出现。2008年，研究清史和满学的历史学家阎崇年在签售会上被掌掴。掌掴者随后以“大汉之风”为笔名，在天涯论坛发表了《我为什么掌掴阎崇年》一文，指控阎崇年常常站在满清统治者角度讲话，发表“辱汉言论”，“当满洲人杀汉人时则兴高采烈”，是一个“清遗”。

“大汉之风”在文章中引用人民网做的一次投票，认为阎崇年该打占91.9%。他从拘留所出来后，受到“汉网”网友的热烈欢迎。从天涯到百度贴吧，再到微信公众号，现在在短视频平台，“满清不是中国”、“满清残害汉人“一类的叙事从不缺讨论的土壤。

官方平台“浙江宣传”称之为“狭隘的汉族中心主义”，“浙江宣传”避而不谈的是，这种汉族中心主义，和中国政府持之以恒地对西藏、新疆、乃至内蒙古的非汉族族群的打压和污名化有强烈关系。对这些地区的语言的剥夺、宗教的限制、习俗的损毁，所依赖的不仅有体制的暴力，还有对民粹力量的持续召唤。最近通过的所谓“民族团结进步促进法”，正是官方体制加持汉族中心主义的明证。

今天偶尔在社交媒体上，会有年轻网民像发现新大陆一样，惊呼原来新疆人在外地很难租房、住酒店警察一定会上来检查，后面跟着的评论必定会认为这是必要的防范，这是他们“咎由自取”。

这种长期构建的“我者”（汉族）和“他者”（少数民族）的区别，和欧立德在《满洲之道》中分析的满清统治者依赖八旗制度维持满汉族群边界，可以说是异曲同工。

若借用民间舆论在否定女权主义时常用的句式——“不是性别问题，而是阶级问题”，我们也可以说，今天的“汉族中心主义”、“反清复明”潮流，实际上并不是民族问题，而是阶级问题，其社会心理仍然在于年轻网民在为自己的“不顺利”寻找一个替罪羊。

比如说，在畅想明朝科技领先，但被清朝打断、被西方窃取的叙事时，舆论一再指向如果不是清朝，今天年轻人过的就是欧美水平的生活——上四休三，工作轻松，收入不少。

“清朝”成为经济下行时期年轻人处境不佳的最大凶手。这个逻辑看起来十分荒谬，因为经济好的时候，传播的叙事是中国用40年的时间完成了欧美200年的进步。经济不好的时候，干脆直接往前跳了几百年去找原因。

这种流行叙事有明显的悲观色彩。前几年，舆论场曾经流行的“入关学”，是一种完全相反的高歌猛进叙事。“入关学”讲的是，美国就像气色已尽的明朝，中国就像兵强马壮的满清，中国终将入关，取而代之。至于正统性的问题怎么解决，入关学说，“自有大儒为我辩经”，意思是学者会用“汉化”的理论来论证满清也是中国。

可以看到，“入关学”和今天的“悼明”，是完完全全相反的两套叙事，前者是赢了再说，后者则是充满防御性的“为什么输了”。比起“分裂”倾向，可能中国执政者更应该警惕这种流行叙事里的隐藏的中国年轻人对当下处境的深深失望。

本期推荐档案：

欧立德：《满洲之道——八旗制度与清代的民族认同》

Mark C. Elliott: The Manchu Way: The Eight Banners and Ethnic Identity in Late Imperial China (Stanford University Press)

延伸阅读：

关于“新清史”的几个问题

评介《满洲之道》

【本文为中国民间档案馆首发，转载时请务必在正文之前注明“本文首发于中国民间档案馆”，并加上原文在中国民间档案馆网站或者中国民间档案馆Substack的链接。】

【作者观点不代表中国民间档案馆立场。】

Mourning the Ming: When China’s Young People Seek Scapegoats in History

By Wang Buxiang

At the end of 2025, a surprising “oppose the Qing, restore the Ming” trend appeared on Chinese social media. Over a century after the fall of the Qing dynasty, which was run by a northern people, the Manchus, Han Chinese once again expressed outrage toward it. Opinion leaders such as Douyin user “Chigua Mengzhu” spread a widely popular historical narrative in short videos, referred to as the “1644 historical view” (1644 was the year the Qing dynasty was established).

This narrative has two parts. The first catalogs what these writers see as the Qing dynasty’s evils: (1) it did not consider itself Chinese; (2) it enacted numerous discriminatory policies against Han Chinese (e.g., establishing Manchu-only settlements, massacring Han people, and launching literary inquisitions); (3) the Qing destroyed large quantities of important Ming texts, causing the loss of advanced technological knowledge accumulated under the Ming. As a result, China declined rapidly in the modern era. Otherwise, today China would be the world’s strongest nation, its people enjoying a happy life of “four days on, three days off” every week. The decline of China should therefore be counted from the Qing entry in 1644; and (4) the Qing signed numerous humiliating treaties that compromised national sovereignty.

The second part glorifies the Ming dynasty, though it includes many speculative or conspiratorial claims: (1) the Ming offered a liberal political environment open to criticism; (2) women held high status (e.g., female generals and officials, and common women could wear royal-style clothing at weddings); (3) the Ming achieved advanced technological knowledge, with many Western inventions (steam engines, calculus) allegedly derived from the Yongle Encyclopedia. This argument overlaps with the long-circulating “Western Pseudohistory Theory,” a fringe theory that questions the authenticity and reliability of Western history. On platforms like Douyin and Xiaohongshu, it went viral.

Imperial Han, New Qing History, and Official Discourse: Who Is Deconstructing China’s Historical Legitimacy?

The short-video blogger “Chigua Mengzhu” became central to this trend, gaining five million Douyin followers in one month. Some users reported emotional impact: “I’ve broken down, waking up every day crying intermittently, mourning Han glory and fearing the cruelty of the Manchu demon…” This was not isolated. Some said colleagues refused to listen when they spoke of Qing atrocities, replying, “many people have become numb.” For those influenced by “Chigua Mengzhu,” “mourning the Ming” and exposing Qing crimes represented awakening and enlightenment.

“Chigua Mengzhu” is a typical patriotic influencer, posting content aligned with mainstream ideological tastes: anti-Japanese, anti-LGBTQ, attacking “foreign forces,” mocking the U.S. and India. Yet she was banned from the platform and stopped posting videos after November 2025.

Following the heated discussion around “mourning the Ming,” at the end of December 2025, the Zhejiang Provincial Propaganda Department published an article on its official account “Zhejiang Propaganda,” criticizing the “1644 historical view” for “echoing certain foreign narratives aimed at deconstructing China’s historical continuity, providing justification for those who seek to deny the historical legitimacy of a unified, multi-ethnic China.” Zhejiang Propaganda specifically mentioned the U.S.-based “New Qing History” school, claiming that emphasizing the Qing’s “Manchu characteristics” could support separatist arguments.

In 2013, China’s General Office issued an internal document, Notification on the Current Ideological Sphere, identifying seven major ideological risks: Western constitutional democracy, universal values, civil society, neoliberalism, Western journalistic perspectives, historical nihilism, and questioning reform and opening up.

At the time, the official concern with “historical nihilism” mainly targeted unofficial interpretations of Communist Party history and the PRC, such as denying Mao Zedong’s achievements or emphasizing the “positive front” of the Kuomintang’s anti-Japanese war. Only after the 2024 establishment of the Qing History Research Center at the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences did New Qing History become a clear target for official criticism as historical nihilism.

In a rough summary: official Chinese Qing studies argue that Qing rulers successfully “Sinicized,” so the Qing were not a foreign regime. By contrast, New Qing History scholars emphasize that the Qing retained significant Manchu characteristics, which enabled their rule.

From the perspective of Chinese authorities, the late-2025 populist forces (Imperial Han groups) that hated the Qing and promoted restoring the Ming, and Western historians who study Qing Manchu or Inner Asian characteristics, are both undermining the legitimacy of China under Communist Party rule. If the Qing were a foreign invader, then the People’s Republic’s territorial inheritance becomes awkward, and separatist claims in Tibet, Xinjiang, and other non-Han areas gain logic.

Even though Mark C. Elliott, a leading New Qing History scholar, publicly stated in a 2016 lecture in Taiwan, “As far as I know, Pamela Kyle Crossley, Evelyn Rawski, Peter C. Perdue, and I never claimed [the Qing was not China], which is likely a misunderstanding,” this did not prevent the decontextualized New Qing History from being labeled by Chinese authorities as academically supporting the division of China.

From “Entering the Pass” Studies to “Mourning the Ming”

The interesting question is: how did popular sentiment reignite anti-Qing consciousness?

On the Chinese Internet, “oppose the Qing, restore the Ming” trends have occurred repeatedly. In 2008, Qing historian Yan Chongnian was slapped at a book signing. The attacker, under the pseudonym “Great Han Wind,” posted on Tianya Forum Why I Slapped Yan Chongnian, accusing him of siding with Qing rulers, making “statements that insulted the Han,” and celebrating Manchu killings of Han people. After being released from detention, he was celebrated by Han online commentators. From Tianya Forum to Baidu Tieba to WeChat official accounts and now short-video platforms, narratives like “the Qing was not China” or “the Qing harmed Han people” have always found a receptive audience.

Official media, like Zhejiang Propaganda, labeled this “narrow Han-centric nationalism,” avoiding the fact that such Han-centric sentiment is closely related to persistent government suppression and stigmatization of non-Han groups in Tibet, Xinjiang, and Inner Mongolia. Restrictions on language, religion, and customs rely not only on institutional power but also on continual calls to populist forces. The recently passed law on controlling ethnic minorities, which the Chinese government ironically calls the “Law on the Promotion of Ethnic Unity and Progress,” reflects the strength of this trend.

Occasionally on social media, young commentators are shocked to discover conditions in Xinjiang: renting an apartment or staying in a hotel triggers police checks. The comments often rationalize this as necessary prevention—a “they brought it on themselves” mentality.

This long-term construction of “self” (Han) versus “other” (minorities) parallels Elliott’s analysis in The Manchu Way, showing how Qing rulers relied on the Eight Banners, the Manchu structure of social organization, to maintain ethnic boundaries between Manchu and Han.

Using a common phrase from anti-feminist discourse—“It’s not a gender issue, it’s a class issue”—we could similarly say today’s Han-centric “oppose the Qing, restore the Ming” trend is not truly an ethnic issue, but a class issue. Psychologically, it reflects young netizens seeking a scapegoat for their own difficulties.

For instance, narratives imagining Ming technological superiority interrupted by the Qing and stolen by the West repeatedly imply that if not for the Qing, young people today would live Western-level lifestyles. The Qing has become the chief culprit for young people’s struggles during economic downturns. The logic is absurd: when the economy is good, the narrative celebrates China’s 40 years of progress surpassing Western nations; when bad, blame leaps back centuries.

This popular narrative is distinctly pessimistic. A few years ago, the “Entering the Pass” narrative—also known online as Ruguanism, which refers to the Qing entering the Shanhaiguan pass (the easternmost pass of the Great Wall) from northeastern China to central China and conquering the Ming—prevailed, celebrating historical progress: the U.S. resembled a waning Ming, China a strong Qing, destined to “enter the pass” and replace it. Legitimacy issues were handled by scholars claiming “Sinicization” proved the Qing were Chinese.

Clearly, “Entering the Pass” and today’s “Mourning the Ming” are completely opposite narratives: one celebrates victory, the other defensively asks, “Why did we lose?” Compared with separatist tendencies, authorities may be more concerned with the deep disappointment of Chinese youth toward their current circumstances expressed in these trends.

Recommended archive:

Mark C. Elliott, The Manchu Way: The Eight Banners and Ethnic Identity in Late Imperial China (Stanford University Press)

[This article first appeared in China Unofficial Archives. When reposting, please ensure that the following is included at the beginning of the reposted text: “This article was first published by the China Unofficial Archives,” accompanied by a link to the original article on the China Unofficial Archives website or Substack.]

[The views expressed by the author of this article do not necessarily reflect the position of the China Unofficial Archives.]

作者：欧伦

By Ou Lun

The English translation follows below.

提到中国20世纪初的女权活动家，很多人会首先想到女权主义者、革命家秋瑾。这位“鉴湖女侠”不屑封建礼法、主张男女同权、反抗满清专制，为追求民主自由献出年轻的生命，成为后世广为人知的民族英雄和中国女权活动的先驱。

1907年7月15日，时年31岁的秋瑾在绍兴轩亭口被清廷以谋乱通匪的罪名处决。在她就义后不久，日本的中国活动人士为秋瑾和其他烈士举办了追悼会，在东京创刊的《天义》报更是连续数期刊登纪念秋瑾的文章。这些悼念活动背后的组织者，是与秋瑾同时代的何殷震。她早在20世纪初就高屋建瓴地提出立足于本土的性别理论，指出“男女有别”系“习惯使然，教育使然”，比提出性别建构理论的波伏娃早了近半个世纪。这样一位女权理论家，以及社会主义、无政府主义思想家和活动家，其生平与思想却鲜为人知。

1886年，何殷震出生于扬州一个地方官员家庭，原名何班。她的丈夫是被称为国学大师的经学家、无政府主义思想家刘师培。1904年二人婚后即前往上海，在那里加入光复会，投身革命。何殷震还进入光复会创始人之一蔡元培主持的上海爱国女学就读，期间接触到新式女学。1907年，何氏夫妇东赴日本，加入流亡东京的中国革命者，也是从那时开始接触到国际上各种激进思潮。受无政府主义及社会主义思想影响，以及斯宾塞《女权篇》的启发，何殷震开始积极提倡男女平等。在爱国女学就读期间改名为何震的她主张“生当今时者，当并从父母得姓”，遂在名字里加上母亲的姓氏殷，于是有了何殷震这个名字。

在日期间，何殷震积极参与和组织社会活动，包括参与社会主义讲习会、共同创办以反帝为宗旨的亚洲和亲会，以及女子复权会等，并于1907年6月在刘师培的协助下创办、主编《天义》报，作为女子复权会的机关刊物。因日本政府加强镇压无政府主义活动，《天义》报在发行19期后，于1908年初被迫停刊。

此后，何殷震夫妇又筹措资金创办了无政府主义刊物《衡报》，因此被日本警察确认为革命党人，活动受到监视，《衡报》也遭到日本警方查封，两人返回中国。在此期间，何殷震夫妇与章太炎和其他革命党人交恶，并随着清政府立宪运动的发展投靠满清高官端方门下。此后，何殷震的身影逐渐消失于历史舞台，只是作为刘师培的跟随者出现。1919年刘师培病逝后，关于何殷震只剩下零散流言，但实情不得而知。

《天义》报早期宗旨为“破坏固有之社会，实行人类之平等”，“于提倡女界革命外兼提倡种族政治经济诸革命”；自八、九、十卷合册起，改宗旨为“破除国界种界实行世界主义；抵抗世界一切之强权；颠覆一切现近之人治；实行共产制度；实行男女绝对之平等”。该报倡导女子解放、介绍女权主义、社会主义、马克思主义，和无政府主义等激进学说， 被认为是中国最早的无政府主义女权刊物，也是最早将《共产党宣言》部分翻译成中文并发表的刊物。《天义》报发行后受到一些国际关注，美国无政府主义者艾玛·古德曼（Emma Goldman）曾提及注意到日本出版的这本刊物，其内容亦被日本其他激进杂志转载。

何殷震现存的文章，最初几乎都发表在《天义》报上。这些文章中，充满当时少有的对于政治经济、资本主义、现代国家以及父权制的女权主义批判分析，并提出完全不同于当时占主导地位的男性女权倡导者的思想理论。刘禾、瑞贝卡·卡尔和高彦颐在《中国女权主义的诞生》（The Birth of Chinese Feminism）一书中指出，历史学家往往将1903年男性教育家兼政治活动家金天翮的《女界钟》作为中国女权主义的开端，其中将女子教育作为民族自强和重振中国男性权威的手段。包括秋瑾在内的晚清女权主义者也大多认可民族解放势必伴随妇女解放的观点。而何殷震的无政府女权主义则与这种国家主义观点截然不同，她虽然支持民族革命，但并不认为民族革命能够带来妇女解放。她对欧美社会基于自由主义的有限性别平等感到怀疑，并在此基础上发展出对资本主义私有财产制度，以及为其提供保护的国家制度的严厉批判，将妇女解放从国族话语中独立出来。

何殷震的旧学功底和她对国际激进思潮的了解为她提供了超越传统与现代、东方与西方简单对立的分析视角。《天义》报创刊号扉页刊登了何殷震画的女娲像，并题有诗词，强调女娲“断鳌足，杀黑龙”之救世功绩，应与黄帝、伏羲并隆，彰显其从中国传统文化中寻找女权主义资源之意图。她在《女子解放问题》等文章中批判儒家思想中的“男女有别”概念，被《中国女权主义的诞生》一书的编者们认为是比西方后来出现的性别、性、交叉性等理论更具有包容性的分析框架，可以用来描述父权制之下所有不平等的社会关系。

不仅如此，何殷震更是将妇女解放与对私有财产制和资本主义的批判紧密结合。她在《女子劳动问题》中指出，当时中国社会存在的蓄婢和卖淫问题的根源在于私有财产制度造成的财富分配不均，来自贫困家庭的妇女因为没有田地或其他财产而缺乏生计，只能出卖身体和劳力给富人。面对欧美国家妇女可以自由选择在工厂做工谋生的观点，她尖锐反驳：由于资本家已经通过掠夺与积累偷走人们的生活和生产资料，妇女除在工厂做工以外并无其他生计机会，只能屈从于资本家的剥削。不同于当时女权思潮普遍把参政作为目标，《天义》报最早提出性别与阶级问题，将底层妇女纳入“女界”范畴和公共讨论。

这样一个思想超前而深刻的理论家，其身影却完全淹没于历史之中，有很长一段时间学术界甚至误认为《天义》报的主编是她的丈夫刘师培。关于何殷震生平留下的资料极少，在互联网上她大多是以刘师培妻子的身份出现，且大部分文章和视频都将她刻画为一个爱挑拨事端、为丈夫带来厄运的美艳悍妇。历史上女性的命运如此相似，无论多么杰出，被允许留下的却总是流言与污名。

一百多年后的今天，我们在历史中寻访何殷震，是为了一睹那个思潮激荡的年代里，这位中国女权主义思想先驱的真实风采，期待她的思想与洞见能为当下社会和妇女的处境带来新的启发与反思。需要注意的是，简单化的历史叙事倾向于把某个领域的发展归因到具体个人——大多是男性——的思想，仿佛他们的思想完全是个人天才独创，而忽视任何思想的背后都有着无数的对话与争论，以及为这些思想提供智识资源和物质基础、却被抹杀和压迫的边缘存在，何殷震的思想当然也不例外。这种个人英雄主义叙事往往会进一步巩固力量至上和男性中心的观念。因此，让女性思想家显身于历史只是一个起点，而让边缘回到中心，使简单个人叙事让位于复杂历史情景和社群的相互依存关系，才能真正打破父权制的魔咒。

本期推荐档案：

《天义》报

延伸阅读：

刘禾、瑞贝卡·卡尔和高彦颐：《中国女权主义的诞生》（The Birth of Chinese Feminism）（英文），哥伦比亚大学出版社，2013年。该书导言部分的中文翻译刊于澎湃新闻网站：

何殷震与安那其女权主义（上）：对跨国女权主义理论的贡献

何殷震与安那其女性主义（下）：20世纪早期中国女性主义的多重世界

【本文为中国民间档案馆首发，转载时请务必在正文之前注明“本文首发于中国民间档案馆”，并加上原文在中国民间档案馆网站或者中国民间档案馆Substack的链接。】

【作者观点不代表中国民间档案馆立场。】

He-Yin Zhen and the Journal Tien Yee: A Pioneer of Chinese Feminist Thought a Century Ago

By Ou Lun

When thinking about Chinese women’s rights activists of the early 20th-century, many people first think of the feminist and revolutionary Qiu Jin. She was a charismatic figure who held feudal rites and laws in contempt, advocated for equal rights between men and women, and resisted the Qing autocracy, ultimately giving her life in the pursuit of democracy and freedom. Qiu is a widely known national hero and a pioneer of Chinese feminism for future generations.

Qiu Jin’s life, however, was so dramatic that it overshadowed a generation of equally important and inspiring figures who deserve at least as much attention as Qiu. On July 15, 1907, the 31-year-old Qiu was executed on charges of plotting rebellion and consorting with bandits. Soon after, Chinese activists in Japan held memorial services for Qiu and other martyrs; the Tokyo-founded journal Tien Yee also published articles commemorating Qiu for several consecutive issues.

The organizer behind these memorial activities was He-Yin Zhen, a contemporary of Qiu Jin. As early as the beginning of the 20th century, she proposed a sophisticated, locally-grounded gender theory, pointing out that “the distinction between men and women” is “the result of habit and the result of education”—ideas that predate by half a century western feminists, such as Simone de Beauvoir, who proposed a similar theory of gender construction. Despite being such a path-breaking feminist theorist, as well as a socialist and anarchist thinker and activist, He-Yin Zhen’s life and ideas remain little known.

He-Yin Zhen, originally named He Ban, was born in 1886 to a local official’s family in Yangzhou. Her husband was Liu Shipei, a scholar known as a master of Chinese classics and an anarchist thinker. After their marriage in 1904, the couple went to Shanghai, where they joined the Restoration Society and committed themselves to the revolution.

He-Yin Zhen also enrolled in the Shanghai Patriotic Women’s School, presided over by Cai Yuanpei, one of the founders of the Restoration Society, where she came into contact with modern women’s education. In 1907, the He-Liu couple traveled to Japan to join Chinese revolutionaries in exile in Tokyo, and it was from that time that they began to encounter various radical international trends of thought.

Influenced by anarchist and socialist ideas, and inspired by “The Rights of Women” chapter in Herbert Spencer’s work, He-Yin Zhen began to actively advocate for equality between men and women. Having changed her name to He Zhen while studying at the Patriotic Women’s School, she argued that “those born in the present age should take surnames from both parents,” subsequently adding her mother’s surname, Yin, to her name, thus becoming He-Yin Zhen.

During her time in Japan, He-Yin Zhen actively participated in and organized social activities, including taking part in socialist study groups and co-founding the Asia Solidarity Association—whose purpose was anti-imperialism—as well as the Women’s Rights Recovery Association. In June 1907, with the assistance of Liu Shipei, she founded and edited the journal Tien Yee as the official publication of the Women’s Rights Recovery Association. Due to the Japanese government’s intensified suppression of anarchist activities, Tien Yee was forced to cease publication in early 1908 after issuing 19 numbers.

Subsequently, the couple raised funds to found the anarchist publication Hengbao (Equity); as a result, they were identified as revolutionaries by the Japanese police and their activities were monitored. After Hengbao was shut down by the Japanese police, the two returned to China. During this period, He-Yin Zhen and her husband fell out with Zhang Taiyan and other revolutionaries, and as the Qing government’s constitutional movement developed, they sought patronage under the high-ranking Manchu official Duanfang.

From then on, He-Yin Zhen gradually vanished from the historical stage, appearing only in relation to Liu Shipei. After Liu died of illness in 1919, only scattered rumors remained regarding He-Yin Zhen, but scholars agree that the actual facts are unknown. Her ideas, however, live on in Tien Yee and are worth exploring.

The early mission of Tien Yee was to “destroy the existing society and implement equality for humankind,” and “to advocate for racial, political, and economic revolutions in addition to advocating for a women’s revolution.” Starting from the combined volume of issues eight, nine, and ten, the mission was changed to: “abolish national and racial boundaries to implement cosmopolitanism; resist all world powers; subvert all modern human governance; implement a communist system; and implement absolute equality between men and women.”

The journal advocated for women’s liberation and introduced radical doctrines such as feminism, socialism, Marxism, and anarchism; it is considered China’s earliest anarchist-feminist publication and was also the first to translate and publish portions of the Communist Manifesto in Chinese. After its release, Tien Yee received some international attention; the American anarchist Emma Goldman once mentioned having noticed this publication from Japan, and its content was also reprinted by other radical Japanese magazines.

Almost all of He-Yin Zhen’s extant articles were originally published in Tien Yee. These articles are filled with feminist critical analyses of political economy, capitalism, the modern state, and patriarchy—analyses that were rare at the time. They also proposed ideas and theories completely different from those of the dominant male advocates of women’s rights. In the book The Birth of Chinese Feminism, Lydia H. Liu, Rebecca E. Karl, and Dorothy Ko point out that historians often cite the 1903 work The Women’s Bell (Nüjie Zhong) by male educator and political activist Jin Tianhe as the beginning of Chinese feminism, which framed women’s education as a means for national strengthening and the revitalization of Chinese male authority.

Most late-Qing feminists, including Qiu Jin, also accepted the view that national liberation would inevitably be accompanied by women’s liberation. He-Yin Zhen’s anarcho-feminism, however, was starkly different from this nationalist perspective; while she supported national revolution, she did not believe that it would naturally bring about women’s liberation. She was skeptical of the limited gender equality based on liberalism in European and American societies, and on this basis, she developed a harsh critique of the capitalist private property system and the state system that protects it, making women’s liberation independent from nationalistic discourse.

He-Yin Zhen’s foundation in classical learning and her understanding of international radical trends provided her with an analytical perspective that transcended the simple opposition between tradition and modernity, or East and West. The inside cover of the inaugural issue of Tien Yee featured an image of Nüwa painted by He-Yin Zhen, accompanied by a poem emphasizing Nüwa’s world-saving achievements of “breaking the legs of the giant turtle and killing the black dragon,” asserting that she should be as celebrated as the Yellow Emperor and Fuxi. This highlighted her intention to find feminist resources within traditional Chinese culture.

In articles such as “The Problem of Women’s Liberation,” she critiqued the Confucian concept of “the distinction between men and women.” This was regarded as an analytical framework more inclusive than later Western theories of gender, sexuality, and intersectionality, which can be used to describe all unequal social relations under patriarchy.

He-Yin Zhen also closely integrated women’s liberation with a critique of the private property system and capitalism. In “The Problem of Women’s Labor,” she pointed out that the root of the problems of domestic servitude and prostitution in Chinese society at the time lay in the unequal distribution of wealth caused by the private property system; women from poor families, lacking land or other property, had no means of livelihood and could only sell their bodies and labor to the rich.

Confronted with the view that women in European and American countries could freely choose to work in factories for a living, she countered sharply: since capitalists had already stolen people’s means of living and production through plunder and accumulation, women had no other livelihood opportunities besides working in factories and could only submit to capitalist exploitation. Unlike the prevailing feminist trends that set political participation as the goal, Tien Yee was the first to raise the issues of gender and class, bringing grassroots women into the scope of womanhood and public discussion.

The figure of such a forward-thinking and profound theorist, however, has been completely submerged in history. For a long time, the academic community even mistakenly believed that the editor-in-chief of Tien Yee was her husband, Liu Shipei. Very little data remains regarding He-Yin Zhen’s life; on the Internet, she mostly appears as “Liu Shipei’s wife,” and most articles and videos portray her as a beautiful but fierce woman who loved to stir up trouble and brought misfortune to her husband. The fate of women in history is so similar: no matter how outstanding they are, what is allowed to remain is always rumor and stigma.

Today, more than a hundred years later, we search for He-Yin Zhen in history to catch a glimpse of the true grace of this pioneer of Chinese feminist thought in that era of emerging ideas, hoping that her thoughts and insights can bring new inspiration and reflection to the current situation facing society and women.

Simplified historical narratives tend to attribute the development of a field to the ideas of specific individuals—mostly men—as if their ideas were entirely the original creations of personal genius, while ignoring that behind any idea lie countless dialogues and debates, as well as marginalized existences that provided the intellectual resources and material foundations for these ideas but were erased and oppressed.

He-Yin Zhen’s ideas are no exception. This narrative of individual heroism often further consolidates the concepts of power-supremacy and male-centrism. Therefore, allowing female thinkers to become visible in history is only a starting point; only by bringing the margins back to the center and allowing simple individual narratives to give way to complex historical contexts and community interdependence can the spell of patriarchy truly be broken.

Recommended archive:

Tien Yee (Natural Justice)

Extended Reading:

Lydia H. Liu, Rebecca E. Karl, and Dorothy Ko, eds.: The Birth of Chinese Feminism, Columbia University Press, 2013.

[This article first appeared in China Unofficial Archives. When reposting, please ensure that the following is included at the beginning of the reposted text: “This article was first published by the China Unofficial Archives,” accompanied by a link to the original article on the China Unofficial Archives website or Substack.]

[The views expressed by the author of this article do not necessarily reflect the position of the China Unofficial Archives.]

作者：松本ますみ

中文译者：马铃薯

本文原文为日语。

The English translation follows below.

《不死的流亡者——野性的知识人群像》一书，于2024年5月31日在日本出版，是为纪念“六四”天安门事件35周年而推出。

仿佛逆岁月流逝，本书内容之沉重、体量之厚重，都令人震撼。正文710页，附录40页，总计750页，整书重量达1364克。这是一部相当于四卷普通书籍容量、有纪念碑意义的鸿篇巨著。

本书论述了沉重、厚重且充满苦难的当代中国现实，以及流亡海内外的知识分子的处境与思想，力图对他们的实践活动及生存意义给予积极的评价。书中涉及的中国流亡知识分子约有50人。仅仅将这些人物的姓名逐一列出，那么，中华人民共和国的另一部历史便会浮现出来——一部对知识分子的迫害史。

所谓知识分子，是指那些始终对政权保持异议，对社会现实问题持批判性思考、独立研究和反思的一群稀有之人。

那么，中国的知识分子与日本的知识分子之间究竟有何差异？在进入本书介绍之前，笔者先记录一些自身的观察。

1. 中、日知识分子之比较

笔者于1962年进入早稻田大学第一文学部东洋史专业学习，1966年毕业。

2024年5月下旬，恰逢毕业58年后的同学会，笔者以“参与观察”的方式参加了聚会。出生于1941年至1944年之间的这些日本人，如今皆已年逾八旬，但他们几乎没有战争的直接记忆，属于典型的“战后民主主义世代”。

20世纪60年代初，这些十八、九岁的青年在入学之初，几乎无一例外地决定学习以中国史为核心的“东洋史”。在当时中日尚未建交的历史背景下，他们对中国社会主义革命与建设所取得的“伟大成就”充满憧憬，收听北京放送（今中国国际广播电台，CRI），入学后学习简体中文（下称汉语），其中许多人积极投身于学生运动。亦有人在研究生阶段亲赴文革时期的中国访问。

在四年制大学升学率仅约10%的时代，对工业资本主义体制持批判态度，是日本精英大学生中的一种主流倾向。许多人是中国或苏联社会主义的支持者。他们正处未来“知识分子／知识精英”的孕育阶段。

近六十年时光飞逝。大学毕业之后，这一代人虽然仍有少数人继续在工会或华文书店从事社运活动，但多数人进入高中或大学任教，亦有一部分人升任管理职位。他们高举反战旗帜，倡导日中友好，作为自由派的一员承担和平运动的主角，但大多未遭重大挫折，顺利迎来退休，过着平稳安逸的年金生活。

笔者静坐在同学会的一隅侧耳倾听，却几乎未听到任何关于中国的评论——那个曾经承载着他们青春激情的对象。这种沉默，或许可与当前中国对少数民族、宗教与思想的压制，以及“资本主义化”的现实密切相关。幻灭感导致了他们对中国问题的思考停滞。曾几何时，他们的连带对象是中国人民，而如今，“连带”一词本身似乎也已成为死语。

日本战后八十年间，既未经历战争，也未出现内乱、戒严体制或政治犯；除极少数特例，几乎不曾出现流亡者。正是在这样的历史与社会条件之下，他们的人生轨迹趋于平稳安定。

他们与本书所讨论的流亡知识分子，例如高行健（1940年—）、严家祺（1942年—）大致同属一代人，比郑义（1948年—）年长数岁。而笔者本人，则与刘晓波（1955—2017）、廖亦武（1958年—），以及杂志《倾向》主编贝岭（1959年—）属于同代人。

往昔的日本左派知识精英学生，如今大多迎来了平稳无波的晚年；而与此同时，同代人的中国知识分子，却在循环的艰难处境中迈向老年。

面对日中两国知识分子在“两种晚年”之间所呈现出的巨大落差，笔者不禁为之失语。

中国流亡知识分子，被迫流亡异乡，面临深重的身心困境：既要应对居无定所、无根漂泊、生计维艰的生存挑战，又要在边缘化的境地中，承受文化的断裂与身份认同、母语危机的痛苦，更要承受异乡智识价值、历史与记忆被消解、话语权与受众丧失等多重困境。尽管如此，流亡者仍然持续以一个“人”的身份，不屈地流亡，发出真实而不妥协的声音。从本书所描绘的中国流亡者群像中，可以清楚看出，中日两国在历史时间的推移上是何等地不对称。

若借用他们自身的语言来说，日本“インテリ”左派的人生轨迹，毋宁可称为一种“机会主义（オポチュニズム）”，既和平又安稳。正因如此，笔者不禁自我反省自戒：日本（以及日本人）对当代中国的理解与研究，是否一直停留在地表，犹如隔着望远镜观看月亮一般，始终未能触及其真实的深层部分？

这种表层性的根源之一，或在于日本研究者过度依赖文字史料，尤其是官方文字史料，因而在不知不觉中在中国当局的宣传话语攻势前显得相当脆弱。此外，中国的一手史料，特别是档案资料，本身也存在着难以跨越的门槛。

近年来，除了官方史料之外，结合文学与艺术作品、口述史料以及访谈内容来重构历史的研究方法，逐渐得到推广与普及。然而，即便如此，来自中国国内、与中共观点产生龃龉的言说，仍然难以被公开发出。其结果是，在中国社会中承受苦难、挣扎求生的人们的声音，长期以来始终难以被外界充分听见。

本书正是由同时身为诗人与表达者的刘燕子，为了倾听这些被遮蔽、被沉默的声音，历时二十余年倾注心血，持续记录、描绘与分析中国流亡知识分子的半生经历，并最终将其凝结为学术论文。书中所描写的流亡者之中，唯一的例外藏人汉语作家茨仁唯色，作者将其界定为以统治者的语言反抗殖民统治的“国内流亡者”；其余皆属于“海外流亡者”。

作者在世界各地访谈流亡知识分子，不仅面对面地倾听，并透过反复阅读、译介其作品的方式，建立起一种长年持续往返的多层面关系。这种深入而长期的研究实践，唯有作为同时代者、同行者、研究者，且本身亦是流亡者的刘燕子，凭借其人格特质与敏锐的问题意识，赢得受访者的信任，方能得以实现。

作者所记录的中国流亡知识分子之言说，与世界史轴上流亡者的声音彼此呼应。他们包括来自纳粹德国、前苏联与东欧诸国，以及巴勒斯坦的流亡者，皆是过去现代史事件中被迫流亡者。他们曾被排斥在民族历史记忆与主流声音之外。从这个意义上说，本书不仅是一部中国流亡者的证言集，同时也是一部卓越的理论性学术著作，深入探讨了“何谓近现代”、“何谓暴政”、“何谓权力”、“何谓自由”、“何谓人权”以及“何谓人”等根本性问题。

2. 中国流亡者的生命史，及其世界性的意义

本书包括序章与终章，共为九章。前半部分由序章至第三章构成，集中展开理论性分析框架的建构与论证；后半部分对中国流亡者进行“列传”式书写，可视为一种“生命史（life history）”的叙述形式。

序章阐明了本书的问题意识所在，以及探讨“流亡”议题本身所具有的意义。在威权主义体制之下，对现存体制提出异议的知识分子在中国无法被容纳，其可选择的道路仅剩“海外流亡”或“国内流亡”（包括隐喻性的流亡）两种。然而，作者指出，正是这些流亡者，成为中国文化与思想精髓的保存者，并滋养其根脉。回顾中国历史，作为流亡者的文人之所以能留下照亮后世中国人的作品，正因他们为捍卫人的尊严而不懈奋斗。从这一意义上说，当代的流亡者，亦可被视为中国文明所孕育之历代知识分子不屈精神的继承者。

在本书中，作者不仅对流亡知识分子的存在给予积极评价，亦致力于阐明其存在的历史与思想意义。书中除运用文字史料之外，大量采用口述历史（oral history）的研究方法。通过多重证言彼此交织、共鸣与沉淀（多声性，polyphony），一种属于时代的“集体记忆”得以被建构出来。

第一章聚焦于爱德华·萨义德（Edward Said）的“业余者”、瓦茨拉夫·哈维尔（Václav Havel）所追求的“真实而磊落的生活”，以及作为异议者与公共知识分子的汉娜·阿伦特（Hannah Arendt）。这三位思想家皆曾在极权之下被迫进行内部或外部流亡，却仍持续展开深刻的思想探索。作者通过他们与中国流亡知识分子的比较，指出其中的共通性，进而探讨“流亡”所具有的普遍意义——亦即，新的视角往往正是从“边缘性”中滋生并孕育出来的。

第二章中，作者尝试对流亡知识分子的类型进行理论化。流亡者通过对故乡与现居地之现实加以比较，使自身的视角呈现多层化，并得以重新审视与相对化既有的位置关系，甚至加以反转。然而，因追求“真实而磊落的生活”而被中国排除于体制之外的知识分子，即便在享有言论自由的流亡之地，仍不可避免地遭遇多重困境，包括失去故乡、生计维艰的生存挑战、语言的沟壑，以及无根状态下的母语危机与乡愁，承受文化的断裂与身份认同的再确认。在异乡重建知识价值、丧失直接读者与现实关联；被无名化与污名化、成为“他者”与“他乡人”；以及在抗拒历史记忆被消解或重写的背景下，坚持批判立场、保持精神上的不驯与独立等。

对此，作者援引哈维尔所言的“真实的生活（living in truth）”，以及萨义德提出的“书写即是生存之地（writing as a place to live）”，指出流亡知识分子即便在精神上遭受撕裂，仍试图通过书写与思考，使自身文化得以复苏与延续。

第三章则系统性地整理了中国知识分子被迫流亡的社会历史背景，特别是“六四”天安门事件之后的世界局势，包括接纳流亡者的西方国家与地区的立场、接受甚至拒绝流亡者的态度，以及支撑流亡知识分子言论与创作活动的各类救援与支援组织。如果没有有识者以及广大无名者的无私援助，中国政府所界定的政治犯不可能成功地逃到海外，更遑论在流亡地安顿下来并重新展开创作与研究活动。

从这一层意义而言，流亡之所以成为可能，乃是仰赖于重视普遍价值的国家与地区之政策，以及理解并珍视自由价值的支援者所提供的有形与无形之力量。其中，美国的“普林斯顿中国学社”尤为关键，成为流亡知识分子学术活动的重要中心。

此外，本章亦聚焦作为民主化运动言论中枢的民间杂志群，即所谓的“民刊”，特别是从中国地下走向海外的《北京之春》与《倾向》的创刊、停刊，及其后在海外的重生历程。参与其中的知识分子，多数最终被迫走上流亡之路。第二次复刊的《北京之春》以及《倾向》，皆是在海外出版，并逐步成为能够包容中国内外不同知识人思想、确保多元性的公共媒体平台。

尤其值得注意的是，在《倾向》杂志中，曾系统性地介绍瓦茨拉夫·哈维尔的作品。哈维尔其后成为捷克斯洛伐克总统，而其《无权者的权力》之汉语译本，自“六四”事件之后，曾以手抄本的形式在中国知识分子之间秘密传阅。哈维尔所提出的“活在真实中”这一理念，对中国流亡知识分子产生了深远影响。

此外，哈维尔所倡导的《七七宪章》，亦对以刘晓波为代表的一批中国知识分子起草《零八宪章》产生了重大影响。

本书第四、五章，从中国流亡知识分子的类型化出发，结合其个人生命史，并将之置于社会变动的大历史脉络之中加以考察。本章所讨论的对象包括：天体物理学家方励之；试图在体制内推动改革的人文社会科学者严家祺；作为党员与体制内作家起步，最终以异议者身份流亡美国并客死他乡的刘宾雁，以及他们所留下的精神与思考。还有流亡法国，历经多重困难最后精神失序，回国后孤独辞世的后朦胧诗派诗人老木。透过这些生命轨迹的描写，作者呈现了流亡知识分子与中国社会之间错综复杂的张力关系。

第五章聚焦于以中国为题材，却触及人类普遍价值的作家与诗人，包括郑义、高行健、杨炼与哈金。流亡巴黎的高行健是2000年诺贝尔文学奖得主。高行健提出所谓的“没有主义”，即拒绝依附任何“主义”。旅居德国的诗人杨炼则“追寻作为流亡原型的诗”。杨炼明确指出：“流亡者并非一般意义上的移民。”在他看来，流亡者是拒绝精神之死、并具备超越现实困境之能力的存在。杨炼将“流亡”视为诗人的宿命，并将自身诗作安置于中国历代诗人之精神谱系之中。

此外，以英语写作的哈金认为，“最高的背叛是选择另一种语言写作”，因为国家背叛了个人，大多数国家已经习惯性地成为其公民的叛徒；国家犯下的最大罪行，是不允许其作家用诚实和艺术准则来写作，因此选择以另一种语言创作，便成为对不容许自由表达之国家的“最高形式的背叛”。

本章所讨论的诸位表达者，皆透过扩展母语的外延，丰富表达内容，并在作为生而为“人”的根基持续生长的过程中，创造出具有普遍性、并能跨越疆界的文学形式。

第六章聚焦于多次被阻止出境、2011年流亡德国的廖亦武。廖亦武长期致力于书写社会“底层”人群，以及蒙受“冤罪”者的口述历史。他所记录的叙述，充满了对荒谬社会现实的悲叹、痛苦、愤怒、怨怼、绝望、认命、悔恨，乃至幽默。这些话语，乃是从未登上社会舞台、被遗忘并遭到抛弃之人们的真实心声，同时也是未曾被记录下来的历史。

第七章则讨论以汉语写作的“国内流亡”藏人作家茨仁唯色。本书前几章论述的中国流亡知识分子，皆为汉人，且以汉语为母语；然而，茨仁唯色的母语虽为藏语，但她接受的学校教育皆为汉语，只能以汉语进行表达。正因如此，她将统治者所使用的汉语，转化为一种“非暴力不服从的武器”。以汉语揭示西藏的现实真相、被掩盖的历史与记忆、民族信仰，解构官方话语叙事，刻画藏人真实的恐惧与生存境况、焦虑与身份的执着。

3. 一部理解当代中国体制“究竟为何”的指南之作

以下，笔者将列举本书在同类著作之中，具有压倒性优势的几个关键特征。

第一，在于作者成功地将“流亡”这一概念加以普世化，并同时使中国流亡知识分子的思想与实践呈现出多层次的立体结构。

在日本，对萨义德与阿伦特的研究与介绍并不罕见：前者多半是为了理解巴勒斯坦问题或“东方主义”，后者则是藉由认识纳粹主义，探讨人类在极限状态下的韧性，以及“不思考而行动”所导致的“平庸之恶”。

然而，在一个长期安稳无事的日本社会中，那些在流亡之地所孕育出的思想，是否真正被消化与内化，实在令人怀疑。由于日本的研究者与翻译者并非流亡的当事者，其研究往往止步于分析层次，或仅停留在著作的“介绍”与读者的“教养”之上，流亡知识分子的言说真正对日本社会产生实质影响的例子并不多见。

更遑论在此基础之上，进一步将当代中国的流亡知识分子思想加以连结与对话的构想，几乎未曾出现在日本的研究视野之中。

第二，本书在俯瞰中国民主化运动的过程中，系统性地涵盖了关键性的历史事实与重要人物，使读者得以深入理解其来龙去脉，以及政府介入与压制的具体样态。自二十世纪七十年代末中国民主化运动兴起以来，其间经历了持续不断的镇压，并爆发天安门事件与西藏相关事件，直至延续至今日。

然而，凡是以镇压与暴政为起点的历史进程，亦必然蕴含着终结的可能。对民主与自由的追求，不仅存在于真正的知识分子之中，也如泉水般潜藏于一般市民的意识深层，随时可能间歇性涌现而出。正因如此，本书所揭示的历史与思想，不仅是分析中国现状的重要资源，也构成了期盼中国民主化的公民——无论是作为地球公民，抑或作为中国人的——共同希望之所在。

第三，本书采取高度互动性的研究方法，作者几乎与所有流亡当事者进行了深入的对话，并试图从中揭示其思想的核心。作者奔走世界各地，与历史的亲历者进行多轮访谈，其真挚而持续的研究姿态，正体现了她作为同时代证言者、记录者，与流亡知识分子站在同一地平线上，并试图以连带的方式共同建构一个更为理想社会的明确意志。与此同时，作者本人亦身处于一种特殊意义上的“流亡”状态之中——在日本这一异文化环境下，其文学表达与经济生活皆面临严峻挑战；而正因其长期聚焦于流亡知识分子这一“敏感”主题，作者亦不得不承受来自当局的压力。

从这一意义而言，作者本身正是流亡知识分子的同志。这样一项横跨学术、文学与生命实践的成就，唯有同时身为作家与诗人的作者，方能完成。

第四，本书同时也构成了一部对流亡知识分子之作品与人格风貌的极为出色的导读。笔者正是受到本书中对流亡知识分子作品介绍的强烈启发，一度中断了对本书的阅读，转而深入阅读刘晓波、郑义、廖亦武以及茨仁唯色等人的作品。这种来回往返、层层深化的阅读过程，构成了极为罕见而浓烈的阅读体验。

第五，本书同时也是对不断产生流亡者的中华人民共和国之国家体制所提出的严厉批判。从被边缘化的人群、思想、地域与族群的视角出发，往往更能洞察事物的本质——中国的状况正是如此。透过流亡知识分子的言说，以及作者的分析，本书有效地动摇并重新定位了读者对中国所抱持的各种主观的想象与期待，并使之作为另一面对照的镜子而显现其真相。

正因如此，本书亦构成了对那种将中国人一概断言为“早已被驯服于历代中华思想与威权体制因而不可能改变”的简化暴论之有力反驳。透过对流亡知识分子思想与实践的细致考察，作者清楚揭示了中国社会内部所潜藏的多样性与变革动能。

也正是在这一意义上，本书成为理解当代中国体制之本质“究竟为何”的最佳入门与指南之作。

4. 总有一天，流亡将成为“过去的事物”

在完成本书书评的最后阶段，笔者接到一位无名的回族女性知识人暨表演者的来讯。她自中国移居马来西亚已二十五年，如今又决意再次迁往澳洲。她说，原以为能安身立命的马来西亚，已不再是安全之地。她在给我的讯息中问道：“我们这些被剥夺自我表达方式、在历史上屡遭迫害、被迫流亡的人们的心情，您，真的能理解吗？”

面对这样的提问，笔者一时语塞。出生并成长于民主国家日本的评者，所能回应的，仅是“我正努力去理解”。对于遭受压迫的他者，唯有不断发挥想象力，与他们深层共感，并通过分享痛苦来建立强韧的道义纽带，持续向日本社会提出问题，或许才是唯一能做之事，共同面对现实困境的一种承诺。

说到这里，我无法忘记一位六十多岁知识分子在2024年6月访问波兰时的体验。

“年轻一代即使在知识与教养的层面上得知曾经社会主义时代的存在，却并不了解那究竟是一种怎样的现实。思想僵化、互相告密、秘密警察、生活窒息感以及自由的匮乏。如今，要将这些真实的体验传达给年轻人，是一件极其困难的事。”

正如苏联解体所揭示的那样，笔者透过本书所传达的中国流亡者的一字一句，深信，总有一天，流亡也必然会成为“过去的事物”。而正是在那样的时刻，本书将成为告诫后人不可忘记威权独裁体制之恐怖、不可让其再次降临的重要见证。

顺带一提，本书最大的问题点在于其物理上的厚度与重量。出版此书的果断决定值得高度评价，然而书籍终究应被更多人阅读与传播——再版应考虑如何缩减物理的厚重程度，以吸引更多读者。

第二，由于本书将焦点主要放在著名知识人身上，相对而言，那些虽然无名、却背负着沉重人生而被迫流亡海外的人们，反而变得不可见。在威权体制之下，人们并非只有因为拿起笔、进行书写而遭受迫害。非汉族的各族群亦然，宗教信仰者亦然。

另外，茨仁唯色虽为藏族，但除此之外，还有维吾尔人、蒙古人、回民（回族）、基督徒、藏传佛教徒、法轮功修炼者等，数量之多，难以一一列举；他们或被迫流亡海外，或陷入国内流亡的处境。笔者原本亦期待，能够对他们／她们的乡愁之情、对出生故土与自身文化的深切眷恋、文化保存的实践，以及其中所伴随的痛苦，给予更多关注。然而，这或许正是应当交接力棒给后续研究者去承担的课题。

作者松本ますみ（Masumi Matsumoto），为大阪大学人文学研究科招聘研究员，中国近现代伊斯兰问题研究者。

本文原作为日语，刊于2026年元月出版的日本《现代中国研究》杂志第55期，原题为：“一里塚”的纪念碑式的研究——评刘燕子著《不死的流亡者——野性的知识人群像》。因篇幅原因，民间档案馆刊发时有部分删减。

【本文为中国民间档案馆首发，转载时请务必在正文之前注明“本文首发于中国民间档案馆”，并加上原文在中国民间档案馆网站或者中国民间档案馆Substack的链接。】

【作者观点不代表中国民间档案馆立场。】

Someday, Exile Will Become a Thing of the Past: Review of The Undying Exiles by Liu Yanzi

Author: Masumi Matsumoto

Liu Yanzi’s book, The Undying Exiles: Portraits of Unbridled Intellectuals, was published in Japan on May 31, 2024, to commemorate the 35th anniversary of June Fourth.

As if pushing back against the passage of time, both the profound weight of the content and the physical scale of this volume are staggering. With 710 pages of main text and a 40-page appendix, the book weighs nearly 1.4 kilograms. It is a monumental work, possessing a volume equivalent to four ordinary books.

The book explores the heavy reality of contemporary China, alongside the circumstances and philosophies of intellectuals in exile both at home and abroad, striving to offer a positive and constructive evaluation of their activism and the meaning of their lives. Approximately 50 exiled Chinese intellectuals are featured in the work. Simply listing their names makes an alternative history of the People’s Republic of China emerge—a history defined by the systematic persecution of the intelligentsia.

By “intellectuals,” I mean those rare individuals who maintain their dissent against the regime and persist in critical thinking, independent research, and reflection regarding social realities.

The Undying Exiles is the result of Liu Yanzi—who is both a poet and a writer—devoted herself for over twenty years to listening to these silenced voices. She has continuously recorded, described, and analyzed the lives of exiled Chinese intellectuals, condensing them into academic papers. Among the exiles described in the book, the only exception is the Tibetan writer Tsering Woeser, whom the author defines as an “internal exile” resisting colonial rule with the language of the ruler; the rest belong to the category of “overseas exiles.”

The author interviewed exiled Chinese intellectuals all over the world, not only listening face-to-face but also establishing a long-term, continuous relationship by repeatedly reading, translating, and introducing their works. This could only be realized by Liu Yanzi—as a contemporary, a fellow traveler, a researcher, and an exile herself—relying on her personality and sharp problem awareness to win the trust of the interviewees.

The words of exiled Chinese intellectuals recorded by Liu resonate with the voices of exiles throughout world history. They include exiles from Nazi Germany, the former Soviet Union, Eastern European countries, and Palestine—all people forced into exile by modern history. They were once excluded from national historical memory and mainstream discourse. In this sense, this book is not only a collection of testimonies from Chinese exiles but also an outstanding theoretical academic work that deeply explores fundamental questions such as “what is the modern era,” “what is tyranny,” “what is power,” “what is freedom,” “what are human rights,” and “what is a human being.”

The Life History of Chinese Exiles and Its Global Significance

The book consists of nine chapters, including an introduction and a conclusion. The first half, from the introduction to Chapter 3, focuses on constructing and demonstrating a theoretical analytical framework; the second half documents Chinese exiles in a biographical style, which can be viewed as a form of life history narrative.

The introduction clarifies the book’s central inquiry and the significance of exploring the issue of “exile” itself. Under an authoritarian system, intellectuals who dissent from the existing regime cannot be accommodated in China, leaving only two paths: “overseas exile” or “internal exile” (including metaphorical exile).

However, the author points out that it is precisely these exiles who become the preservers of the essence of Chinese culture and thought, nourishing its roots. Looking back at Chinese history, the reason why literati as exiles could leave behind works that illuminate subsequent generations is precisely because they fought unceasingly to defend human dignity. In this sense, contemporary exiles can also be seen as the inheritors of the unyielding spirit of intellectuals throughout China’s history.

In this book, the author not only offers a positive evaluation of the existence of exiled intellectuals but also strives to clarify the historical and philosophical significance of their lives. In addition to using written records, the book extensively employs oral history. Through the interweaving and resonance of multiple testimonies , a collective memory belonging to the era is constructed.

Chapter 1 focuses on Edward Said’s “amateur,” Václav Havel’s pursuit of “living in truth,” and Hannah Arendt as a dissenter and public intellectual. These three thinkers were all forced into internal or external exile under totalitarianism, yet they continued to develop profound intellectual explorations. By comparing them with exiled Chinese intellectuals, the author points out their commonalities, thereby exploring the universal significance of “exile”—the idea that new perspectives often sprout from marginality.

In Chapter 2, the author attempts to theorize the types of exiled intellectuals. By comparing the realities of their homeland and their current place of residence, exiles multilayer their own perspectives, allowing them to re-examine and relativize existing positional relationships or even reverse them. However, intellectuals excluded from the system in China for pursuing a truthful life still inevitably encounter multiple dilemmas even in places of exile that enjoy freedom of speech. These include the loss of homeland, survival challenges of difficult livelihoods, the chasm of language, and the mother-tongue crisis and nostalgia under rootlessness, while enduring cultural rupture and the re-confirmation of identity. They face the challenges of rebuilding intellectual values in a foreign land, the loss of direct readers and realistic relevance; becoming anonymous and stigmatized as “the other” and “the stranger”; and, against the background of resisting the dissolution or rewriting of historical memory, maintaining a critical stance and spiritual defiance and independence.

In response, the author cites Havel’s “living in truth” and Said’s “writing as a place to live,” pointing out that even if exiled intellectuals are spiritually torn, they still attempt to revive and continue their culture through writing and thinking.

Chapter 3 systematically organizes the socio-historical background of why Chinese intellectuals were forced into exile, especially the global situation after the 1989 Tiananmen crackdown. This includes the positions of Western countries and regions that accepted exiles, the attitudes of accepting or even rejecting exiles, and the various rescue and support organizations that sustained the speech and creative activities of exiled intellectuals. Without the selfless assistance of knowledgeable individuals and the vast number of anonymous people, Chinese political prisoners could not have successfully escaped overseas, let alone settled in exile and restarted their creative and research activities.

In this sense, the possibility of exile relies on the policies of countries and regions that value universal values, as well as the tangible and intangible strength provided by supporters who understand and cherish the value of freedom. Among these, the “Princeton China Initiative” in the United States was particularly crucial, becoming an important center for the academic activities of exiled intellectuals.

Additionally, this chapter focuses on the group of civil magazines acting as the hub of speech for the democratization movement, the so-called “unofficial journals,” especially the founding, suspension, and subsequent overseas rebirth of Beijing Spring and Tendency, which moved from the Chinese underground to overseas. Most of the intellectuals involved were eventually forced onto the path of exile. Both the second revival of Beijing Spring and Tendency were published overseas, gradually becoming public media platforms capable of accommodating the thoughts of different intellectuals inside and outside China and ensuring diversity.

It is particularly noteworthy that Tendency magazine systematically introduced the works of Václav Havel. Havel later became the president of Czechoslovakia, and the Chinese translation of his The Power of the Powerless had been secretly circulating among Chinese intellectuals in the form of hand-copied manuscripts since June Fourth. The concept of “living in truth” proposed by Havel had a profound impact on exiled Chinese intellectuals.

Furthermore, the Charter 77 advocated by Havel also significantly influenced a group of Chinese intellectuals, represented by Liu Xiaobo, in drafting Charter 08.

Chapters 4 and 5 of the book start from the categorization of exiled Chinese intellectuals, combining their personal life histories and placing them within the macro-historical context of social change for investigation. The subjects discussed in these chapters include: astrophysicist Fang Lizhi; humanities and social science scholar Yan Jiaqi, who tried to promote reform within the system; Liu Binyan, who started as a party member and system writer but eventually went into exile in the United States and died in a foreign land as a dissenter, and the spirit and thinking they left behind. There is also the Post-Misty poet Lao Mu, who went into exile in France, experienced multiple hardships, eventually suffered from mental disorder, and died in solitude after returning to China. Through the description of these life trajectories, the author presents the complex and tangled tension between exiled intellectuals and Chinese society.

Chapter 5 focuses on writers and poets who take China as their theme but touch upon universal human values, including Zheng Yi, Gao Xingjian, Yang Lian, and Ha Jin. Gao Xingjian, who went into exile in Paris, was the winner of the 2000 Nobel Prize in Literature. Gao Xingjian proposed the so-called “No-ism,” which is the refusal to depend on any “-ism.” The poet Yang Lian, who lives in Germany, “seeks poetry as the prototype of exile.” Yang Lian explicitly points out: “Exiles are not immigrants in the general sense.” In his view, an exile is an existence that refuses spiritual death and possesses the ability to transcend realistic dilemmas. Yang Lian regards “exile” as the poet’s destiny and places his own poetry within the spiritual genealogy of Chinese poets throughout the ages.

Furthermore, Ha Jin, who writes in English, believes that “the highest betrayal is choosing to write in another language,” because the state has betrayed the individual, and most states have habitually become traitors to their citizens; the greatest crime committed by the state is not allowing its writers to write with honesty and artistic standards, so choosing to create in another language becomes the “highest form of betrayal” against a state that does not allow free expression.

The various articulators discussed in this chapter all enrich the content of expression by expanding the extension of their mother tongue, and in the process of continuous growth as human beings, they create literary forms that are universal and can cross borders.

Chapter 6 focuses on Liao Yiwu, who was prevented from leaving the country multiple times and went into exile in Germany in 2011. Liao Yiwu has long been committed to writing the oral history of people at the bottom of society and those who have suffered from unjust charges. The narratives he records are full of sighs, pain, anger, resentment, despair, resignation, regret, and even humor toward the absurd social reality. These words are the true voices of people who have never stepped onto the social stage, were forgotten, and were abandoned, and they are also the history that has never been recorded.

Chapter 7 discusses the Tibetan writer Tsering Woeser, an “internal exile” who writes in Chinese. The exiled Chinese intellectuals discussed in the previous chapters are all Han people and take Chinese as their mother tongue; however, although Tsering Woeser’s mother tongue is Tibetan, the school education she received was all in Chinese, and she can only express herself in Chinese. Precisely because of this, she transforms the Chinese used by the rulers into a “weapon of non-violent non-cooperation.” Using Chinese to reveal Tibet’s current situation, obscured history and memory, and ethnic beliefs, she deconstructs the official discourse and portrays the true fear, living conditions, anxiety, and obsession with the Tibetan identity.

A Guidebook for Understanding What Exactly the Contemporary Chinese System Is

Below, I will list several key features of this book that give it an overwhelming advantage among similar works.

First, Liu succeeds in universalizing the concept of “exile” while making the thoughts and practices of exiled Chinese intellectuals feel multi-layered and three-dimensional.

In Japan, research and introductions to Said and Arendt are not rare: the former is mostly studied to understand the Palestine issue or “Orientalism,” while the latter is used to explore human resilience in extreme states and the “banality of evil” through an understanding of Nazism.

However, in a long-stable and peaceful Japanese society, it is truly doubtful whether those thoughts bred in places of exile have been truly digested and internalized. Since Japanese researchers and translators are not the parties involved in exile, their research often stops at the level of analysis, or remains merely an introduction for the reader’s general knowledge; examples of the speech of exiled intellectuals truly having a substantial impact on Japanese society are rare.

Let alone the idea of further connecting and dialoguing with the thoughts of contemporary exiled Chinese intellectuals on this basis, which has almost never appeared in the Japanese research field of vision.

Second, in surveying the Chinese democratization movement, The Undying Exiles systematically covers crucial historical facts and important figures, allowing readers to understand the context and the specific patterns of government intervention and suppression.

However, any historical process that starts from suppression and tyranny also necessarily contains the possibility of an end. The pursuit of democracy and freedom not only exists among true intellectuals but also lies latent in the deep consciousness of ordinary citizens like spring water, which may gush out intermittently at any time. Precisely because of this, the history and thoughts revealed in this book are not only important resources for analyzing the current situation in China but also constitute the common hope of citizens who look forward to China’s democratization—whether as global citizens or as Chinese.

Third, the book adopts a highly interactive research method; the author conducted intimate and in-depth dialogues with almost all the involved exiles and attempted to reveal the core of their thoughts from within. Liu traveled around the world, conducting multiple rounds of interviews with those who lived through history. At the same time, the author herself is in a state of “exile” in a special sense—under the cross-cultural environment of Japan, both her literary expression and economic life face severe challenges; and precisely because she has long focused on the sensitive theme of exiled intellectuals, the author also has to bear pressure from the authorities.

In this sense, the author herself is a comrade of exiled intellectuals. Such a huge achievement spanning academia, literature, and life practice could only be completed by an author who is simultaneously a writer and a poet.

Fourth, the book also constitutes an extremely excellent guide to the works and personal styles of exiled intellectuals. It was precisely because I was strongly inspired by the introduction of the exiled intellectuals’ works in this book that I once interrupted my reading of it to turn to a deep reading of the works of Liu Xiaobo, Zheng Yi, Liao Yiwu, and Tsering Woeser. This back-and-forth, layer-by-layer deepening reading process constituted an extremely rare and intense reading experience.

Fifth, the book is also a severe criticism of the state system of the People’s Republic of China, which continuously produces exiles. From the perspectives of marginalized groups, thoughts, regions, and ethnic groups, it is often easier to discern the essence of things—the situation in China is exactly like this. Through the speech of exiled intellectuals and the author’s analysis, the book effectively shakes and repositions the various subjective imaginations and expectations that readers hold toward China, making it appear as another mirror of comparison revealing its truth.

Because of this, the book also constitutes a powerful refutation of that simplistic argument that categorically asserts Chinese people as “already tamed by successive generations of Sinocentric thought and authoritarian systems, and thus impossible to change.” Through careful examination of the thoughts and practices of exiled intellectuals, the author clearly reveals the diversity and transformative momentum hidden within Chinese society.

It is also in this sense that the book becomes the best introduction and guide for understanding the nature of what exactly the contemporary Chinese system is.

Someday, Exile Will Become a Thing of the Past

In the final stage of completing this book review, I received a message from an anonymous female Hui intellectual and performer. She moved from China to Malaysia 25 years ago and has now decided to move again to Australia. She said that Malaysia, which she thought would be a place where she could settle down, is no longer a safe place. In her message to me, she asked: “Can you truly understand the feelings of those of us who have been deprived of our self-expression, persecuted many times in history, and forced into exile?”

Faced with such a question, I was momentarily at a loss for words. As a reviewer born and raised in a democratic country, all I could respond with was “I am trying hard to understand.” For the oppressed “other,” only by continuously exercising imagination, deeply empathizing with them, and building strong moral ties through sharing pain, while continuing to raise questions to Japanese society, can we perhaps do the only thing possible—a commitment to jointly face realistic dilemmas.

Speaking of this, I cannot forget the experience of a sixty-something intellectual visiting Poland in June 2024.

“Even if the younger generation knows of the existence of the former socialist era on the level of knowledge and education, they do not understand what kind of reality that actually was. Thought rigidity, mutual informing, secret police, the suffocation of life, and the lack of freedom. Today, it is an extremely difficult task to convey these real experiences to young people.”

Just as the collapse of the Soviet Union revealed, through every word and sentence of the Chinese exiles conveyed in this book, I am deeply convinced that someday, exile will inevitably become a thing of the past. And it is precisely at such a moment that this book will serve as an important testimony, warning future generations never to forget the horror of authoritarian dictatorial systems and never to allow them to descend again.

Incidentally, the biggest problem with this book lies in its physical thickness and weight. The decisive decision to publish this book deserves high praise; however, books should after all be read and disseminated by more people—a reprint should consider how to reduce the physical bulk to attract more readers.

Second, because this book focuses mainly on famous intellectuals, relatively speaking, those people who are anonymous yet carry heavy lives and are forced into exile overseas have become invisible. Under an authoritarian system, people are not only persecuted because they pick up a pen and write. The same goes for the various non-Han ethnic groups and religious believers.

In addition, although Tsering Woeser is Tibetan, besides this, there are Uyghurs, Mongolians, Hui Muslims, Christians, Tibetan Buddhists, Falun Gong practitioners, etc., the number of whom is so large that it is difficult to list them one by one; they are either forced into exile overseas or fall into the situation of internal exile. I had originally also expected that more attention could be given to their feelings of nostalgia, their deep attachment to their birthplaces and own cultures, the practice of cultural preservation, and the pain that accompanies it. However, this may be precisely the task that should be handed over to subsequent researchers to undertake.

This article was originally written in Japanese and appeared in the 55th issue of the Japanese journal Contemporary Chinese Studies, published in January 2026. This is a truncated version of the original.

Matsumoto Masumi is a visiting researcher at the Graduate School of Humanities, Osaka University, and a researcher of modern and contemporary Islamic issues in China.

[This article first appeared in China Unofficial Archives. When reposting, please ensure that the following is included at the beginning of the reposted text: “This article was first published by the China Unofficial Archives,” accompanied by a link to the original article on the China Unofficial Archives website or Substack.]

[The views expressed by the author of this article do not necessarily reflect the position of the China Unofficial Archives.]

作者：朱日坤

By Zhu Rikun

The English translation follows below.

编者按：

2025年11月6日，中国独立导演、策展人朱日坤宣布取消即将在纽约开幕的首届中国独立影像节（IndieChina Film Festival），原因是来自中国官方的无形之手，正持续、大规模地骚扰影像节相关人员。这让他面临巨大的伦理压力。他说：“我并非出于害怕或者屈服作出这个决定。”

朱日坤是中国最早推动独立影像运动的策展人之一。他曾创办“中国纪录片交流周”并深度参与“北京独立影展”，二者后来均被当局关闭。此次，由他策展和担任总监的IndieChina影像节，原计划在纽约播放40多部纪录片与短片，主题涉及LGBTQ+群体、反右等在中国被严格审查的议题。

电影节夭折三个多月后，朱日坤给民间档案馆撰文，回顾电影节被迫取消的过程。他说期待更多与电影节相关的人，讲出自己的遭遇——因为，这就是正发生在我们身上的历史。

2025年11月15日，原计划的首届IndieChina Film Festival电影节最后一天。夜幕降临时，我和一位从密歇根州来的电影学者一起，收拾了电影院和放映厅里的物品，关上大门，开车穿过曼哈顿和布鲁克林的寒夜。这个最终没有对外开放、只有我一个人的电影节，就这样结束了。

电影节被迫取消，我也遵守了此前公开作出的“承诺”，在原定的8天时间里，没有任何公开放映。这几天，有时我自己看一个影片，或者约几位朋友一起观看或讨论。每天，我发布一组空影院的图片在社交媒体上，作为我的一种抗议。电影节期间，有几位导演或策展人，还是以非参加电影节的由头来了，这让私下的讨论得以进行。从密歇根州专程过来的这位电影学者，则在这八天时间里，独享了私人影展般的待遇。

1. 触发

2025年10月31日，距离我策展的首届IndieChina电影节开幕只剩下一周了。纽约的凌晨五点左右，床头手机的震动惊醒了我。我迷迷糊糊接起电话，听筒那头是父亲的声音。隔着半个地球，我也立刻察觉到他话音的异常。他先问我近况，又反复说他有多在乎我。随后，他提醒我说，在外面要注意影响，不要做对国家不好的事情。我下意识地回答：“我从来没有做过什么不好的事。”又追问他：“是不是有人找过你？”他否认了，只说提醒我注意。我知道他会重复这些话，就说了一句“我明白了”，挂断了电话。

此时我已没有了睡意。手机不断鸣响，来了好几条信息。其中几条，来自一位常年在北京借住我工作室的熟人。因为我并不常在北京，她偶尔会帮我处理一些与房屋有关的杂事。她留言说需要给我打个电话。电话里，她说被叫到了派出所，相关人员询问她“帮我做事”的关系，并说我违反了国家法律，如果我回国将面临惩罚。他们要求她今后不得再为我提供任何协助，同时要求她汇报与我通话的情况，以证明我已被“通知到”。

通话结束后，又看到一位制片人发来的信息，请我回电。他告诉我，他的影片必须从电影节撤出，因为有关部门已与他联系。如果不配合，他和妻子正在筹备、希望能够进入院线的下一部影片将无法通过审查。考虑到他们的处境，虽然他们目前已定居美国，我也没有犹豫，表示理解，同意按照他们的意愿处理。

随后，电影节的工作邮箱开始陆续收到来自中国导演的“撤片”邮件。“本人作品不能在IndieChina电影节展出，需要紧急撤展，包括网络上的一切宣传信息也需要一并删除。” “由于个人及其它原因，申请取消放映。”对于这些请求，我没有多作犹豫，迅速回复，并按照要求完成了处理。同时，我在社交媒体上发布了一则简要通知，说明影片调整的情况。当天，有两个短片和一部长片被撤销。

2. 应对

然而，这只是开始。第二天，电影节的工作邮箱收到更多邮件。无一例外，都是要求撤销影片放映，或取消前往纽约出席电影节的行程。来信给出的理由大多是“个人原因”或“不可抗力”，几乎没有任何进一步的解释。

事态迅速蔓延，我感到了应对上的吃力。为了尽可能统一处理方式、减少误解，也为了向片方和外界表明我们的立场，11月1日，我向导演及相关人士发出了一封公开信。我表示：基于一些影片的作者、导演，甚至家人，承受着不同程度的骚扰与压力，为了大家的安全，对撤销影片或无法出席电影节，我们表示理解和尊重，不会强行放映任何影片，尽管此前已有作者签署了授权文件并提交了完整的材料。

我也在公开信里告诉大家，IndieChina电影节是一个单纯的作品交流活动。所有资金都由组织者个人承担，不接受任何团体或政府资助；全部筹备工作也仅由一两位志愿者完成。另外，由于涉及场地合作等事宜需要协调，“我们需要一定时间。”

3. 升级

接下来的两三天里，要求退出电影节的邮件接踵而至。来信几乎都没有说明具体原因。我在中国的一些熟人私下告诉我，不同导演面临的压力不完全相同：有的人父母或配偶同时被官方找到，几乎没有任何回旋余地；也有一些导演此前已经历过类似风波，颇有应对经验，但这一次，他们发现事态不容商量，被官方约谈时，很快就接受了“取消影片在电影节放映”的要求。有一位导演，曾表示不同意官方无理的撤片要求，但在更大的压力下，他也只好妥协。此前，我也告诉他，自己理解他的处境，不必采取对抗的方式。

突如其来、成规模的压力，使电影节迅速成为一个危险而敏感的词汇。不仅导演们陆续要求撤片，原本受邀参与电影节工作的人也开始意识到风险，或直接被干扰。负责选片、论坛策划、放映讨论主持等工作的多位人士相继要求退出。有些人认为可能对其职业发展或事业造成影响，还要求我从网络上删除涉及他们的相关信息。有几位在海外高校任教的人也受到波及。尽管我并不认为所有人都会因此遭遇严重后果，但压力不断累计，我感到很不安，开始在可能的范围内清理过往资料，并在后续采访等场合中，尽量避免提及他们的名字。

让我颇感意外的是，即使长期生活在中国之外的导演，也因为预定要参加电影节而受到不同程度干扰。我感受到了大家的焦虑，以及希望我停止影展的意愿。此时，声明不希望被的作品超过80%，只有不到十部影片没有提出撤销。事后我了解到，即使没有提出撤销的导演，其实也已受到了影响，只是还没来得及向我提出，或只是采取了不理会的态度。另外，一位一开始就承担了电影节筹备工作的美国华人志工，在北京的父母和亲属也受到“隆重”待遇，她不得不放弃工作。

我租赁的电影节场地也未能免于事外。位于曼哈顿的HERE剧场是我们的活动场地之一。一封号称来自“一群生活在纽约的中国留学生”的邮件，被抄送到剧场负责人那里，声称他们“担心部分展映影片可能无法准确反映当代中国社会的真实情况”，要求剧场“客观公正地对待此次活动，认真审视组织者的意图和展映内容，做出合理的评估，并考虑取消或限制活动的宣传”。

对此，我感到奇怪：我们的所有影片皆尚未放映，而且多数作品属于世界首映，不知道他们从何获得影片的具体内容而加以判断？

总而言之，我已没有太多选择。11月6日，在距离电影节原定开幕只剩下两天的时候，我宣布中止本届IndieChina电影节。

4. 后果

为电影节准备的放映场地共有两个：曼哈顿下城的HERE剧场，以及布鲁克林的100 Sutton空间。纽约是一座高成本的城市，场地租赁是电影节预算中占比最大的一项。两处场地的租金合计约为2.5万美元。HERE剧场是一家友好的非营利机构，在得知电影节面临的困难后，其管理团队主动提出多种解决方案，尽可能为我争取缓冲空间。即便如此，场地相关的投入亦然不小。第一次在纽约举办电影节，在此前的数月里，我几乎每周都要抽出一两天时间在城市各处寻找场地、与不同机构洽谈，结果往往并不理想。这让我切身体会到，在纽约这样一座城市，组织此类文化活动的艰难——可以说，我付出了不小的时间与交通成本。

电影节原计划在开幕前一个月启动售票，一方面是为了熟悉首次使用的售票系统。另一方面，也是担心宣传不足、观众数量有限。售票情况虽谈不上火热，但仍给予我一定信心。电影节中止后，我们对所有已购票观众进行了全额退款，同时也承担了不小的平台手续费损失。

也有个别观众对活动取消表示不满，提出补偿要求，尽管案例不多，但仍带来了额外的压力。另外，部分导演及参与者的机票与住宿由电影节提前预订，行程取消后，同样造成了较大损失。尤其是机票，往往只能退回不足一半的费用，甚至无法退款。与此同时，我们已为电影节印制了大幅海报，并制作了一批原本计划作为周边筹资的T恤、提袋、冰箱贴、徽章和纪念盒。这些数量可观的物品，如今仍存放在我的地下室中。

电影节的筹资本就是一个长期难题，作为一个新电影节，筹资本来就渠道有限，何况在当前的经济和政治环境之下。在一位老朋友的协助下，我们曾在网络平台发起众筹，希望筹集2万美元。然而事实证明我们过于乐观，两周后筹得金额不足2000美元，目标显然难以实现，我只能选择取消众筹。

我的两位老朋友出于义举，临时借给我部分资金，让我难过的是，这一举动也给他们带来了麻烦。为度过难关，我低价处理掉了自己在中国的汽车和电影器材等设备，合计约十多万人民币，加上借款一共四万多美元，勉强弥补了资金上的缺口。取消众筹后，我们仍公布了捐款账户，但随着电影节的终止，也未再进行任何募捐推广。截至2025年底，网络捐款总额约为1500美元。

即使在漩涡中，我还是收到不少鼓励和支持。但也有一些奇怪的事。我不仅承担着具体的经济损失，也感觉到，围绕着我个人，以及电影节，也形成了一套指控性叙事。一位资深导演在用一句话解释其需要退出电影节的原因时，仅仅对我说，“对方明确指出资金存在问题”。类似的说法随后不断出现，有人将我的身份与某些组织强行关联，甚至流传出我“从各个渠道获得大量资金”的夸张说辞。

围绕这一事件，中国的一些电影讨论群体中也引发了激烈争论。在北京的一个艺术家网络群中，不同立场的人因此发生对立：有人质疑说，电影节的举办使青年导演陷入风险，影响其前途；也有年长导演猜测，我决定中止电影节是出于对回国后果的顾虑，试图为自己保留退路。更为极端的情况是，一位曾从事过“地下电影”创作的资深导演，尽管其作品并未参与本届影展，却因相关波及被约谈，就将其遭遇归因于我公开的文字表述，进而以可能影响其新片审查为由，向我提出法律威胁。

我不仅感慨，在当下，经常有人谈论“共同体”，但即使在独立电影这个领域，这种共同体其实也无法存在，或者是一种破碎的、被彻底瓦解的状态；反而，对立，矛盾，纷争遍地。

5. 空影院

计划中的电影节取消了，另外一种意义上的“电影节”还是在发生。如我之前所言，我并没有取消电影节的场地——当然，我已预付了大部分的场租和相关费用，取消虽然省下一点钱，但是意义不大。“开幕”当天，我还是按照最早的计划，一早到场地，摆放出各种装饰，张贴上海报，甚至为预计一百多人准备的酒会也照常。

给我帮忙的主要是我的家人，本来有一些志愿者和临时的帮手，因各种原因大多也没有到来。当天有两位导演从新加坡赶到，虽然他们提前已经知道不能放映了。几位电影学者也从外地过来给我支持，还有几位纽约的活动组织者也到现场声援。开幕场地的酒吧，在我预订酒水的时候，曾问我要不要定制一个跟影展有关的酒水。我说就叫“独立精神”（Indie Spirit）吧。显然这定制的酒品也成了浪费，最后喝到的人寥寥无几。

6. 余波

当我宣布取消电影节后，对导演和参与者们的各种骚扰终于结束了。但电影节的突然取消引起巨大关注，媒体开始报道和采访我。我只能反复重复着去说明，但几乎没有其他当事人出来公开发言或者接受采访。我也不断收到之前参与电影节工作的一些人士提醒，希望这个事件不要影响到他们。有几位原计划从其它国家来的人，最后也失去了联系，我再没有得到他们的反馈。

此后不久，我微信平台上的“现象工作室”公众号上，众多跟独立电影有关的文章遭到删除，其中一些是几年前发布的；同时公众号被限制发布文章。两周之后，这个公众号被彻底禁止并永久删除了。这个号是电影节在中国发布征集影片等消息的主要渠道。

在此之前，一个叫“独立影像IFC”的公众号，发布了两篇关于IndieChina电影节消息的文章，也遭到删除。一个电影人告诉我，所有入选本届影展的电影导演的影片条目，在中国的豆瓣网上都遭到删除。对于在中国有商业发行的电影和电影人来说，这是一个巨大的经济损失。

也有不少人问我，或者替我分析是什么引起了这种大麻烦。有人猜测是因为某些影片，有些认为电影节的名字起的不对，有人认为是国际环境引起，也有的认为是资讯不对等，各种说法都有。但我完全没有渠道，去判断到底什么才是主要原因。

过去的二十多年，我的作始终与中国独立电影密切相关，无论是创作还是策展。1996年，我前往北京。1999年，尚在大学期间的我就因为热爱电影，与同学创办了校园电影网站。自2001年起，我开始从事独立电影的传播与策划，在国内外推动独立影像。这一路并非一帆风顺，压力始终存在。我在中国创立的电影节、电影学校、网站，从一开始往往都经历各种坎坷，审查和阻挠是家常便饭。我于2003年成立的独立纪录片电影节，数次在影展中被迫关门；我最早开始的电影资料馆，里面的电影收藏和资料，曾被官方抄家式查封。

我在2001成立的独立电影门户网站“现象网”，在2011年被强迫关闭，连服务器也被抄走；我与电影同仁创办的电影学校，师生都曾经遭遇某些部门扣押，最终学校停办。

我始终相信，作为一种文化与艺术实践，独立电影的创作、展映和交流，有其重要的社会和历史价值，值得拥有空间和被社会关注。我曾发文说，我并未出于恐惧去停止这次电影节，更多的是考虑参与者的安危。但是我并不会因此而屈服，虽然这次电影节事件的规模与后果，大大超出了我的想象，我依然选择公布我所知道的事实经过。至今，这个事件并未被完整讲述，因为很大程度上，依然只有我一个人在发声。我期待有更多的人提供补充。究其实，这是一个公共社会事务，需要有更多人的声音。对我来说，一个人的电影节是一种沉重的无奈，而我，只能继续出发。

【本文为中国民间档案馆首发，转载时请务必在正文之前注明“本文首发于中国民间档案馆”，并加上原文在中国民间档案馆网站或者中国民间档案馆Substack的链接。】

【作者观点不代表中国民间档案馆立场。】

Editors’ Note:

On November 6, 2025, Chinese independent director and curator Zhu Rikun announced the cancellation of the inaugural IndieChina Film Festival, which had been set to open in New York City. He cited the invisible hand of the Chinese authorities, which had been conducting continuous, large-scale harassment of those associated with the event. This placed him under immense pressure, yet he stated, “I did not make this decision out of fear or submission.”

Zhu Rikun was one of the earliest curators to champion the independent film movement in China. He founded the “China Documentary Film Festival” in 2003 and was deeply involved in the “Beijing Independent Film Festival,” both of which were eventually shut down by the authorities. This time, the IndieChina festival he curated and directed had planned to screen over 40 documentaries and shorts in New York, featuring themes such as LGBTQ+ rights and the Anti-Rightist Movement—subjects censored in China.

Now, three months after the festival’s forced cancellation, Zhu Rikun recounts his experiences for the China Unofficial Archives, reflecting on the process of the festival’s shutdown. He notes that he looks forward to more people involved with the festival sharing their own experiences—because, as he put it, this is the history currently unfolding before us.

Empty Cinema, Shattered Community: A One-Person Film Festival

By Zhu Rikun

November 15, 2025, was supposed to be the final day of the first IndieChina Film Festival. As night fell, I packed up the equipment in the cinema and screening rooms with the help of a film scholar visiting from Michigan, locked the doors, and drove through the cold night of Manhattan and Brooklyn. This festival—which never opened to the public and was attended only by myself—ended in this solitary way.

Because the festival was forced to shut down, I honored my promise that no public screenings would take place during the original eight-day schedule. During those days, I sometimes watched a film alone or invited a few friends for private viewings and discussions. Every day, I posted a series of photos of the empty cinema on social media as a form of protest. Throughout the festival’s intended run, a few directors and curators showed up under different pretexts, allowing for some private conversations. The film scholar who traveled from Michigan was treated to the equivalent of a private, eight-day film exhibition.

1. The Trigger

On October 31, 2025, just one week before the opening of the inaugural IndieChina festival, the vibration of the phone on my nightstand woke me at around five in the morning. Groggy, I answered to find my father’s voice on the line. Despite the distance of half a globe, I immediately sensed something wrong in his tone. He first asked how I was doing and repeatedly told me how much he cared for me. Then, he cautioned me to be mindful of my influence while abroad and not to do anything that might harm the country. I instinctively replied, “I’ve never done anything wrong,” and followed up by asking, “Has someone approached you?” He denied it, insisting he was merely offering a reminder. Knowing he would only repeat himself, I said, “I understand,” and hung up.

I was wide awake by then. My phone began chiming with several messages. A few were from an acquaintance who has lived in my Beijing studio for many years; since I am rarely there, she occasionally helps with property-related chores. She messaged saying she needed to call me. Over the phone, she explained she had been summoned to the police station, where officials questioned her about her “work” for me. They claimed I had violated Chinese laws and would face punishment if I returned to China. They ordered her to cease all assistance to me and demanded she report her conversations with me to prove I had been “officially notified.”

After that call, I saw a message from a producer asking for a callback. He told me his film had to be withdrawn from the festival because the authorities had contacted him. If he didn’t cooperate, the next film he and his wife were preparing—which they hoped to release in Chinese theaters—would never pass censorship. Considering their plight, even though they currently live in the U.S., I didn’t hesitate—I expressed my understanding and agreed to withdraw the film as requested.

Soon, the festival’s official inbox began filling with withdrawal emails from Chinese directors. One read: “My work cannot be shown at the IndieChina festival; please withdraw it immediately and delete all related promotional info from the Internet.” Another stated: “Due to personal and other reasons, I am requesting to cancel the screening.” I replied quickly to these requests and processed them without hesitation. Simultaneously, I posted a brief notice on social media regarding the program changes. That day, two shorts and one feature film were removed.

2. The Response

However, this was only the beginning. The following day, the festival’s inbox received even more emails. Without exception, they requested either the withdrawal of films or the cancellation of trips to New York. Most cited “personal reasons” or “force majeure,” offering almost no further explanation.

The situation escalated rapidly, and I struggled to keep up. To standardize our response, minimize misunderstandings, and clarify our stance to the filmmakers and the public, I issued an open letter on November 1: Given that some filmmakers and their families are facing varying degrees of harassment and pressure, and for the sake of everyone’s safety, we respect and understand the decision to withdraw films or cancel attendance. We will not forcibly screen any work, despite the fact that some filmmakers had previously signed authorization documents and submitted all materials.

I also clarified in the letter that IndieChina was a platform for artistic exchange. All funding was covered by the organizer personally, with no support from any group or government, and the entire preparation was managed by a couple of volunteers. Furthermore, since venue logistics and other matters needed coordination, I noted, “We will need some time.”

3. Escalation

Over the next few days, a steady stream of withdrawal emails arrived, almost none of which specified a reason. Acquaintances in China told me privately that the pressures varied: some directors had their parents or spouses contacted simultaneously, leaving them no room to negotiate. Other, more experienced directors who had faced such pressure before found this situation unusually uncompromising; when summoned by the authorities, they quickly agreed to cancel their screenings. One director, who initially refused the unreasonable demand to withdraw, eventually had to compromise under mounting pressure. I had already told him that I understood his situation and that he didn’t need to take a stand.

This sudden, systematic pressure quickly made the IndieChina festival a dangerous and sensitive term. Not only did directors withdraw, but people originally invited to work on the event began sensing the risk or were directly harassed. Several individuals responsible for film selection, forum planning, and hosting discussions resigned in quick succession. Some feared for their careers and asked me to scrub their names from the festival’s online materials. A few academics teaching at overseas universities were also affected. While I didn’t believe everyone would face severe consequences, the mounting pressure made me uneasy. I began clearing past records where possible and avoided mentioning their names in interviews.

To my surprise, even directors who had lived abroad for years were harassed because of their participation. I could feel their anxiety and their wish for me to call off the event. By this point, over 80% of the films had been withdrawn; fewer than ten remained. I later learned that even those who hadn’t withdrawn were being pressured—they either hadn’t had time to notify me yet or were simply trying to ignore the calls. Additionally, a Chinese volunteer in the U.S. who had helped from the start was forced to quit after her parents and relatives in Beijing were given “special attention” by the Chinese authorities.

Even my rented venues weren’t safe from harassment. A theater in Manhattan, the HERE Arts Center, was one of our locations. An email—supposedly from “a group of Chinese international students in New York”—was CC’d to the theater’s management. It claimed they were “concerned that some films might not accurately reflect the reality of contemporary Chinese society” and urged the theater to “scrutinize the organizer’s intentions and consider canceling or restricting the event’s promotion.”

I found this bizarre: none of our films had been screened yet, and most were world premieres. How could they judge the content without having seen it?

Ultimately, I had no choice. On November 6, just two days before the opening, I announced the cancellation of the IndieChina Film Festival.

4. The Aftermath

We had secured two venues: the HERE Arts Center in Lower Manhattan and the 100 Sutton space in Brooklyn. New York is an expensive city, and venue rentals were our largest expense, totaling about $25,000. The team at HERE, a friendly non-profit, offered various solutions to help once they learned of our troubles. Even so, the financial commitment was substantial. For months, I had spent one or two days a week scouting venues and negotiating with institutions—often with poor results. This experience taught me just how difficult it is to organize such a cultural event in New York; the cost in time and travel alone was significant.

We had planned to start ticket sales a month in advance to test the ticketing system and build an audience. While sales weren’t through the roof, they were encouraging. After the cancellation, we issued full refunds to all ticket holders, while personally absorbing the loss of platform service fees.

A few audience members expressed frustration over the cancellation and demanded compensation, which added to the stress. Furthermore, the festival had already booked flights and hotels for some participants. Once the trips were canceled, much of that money was lost, as flights are often only partially refundable—if at all. Meanwhile, we had already printed large posters and a range of merchandise—T-shirts, bags, magnets, and commemorative boxes—intended for fundraising. These items, large in quantity, now sit in my basement.

Fundraising has always been a struggle, especially for a new festival in this economic and political climate. With a friend’s help, we launched a crowdfunding campaign for $20,000. We were too optimistic; after two weeks, we had raised less than $2,000. I eventually pulled the campaign.

Two old friends generously lent me some funds, though I am pained to say this act also caused them trouble. To bridge the gap, I sold off my car and film equipment in China cheaply for around 100,000 RMB ($14,500). Between those sales and the loans, I managed to scrape together $40,000 to cover the deficit. We kept a donation account open, but with the festival canceled, we stopped promoting it. By the end of 2025, total online donations amounted to roughly $1,500.

Even in the middle of this chaos, I received much support. Yet, there were also strange developments. Beyond the financial loss, I felt a hostile narrative forming around me. One veteran director, when withdrawing, told me simply: “They specifically pointed out there are issues with the funding.” Similar claims followed, with some trying to link me to certain organizations or spreading rumors that I had “received massive funding from various sources.”

The incident also sparked heated debate within Chinese film circles. In one artist group in Beijing, opinions were polarized: some argued that the festival put young directors at risk, while older directors speculated that I canceled the event out of a desire to return to China one day. In one extreme case, a veteran “underground” director—whose work wasn’t even in the festival—was summoned by officials because of the fallout. He blamed his situation on my public statements and threatened me with legal action, fearing it would affect the censorship of his new film.

It struck me that while people often talk about “community,” even within independent film, such a community doesn’t truly exist. Instead, there is only conflict and division.

5. The Empty Cinema

The planned festival was canceled, but a festival of a different sort still took place. As I mentioned, I didn’t cancel the venues—I had already paid for them, and the refund would have been negligible. On opening day, I followed the original plan: I arrived early, set up the decorations and posters, and even held the reception intended for over a hundred guests.

My family provided most of the help; many volunteers and assistants were unable to make it. Two directors flew in from Singapore, even though they knew their films wouldn’t be shown. Several scholars and New York organizers also came to offer their support. When I was ordering drinks, the bar at the venue asked if I wanted a custom cocktail for the exhibition. I suggested that the cocktail be named “Indie Spirit.” Unfortunately, most of those drinks went to waste; very few people were there to enjoy them.

6. Echoes

Once the cancellation was official, the harassment of the directors and participants finally stopped. However, the sudden collapse of the event drew significant media attention. I found myself repeating the story over and over, while almost no other participants were willing to speak publicly. I continued to receive reminders from former festival staff, hoping the incident wouldn’t affect them. A few people who were supposed to travel from other countries besides China simply went silent.

Soon after, numerous articles about independent films on my WeChat public account, “Fanhall Films,” were deleted—including posts from years ago. The account was then restricted and, two weeks later, permanently banned and deleted. This account had been the primary channel for our calls for entries in China.

Additionally, a public account called “Independent Image IFC” had two posts about IndieChina deleted. A filmmaker informed me that the Douban entries for every director selected for this festival were also wiped. For those with commercial films in China, this represents a significant financial blow.

Many people have asked me what caused this disaster. Some guess it was specific films; others think the name of the festival was the issue, or blame the international climate. I have no way of knowing what the primary reason was.

For over twenty years, my life has been tied to Chinese independent film. In 1996, I moved to Beijing. In 1999, while in college, I co-founded a film website. Since 2001, I’ve promoted independent cinema both at home and abroad. It has never been easy. The festivals, schools, and sites I founded in China always faced hurdles; censorship was a daily reality. The documentary festival I started in 2003 was forced to close several times, and my film archive was once raided and seized by officials.

In 2011, my independent film portal, fanhall.com, was forcibly closed and its servers seized. A film school I co-founded saw both teachers and students detained, eventually leading to its closure.

I remain convinced that independent film, as a cultural practice, has profound social and historical value and deserves its own space. I previously stated that I didn’t stop this festival out of fear, but rather to protect the safety of those involved. I will not yield. Although the scale of this incident exceeded my imagination, I choose to share the facts as I know them. To this day, the full story hasn’t been told because I am largely the only one speaking. I hope others will add their voices. This is a public matter that requires a collective voice. To me, a one-man film festival illustrates a heavy helplessness—but I have no choice but to keep moving forward.

[This article first appeared in China Unofficial Archives. When reposting, please ensure that the following is included at the beginning of the reposted text: “This article was first published by the China Unofficial Archives,” accompanied by a link to the original article on the China Unofficial Archives website or Substack.]

[The views expressed by the author of this article do not necessarily reflect the position of the China Unofficial Archives.]

作者：朱茱

By Zhu Zhu

The English translation follows below.

（为鼓励读者观影，本文只含微量剧透。影片详细介绍及观影链接请见文末“本期推荐档案”。）

“什么叫民主？”“什么叫投票？”

纪录片《请投我一票》一开始，导演就分别向两位小学生——同时也向观众——抛出了这两个问题。镜头前的小学生们露出疑惑的神情，表示“不知道”。

这部片长不到一小时的纪录片，试图向观众呈现一场“完全透明的选举”（导演语）——选举发生在2006年的武汉市常青第一小学，三年级一班的同学们要在这个秋季学期选出他们的班长。

这部影片上映于2007年，是中国为数不多的关于民主选举议题的纪录片，也是全球十部《为什么要民主？》（Why Democracy?）系列纪录片之一。这个纪录片系列当年由英国广播公司与丹麦广播公司发起，由世界多个国家的独立导演记录各国的民主经验，曾于2007年10月在全球超过180个国家上映，更像是一套民主教育的全球教材。

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本片导演陈为军当时任职于武汉电视台。他曾于2003年拍摄讲述河南艾滋家庭的故事纪录片《好死不如赖活着》，受到国内外广泛关注。但遗憾的是，这两部片子在中国都没有能公开放映。

本世纪初前后，得益于当时中国的政治环境，以及官方持续宣传“基层民主”概念的背景，在中国一些地方开始出现草根民主的实践。另外，《村民委员会组织法》已于1998年正式实施，基层村委会选举在全国范围内广泛开展。这些基层民主实践及其遭遇的各种挑战，受到正在兴起的中国公民社会的广泛关注。

彼时，国际上的一些非营利组织，甚至能在中国开展工作，为选举的透明度与规范化提供专业支持。当时乐观的预期认为，这种民主化的尝试能够由基层逐步向上渗透，最终引发更高层级的体制变革。也正是在这样一个较为乐观的时代氛围中，陈为军导演走进常青第一小学的教室，用镜头记录下39名小学生的一场民主选举活动。

实际上，选举投票在中国的中小学并不罕见。所以，片头英文字幕中说到的——影片记录了全中国“第一次”校园选举——其实并不准确。民主也好，投票也罢，即使在没有民主政治传统的中国，也并没有多么神秘。不过，《请投我一票》的特别之处在于，这场并不复杂的选举，却充满了戏剧性。这一方面是因为影片中成年人们对竞选环节的设计，另一方面也得益于导演与孩子们在拍摄前长达几个月的熟悉过程。

无论是教室里的勾心斗角，还是三名小学生候选人和家长的运筹帷幄，在镜头前都十分生动自然。或许正因如此，这个发生在中国一个小角落的精彩选举故事，曾被2007年发表在《华盛顿邮报》上的一篇影评颇为夸张地评价：“这是一个丑陋的竞选季，混杂着才艺表演、辩论、老派政客权术和肮脏的把戏。”

影片本身的记录与选举过程的精彩，赢得了在中国颇受年轻人欢迎的豆瓣网上近3万次评分和8.5分的高分。不过，在豆瓣1万多条短评和近300条影评中，有不少网友都表示，影片似乎并没有显现出民主的优点。的确，“权术”和“把戏”出现在了竞选的每个环节。三名候选人——尤其是两个男生——一上来便相互拆台，号召其他同学起哄，给对手施加心理压力。家长们也频频支招，甚至用出几近“贿选”的手段，助自己的孩子一臂之力。

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但《请投我一票》中的竞选，还是体现出了民主最基本的特点——一切基于民意。因为民主是一个通过数选票来决定权力归属的游戏，所以候选人的一举一动、一言一行，都是要博得选民的欢心，赢得选民的支持。

虽然影片的主角是三名候选人，但主角实际上是班上其他36名“选民”，而“选民”的重要性——以及民意的摇摆——则穿插整个影片。在民意的压力下，平时趾高气扬的班长，在竞选“连任”的辩论环节中，不得不低头向同学保证今后要做得更好。两个男生分别在两次非正式“民意调查”结果对自己不利时，都一度表示要主动退选。而三名候选人无论在竞选的舞台上表现得多么光彩，下了课后都要悄悄地问身边的同学：“你投谁？”

可见，即便是三年级的小学生，在从来没有接触过民主与投票的情况下，也能很快地理解民主的游戏规则。这种理解是双向的，不仅仅体现在候选人如何赢得“选民”的支持，更体现在班上“选民”们意识到自己拥有最终决定权的重要性。虽然三位候选人是众人瞩目的焦点，但是班上所有的“选民”都通过这场民主实验增强了自尊。从这个意义上来说，《请投我一票》展现了一场真正的民主选举。

然而，竞选中“权术”和“把戏”，说明了什么？比如，影片中一位候选小学生对权力的理解和渴求，就似乎受到了成人的影响。他跟家长说：“我在班上就想当班长。班长就有权力，让他站着他就得站着，让他坐下他就得坐下。”

不管是在什么制度下，对权力的向往都是有人性基础的。选举过程中人性阴暗面的显露，并不代表民主本身不可取，却能提醒人们，一场选举，只有民主的基本原则还不够，“少数服从多数”的简单规则是必要的，但不能仅仅如此。真正完善的民主制度，还离不开一人一票选举以外更具体的制度设计、道德与法律的约束以及选民的公民教育。

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拍摄于20年前的《请投我一票》，至今一直未能在中国大陆公开放映。在中国，民主选举一直是一个敏感话题。毕竟，中国政府一直以来的论点是，“中国不能民主，一民主就乱了。”（也有网民调侃回应道：“中国不能乱，一乱就民主了！”）然而，影片所展现的事实，则是39个8岁的小学生即使没有接触过民主和投票的概念，也可以开展一次完整的、有序的、一人一票的民主选举。那么，中国真的不能民主吗？

这个问题，最近因艺术家艾未未接受西方媒体采访时的言论而再次引发讨论。艾未未在2025年12月受访时说到，中国“永远不会成为一个所谓的民主社会”。他提到，这是因为中国人不相信民主，也看不到西方国家民主的好处。

这种论调，恐怕是曲解了民主对人格和尊严的基本保护作用，把民主错认成了某种可以解决一切社会问题的万能药。如今，中国看上去离民主渐行渐远，但是民众对民主制度的需求实际上并没有减弱。在经历过疫情封控期间政权对自身权利的威胁后，越来越多的中国人开始意识到，每个人都拥有选票的真民主，才是人格、尊严、权利与自由的最佳保证。

事实是，即使人们可能对一些西方国家现行的民主制度感到失望，但中国人并不是在有缺陷的民主和完善的民主之间进行选择，而是在不民主的境地里向民主艰难地迈进。曾在2022年10月站在北京四通桥上孤勇反抗独裁体制与清零政策的彭立发，曾经写道：“（中国人的）投票演习已经做了三年时间，只要把核酸检测台上放一个投票箱即可。”

20年前，《请投我一票》里的三年级小学生们可以成功地开展一场民主实验，里面的一个小学生候选人曾经问他的父亲：“什么叫民主？”父亲说，“民主就是人民当家作主。”如今，这个孩子应该已经是28岁的成年人。而稍有政治常识的人都能看出来，这么多年来，中国依然与民主无缘，并没有如艾未未所说“中国还可以”，尤其是在公民的基本权利与自由方面。

“为什么要民主”的系列纪录片简介中曾说道：“民主可以说是我们这个时代最热门的政治词汇，人人都把它挂在嘴边——但它究竟意味着什么？它能被定义、衡量和保障吗？它能被出售、购买和移植吗？它会发展壮大吗？它会消亡吗？对于那些甚至无法谈论民主的人来说，它意味着什么？对于那些不相信民主的人来说，它又意味着什么？对你来说，它又意味着什么？”

这些二十年前的问题，依然是全世界需要面对的，而对没有真正民主投票权利的中国人，则格外沉重。不知道何时，纪录片中那个短暂的瞬间能成为中国的现实，拥有投票权利的人们，能听到那一声真实的恳求：“请投我一票！”

本期推荐档案：

陈为军：《请投我一票》

【本文为中国民间档案馆首发，转载时请务必在正文之前注明“本文首发于中国民间档案馆”，并加上原文在中国民间档案馆网站或者中国民间档案馆Substack的链接。】

【作者观点不代表中国民间档案馆立场。】

Please Vote for Me: Documenting an Election in an Elementary School Classroom

By Zhu Zhu

(This article contains only minor spoilers. The link for viewing the film is available in the “recommended archive” section at the end of this article.)

“What is democracy?” “What is voting?”

At the beginning of the documentary Please Vote for Me, the director poses these two questions to two elementary school students—and, by extension, to the audience. “I don’t know” is the response from the puzzled students.

This documentary, less than an hour long, attempts to present a “completely transparent election” (in the director’s words)—the election took place in 2006 at Wuhan Evergreen Primary School, where students of Class 1, Grade 3 were to elect their class monitor during the fall semester.

Released in 2007, this film is one of very few Chinese documentaries on the subject of democratic elections and is one of ten documentaries in the global series Why Democracy?. The series was initiated by the BBC and the Danish Broadcasting Corporation, featuring independent directors from around the world recording democratic experiences in different countries; it was released in over 180 countries in October 2007, serving as a global textbook for democratic education.

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The film’s director, Chen Weijun, was working at Wuhan Television at the time. In 2003, he filmed To Live is Better Than to Die, a documentary about a family affected by AIDS in Henan Province, which received widespread attention both at home and abroad. Unfortunately, neither of these two films was allowed to be publicly screened in China.

Around the beginning of this century, thanks to the political environment in China at the time and the government’s continued promotion of the concept of “grassroots democracy,” practices of local-level democracy began to emerge in some parts of China. Additionally, the Organic Law of the Villagers’ Committees had been officially implemented in 1998, and grassroots village committee elections were being widely conducted across the country. These grassroots democratic practices and the various challenges they faced received extensive attention from the burgeoning Chinese civil society.

At that time, some international non-profit organizations were even able to work in China, providing professional support for the transparency and standardization of elections. Optimistic expectations at the time held that these attempts at democratization could gradually permeate upward from the grassroots level, eventually triggering systemic change at higher levels. It was in such an optimistic atmosphere that director Chen Weijun walked into the classroom of Evergreen Primary School to record a democratic election involving 39 students.

In fact, election voting is not uncommon in Chinese primary and secondary schools. Therefore, the claim in the English subtitles at the beginning—that the film records “the first time an election takes place at a school in China”—is actually inaccurate. Democracy and voting, even in China, which lacks a democratic political tradition, are not particularly mysterious. However, what makes Please Vote for Me special is that this seemingly uncomplicated election was full of drama. This was due, on one hand, to the design of the campaign activities by the adults in the film, and on the other, to the months-long process of the director building rapport with the children before filming.

Whether it was the scheming in the classroom or the strategic planning by the three student candidates and their parents, everything appeared very vivid and natural on camera. A 2007 review in The Washington Post says: “It’s an ugly campaign season, a mix of talent show, debate, old-fashioned politicking and dirty tricks.”

The documentary’s recording and the excitement of the election process earned it a high score of 8.5 with nearly 30,000 ratings on Douban, a website popular among young people in China. However, among the more than 10,000 short comments and nearly 300 reviews on Douban, many people expressed that the film did not seem to demonstrate the advantages of democracy. Indeed, “politicking” and “tricks” appeared at every stage of the campaign. The three candidates—especially the two boys—began by undermining each other, calling on other students to heckle and applying psychological pressure to their opponents. Parents also frequently offered advice, even resorting to methods bordering on vote-buying to help their children.

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Yet, the campaign in Please Vote for Me still reflected the most basic characteristic of democracy—everything is based on the popular will. Because democracy is a process where counting votes determines who holds power, every move and every word of the candidates is aimed at winning the favor and support of the voters.

While the three candidates are the protagonists, the main characters are actually the other 36 voters in the class, and the importance of the voters—along with the shifting of public opinion—is woven throughout the film. Under the pressure of public opinion, the usually bossy incumbent was forced to bow down during the election debate and promise his classmates he would do better in the future. The two boys both expressed their intention to withdraw from the race at points when informal opinion polls were unfavorable to them. And no matter how brilliantly the three candidates performed on the campaign stage, they would quietly ask their classmates after class: “Who are you voting for?”

Even third-grade students who had never been exposed to democracy or voting could quickly understand the rules. This understanding was mutual, reflected not only in how candidates sought to win support but also in how the voters in the class realized the importance of having the final say. Although the three candidates were the focus of attention, all the voters in the class had their self-esteem enhanced through this democratic experiment. In this sense, Please Vote for Me showcased a true democratic election.

Then how should people make sense of the frequent “politicking” and “tricks” during the campaign? For instance, a student candidate’s understanding of and thirst for power in the film seemed to be influenced by adults. He told his parents: “I just want to be the class monitor. The monitor has power; if he tells someone to stand, they must stand, and if he tells them to sit, they must sit.”

It seems that under any system, the desire for power has a basis in human nature. The revelation of the darker side of human nature during the election process does not mean that democracy itself is undesirable; rather, it reminds people that for an election, democratic principles alone are not enough; the simple principle of majority rule is necessary, but it cannot be the only rule. A sound democratic system also requires careful institutional design beyond democratic voting, moral and legal constraints, and civic education for voters.

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Filmed 20 years ago, Please Vote for Me has still not been publicly screened in China to this day. In China, democratic elections have always been a sensitive topic. After all, the Chinese government’s long-standing argument is, “China cannot have democracy; if it does, there will be chaos.” (Some netizens have joked in response: “China cannot have chaos; if it does, there will be democracy!”) However, the reality presented by the film is that 39 eight-year-old students, even without prior exposure to the concepts of democracy and voting, could conduct a complete, orderly, one-person-one-vote democratic election. Is China truly incapable of democracy?

This question has recently resurfaced in discussions due to remarks made by artist Ai Weiwei in interviews with Western media. In an interview in December 2025, Ai Weiwei stated that China “will never become a so-called democratic society.” He mentioned that this is because Chinese people do not believe in democracy and do not see the benefits of democracy in Western countries.

This line of reasoning likely misinterprets the fundamental protective role of democracy for basic rights and dignity, treating democracy as a potential panacea for all social problems. Today, while China seems to be drifting further away from democracy, the public’s demand for a democratic system hasn’t actually weakened. After all, experiencing threats to their rights during pandemic lockdowns, a growing number of Chinese people are realizing that true democracy, where everyone has a vote, is the best guarantee of dignity, rights, and freedom.

The fact is that even if people might be disappointed with the current democratic systems in some Western countries, the Chinese people are not choosing between a flawed democracy and a perfect one, but are struggling toward democracy from a non-democratic state. Peng Lifa, who stood courageously on Beijing’s Sitong Bridge in October 2022 to protest China’s dictatorial system and the Zero-COVID policy, once wrote, in reference to the swab tests that required people to line up and enter a booth: “[For Chinese people], the voting rehearsal has already been going on for three years; all that’s needed is to place a ballot box on the COVID testing table.”

Twenty years ago, the third-grade students in Please Vote for Me could successfully conduct a democratic experiment, during which one student candidate asked his father: “What is democracy?” The father replied, “Democracy means the people are the masters of their own house.” Today, that child is already 28 years old. Yet, China remains undemocratic and has not, as Ai Weiwei claimed, been “okay,” especially regarding basic rights and freedoms for citizens.

The introduction to the Why Democracy? documentary series once stated:

“Democracy is arguably the greatest political buzzword of our time and is invoked by political leaders, corporations, and citizens alike — but what does it mean? Can it be defined, measured, and safeguarded? Can it be sold, bought, and transplanted? Can it grow? Can it die? What does it mean to people who can’t even talk about it? What does it mean to people who don’t believe in it? What does it mean to you?”

These questions from twenty years ago remain ones that the whole world must consider. And for Chinese people, who lack basic democratic voting rights, the challenges regarding democracy are exceptionally pressing. One wonders when that brief moment in the documentary will become a reality in China, and when people with the right to vote will hear that genuine plea: “Please vote for me!”

Recommended archive:

Chen Weijun: Please Vote for Me

[This article first appeared in China Unofficial Archives. When reposting, please ensure that the following is included at the beginning of the reposted text: “This article was first published by the China Unofficial Archives,” accompanied by a link to the original article on the China Unofficial Archives website or Substack.]

[The views expressed by the author of this article do not necessarily reflect the position of the China Unofficial Archives.]

作者：林世钰

By Lin Shiyu

The English translation follows below.

二者似乎存在于平行宇宙中——2021年7月1日，中共中央总书记、中国国家主席习近平在北京宣告：“在中华大地上全面建成了小康社会”，会场上一片掌声；与之相对应，一个颇为尴尬的数据随即而来：2022年，从中国“走线（Walk the line）”（通常指通过中南美洲穿过美墨边境）到美国寻求庇护并滞留的人数，从前一年的342人，飙升到了1947人。2023年，这个数字超过了2.4万人，超过了过去十年穿越美国南部国境而被拘留的中国人总和。到2024年，这个数字还在增长。

生活在一个看上去如此繁荣昌盛的国家，为什么一些中国人愿意放弃肉眼可见的“幸福生活”，冒着命悬一线的风险，奔赴一个陌生的国家和不可知的未来？2022年，当身在纽约的我，第一次知道中国走线客的故事时，内心就升腾起这个大大的疑问。

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出于一个前媒体人的职业惯性，从2023年9月开始，我采访了19名走线客。并在两年后，出版了《走线：15位中国人的赴美生死路》一书。

走线是一个跨文化、跨国境的复杂议题，涉及人权、社会正义、移民政策、文化冲突、中美关系、人类命运等各个范畴。此前，包括美国之音、自由亚洲电台、《纽约时报》、《华盛顿邮报》、BBC在内的主流媒体都报道过走线这一现象。其中，自由亚洲电台旗下的青年华语网络平台歪脑（WhyNot）就制作了深度纪录片《走线》（Walk the Line），记录了中国人走线的艰难历程。

作为一个习惯文字表达的前记者，我试图用深度访谈这个长焦镜的方式，聚焦15位中国走线客在中美两国的命运沉浮和生活辗转，呈现故土离散、文化冲突、身份悬浮等与政治学、社会学与人类学相关的内涵。在采访过程中，我努力爬梳走线客的命运主线——是什么推动他们一步步做出这种破釜沉舟的选择？我也在寻找那个改变他们命运的节点——那根压垮他们的最后一根稻草，究竟是什么？最后，我把他们出走的动因归结为三个词汇：food（食物）；freedom（自由）；follow（追随）。

在我看来，food可以泛指广义上的经济生活。中国疫情三年严苛的清零政策，导致中国经济江河日下，小企业主破产，房地产市场崩盘，百业凋零，民生凋敝。经济上的巨大压力是大部分受访者选择走线离开中国最主要的原因。

比如我采访的刘成，一个在广州开挖掘机的小伙子，贷款买了两套房子，变成“房奴”（指背巨额房屋贷款的人）。新冠疫情后，中国房地产行业崩盘，他收入陡降，无法支撑现有生活。不得已，夫妻两人走线到美国。“如果还待在国内，我估计早就自杀了。”他告诉我。

在我采访的人中，只有少数人是为了freedom（自由）而走线到美国。过去十几年，中国加强对意识形态的控制，言论空间日益缩紧，公民社会几近消亡，一些维权人士、异见人士和宗教人士受到打压。这对部分觉醒者来说，是很难忍受的一段“历史垃圾时间”。他们中的一些人，为了追求民主自由，走线来到美国。

我采访的两个年轻人，就属于这种情况。其中一个叫Steven Lau的90后，来美国前在物流行业工作，月收入多达2万到4万人民币。一次偶然的机会，他翻墙（通过使用VPN穿越防火墙）看到了土改、反右、文革、八九六四等在国内被长期遮蔽的历史，想与亲人和朋友分享，却发现这些是政治禁忌。他为了追寻历史真相，走线到了美国。

还有一些人认为走线是一种社会风潮，是一件很酷的事情，所以follow（追随）别人，他们大多都是随大流的心态。但这些人由于没有足够的思想准备，无法忍受美国生活的艰辛，后来大部分都返回了中国。

2

在采访和写作中，我希望摒弃那些传统的成功学式的移民叙事方法，呈现这15位受访者在美国的真实生活状态。这些受访者的人生，以及他们的美国梦各有不同——有人因错过早年的最佳出国时机而感到后悔；有人在走线途中遭遇了车祸却坚持前行；有人很快适应了美国生活，认为“美国不是天堂，但最接近天堂”；有人则后悔来美国，因为“在美国谋生，并没有想象中容易”，“如果重新选择，不会走这条路”；有人则选择了默默回国。

这些走线客冒着生命危险进入美国的时候，往往并不知道自己接下来要面对什么。他们即将面对的不止是美国光鲜的A面——世界第一强国的显赫地位、购买力强劲的美元、相对安全的食品药品和尊重孩子个性的教育体系；同时亦有阴暗的B面——僵化的移民体系、冷酷的政客、两极分化的政治、部分反智的乌合之众、昂贵的医疗等等……特别是川普再次上台后，随着对移民充满敌意的政策屡屡出台，他们的生存困境也日益加剧。本书中的一些受访者，为了躲避ICE（美国联邦移民与海关执法局）的抓捕，已经换了好几份工作，终日生活在惶恐之中。

我想告诉读者的是一个基本的现实：对很多人来说，抵达美国并不等于到达幸福的终点。相反，它可能是艰难生活的开端，身份困境、法律风险、谋生艰难和精神孤独仍在延续。这对潜在移民者具有现实警示意义，也避免他们将危险的路径浪漫化。

写作此书时，我努力让宏大的移民议题重新回到人本身的尺度上。一直以来，走线客掉进两种文化的罅隙中，面目模糊。在美国的公共语境中，走线客往往被简化为数字、政策问题或道德争议对象，一些美国政客动辄将非法移民作为攫取权力或攻击对手的棋子，将此议题政治化、党派化，鲜有人把他们当作活生生的人，从人的角度关注他们、研究他们。

我和走线客来美路径虽然殊异，但我们有一个共同身份——外来者，这使我在某种程度上容易与之共情。所以写作此书时，我不想预设任何立场，只想把他们还原为有情感、有温度的个人，恢复他们作为丈夫、父亲、儿子或者妻子、母亲、女儿的身份。让模糊的面孔被清晰呈现，让沉默的故事被听见。这样，读者可以从对与错、合法与非法的二元思维中跳脱出来，转向更深层次的对人的境况的思考——他们的人生究竟经历了什么，为什么如此选择？

3

为什么选择口述实录这种纯客观的叙事方式？因为我不想给出自己的价值裁决，而是把判断权交给读者：在生存、安全、尊严与规则之间，人究竟如何选择，能走多远？它提供的不是结论，而是一组难以被忽视的经验事实。这些事实提醒研究者：任何关于移民治理、风险控制或制度设计的讨论，若无法回应这些处于制度边缘的具体人生，理论本身也将失去现实解释力。

正如美国加州大学洛杉矶分校人类学教授杰森·德莱昂在其新作《移民路上的生与死：美墨边境人类学实录》序言中所说，“唯有听见他们的声音和看到他们的脸，才能感受到他们是活生生的人。唯有将他们还原为‘人’，我们才能认真讨论如何解决美国千疮百孔的移民制度。”

最近，美国ICE肆意抓捕非法移民，明尼苏达州甚至发生两起ICE枪杀美国公民事件，导致民众强烈抗议。这再次引发了人们对美国移民制度的深度思考：如何建立有效的社会对话机制，对移民政策进行调整和改进，平衡非法移民的合法权益和国家安全之间的矛盾，使非法移民群体不致成为政治冲突的牺牲品？

在采访写作中，我把采访重点转向走线客们“离开中国的那个节点”，也就是，他们“为什么非走不可”？这些中国走线客离开原生国家，穿越危险的南美洲和中美洲，面对随时可能发生的暴力、疾病和死亡，而到达一个语言、文化和社会体系与原生国家迥异的国度，这种把自己置于死地而后生的勇气，其背后的动因反映了当代中国社会的深刻变化，彰显了所谓繁荣中国的另一面。

这是一个结构性问题，而不只是个人命运。15位中国人为什么做出走线选择，不单因为经济困境、个人冲动，他们基本上都谈及的一个原因是——“在中国看不到希望”。这背后有制度、阶层流动受阻、家庭责任、代际焦虑，以及全球移民体系本身的残酷性。我试图让读者知道，走线不是少数人的极端行为，而是多重社会结构挤压下的结果，它真实呈现了中国社会贫富差距扩大、折叠化的现状。

在我看来，每个走线者犹如一片片拼图，通过这些拼图，我们大致可以拼凑出一幅当下中国的真实图像，观察到中国民众真实的生活光景——他们究竟是强国富民，还是盛世蝼蚁？

可以说，本书更接近一部当代中国社会的切片，而不仅是美国移民故事。作为本书作者，我冀望这本没有任何畅销书特质的书未来具有档案价值——如果人们回看这一时期，中国社会的压力、断裂与个体选择，都可以在这些人物故事中找到线索。

本期推荐档案：

林世钰：《走线：15位中国人的赴美生死路》

《歪脑》杂志：《走线》纪录片

【本文为中国民间档案馆首发，转载时请务必在正文之前注明“本文首发于中国民间档案馆”，并加上原文在中国民间档案馆网站或者中国民间档案馆Substack的链接。】

【作者观点不代表中国民间档案馆立场。】

The Life Stories of China’s “Line-Walkers”—Pressures, Fractures, and Individual Choices

By Lin Shiyu

Two realities seem to exist in parallel universes. On July 1, 2021, Xi Jinping declared in Beijing: “We have built a moderately prosperous society in all respects on the land of China,” a statement met with thunderous applause. Conversely, a rather inconvenient statistic soon emerged: in 2022, the number of people from China who “walked the line” (referring to entering the United States via the southern border after traveling through Central and South America) to seek asylum and remain in the U.S. soared from 342 the previous year to 1,947. In 2023, this number exceeded 24,000, surpassing the total number of Chinese nationals detained while crossing the southern U.S. border over the entire preceding decade. In 2024, the numbers were still significant.

Living in a country that appears so prosperous and flourishing, why are some Chinese people willing to risk their lives and rush toward a foreign country and an unknowable future? In 2022, when I was living in New York and first learned the stories of these Chinese “line-walkers,” this question took root in my heart.

1

Driven by the professional instincts as a former journalist, I began interviewing 19 line-walkers in September 2023. Two years later, I published the book Walking the Migrant Trail: The Path of Life and Death for 15 Chinese People Coming to America.

“Walking the line” is a complex cross-cultural and trans-national issue involving human rights, social justice, immigration policy, cultural conflict, U.S.-China relations, and the shared fate of humanity. Previously, mainstream media outlets including Voice of America, Radio Free Asia, The New York Times, The Washington Post, and BBC have reported on this phenomenon. Among them, WHYNOT, a youth-oriented Chinese-language platform under RFA, produced an in-depth documentary titled Walk the Line, which recorded the arduous journey of these Chinese migrants.

As a former journalist accustomed to the written word, I attempted to use long interviews as a “telephoto lens” to focus on the shifting fortunes and struggles of 15 Chinese line-walkers in both China and the United States. My goal was to present the deeper implications of diaspora, cultural conflict, and identity suspension as they relate to political science, sociology, and anthropology. During the interview process, I strove to trace the primary thread of their fates—what exactly pushed them to make such a desperate choice? I was also searching for the specific turning point in their lives—the final straw that ultimately led to the decision to migrate. In the end, I summarized their motives for leaving into three words: food, freedom, and follow.

In my view, “food” serves as a broad metaphor for economic life. The three years of China’s strict “Zero-COVID” policy caused the economy to plummet, leading to the bankruptcy of small business owners, the collapse of the real estate market, the decline of all industries, and the desolation of the people’s livelihoods. This immense economic pressure was the primary reason for most interviewees’ decision to walk the line and leave China.

For example, I interviewed Liu Cheng, a young man who operated an excavator in Guangzhou. He had taken out loans to buy two houses, turning himself into what Chinese people call a “house slave” (a term for those burdened by massive mortgages). After the pandemic, the Chinese real estate industry collapsed and his income dropped sharply, leaving him unable to maintain his life. Out of necessity, he and his wife walked the line to the United States. “If I were still back home, I would have committed suicide long ago,” he told me.

Among those I interviewed, only a small number walked the line to the United States for the sake of “freedom.” Over the past decade or so, China has tightened its ideological control, the space for free speech has steadily shrunk, and civil society has nearly vanished; many human rights activists, dissidents, and religious figures have been suppressed. For many, this period of time is unbearable. Some of them walked the line to the United States in pursuit of democracy and liberty.

Two young people I interviewed fit this description. One, a man born in the 1990s named Steven Lau, worked in the logistics industry before coming to the U.S., earning a high monthly income of 20,000 to 40,000 yuan. By chance, he used a VPN to bypass China’s Great Firewall and discovered historical events long obscured within the country, such as the Land Reform, the Anti-Rightist Campaign, the Cultural Revolution, and the June 4th massacre of 1989. He wanted to share these truths with his family and friends but discovered that doing so was a political taboo. To pursue historical truth, he walked the line to the United States.

There are also those who believe that walking the line is a social trend or a cool thing to do, so they “follow” others; most of these individuals possess a go-with-the-flow mentality. However, because they lacked sufficient mental preparation and could not endure the hardships of life in the United States, most of them eventually returned to China.

2

In my interviewing and writing, I hoped to move away from traditional, success-oriented immigrant narratives to truthfully present the actual living conditions of these 15 interviewees in the United States. Their lives and their versions of the American Dream are all different—some regret missing the best opportunity to go abroad in their younger years; some survived car accidents during the journey yet insisted on moving forward; some adapted quickly to American life, believing that “America is not heaven, but it is the closest thing to it”; others regret coming to America because “making a living here is not as easy as I imagined” and “if I could choose again, I wouldn’t take this path”; and some chose to return to China quietly.

When these line-walkers risked their lives to enter the United States, they often had no idea what they would face next. They were about to encounter not just the glamorous side of America—its status as the world’s leading power, the strong purchasing power of the U.S. dollar, relatively safe food and medicine, and an education system that respects a child’s individuality—but also its dark side, which includes a rigid immigration system, unsympathetic politicians, political polarization, anti-intellectual mobs, and expensive healthcare. Particularly after Trump’s return to office, policies have become increasingly hostile toward immigrants, pushing their struggle for survival to the extreme. Some interviewees in this book have already cycled through several jobs to evade arrest by ICE (U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement), living in constant fear.

What I want to convey to readers is a fundamental reality: for many, arriving in the United States is not the end goal of happiness; on the contrary, it may be the start of a difficult life where identity crises, legal risks, financial hardships, and spiritual loneliness persist. This serves as a practical warning to potential immigrants and prevents the romanticization of such a dangerous path.

While writing this book, I strove to bring the grand narrative of immigration back down to the scale of the individual. For a long time, line-walkers have fallen into the cracks between two cultures, their faces remaining blurred. In American public discourse, they are often simplified into numbers, policy issues, or objects of moral debate. Some American politicians frequently use undocumented immigrants as pawns to seize power or attack opponents. Few people view them as living human beings or study them from a human perspective.

Although the paths that the line-walkers and I took to the United States are different, we share a common identity as outsiders, which allows me to empathize with them to a certain degree. Therefore, in writing this book, I did not want to pre-establish any particular stance; I only wanted to restore the interviewees as emotional, sentient individuals and return to them their identities as husbands, fathers, and sons, or wives, mothers, and daughters. My goal was to bring these blurred faces into focus and let the silent stories be heard. In this way, readers can move beyond the binary thinking of right vs. wrong or legal vs. illegal and turn toward a deeper reflection on the human condition—what did these people experience, and why did they make such a choice?

3

Why did I choose the purely objective narrative style of oral history? Because I do not want to provide my own value judgment; instead, I want to leave that judgment to the reader. Between survival, safety, dignity, and rules, how does a person choose, and how far can they go? This book offers not a conclusion, but a collection of empirical facts that are impossible to ignore. These facts remind researchers that any discussion regarding immigration governance, risk control, or institutional design will lose its real-world explanatory power if it cannot address these specific lives existing at the margins of the system.

As Jason De León, a professor of anthropology at UCLA, wrote in the preface to his book The Land of Open Graves: Living and Dying on the Migrant Trail: “You have to hear their voices and see their faces to appreciate them as human beings… Perhaps by humanizing that nebulous mass of humanity that we call the undocumented, we can begin to have a serious conversation about how to fix America’s broken immigration system.”

Recently, ICE has been arresting undocumented immigrants indiscriminately, and two incidents of ICE agents shooting and killing American citizens occurred in Minnesota, sparking intense public protests. This has once again triggered a deep reflection on the U.S. immigration system: how can we establish an effective social dialogue to adjust and improve immigration policies? How do we balance the conflict between the legitimate rights of undocumented immigrants and national security, ensuring that these groups do not become victims of political conflict?

In my writing, I shifted the focus of my interviews to the moment they left China—that is, “why did they feel they absolutely had to leave?” These Chinese migrants left their home country, crossed dangerous parts of South and Central America, and faced the constant threat of violence, disease, and death to reach a country whose language, culture, and social systems are entirely different from their own. The motivation behind this courage to seek life by plunging into death reflects the profound changes in contemporary Chinese society and highlights the other side of the so-called prosperous China.

This is a structural problem, not just a matter of personal fate. The reason these 15 people chose to walk the line was not merely due to economic hardship or personal impulse; nearly all of them mentioned one common reason: “I saw no hope in China.” Behind this lie institutional issues, social immobility, family responsibilities, intergenerational anxiety, and the inherent cruelty of the global immigration system. I want readers to understand that walking the line is not the extreme behavior of a few individuals, but rather the result of pressure from multiple social structures; it is a true reflection of the widening wealth gap and the increasingly stratified nature of Chinese society.

In my view, every line-walker is like a puzzle piece. Through these pieces, we can roughly assemble a true image of China today and observe the actual living conditions of the Chinese people—are they the citizens of a strong and wealthy nation, or merely the afterthoughts of a flourishing age?

One could say that this book is more of a cross-section of contemporary Chinese society than just a collection of American immigrant stories. As the author, I hope this book—which possesses none of the traits of a bestseller—will hold archival value in the future. If people look back at this period, they will find clues to the pressures, fractures, and individual choices of Chinese society within these personal stories.

Recommended archives:

Lin Shiyu: Walking the Migrant Trail: The Path of Life and Death for 15 Chinese People Coming to America

WHYNOT documentary: Walk the Line

[This article first appears on China Unofficial Archives. When reposting, please ensure that the following is included at the beginning of the reposted text: “This article was first published by the China Unofficial Archives,” accompanied by a link to the original article on the China Unofficial Archives website or Substack.]

[The views expressed by the author of this article do not necessarily reflect the position of the China Unofficial Archives.]

作者：米米亚娜

By Mimiyana

The English translation follows below.

2025年，我实现了自己当母亲的心愿——在加拿大，以单身生育的身份，顺利地生下了女儿。前两天，当我和一位在中国的好友聊起今后的育儿计划——考虑送托儿所、幼儿园的时间安排时，我告诉她加拿大的托儿所资源紧张，排队几年是常态。她很惊讶：“国内的幼儿园都没生意。”她说，“巴不得你去。”

我们同时提到中国新出炉的生育率有多惨淡。1月19日，中国国家统计局发布的数据显示，2025年的出生人口仅792万，较2024年下降了162万。每千人出生人数降至5.63，为1949年中共执政以来的最低水平（按照官方数据，2025年的出生人口，低于三年大饥荒时期的年出生人口）。与此同时，死亡人口与老龄人口均持续上升。总人口连续四年下降，且老龄化进一步加深。

从2015年彻底结束“一孩政策”，2021年推行“三孩政策”，到2025年开始发放育儿补贴，十年来，中国政府尝试了包括延长产假、提供税率优惠、购房补贴、设置“生育友好岗”等各种生育支持措施，可谓使尽浑身解数，却依然没能挽救出生率下跌趋势。

1. 当结婚不再是生育的前提

不仅是中国大陆，香港、台湾的新生婴儿也再创新低。香港2020年有4.3万新生婴儿，2025年已跌至不足3.2万，6年间减少26.2%。台湾减幅更大，2020年有16.5万新生婴儿，但2025年已跌至不足10.8万，6年间减少34.7%。这两地连同韩国，长期占据全球最低生育率地区前三。

迫于人口危机的压力，原本儒家文化深厚的台湾，在2025年底推动了《人工生殖法》修法，提出将人工生殖适用范围从原本的“异性不孕夫妻”，扩大到单身女性与女同志配偶。一旦草案通过，台湾将成为华语世界唯一允许单身女性与女同志伴侣合法解冻并使用自己卵子的地区——此次修法意味着生育权第一次与婚姻制度正式脱钩。当结婚不再是生育的前提，不婚人士与多元家庭的生育意愿便能得到释放。

这个改变带来的意义，不仅仅是“多生孩子”这么简单。历史上，女性长期被父权家庭和父权国家体制当做资源、工具，以延续父系的血统、财产和权力——女性嫁入夫家才能获取生存保障，还要为家务和育儿承担毕生的免费劳动。“婚姻”作为支配女性生育力的关键制度，是父权社会的底层建构。当有一天，破除了婚姻强加的生育合法性审查，女性能完全掌握自主生育权，那将意味着，她能够真正地不为男性、不为家庭和家族、不为国家，而只是为了自己而生（或不生）。

2. 在加拿大感受到公共意识的进步

我和这位国内的朋友同龄，曾经是中学同学。我们年轻的时候都把重心放在了学业、事业、自我追求和游山玩水上，都是人到中年才有了生育意愿，也都积极寻求过辅助生殖技术，区别是她已婚，而我在加拿大得以顺利地完成单身生育。

作为单身女性，我在加拿大接受有关生育的医疗服务、政府机构的行政程序和福利发放方面没有遇到任何障碍，但更触动我的是这里公共意识的进步，相关从业者会有意识地使用“包容性语言”，将单身人士当成主流的一部分。有一次我去参加一个NGO组织的线上育儿课程，讲课的是一位产科护士。当她提到“partner”的时候，特意解释：partner是指“育儿搭子”，可能是你的丈夫、妻子、同性伴侣、朋友或者父母。这个细节让我印象深刻，因为她作为一个公共事业的代言人，不默认你在异性恋的婚姻关系中。

去年，我所在的不列颠哥伦比亚省投入了6800万加币的公共资金资助IVF疗程（俗称的“试管婴儿”），每个名额最多资助1万9千加币，异性夫妻、单身女性、同性伴侣或性别多元家庭均有资格申请。这是一次政策的“精准投放”，政府选择去推动那些已经具有强烈生育意愿的人。这也意味着，国家把生育从“私人责任”提高成“公共基础设施”的一部分。

3. “总有一天，我们将收回身体的自主权”

我也一直关注中国的单身生育权利。2019年，30岁的单身女性徐枣枣向首都医科大学附属北京妇产医院寻求冻卵服务，因单身遭拒绝后，她以侵犯“一般人格权”为由将医院告上了法庭。历时三年多的庭审后败诉，她随后提起上诉，最终在2024年8月终审维持原判。

一审败诉后，徐枣枣说：“总有一天我们将收回我们身体的主权。”

当时中国已经开始积极推行“三胎政策”，这让此案显得颇为讽刺——把低生育率上升为国家危机、倾其所有政策工具“催生”的社会，却拒绝把生育自主权赋予最有生育意愿的一部分人。

中国国家卫计委2003年修订的《人类辅助生殖技术规范》指出，“禁止给不符合国家人口和计划生育法规和条例规定的夫妇和单身妇女实施人类辅助生育技术。”可谓反映了问题的实质——女性的身体从来不是属于自己的，而是一种制度性资源，是国家人口治理的对象。

4. 中国的计划生育：女性承受了父权制最野蛮的一面

以计划生育为代表，中国对女性身体的制度化管理历史悠久。1949年建政之后初期，国家总体上鼓励生孩子，认为人口多就有劳动力，对国家建设有好处，但生育主要还是家庭的事；到了文革后期和1970年代，随着资源紧张和人口压力增加，政府开始提倡“晚婚、晚育、少生”，推广避孕措施，基层组织逐步介入，生育开始成为政府管理的对象；1980年代独生子女政策实施后，生育成为一种必须通过行政许可的行为，被全面严格管控，很多女性需要上环、定期妇检，有的还经历强制引产或结扎，无数女性为政策的畅行无阻承担了血肉代价；2015年以后人口危机凸显，国家从限制生育转向鼓励生育，全面放开二孩、三孩，社会和家庭的催婚、催生压力以及生育多胎的代价依然主要落在女性身上。

虽然中国在不同的阶段改变了生育管理的目标，但从未放开对女性的控制和施压，才会反复出现“想生的不能生，不想生的被迫生”的悲剧。女性的身体所承受的高度侵入和高度功能化，揭露了父权制最野蛮的一面。

如今，全球很多地方都出现生育率持续下降的现象。不过，对中国以及同样处于东亚社会的日本、韩国等来说，问题似乎更加严重。抛却政治、经济因素不谈，其实这本质上是一场全民（尤其是女性）的“生育罢工”。有充分的事实证明，在这些国家，政府即便祭出全方位的利好政策，或者直接“砸钱”，对扭转生育颓势的效果都微乎其微——东亚社会的深层社会结构和文化特质，严重地影响着这些地方的女性生育意愿。

就我对身边中产圈子的观察来说，很多人不但把自己的人生当成不断打怪升级的绩效项目，也把育儿当成自己的一个高压绩效项目。一旦生了小孩，就要把孩子培养成合格中产、社会精英。对孩子的期待不是成长为一个健康的人，而是要“跨越阶层”或者至少不“阶层下滑”。对精英化的养育的推崇，带来的不仅是高企的经济成本，更沉重的是一种心理成本——即必须确保孩子的人生“成功”，避免“失败”。而东亚文化对“成功”的定义极其狭窄，标准却又极其苛刻，容错率极低，导致无数人挤在同一个模板中卷生卷死，难以找到退出机制。

与此同时，在这些地方，育儿责任高度私人化，缺乏公共设施的支持。社会默认育儿是家庭劳动——更确切来说是女性应该承担的劳动。女性不但是“养育者”，还是一个“项目经理”，是孩子的直接和最终责任人，承担着几乎全部风险。

我妈说过一句让我印象深刻的话：“养好了是社会的，养坏了就是自己的。”回想起我的成长过程，她在每一个为我而做的决策上都是殚精竭虑，尽量推演出各种最坏的可能，以便能预先做好全部保险。妈妈一直是那个兜底的人，一直在防止我失败，我的失败也会被当成她的失败。这种长期的高压运行会异化人性——我常常觉得妈妈过度焦虑、负面、不快乐。

5. 年轻世代的女性第一次集体生育罢工

今天女性的受教育程度和经济参与度都前所未有，年轻世代的女性第一次集体看清了生育背后的勒索、母职背后的惩罚。“生育罢工”即是女性拒绝再为整个系统承担责任与代价——当我们无法在这个系统里获得作为“独立自主的人”的位置。女性以理性的利弊权衡、以身体与生命的自保直觉，拒绝再去延续和复制这个不可持续的系统，也宣判了系统的末日——它无法再依靠剥削无声的弱势群体来维持高绩效的运作。

写到这里，我不得不提出一个更深的疑问：生育率下降真的是一个需要解决的“问题”吗？如果没有资本主义要求的不断增长作为最高目标，人类为何要继续扩张？我们的生态环境、我们的星球、就连我们自己的人生，都已经不堪重负了，不是吗？

除了政治与社会的原因，生育率下降也可能是正常的生物对于环境压力的反应，也是生态系统的神秘“纠偏”机制。在动物行为学和生态学中，研究者早已发现，当种群过于拥挤、竞争过强、社会关系高度紧张时，一些动物会自动减少繁殖、放弃育幼，甚至在资源充足的情况下走向种群崩溃。因此，人类社会的低生育率，未必只是观念的变化，也可能是对高密度、高竞争、高压力环境的一种生物性适应。

如果这个社会无法改变（或者仅仅是“接受”）这种深层结构，却试图以“发钱”、“催生”的奖惩机制来干预人们的决策，无疑落入了典型的系统困境：试图以制造出了问题的逻辑去解决自己制造出的问题。

现代社会的很多制度，都建立在人口持续增长的基础上：养老金要靠源源不断的年轻人养活老人，房价和金融体系依赖对未来人口和收入增长的预期，老年人口比例上升也可能让政治更保守甚至倒退，国家之间的竞争也常常和人口规模、年轻人的劳动力和创新能力挂钩。

归根结底，“低生育率”更像是现有制度的危机，却不一定是人类本身的危机。人口变少难免遭遇阵痛，但长远来看，人类对能源的需求会下降，对土地和自然资源的压力也会减轻，更多生物的生存空间会得到恢复，碳排放也可能随之减少。人类社会也可以将重心从GDP增长转向如何提升个体的福祉。

以此为视角，我们需要重新定义“生育自主权”的意义：让人类跟随女性的生命直觉回归平衡。

女性掌握生育自主权最重要的一点，就是她可以选择不生——如果没有说“不”的权利，“自主”就无从谈起。具有主体性的女性能够决定如何在合适的时间、合适的环境、合适的状态中生育，或者当不合适的时候拒绝生育。换言之，当“母亲”能够作为一个“人”存在，她就能够为诞生的生命负责——能且只能通过为自己负责的方式。

如今的我，在选择了生育之后，深感成为母亲的命运偶然性。相比人生众多“可以选择”去做的事，生育确实很特别，却又没有那么特别。它和很多别的事一样，不同的人所体验到的可能天差地别，有人适应，就会有人不适应。一旦它不是“必须”的，它就必然会丧失用户。

我不知道人类社会要坚持尝试多少年才会承认旧体制已经无以为继。但我期待，当更多人把对生育议题的理解从“低生育率”转向“生育自主权”的时候，解法也自然会从“催生更多孩子”，变成“如何支持更多女性更好地做出关于生育的决策”。当然，这大概挽救不了低生育率，也许只能把生育率调整到它本来就应该降低的一个水平。

本期推荐档案：

艾晓明：全球女权主义者口述访谈

陈剑：《中国生育革命纪实》

方凤美：《独生：中国最激进的实验》

【本文为中国民间档案馆首发，转载时请务必在正文之前注明“本文首发于中国民间档案馆”，并加上原文在中国民间档案馆网站或者中国民间档案馆Substack的链接。】

【作者观点不代表中国民间档案馆立场。】

Demanding the Return of Bodily Autonomy: An Alternative Perspective on China’s Declining Birth Rate

By Mimiyana

In 2025, I realized my wish of becoming a mother—in Canada. As a single woman giving birth, I successfully delivered my daughter. A few days ago, when I was talking with a close friend in China about future childcare plans—such as when to consider daycare and kindergarten—I told her that childcare resources in Canada are extremely tight, and that waiting in line for several years is the norm. She was very surprised: “Kindergartens back home don’t have any business at all,” she said. “They’d love for you to come.”

At the same time, we mentioned how dismal China’s newly released birth-rate figures are. On January 19, China’s National Bureau of Statistics released data showing that the number of births in 2025 was only 7.92 million, a decrease of 1.62 million compared to 2024. Births per thousand people fell to 5.63, the lowest level since the Chinese Communist Party came to power in 1949. According to official data, the number of births in 2025 is lower than the annual numbers during the years of the Great Famine in the Mao era. At the same time, both the number of deaths and the elderly population continued to rise. The total population has declined for four consecutive years, and population aging has further deepened.

From the complete termination of the “one-child policy” in 2015, to the introduction of the “three-child policy” in 2021, and to the beginning of childcare subsidies in 2025, over the past decade the Chinese government has tried every conceivable measure to support childbearing—including extending maternity leave, offering tax incentives, housing purchase subsidies, and setting up “childbirth-friendly job positions.” One could say it has exhausted all means, yet it has still failed to reverse the downward trend in birth rates. This is in line with declines in many other countries, and yet the decline in China—at a much lower per capita GDP than many other low-birth-rate countries—says much about its political system and embedded patriarchal systems.

1. When Marriage Is No Longer a Precondition for Childbearing

Besides mainland China, Hong Kong, Taiwan, and other East Asian societies have also seen record lows in newborn numbers. Hong Kong had 43,000 newborns in 2020, but by 2025 this had fallen to fewer than 32,000, a reduction of 26.2 percent over six years. Taiwan’s decline is even greater: there were 165,000 newborns in 2020, but by 2025 the number had dropped to fewer than 108,000, a reduction of 34.7 percent over six years. Together with South Korea, these two places have long occupied the top three positions globally for lowest fertility rates.

Under pressure from the population crisis, Taiwan—despite its deep Confucian cultural roots—pushed forward amendments to the Artificial Reproduction Act at the end of 2025, proposing to expand the scope of assisted reproduction from its original target demographic—“infertile heterosexual married couples”—to include single women and lesbian couples. If the draft amendment passes, Taiwan will become the only place in the Chinese-speaking world that allows single women and lesbian partners to legally thaw and use their own eggs. This legislative change means that reproductive rights are formally decoupled from the institution of marriage for the first time. When marriage is no longer a prerequisite for childbearing, the reproductive intentions of unmarried individuals and diverse families can finally be realized.

The significance of this change goes far beyond simply having more children. Historically, women have long been treated by patriarchal families and patriarchal state systems as resources and tools, used to continue patrilineal bloodlines, property, and power. Only by marrying into a husband’s family could women obtain basic security for survival, while also bearing a lifetime of unpaid labor in housework and childrearing. Marriage, as the key institution controlling women’s reproductive capacity, is a foundational structure of patriarchal society. The day that the legitimacy screening imposed by marriage on reproduction is dismantled, and women can fully own their autonomous reproductive rights, it will mean that they are truly able to give birth (or not give birth) not for men, not for families or clans, and not for the state—but solely for themselves.

2. Experiencing the Advancement of Public Consciousness in Canada

My friend in China and I are the same age; we were classmates in secondary school. When we were young, both of us placed our focus on education, careers, self-realization, and traveling the world. It was only in middle age that we developed the desire to have children, and both of us actively sought assisted reproductive technologies. The difference is that she is married, while I was able to complete single motherhood smoothly in Canada.

As a single woman, I encountered no obstacles in Canada in terms of reproductive medical services, administrative procedures at government institutions, or the distribution of benefits. What moved me more deeply, however, was the advancement of public consciousness here. Relevant professionals consciously use inclusive language, treating single people as part of the mainstream. Once, I attended an online parenting course organized by an NGO, taught by an obstetric nurse. When she mentioned the word “partner,” she deliberately explained that “partner” refers to a “parenting partner,” which could be your husband, wife, same-sex partner, friend, or parent. This detail left a deep impression on me, because as a representative of a public service, she did not assume that people were in heterosexual marriages.

Last year, British Columbia invested CA$68 million of public funds to subsidize IVF treatments, with each recipient eligible for up to CA$19,000. Heterosexual couples, single women, same-sex couples, or gender-diverse families are all eligible to apply. This was a case of precision targeting in policy design: the government chose to support those who already have a strong desire to have children. It also means that the state has elevated reproduction from a private responsibility to part of public infrastructure.

3. “One Day, We Will Reclaim Sovereignty Over Our Bodies”

In 2019, a 30-year-old single woman, Xu Zaozao, sought egg-freezing services from Beijing Obstetrics and Gynecology Hospital affiliated with Capital Medical University. After being refused because she was single, she sued the hospital on the grounds of infringement of her “general personality rights.” After more than three years of trial proceedings, she lost the case. She subsequently filed an appeal, and in August 2024 the final ruling upheld the original judgment.

After losing the first-instance trial, Xu Zaozao said: “One day, we will reclaim sovereignty over our bodies.”

At that time, China had already begun actively promoting the “three-child policy,” which made this case particularly ironic: a society that elevates low fertility to the level of a national crisis and deploys all policy tools to encourage births, yet refuses to grant reproductive autonomy to a segment of the population with the strongest desire to reproduce.

The Technical Standards for Human Assisted Reproductive Technology, revised by China’s National Health and Family Planning Commission in 2003, state that “it is prohibited to implement human assisted reproductive technologies for couples and single women who do not comply with national population and family planning laws and regulations.” This reflects the essence of the problem: women’s bodies have never belonged to themselves, but rather constitute a kind of institutional resource—an object of state population governance.

4. China’s Family Planning: Women Have Borne the Most Brutal Face of Patriarchy

China has a long history of institutionalized management of women’s bodies. In the early period after the founding of the state in 1949, the country generally encouraged childbirth, believing that a large population meant more labor and was beneficial to nation building, while reproduction remained primarily a family matter.

By the late Cultural Revolution and the 1970s, as resource constraints and population pressure increased, the government began advocating “late marriage, late childbirth, and fewer births,” promoting contraceptive measures. Grassroots organizations gradually became involved, and reproduction began to become an object of government management.

After the implementation of the one-child policy in the 1980s, childbirth became an act that required administrative approval and was comprehensively and strictly controlled. Many women were required to have IUDs inserted and undergo regular gynecological examinations; some even experienced forced abortions or sterilizations. Countless women paid a price in blood to ensure the smooth implementation of policy.

After 2015, as the population crisis became increasingly evident, the state shifted from restricting births to encouraging them, fully opening up second and third children. Yet the social and familial pressure to marry and give birth, as well as the cost of having multiple children, still primarily falls on women.

Although China has changed the objectives of population management at different stages, it has never loosened control over or pressure on women. This is why the tragedies of “those who want to give birth cannot, and those who do not want to give birth are forced to give birth” repeatedly occur. The high degree of bodily intrusion and extreme functionalization imposed on women’s bodies expose the most brutal face of patriarchy.

Today, many countries throughout the globe are seeing falling birth rates. However, China—and indeed the whole of East Asian society—has faced compounding challenges. In essence, what we are witnessing is a society-wide “birth strike” (by females). Ample evidence shows that even when governments roll out favorable policies, or even “throw money” at the problem, the effect on reversing fertility decline is minimal. The social structures and cultural characteristics of East Asian societies have influenced women’s willingness to bear children.

Based on my observations of the middle-class circles around me, many people not only treat their own lives as continuous performance projects of leveling up, but also treat childrearing as a high-pressure performance project. Once they have children, they must raise them to become qualified members of the middle class or social elites. Expectations for children are not about growing into healthy human beings, but about crossing class boundaries, or at least avoiding downward mobility.

The worship of elite-oriented parenting brings not only soaring economic costs, but also a heavier psychological burden—the need to ensure the “success” of a child’s life and avoid “failure.” East Asian culture defines “success” extremely narrowly, yet sets extraordinarily harsh standards with very low tolerance for error, forcing countless people to crowd into the same template and compete themselves to exhaustion, with no clear exit mechanism.

At the same time, in these places, childcare responsibilities are highly privatized and lack support from public infrastructure. Society defaults to childrearing as family labor—more precisely, labor that women should undertake. Women are not only caregivers, but also project managers, the direct and ultimate persons responsible for children, bearing almost all of the risk.

My mother once said something that left a deep impression on me: “If you raise children well, they belong to society; if you raise them badly, they belong to yourself.” Looking back on my own upbringing, I find that my mother was exhaustively cautious in every decision she made for me, trying to anticipate every worst-case scenario so she could prepare all possible safeguards in advance. My mother was always the one providing the final safety net, always preventing my failure, for my failure would also be regarded as her failure. This long-term operation under high pressure takes a toll on the well-being of mothers—I often feel that my mother was excessively anxious, negative, and unhappy.

5. The First Collective Birth Strike by Young Women

Today, the high levels of women’s education and economic participation are unprecedented. For the first time, a younger generation of women has collectively seen through the coercion behind reproduction and the punishment embedded in motherhood. A “birth strike” is precisely women’s refusal to continue bearing responsibility and costs for the entire system—when we cannot obtain a position as independent, autonomous persons within it. Through rational cost-benefit calculations and through bodily and life-preserving instincts, women refuse to continue sustaining and reproducing this unsustainable system, thereby pronouncing its end. It can no longer rely on exploiting silent and vulnerable groups to maintain high-performance operation.

At this point, I cannot avoid raising a deeper question: Is declining fertility really a “problem” that needs to be solved? If endless growth demanded by capitalism is no longer the highest goal, why must humanity continue to expand? Our ecological environment, our planet, and even our own lives are already overloaded—aren’t they?

Many modern institutions are built on the assumption of continuous population growth: pension systems rely on a steady influx of young people to support the elderly; housing prices and financial systems depend on expectations of future population and income growth; rising proportions of elderly populations may make politics more conservative or even regressive; and competition between states is often linked to population size, youthful labor forces, and innovative capacity.

Ultimately, low fertility looks more like a crisis of existing systems, rather than necessarily a crisis of humanity itself. Population decline inevitably brings growing pains, but in the long run, humanity’s demand for energy will decrease, pressure on land and natural resources will ease, more living space for other species will be restored, and carbon emissions may also decline. Human societies could shift their focus from GDP growth to improving individual well-being.

From this perspective, we need to redefine the meaning of reproductive autonomy: respecting women’s intuition about how to lead their lives and seeking a new state of balance.

The most important aspect of women possessing reproductive autonomy is that they can choose not to give birth—without the right to say “no,” autonomy does not begin to exist. Women can decide how to give birth appropriately or refuse to give birth when conditions are not ideal. In other words, only when the mother can exist as a person can she be responsible for the life she brings into being—by being responsible to herself.

As someone who has now chosen to give birth, I deeply feel the contingency of becoming a mother. Compared with the many things in life that one can choose to do, reproduction is indeed special, yet not that special. Like many other things, different people experience it in vastly different ways; some adapt, and others do not. Once it is no longer mandatory, it will inevitably lose “users.”

I do not know how many years human societies will continue to try before acknowledging that the old system can no longer be sustained. But I hope that when more people shift their understanding of reproductive issues from low fertility to reproductive autonomy, the solutions will naturally move from urging more births to how to support more women in making better reproductive decisions. Of course, this probably will not reverse low fertility. Perhaps it can only adjust fertility to the level at which it was always meant to decline.

Recommended archives:

Ai Xiaoming: Oral Interviews with Global Feminists

Chen Jian: Documenting the Reproductive Revolution in China, 1978-1991

Mei Fong: One Child

[This article first appears on China Unofficial Archives. When reposting, please ensure that the following is included at the beginning of the reposted text: “This article was first published by the China Unofficial Archives,” accompanied by a link to the original article on the China Unofficial Archives website or Substack.]

[The views expressed by the author of this article do not necessarily reflect the position of the China Unofficial Archives.]

作者：胡平

By Hu Ping

The English translation follows below.

6年前，也就是2020年的1月23日，凌晨2:30，武汉市政府发布新型肺炎疫情防控第1号通告，于上午10点起进行全市交通管控和封闭管理，居民非必要不得离开武汉——这被简称为“武汉封城”。此时，距离2019年12月31日，官媒人民日报第一次公布武汉发现病毒性肺炎的消息相隔23天。

作家方方在2020年2月27日的日记里写道：“武汉疫情，从最初发现到封城，中间延误二十多天，这是不争的事实。而延误的症结在哪里，究竟是何人因何事，给病毒蔓延提供了时间和空间，而导致武汉史上未有的封城？”

新冠疫情从中国蔓延到全世界，根据世界卫生组织的公开数据，武汉封城将近两个月后的2020年3月19日，疫情已蔓延至150多个国家和地区，全球确诊人数远超中国。这场人类历史上少见的大规模疫情，深刻影响了全球的经济以及政治。而在中国之内，各省市陆续采取严厉的“动态清零”措施，民众生活被严厉管控，人权受损，次生灾害频发，直到2022年12月初，又在没有预案和准备的情况下突然解封，再度造成大量死亡。

截至目前为止，中国政府对武汉封城这件事，基本上是“三不”态度：不主动提起、不再纪念、不做总结评价。距离当下最近的一份有关文件，是2025年4月30日，国务院新闻办发布的《关于新冠疫情防控与病毒溯源的中方行动和立场》白皮书。这份文件主要是反击外部指责，以及强调中国在疫情初期的付出，对封城本身的评价仍然停留在2020—2021年的官方表述，没有任何新的反思或经验教训总结。但对于民间社会来说，我们不应该放弃追责的精神——这样一场人类的大灾难，需要一个历史的交代。

1. 疫情之初，竭力隐瞒的是地方还是中央？

事实上，在武汉封城后，追责之声就曾四起。武汉地方官员首当其冲，成为民众责难的对象。民众追责的第一个问题就是：为什么不及时向公众披露疫情？其中一个重要的背景是：2019年12月30日，武汉市中心医院医生李文亮在微信群中提醒同事注意“SARS类似病毒”，却在四天后被武汉警方约谈训诫。2月7日，感染新冠病毒的李文亮医生去世。

回看当时的一些节点：2020年1月27日下午，武汉市长周先旺接受央视记者专访。周先旺公开承认武汉披露疫情不及时，但话锋一转，周说：“披露不及时，这一点大家要理解，因为它是传染病，传染病有传染病防治法，它必须依法披露，作为地方政府，我获得这个信息以后，授权以后，我才能披露。”

2月12日，武汉市官网“汉网”发表文章透露：“早在疫情发生12月，武汉已将相关情况上报国家卫生部门，专家组一行也深入到武汉调研，给出了初步结论。”（原文题目是《“疫”流而上何不多给武汉市长暖暖心》，但后被删除）

1月28日，在会见世卫总干事谭德塞时，习近平说，这次防疫工作，“我一直亲自指挥，亲自部署”。2月15日出版的中共党媒《求是》刊登了习近平在2月3日中央政治局常委会会议应对新冠病毒疫情工作时的讲话全文。在这个讲话中，习近平说他在1月7日的政治局常委会上就对疫情防控工作提出了要求。这就告诉人们，至迟在1月7日，防疫工作就是由习近平“亲自指挥，亲自部署”了。

中国政治几乎从不透明——习近平1月7日对防疫工作到底提出了什么要求，其具体内容是什么？习近平没有细说，新华社对1月7日那次会议的报道也只字未提。但从常情常理上推测，隐瞒疫情的责任不在地方而在中央。

自2003年SARS事件后，中国政府吸取教训，耗费巨资建立起覆盖全国的传染病与突发公共卫生事件监测信息系统（简称网络直报系统）。“不明原因肺炎”则被列为其监测、报告的重点之一。该系统于2004年4月1日在全国范围内正式启用。另外，中国政府还在2006年制定了《国家突发公共卫生事件应急预案》，以及一系列相关法规。假如在疫情发现之初，中国政府就启动应急机制，采取相应行动，很可能把疫情扼杀于萌芽状态，而这场全球性的新冠疫情大灾难，也很可能被避免。

2. 疫情全球大蔓延，中国政府是否曾误导世界？

今日回望可见，在疫情之初，中国政府发布不实信息和虚假数据，严重地误导了世界卫生组织和各国政府。世卫组织驻华代表高力（Dr. Gauden Galea）曾说，在疫情之初，世卫所知道的就只有中国汇报的信息，包括病毒是否人传人的问题，因此没有及时发出警讯。美国白宫应对疫情小组负责人之一黛博拉·伯克斯（Deborah Birx）则说，当时医学界对中国数据的解读是：情况很严重，但规模小于所有人的预期，不会变成全球大流行。

1月23日武汉封城。后来有人评论说：武汉都封城了，全世界还看不懂？但这种说法是不对的。要知道，在当时，中国政府的宣传口径是：武汉封城是超过世卫要求、付出巨大牺牲、把病毒封死在中国，为全球赢得了时间，境外病例不到1%。这继续严重地误导了国际社会。《柳叶刀》主编霍顿1月24日还说没必要恐慌，世卫不建议旅行限制，美国政府在1月底宣布禁航，则被中国斥为“带头不厚道”。可以说，全世界被中国数据和宣传双重误导。

可以说，造成新冠疫情全球大流行的重要症结，就是在疫情初期，中共当局不准公布疫情，拒绝启动应急机制，错过了把疫情扼杀于萌芽状态的时间窗口，此后又发布不实信息和虚假数据误导国际社会，这就让病毒有机会扩散到全中国，乃至扩散到全世界，从而造成了这场全球性的大灾难。

3. 时隔六年，病毒溯源仍没有答案

直到武汉封城6年后的今天，我们仍无法确定，病毒是自然传播的，还是实验室泄漏的？是自然发生的，还是人工合成？

早在2020年新冠疫情爆发之初，就有很多人怀疑病毒是实验室泄漏。其依据是：大多数专家都认为，新冠病毒的宿主是云南的蝙蝠，如果是病毒自然传播，疫情就应该发生在中国南方，而不该发生在距离云南蝙蝠栖居地一、两千公里之外的武汉。另外，武汉病毒所的实验室存有世界上最大数量的蝙蝠病毒样本。疫情既然是在武汉爆发的，所以病毒最可能就来自实验室。另外，科学家早就发现，与其它和SARS相关的冠状病毒相比，新冠病毒（SARS-CoV-2）有一大特点，那就是在其刺突中具有独特的弗林蛋白酶切割位点（furin cleavage sites）。而武汉的病毒研究所早就在进行相关的功能增进研究。

2003年SARS疫情爆发，专家们只用了5个月就找到了直接传染源果子狸。而这次新冠疫情过去6年多了，却还未找到直接传染源的动物。新冠病毒到底来自哪里？科学界尚有疑问，且并未完全排除实验室泄漏的可能性。而中国政府拒绝外国专家深入调查，封锁资讯，形同“此地无银三百两”，在外界看来，就有了欲盖弥彰的味道。有一点可以确定，那就是在疫情初期，中国政府曾隐瞒真相，发布不实信息和虚假数据，严重地违反了《国际卫生条例》，就这一点来说，也必须向中国政府追责。

4. 中国新冠疫情死亡人数至今成谜

世界卫生组织汇总的各国报告数据显示，截至2026年1月中旬左右，全球累计确认新冠病毒造成的死亡人数约为710万人。中国政府报告并由世卫汇总的中国死亡人数则是12万。

12万这个数据明显不靠谱，没人会信。倒是中国疾控中心流行病学首席专家吴尊友讲到了两个相关数据，给出了不同的死亡数据。吴尊友在2023年1月21日发文说，中国从2022年12月6日解封后已经有80%的人口感染过新冠病毒。在2月9日的新闻发布会上，吴尊友说，新冠病毒的病死率2022年12月份是0.08%，那么中国在2022年12月6日解封以来两个月，感染人数大约是：14亿×80%=11.2亿，病死人数就大约是：11.2亿×0.08%=89.6万。

不过，89.6万这个死亡数据可能仍然偏低。因为吴尊友说的2022年12月份新冠病死率0.08%这个数据，是国际平均病死率，由于在这段时期中国的情况和其他国家的情况有着很大的差别，因此，我们不能把其他国家的平均病死率，直接当成中国的病死率。

导致中国的病死率更高的两个主要原因是：第一，中国的国产疫苗效力相对比较低；第二，在2022年12月解封之前，中国人感染过新冠的人相当少，但在2022年12月这波疫情中，其它国家的人大多是再次感染，故而病死率比较低，唯有中国人，基本上都是首次感染。这两条加在一起，就造成中国人可能最缺乏群体免疫力的局面，中国成了免疫洼地。面对同一种病毒，中国人的免疫力要比其它国家低得多，病死率也很可能比国际平均病死率高得多。所以说，中国的新冠死亡人数绝不止89.6万，而很可能比这个数字高若干倍。

因为外界无从获得中国新冠死亡的可靠数据，一个替代方法是，我们可以根据额外死亡的人数，大致推算出新冠死亡的人数。所谓额外死亡人数，是用某段时期的实际死亡人数，减去以过去数据为基础预测出的同期死亡人数而得。当然，额外死亡人数并不直接等于新冠死亡人数。因为在这中间，除了新冠导致的死亡之外，还有受医疗挤兑影响无法及时就医而死于新冠以外疾病的，还有因外出受限等生活习惯变化造成原有慢性病恶化而死去的，还有因经济困难而自杀的，等等。与此同时，在疫情封控时期，有些死亡又会减少，例如开车坐车的人大量减少，交通事故造成的死亡会减少。但是毕竟，在新冠死亡数据缺少统计或秘而不宣的情况下，额外死亡人数给我们推算新冠死亡人数提供了重要的依据。研究传染病流行情况，常常要采用这种方法。

在中国，要了解一段期间内的死亡人数，有一个办法，那就是查看尸体火化数据。中国禁止土葬，死人一般都是火化，而各个火葬场的尸体火化数据是有记录的。当然，在实际上，也有些地方是把死人土葬。尤其是在疫情海啸期间，火葬场不堪重负，因此在广大农村，有不少地方的农民是把死者就地土葬，还有自己搭起架子把尸体火化的，这些死者都没送进火葬场，因此不在火葬场火化的统计数字之内。但尽管如此，查看火葬场尸体火化数据仍然是我们了解死亡人数、从而推算出额外死亡人数、再进而估算出新冠死亡人数的重要依据。

2023年4月13日，《华尔街日报》刊文说，该报调查发现，中国30多个省、市或区，通常每季度发布一次的尸体火化数量的官方报告要么消失了，要么没有按时更新。

不过，不知是刻意为之还是出于疏忽，有个别地方的尸体火化数据还是发布出来了，立刻引起了有心人的注意；虽然这些数据随后又删除了，但有心人留下了截图。以下为几张截图的说明：

1、2023年7月17日，财新发表记者向凯的文章“2023年一季度浙江省火化遗体数同比增长72.7%”。文章引用浙江省民政厅公布的2023年一季度的统计数据。其中，火化尸体数达17.1万具；相比去年同期的9.9万具，增长高达72%。

2、有网友查到河南省县级市长垣市民政局的“2023上半年年中工作总结”。其中明言，该市2023年1-6月共火化遗体1184具，较去年同期664具增加520具，同比增长78.3%。

3、又有网民查到广东惠东县广东民政局的“2022年上半年工作总结”以及“2023年上半年工作总结”。这两份文件提到，2022年1-5月，县殡仪馆共完成火化遗体2245具，其中本县户籍的845具；而2023年1-5月，县殡仪馆共完成火化遗体4804具。按照这个数据计算，2023年1-5月火化遗体数比去年同期增长114.0%。

按照上面基于三个地方泄漏的尸体火化数据进行的推算，中国在疫情期间——主要是在疫情海啸期间——即2022年12月到2023年1月期间——的额外死亡人数，至少是400万，多则达595万。刨除掉其中非新冠死亡人数，再加上从2019年12月疫情发生到2022年12月疫情海啸之前死于新冠病毒的人数，那是一个巨大的数目，按比例算也是在全球名列前茅。

本期推荐档案：

胡平：《新冠肺炎浩劫——一场本来完全可以避免的大灾难》，台湾允晨文化出版，2024年8月。

【本文为中国民间档案馆首发，转载时请务必在正文之前注明“本文首发于中国民间档案馆”，并加上原文在中国民间档案馆网站或者中国民间档案馆Substack的链接。】

【作者观点不代表中国民间档案馆立场。】

Six Years since the Wuhan Lockdown: Seeking Accountability for a Historic Catastrophe

By Hu Ping

Six years ago, at 2:30 a.m. on January 23, 2020, the Wuhan municipal government issued its first announcement regarding the prevention and control of what came to be known as COVID-19. It declared that, effective 10:00 a.m. that day, all city transportation would be suspended and the city closed, with residents prohibited from leaving unless absolutely necessary. This event, now known as the Wuhan lockdown, occurred 23 days after the state-run People’s Daily first reported the discovery of the new virus in Wuhan on December 31, 2019.

In her diary entry on February 27, 2020, the writer Fang Fang wrote: “It is an indisputable fact that over twenty days were lost between the initial discovery of the virus and Wuhan’s lockdown. Where was the crux of this delay? Exactly who, and for what reason, provided the virus the time and space to spread, leading to a lockdown unprecedented in Wuhan’s history?”

The COVID-19 pandemic eventually spread from China to the entire world. According to public data from the World Health Organization (WHO), by March 19, 2020—nearly two months after the Wuhan lockdown began—the virus had reached over 150 countries and regions, and the number of global cases far exceeded those within China. This rare and massive pandemic profoundly reshaped global economics and politics. Within China, provinces and cities implemented draconian “dynamic zero-COVID” measures, resulting in severe restrictions on daily life, human rights violations, and frequent secondary disasters. Finally, in early December 2022, the Chinese government abruptly lifted the lockdown without any contingency plans or preparation, leading to a massive wave of deaths.

To date, the Chinese government’s attitude toward the Wuhan lockdown is denial: no mentions, no commemorations, and no review or evaluations. The most recent official document is a white paper titled “China’s Actions and Position on COVID-19 Prevention, Control, and Virus Tracing,” released by the State Council Information Office on April 30, 2025. This document primarily serves to counter external criticism and highlight China’s early contributions; its evaluation of the lockdown itself remains unchanged from the official rhetoric of 2020–2021, offering no new reflections or lessons learned. However, we must not let the spirit of accountability fade—such a historic catastrophe requires a full accounting.

1. Was the Cover-Up Directed by Local or Central Authorities?

In the immediate wake of the Wuhan lockdown, calls for accountability were widespread. Local officials in Wuhan were the primary targets of public outrage. The first question people asked was: Why was the outbreak not disclosed to the public immediately? A vital piece of context is the case of Dr. Li Wenliang, who warned colleagues in a WeChat group on December 30, 2019, about a “SARS-like virus,” only to be summoned and reprimanded by Wuhan police four days later. Dr. Li died of the virus on February 7.

Here’s a review of the timeline. On the afternoon of January 27, 2020, Wuhan Mayor Zhou Xianwang admitted in a Chinese Central Television interview that the disclosure of the epidemic had not been timely. However, he then shifted the responsibility, stating: “Everyone needs to understand that because this is an infectious disease, it falls under the Infectious Disease Prevention and Control Law. It must be disclosed according to the law. As a local government official, I could only disclose the information once I had received it and been authorized to do so.”

On February 12, the official Wuhan website published an article (since deleted) titled “Why Not Give the Wuhan Mayor More Warmth as He Fights the Epidemic?” which revealed: “As early as December, when the outbreak occurred, Wuhan had already reported the situation to national health departments. An expert group also conducted an in-depth investigation in Wuhan and provided preliminary conclusions.”

On January 28, during a meeting with WHO Director-General Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus, Xi Jinping stated that regarding the pandemic response, “I have been personally commanding and personally deploying resources.” The February 15 issue of the Communist Party mouthpiece Qiushi published the full text of Xi’s February 3 speech, in which he claimed he had issued requirements for epidemic control as early as the January 7 Politburo Standing Committee meeting. This suggests that by January 7 at the latest, the response was under Xi’s “personal command.”

Chinese politics is almost never transparent. Xi has never elaborated on what those January 7 instructions actually were, and the original Xinhua News Agency report on that meeting did not mention the virus at all. All this evidence suggests that the responsibility for concealing the outbreak lies with the central government, not the local authorities.

Following the 2003 SARS crisis, the Chinese government spent vast sums to establish a national monitoring system for infectious diseases and public health emergencies. Coronaviruses like COVID-19 were a priority for this system, which launched on April 1, 2004. Furthermore, the Chinese government established the “National Emergency Plan for Public Health Emergencies” in 2006. Had the government activated these mechanisms and taken action when the virus was first detected, the outbreak might have been nipped in the bud, potentially averting a global catastrophe.

2. Global Spread: Did the Chinese Government Mislead the World?

Looking back, it is evident that the Chinese government provided false information and inaccurate data at the start of the pandemic, which severely misled the WHO and foreign governments. Dr. Gauden Galea, the WHO representative in China at the time, noted that the WHO was entirely dependent on information reported by China—including the critical question of human-to-human transmission—and therefore failed to issue timely warnings. Deborah Birx, a leader of the U.S. coronavirus task force, remarked that the medical community interpreted Chinese data to mean the situation was serious but manageable, not a potential global pandemic.

When Wuhan was locked down on January 23, some argued that the world should have understood the gravity of the situation then. However, this ignores the fact that the Chinese government’s propaganda at the time insisted the lockdown was a massive sacrifice that had contained the virus within China, buying the world time while overseas cases remained under 1%. This narrative continued to mislead the international community. Even on January 24, The Lancet editor Richard Horton stated there was no need to panic, and the WHO advised against travel restrictions. When the U.S. government announced a flight ban in late January, China denounced the move as “unkind.” The world was effectively blinded by a combination of flawed data and state propaganda.

3. Six Years Later, the Origin of the Virus Remains Unsolved

Today, six years after the lockdown, we still do not know if the virus was a natural spillover or a laboratory leak, nor if it was natural or synthetic.

From the beginning of the outbreak, many suspected a laboratory leak. This suspicion was based on the fact that while the virus is believed to have originated in bats from Yunnan, the outbreak occurred in Wuhan—thousands of kilometers away from those bat habitats. Furthermore, the Wuhan Institute of Virology houses the world’s largest collection of bat virus samples. Since the outbreak began in Wuhan, the lab was a logical suspect. Scientists also noted that SARS-CoV-2 possesses a unique “furin cleavage site” in its spike protein, a feature not found in similar coronaviruses, and the Wuhan Institute of Virology had been conducting “gain-of-function” research related to such features.

In contrast to the 2003 SARS outbreak—where the animal source, civet cats, was identified in five months—no animal host has been found for COVID-19 after six years. The scientific community still has doubts and cannot rule out a lab leak. The Chinese government’s refusal to allow independent investigations and its suppression of information have only deepened these suspicions. What is certain, however, is that the Chinese government’s early concealment and dissemination of false data constituted a severe violation of the International Health Regulations, for which it must be held accountable.

4. The Enigma of China’s COVID-19 Death Toll

WHO data suggests that by mid-January 2026, approximately 7.1 million people globally had died from COVID-19. Meanwhile, the death toll reported by the Chinese government stands at only 120,000.

This figure of 120,000 is widely viewed as false. Former China CDC Chief Epidemiologist Wu Zunyou provided data that suggests a much higher number. In January 2023, Wu stated that 80% of China’s population had been infected following the December 2022 reopening. He later cited a case fatality rate (CFR) of 0.08% for that period. Based on these numbers—1.4 billion people × 80% infection rate × 0.08% CFR—the death toll for those two months alone would be roughly 896,000.

Even 896,000 is likely an underestimate. The 0.08% CFR was an international average, but China’s situation was unique. China’s domestic vaccines were less effective, and because of the zero-COVID policy, the population lacked the hybrid immunity found in other countries where people had already been infected. For most Chinese citizens, the late 2022 wave was their first exposure to the virus. Consequently, the death toll was likely several times higher than the international average.

Because reliable data is unavailable, researchers often use “excess deaths” (the number of deaths above the historical average) as a proxy. While not all excess deaths are directly caused by COVID-19—some result from medical shortages, chronic disease neglect, or economic hardship—they provide the most accurate estimate of a pandemic’s impact.

In China, cremation data is a primary source for estimating deaths, as burial is largely prohibited. While many rural deaths during the peak of the pandemic went unrecorded due to overwhelmed crematoria or local burials, the available records are still telling.

By April 2023, The Wall Street Journal noted that official cremation reports from over 30 Chinese regions had either been deleted or were no longer being updated. However, a few scattered data points were leaked before being censored:

1. Zhejiang Province: In Q1 2023, cremations reached 171,000—a 72.7% increase over the previous year.

2. Changyuan, Henan: In the first half of 2023, cremations rose by 78.3% compared to the same period in 2022.

3. Huidong, Guangdong: Cremations from January to May 2023 increased by 114% year-on-year.

Extrapolating from these leaked figures, the number of excess deaths in China during the biggest wave from late 2022 to early 2023 was at least 4 million, and perhaps as high as 5.95 million. When combined with deaths from the preceding three years, the total represents a staggering loss of life that likely ranks among the highest in the world.

Many countries in the world botched handling the COVID-19 outbreak, but China’s case is still unique. The virus originated in China; thus, clarifying its origins should be a moral obligation of the Chinese government. In addition, the Chinese government had a unique opportunity to avoid the mass death found in other countries because of its initially successful lockdown strategy. However, its reckless decision to not take preventive measures such as using effective mRNA vaccines led to untold misery and a high death toll. Despite the difficulty, Chinese civil society must still push for a reckoning.

Recommended archive:

Hu Ping: The COVID-19 Catastrophe: A Disaster That Could Have Been Entirely Avoided

[This article first appears on China Unofficial Archives. When reposting, please ensure that the following is included at the beginning of the reposted text: “This article was first published by the China Unofficial Archives,” accompanied by a link to the original article on the China Unofficial Archives website or Substack.]

[The views expressed by the author of this article do not necessarily reflect the position of the China Unofficial Archives.]

作者：段荆棘

By Ginger Duan

The English translation follows below.

2024年12月24日，研究西藏历史的华人作家、学者李江琳在美国南部乔治亚州的家中安然离世，享年68岁。不久前的2025年平安夜，正是她离世一周年的纪念日。

犹记得一年前，得知她离世的消息时，我内心浮起的遗憾。作为一名汉人青年，也作为一名长期关注西藏历史、文化，参与一些行动的后辈，我长期关注并受惠于她的作品。此前，曾起心动念要去寻访她，但未及成行，便永远失去了这个机会。

1. 逃离红色家庭的思考者

1956年，李江琳生于江西南昌。她的父母都是中共解放军第四野战军工作团的高级干部。她后来自述，成长在享有特权的红色家庭背景下，童年时的她，曾认为革命是天经地义的事。直到文革时父亲被打成走资派，家人被发配到劳改农场，生活的剧变才让她开始反思革命的意义，并对周遭的闭塞和荒谬产生怀疑。她曾在采访中表示，1971年的林彪事件使她彻底觉醒，而她的红色家庭所经历的巨大反差，也让曾经天真的她不得不去思考更多。

1982年，李江琳毕业于复旦大学英文系，1988年，获山东大学美国文学研究硕士学位。在那个风云激荡的1980年代，她最终放弃了国内的高薪工作，选择出走，到美国留学，寻找自己想要的答案。

初到美国的李江琳从餐馆打工做起，希望彻底脱离家庭的护佑，一步步探索自己的路。她先后获得过布兰戴斯大学犹太历史硕士和纽约市立大学皇后学院图书馆学的硕士学位。生下女儿后的她，放弃了在学术界耕耘，在纽约市皇后区图书馆找到了一份工作。她曾担任法拉盛分馆国际资讯中心任项目的策划人，并在这里参与组织了上百场演讲和座谈会，把法拉盛图书馆打造成了一个活跃的海外华人文化活动中心。通过这些活动，她把中国的艾滋病问题、文革、人权、六四事件等议题带到纽约华人的文化生活中。2009年美国笔会授予狱中的刘晓波最高荣誉奖时，李江琳曾代刘晓波的妻子刘霞宣读答谢词。

2. “因为你要寻找真相”

1999年，李江琳在纽约中央公园聆听了西藏流亡精神领袖达赖喇嘛的演讲，并结识了纽约当地的一些流亡藏人。她大受震撼，从此结缘西藏，开始独立研究西藏历史。

2004年，李江琳在纽约法拉盛图书馆主持了藏汉文化交流和西藏文化节。2007年以后的十余年中，她多次走访印度各地和尼泊尔流亡藏人定居点和寺院，采访了300多位流亡藏人。积攒了大量一手资料后，她意识到亲历1959之后西藏痛史的各阶层的藏人正在凋零，为了不错过这个宝贵的时间窗口，也为了有足够的研究时间，在手无余钱的情况下，她于2009年辞去在图书馆的稳定工作，放弃工作福利，自筹经费，专心从事西藏史的研究写作。

2010年，李江琳出版了《1959拉萨！——达赖喇嘛如何出走》一书，详细分析引发数十万藏人流亡潮的1959年“310事件”，为华人了解西藏问题提供了一个十分重要的窗口。2012年，她出版了《铁鸟在天空飞翔：1956—1962青藏高原上的秘密战争》，揭露了中共军方在青海安多藏区的大规模屠杀和轰炸，补充了安多藏区历史研究的空白。

作为一个历史研究者，亲临现场的诱惑力是无法阻挡的。2012年夏，研究西藏历史多年的李江琳，终于在朋友的帮忙下进入藏区，开始秘密调查访问。她和朋友以”自驾游”的形式在大藏区走了20多个县。所到之处寻访历史事件亲历者，从牧人到退休官员，她以史叩门，时空激荡，感慨万千。最终形成《藏区秘行》（2014年，台湾联经）一书。

在那之后，她被中国大使馆取消了签证，再也无法返回中国，但这并没有阻止她持续为藏人发声。她出席各种研讨会，依然自费多次前往印度，四处收集资料。她长年累月不是四处奔波，就是在家里整理档案和写作。

对李江琳来说，研究现代西藏史面临的难题之一在于，对同一历史事件往往有截然不同的叙述——中共政府的叙事和海外流亡藏人的叙述总是相差甚大。为了尽量不带偏见、让人信服地还原历史，李江琳大量采访海内外藏人来抢救历史记忆，在给出历史事件的分析时，也对比参考中共内部的文献资料，以及世界范围内的西藏史研究成果，给出自己的结论。

为了让研究成果被国际学术界看到，她多方奔走，辗转无数次地修正，重新翻译整理了大量档案资料，终于让《1959拉萨！——达赖喇嘛如何出走》和《铁鸟在天空飞翔：1956—162青藏高原上的秘密战争》这两本重要的中文书，推出了英文版——《Tibet in Agony: Lhasa 1959》，以及《When the Iron Bird Flies: China’s Secret War in Tibet》。这两本书已分别由哈佛大学出版社和斯坦福大学出版社出版。

自从2004第一次采访达赖喇嘛尊者，此后数年间，李江琳先后10多次采访尊者，畅谈从历史苦难到未来的科技生活。她记得尊者对她说过一句话：你要记住，你写书，不是因为你支持我、支持西藏，而是因为你要寻找真相。

3. 揭露被掩盖的藏人苦难史与反抗史

李江琳和她的先生丁一夫笔耕不辍，二人经常合著文章，互作编审校对。2017年她出版了走访藏人难民定居点的访谈《重生的观音：第三个西藏的故事》。她曾说过，这些年她在印度几乎坐遍了所有可以想到的交通工具，从达兰萨拉到印度南部再到尼泊尔，关于勇气、困顿、疑惑、重生和新挑战，她记录了一个又一个流亡藏人的生命，把它们传播给华人世界的读者。

藏人的未来在哪里？如何拥抱现代化社会？这是全球许多藏人心中的疑问，李江琳与丁一夫受邀旁听尊者与西方科学家的对话“心智与生命研讨会”，尊者长期倡导普世价值和普世责任，倡导建立在科学和理性基础上的超越宗教的世俗伦理。2018年，江琳与先生丁一夫合著《智慧之海，达赖喇嘛与当代科学家的对话》，一探深奥的科学和佛学知识，提出怎么对待西方科学和东方佛教之间的分歧与相通处？这本书在华人世界里不是那么盛行，但我认识的好几个懂中文的藏人都说很好看。

李江琳最后一本书是2021年的《一生三世：格尔登仁波切回忆录》，这是流亡印度的阿坝格尔登仁波切口述自传。阿坝是整个藏区最传统的地方，也是苦难最深重的地方。格尔登仁波切的一生命运多变，被称为“如同活了三世”。第一世被认证为转世灵童，成了活佛。第二世，从阿坝到拉萨哲蚌寺，学佛深造。第三世，从拉萨流亡到印度，学习现代知识并于西藏流亡政府任职。

李江琳的作品在华语世界影响力甚广，为华人打开了了解上世纪西藏历史的窗口。许多华人正是通过她的著作，第一次认识到中共叙事之外，那段被掩盖的往事——藏人的苦难与反抗史。

4. 年轻世代的我们，但愿能传承她的精神

在李江琳脱离红色家庭，前往美国留学的1988年，我还没有出生。1990年代中期，我出生于中国中部的一个汉人家庭。两岁时，我随家人搬到云南，并在那里长大。小时候我曾和家人一起去藏区旅游，也去过汉地的藏传佛教寺院供灯。2017年大学毕业后，机缘凑巧，我到了青海果洛州的吉美坚赞民族职业学校做网络技术员（在这所学校2024年被当局关闭后，我曾撰文纪念）。我第一次知道李江琳，就是我在青海上网查西藏历史的资料时，看到美国之音为她做的纪录片。我还记得当时的震撼——她的研究资料如此丰富而专业，让我第一次对藏地历史有了比较深入和全面的了解。我也惊讶于她的能力与人脉——一方面能采访到境外的流亡藏人，也同时能访谈到境内一些退休干部。

作为一个汉族青年，在中国其实很难接触到真实的西藏历史。我个人开始研究西藏，起源于大学时我做过一次云南摩梭人的田野调查。我发现云南很多官方认定的“少数民族”，都深受藏文化的影响。后来在藏区的吉美坚赞民族学校工作的经历，则大大丰富了我对藏地的认知和精神世界。

后来，我出国留学、工作，并开始连接起一群热爱藏文化的华语青年行动者。2024年2月，我创办“华语青年挺藏会”，持续关注和传播西藏的历史文化，并关注当下西藏的现实。2025年7月，我们优秀的同伴——十分热爱藏文化，真诚热情、年仅22岁的中国留学生Tara（中文名张雅笛），在前往藏区旅游时，遭到中共当局的逮捕。

回想起来，我和Tara，还有“华语青年挺藏会”的其他同伴们，都曾被李江琳的作品和人格精神深深感召。我常想，作为中共红色家庭的女儿，她没有凭借特权享受安逸的生活，而是凭借良知与勇气，投身于正义的事业。作为一名汉人，一位研究藏地历史的学者，她没有被民族主义的偏见蒙蔽，而是勇于去倾听与中国官方叙事背道而驰的藏人声音，并利用自己基于身份而拥有的特权，去寻找中共的内部资料，还原史实。这份追寻历史真相的勇气，以及她不懈的坚持，让她成为先行者，也成为我们年轻一代心中的榜样。

2024年冬天，这个世界失去了李江琳，她的离世，是藏地历史研究领域的重大损失，也是追求自由的同道们重大的损失。作为后辈，在她离世一周年的日子，我们深深地悼念她。“愿自由之风吹遍图博大地。愿你吉祥如牛粪，自由如牦牛。”这是我们年轻一代的祝愿。我相信，这也是她的心愿。也但愿我们能传承她追求自由、挖掘与传播真相的精神！

本期推荐档案：

李江琳：《1959拉萨！——达赖喇嘛如何出走》

李江琳：《铁鸟在天空飞翔：1956—1962青藏高原上的秘密战争》

本文参考阅读：

纽约时报 | 西藏的秘密戰爭，究竟發生了什麼？

她揭开了藏人1959 遭受的苦难——汉藏友人同悼李江琳

李江琳：与红色家庭分道扬镳，这场革命是错的

胡平 | 追思李江琳

李江琳：佛国归来之后——写在《藏区秘行》出版之际

【本文为中国民间档案馆首发，转载时请务必在正文之前注明“本文首发于中国民间档案馆”，并加上原文在中国民间档案馆网站或者中国民间档案馆Substack的链接。】

【作者观点不代表中国民间档案馆立场。】

Remembering Li Jianglin: Documenting the History of Tibetan Suffering and Resistance

By Ginger Duan

On December 24, 2024, the Chinese scholar and historian of Tibet, Li Jianglin, passed away peacefully at her home in Georgia, USA, at the age of 68. This past Christmas Eve marked the first anniversary of her passing.

I still remember the sense of regret that welled up in my heart when I learned of her passing a year ago. As a young Han Chinese—and as a member of the younger generation who has long followed Tibetan history and culture—I have been a consistent follower and beneficiary of her work. I had once intended to visit her in person, but decided to wait until I had finished reading all of her books before seeing her. The opportunity, however, was lost forever.

1. A Thinker Who Fled a “Red Family”

Li Jianglin was born in 1956 in Nanchang, Jiangxi Province. Her parents were high-ranking officials in the Work Corps of the Chinese Communist Party’s Fourth Field Army. She later recounted that growing up in a privileged “Red Family,” she initially viewed the revolution as the absolute truth. It was not until the Cultural Revolution, when her father was denounced as a “capitalist roader” and her family was sent to a labor camp, that her life was upended. This upheaval forced her to reflect on the true meaning of the revolution and led her to question the isolation and absurdity of her surroundings. She stated in interviews that the 1971 Lin Biao Incident, in which Lin, Mao’s right-hand man, fled on a plane and died when it crashed, served as her final awakening; the stark contrast in her family’s fortunes forced her once-naive self to think more critically.

In 1982, Li graduated from Fudan University with a degree in English, and in 1988, she earned a Master’s degree in American Literature from Shandong University. Amid the turbulent atmosphere of the 1980s, she eventually gave up a high-paying job in China and chose to study in the United States to seek the answers she needed.

Upon arriving in America, Li began by working in restaurants, determined to detach herself from her family’s influence and forge her own path. She later earned a Master’s in Jewish History from Brandeis University and a Master’s in Library Science from Queens College, CUNY. After the birth of her daughter, she stepped away from academia and found a position at the Queens Public Library. There, as a program curator for the International Resource Center at the Flushing branch, she organized hundreds of lectures and seminars, transforming the library into a vibrant cultural hub for the overseas Chinese community. Through these events, she introduced topics such as the AIDS epidemic in China, the Cultural Revolution, human rights, and the June 4th Incident into the cultural discourse of New York. In 2009, when PEN America awarded its highest honor to the imprisoned Liu Xiaobo, Li Jianglin read the acceptance speech on behalf of Liu Xiaobo’s wife, Liu Xia.

2. “Because You Are Seeking the Truth”

In 1999, Li Jianglin attended a speech by the Dalai Lama in New York’s Central Park and met some local Tibetan exiles. The experience moved her profoundly, leading her to dedicate herself to the independent study of Tibetan history.

In 2004, Li hosted a Tibetan-Chinese cultural exchange and festival at the Flushing Library. Over the next decade, beginning in 2007, she made numerous trips to refugee settlements and monasteries across India and Nepal, interviewing more than 300 Tibetans in exile. After accumulating a vast amount of primary source materials, Li realized that the generation of Tibetans from all walks of life who had personally witnessed the tragic history following 1959 was rapidly passing away. To ensure she didn’t miss this precious window of time and to secure enough time for her research, she resigned from her stable library job in 2009. Despite having little savings, she gave up her employment benefits and relied on self-funding to dedicate herself to the research and writing of Tibetan history.

In 2010, Li published Tibet in Agony: Lhasa 1959, a detailed analysis of the March 10 Incident that triggered the exile of hundreds of thousands. This book provided a vital window for Chinese readers to understand the Tibetan issue. In 2012, Li published When the Iron Bird Flies: China’s Secret War in Tibet, which exposed the large-scale massacres and aerial bombings by China’s military in the Amdo region, filling a critical gap in the historical record of that area.

For a historian like Li, the lure of firsthand investigation is irresistible. In the summer of 2012, with the help of friends, she finally entered Tibet to conduct a secret investigation. Under the guise of a road trip, she and her companions visited over 20 counties. Wherever she went, Li sought out those who had lived through historical events—from nomads to retired officials. This journey culminated in her book Secret Travels in Tibet (2014).

Following that trip, the Chinese authorities revoked Li’s visa, and she was never able to return to China. This did not stop her. She continued to speak for the Tibetan people at seminars and traveled to India multiple times at her own expense to conduct fieldwork. For years, she was either traveling for research or at home organizing archives and writing.

One of the primary challenges in researching modern Tibetan history, Li believed, was the existence of two fundamentally different accounts of the same historical events: the narrative provided by the Chinese government and that of the Tibetan exile community often stood worlds apart. To reconstruct history in a way that was as unbiased and convincing as possible, she conducted extensive interviews with Tibetans both at home and abroad to rescue their historical memories. When analyzing events, she reached her conclusions by cross-referencing these accounts with internal Chinese Communist Party documents and global research on Tibetan history.

To ensure her work reached the global academic community, she worked tirelessly to revise, translate, and organize her findings. This effort led to English editions of her major works: Tibet in Agony: Lhasa 1959 (Harvard University Press) and When the Iron Bird Flies: China’s Secret War in Tibet (Stanford University Press).

Since her first meeting with His Holiness the Dalai Lama in 2004, Li has interviewed him more than ten times. She recalled him saying: “You must remember, you are writing these books not because you support me or support Tibet, but because you are seeking the truth.”

3. Exposing the Hidden History of Suffering and Resistance

Li Jianglin and her husband, Ding Yifu, were a prolific writing team, often co-authoring articles and editing each other’s work. In 2017, Li published The Reborn Avalokitesvara: The Story of the Third Tibet, based on her interviews in refugee settlements. She once remarked that she had used almost every form of transport imaginable in India, from Dharamsala to southern India and into Nepal. She documented the lives of exiles—their courage, hardships, doubts, and rebirths—and shared their stories with the Chinese-speaking world.

Where is the future for Tibetans? How can they embrace modernity? These questions weigh heavily on many Tibetans. Li and Ding Yifu were invited to observe the “Mind and Life” dialogues between the Dalai Lama and Western scientists, which promote secular ethics based on science and reason. In 2018, they co-authored Ocean of Wisdom, exploring the intersections of Western science and Eastern Buddhism. Although this book is less known in the broader Chinese world, several Chinese-speaking Tibetans I know consider it a brilliant work.

Li Jianglin’s final book was the 2021 biography Three Lives in One Lifetime: An Interview with Kirti Rinpoché Lobsang Tenzin Jigmé Yéshé Gyatso, an oral autobiography of the exiled Kirti Rinpoche of Ngaba. Ngaba is one of the most traditional and hardest-hit areas in Tibet. Kirti Rinpoche’s life was so transformative it was said he lived “three lifetimes”: first as a recognized reincarnated lama; second, as a scholar in Lhasa; and third, as an exile in India learning modern knowledge and serving in the Tibetan Government-in-Exile.

Li’s work has had a profound impact, providing a window for the Chinese world to see a history that has long been suppressed—the history of Tibetan suffering and resistance.

4. May Our Generation Inherit Her Spirit

In 1988, when Li Jianglin left her “Red Family” for the United States, I had not yet been born. I was born into a Han family in central China in the 1990s. I moved to Yunnan with my family at age 2 and grew up there. As a child, I traveled to Tibet with my family and visited Tibetan Buddhist monasteries in the Chinese interior to offer butter lamps. After graduating in 2017, I happened to find work as a network technician at the Jigme Gyaltsen Vocational School in Golog, Qinghai Province (I wrote about it when the authorities shut down the school in 2024).

I first encountered Li Jianglin’s work while researching Tibetan history online when I was in Qinghai, through a Voice of America documentary. I remember the shock I felt—her research was so comprehensive and professional that it gave me my first true understanding of the region’s history. I was also struck by her reach; she was able to interview both Tibetan exiles abroad and retired Tibetan officials within the system.

As a Han youth in China, it is extremely difficult to access the true history of Tibet. My own interest began with fieldwork on the Mosuo people in Yunnan, where I realized many so-called “ethnic minorities” were deeply influenced by Tibetan culture. My experience working in Golog further enriched my understanding.

Later, I moved abroad to study and work, eventually connecting with a group of young Chinese-speaking activists who love Tibetan culture. In February 2024, I founded “Chinese Youth Stand for Tibet” to raise awareness of Tibetan history and current realities. In July 2025, our dedicated companion Zhang Yadi, also known as Tara—a passionate and sincere 22-year-old Chinese student—was arrested by the Chinese authorities while traveling in Tibet.

Looking back, Tara, myself, and our companions were all deeply inspired by Li Jianglin’s work and spirit. I often think about how, as a daughter of a “Red Family,” she chose a life of conscience and courage over the ease of privilege. As a Han scholar, she was not blinded by nationalism; she dared to listen to voices that contradicted the official narrative and used her unique access to internal documents to restore the truth. Her persistence and bravery make her a pioneer and a role model for our generation.

In the winter of 2024, the world lost Li Jianglin. Her passing is a profound loss for the study of Tibetan history and for all those who pursue freedom. As members of the younger generation, we deeply mourn her on this first anniversary. “May the wind of freedom blow across the land of Tibet. May you be as auspicious as yak dung and as free as the yak.” This is our wish, and I believe it was hers, too. May her spirit remain with us, and may we carry forward her legacy of uncovering and spreading the truth.

Recommended archives:

Li Jianglin: Tibet in Agony: Lhasa 1959

Li Jianglin: When the Iron Bird Flies: China’s Secret War in Tibet, 1956–1962

Further reading:

The New York Times | Tibet’s Secret War: What Really Happened? (English with subscription)

She Uncovered the Suffering of Tibetans in 1959 — Chinese and Tibetan Friends Mourn Li Jianglin Together (in Chinese only)

Li Jianglin: Breaking with a Red Family—This Revolution Was a Mistake (in Chinese only)

Hu Ping | In Remembrance of Li Jianglin (in Chinese only)

Li Jianglin: After Returning from the Land of the Buddha — Written on the Publication of Secret Travels in Tibet (in Chinese only)

[This article first appears on China Unofficial Archives. When reposting, please ensure that the following is included at the beginning of the reposted text: “This article was first published by the China Unofficial Archives,” accompanied by a link to the original article on the China Unofficial Archives website or Substack.]

[The views expressed by the author of this article do not necessarily reflect the position of the China Unofficial Archives.]

作者：海闻

By Hai Wen

The English translation follows below.

回望中国近百年来的政治历程，不难发现一个基本事实——一种并非源于中国本土，而是从苏联移植过来的党文化，深刻地影响了当代中国的各个方面。

在中国，党文化不仅是一种政治控制的技术，更是一种对全体国人历史记忆与精神世界的深度规训。如果从1949年算起，这种控制与规训至今已延续了70余年。而党文化在中国完成定型的关键一步，就是1942年的延安整风运动。可以说，创作于1948年的著名反乌托邦小说《1984》中的党国雏形，在延安整风中已经铸就，后来的一切，不过是放大而已。

今日的世界，“去苏维埃化”已成为大趋势之一。很多前苏联国家，尤其乌克兰，一直在为去苏维埃化、回归人类主流文明而苦苦奋斗。在对乌克兰寄于深刻同情的同时，中国人其实也应该反观自身——很大程度上，尤其政治文化上，中国仍然主要是一个苏式国家，苏联体制，尤其是布尔什维克党文化的拖累，一直是中国政治社会转型的重大阻力。

中国的布尔什维克党文化，包含但不限于高度集权、领袖崇拜、驯服工具、路线斗争与残酷打击等要素，形成一个环环相扣的内循环系统。从延安整风起，无论是后来五十年代初的全盘苏化，还是当下所谓的“马克思主义中国化”，万变不离其宗，背后都有党文化的身影。中共党内虽偶有自由主义或民主社会主义的涌动，最终都难以撼动布尔什维克式的政治文化底盘。

接下来，我们将重点依据何方先生的《党史笔记：从遵义会议到延安整风》（以下简称《党史笔记》），及高华先生的《红太阳是怎样升起的：延安整风运动的来龙去脉》（以下简称《红太阳》）这两部党史名著，深入剖析，开始于上个世纪四十年代的延安整风，如何成为影响中国至今的布尔什维克党文化的铸造工场。

1. 布尔什维克党文化与“一把手拍板”

在中共的主流叙事中，毛泽东于1940年代在延安发起的大规模整风运动，常被表述为一场以“反教条主义”和“反宗派主义”为目标的自我净化运动，其基调往往倾向于描绘某种回归——党组织终于挣脱共产国际外来理论的桎梏，重返“实事求是”的本土精神轨道。

但是，通过《党史笔记》和《红太阳》两部著作提供的证据链，我们可以深入勘察，并看到更逼近历史本质的图景：通过延安整风，中共一方面在人事层面清算了王明等所谓的“莫斯科代理人”，同时又将莫斯科的政治逻辑深植于制度之中，为高度集权的一元化体制，以及党文化的锻造，开启了方便之门。

延安整风实际上是一场权力重组，毛泽东对此心知肚明：谁占用了通往莫斯科的解释通道与联络系统，谁便握有定义“正统”的权柄。《红太阳》揭示，毛泽东应对王明的核心策略，便是切断王明与莫斯科的直接联系，形成“除毛之外，任何人不得染指”的封闭体系。自此，共产国际的权威不再构成对毛的外在约束，而转为其独占性的政治资源。

《党史笔记》一书中能看到：延安整风时期，毛在清算王明、博古的第三国际中国路线的同时，也反复公开宣誓对共产国际的忠诚；干部的学习材料里充斥着斯大林与季米特洛夫的圣旨，并以《联共（布）党史简明教程》作为核心读本。王若水曾一针见血：毛批判的只是追随斯大林的王明个人，对斯大林却比王明更忠诚，更加刻意维护斯大林的教主地位，同时宣称要以联共为范例，实现中共自身的“布尔什维克化”。批判锋芒指向“代理人”，但教义“母本”仍被奉为至高圭臬——共产国际的神圣性在体系层面得以完整存续乃至强化。

1942年的延安高干会，更将“布尔什维克化”落实为组织化。《党史笔记》记载，毛在西北局高干会上发表长达两日的长篇报告，题为《斯大林论布尔什维克化十二条》。更早之前，毛已明确提出要建设一个“思想上政治上组织上完全巩固的布尔什维克化的中国共产党”。当“布尔什维克化”被明确为组织建设的目标，整风便从思想讨论转向组织整顿，即转向权力再分配。

延安整风运动的高潮阶段，见证了权力再分配的完成，以及一元化领导即个人集权的落地。《党史笔记》详述，为使毛的领导“更加灵活自如”，1943年5月21日，中央政治局决定成立中央总学习委员会，由毛负总责、康生辅助，自成独立系统，直接统辖各下级分学委。鉴于整风被确立为“压倒一切的中心工作”，并实行“首长负责”制，总学委一度几乎可以号令一切。这已远超单纯的学习管理范畴，而是掌控了组织运行的关键闸门：谁可进入核心圈层，谁被排斥在外；何时暂停日常运转，何时转入正常——这些皆是实现高度集权的关键节点。

《党史笔记》记载，1943年3月20日，政治局会议通过改组书记处的决议，推举毛为政治局及书记处主席，并明文赋予“主席有最后决定之权”。这标志着“一把手拍板”的正式确立。至此，中共的一元化领导体制作为制度成果正式落地。

2. 无声的驯化：党文化的日常生成

如果说经过延安整风，毛成功实现了权力转移，并形成了彻底的个人集权，那么接下来需要追问：这种集权如何渗入日常政治生活的毛细血管？彻底的个人集权不可能仅凭一纸文告便得永固，真正使其成为无声的惯习、内化为个体本能的，乃是一套精巧而持续的精神控制术。

《党史笔记》详细记载了延安整风的一系列制度安排，比如要求党员反复撰写自我反省笔记和思想自传，并通过中央抽阅来挑选典型。这不仅是思想教育，更是一种典型的内殖民：它把个体的内心世界变成了组织可随时检阅的档案，把思想的秘密转化为权力的可控资源。正如高华在《红太阳》中所揭示的，这种做法的最终目的，是在党内塑造一种对领袖个人绝对忠诚、对路线斗争无条件服从的文化氛围。

个人崇拜在此并非简单的偶像化现象，而是通过日常实践进入组织肌理。在延安整风的过程中，对毛个人的神化不再仅仅停留于宣传层面，而是通过一系列“学习—表态—再学习”的循环，把对领袖的崇拜内化为一种组织习惯。正如《党史笔记》所示，整个党组织逐渐从一个多元思潮并存的革命群体，转变为一个对特定权威和官方路线绝对服从的同质化群体。

另外，在行动层面，党开始通过所谓“抢救运动”，展开残酷斗争的哲学，用恐惧实现党员的臣服。《党史笔记》详细描绘了抢救运动如何在延安展开。所谓“抢救失足者”的行动，名义上是为了清除党内的内奸和特务，实际上演变为大规模的逼供和内控。高华在《红太阳》一书中揭示了这一过程的本质：通过不断制造新的敌人来巩固内部的忠诚，通过对嫌疑分子的无端指控来强化对权威的依附。

《党史笔记》记载了大量关于抢救运动中逼供信的细节：许多党员在极端压力下被迫承认自己是特务，并牵连出更多的嫌疑人。这把党内生活推入一种几乎人人自危的状态：人人都可能因无端指控而被推向审查的风口浪尖，人人都必须在公开的批评与自我批评中反复校准自己的语言、态度与记忆。组织通过这种方式不仅清除了所谓异己，更在党员心中深深植入对权力的畏惧，使恐惧成为一种隐形纪律。

可以说，抢救运动不仅是延安整风的一个环节，更是布尔什维克党文化在中国生根发芽的标志性时刻。

3. 党文化的宪章：延安文艺座谈会和《简明教程》

如果说延安整风的组织技术与抢救运动共同塑造了党文化的“权力肌理”，那么《联共（布）党史简明教程》的引入，以及延安文艺座谈会的召开，则为这套党文化打造了更为坚固的宪章。

《红太阳》深刻揭示了《简明教程》在延安时期的影响。这部由斯大林主导编写的党史教程，不仅是对苏联党史的官方诠释，更成为中共重塑自身历史记忆的范本。在整风时期，学习《简明教程》成为全党范围的规定动作，意味着党的历史被重新书写，正确与错误的界限由最高权威加以确立，任何偏离这套历史叙事的声音都被视为异端和潜在的危险。

党文化不再只是政治行动的圭臬，更成为思想与艺术的最高尺度与最大禁忌：它规定什么可以被赞美、被讲述、被传播，也规定什么必须被排斥、被压制、被消失。从世俗领域到宗教领域，党文化如水银泻地，覆盖一切，不留一丝缝隙。

正是在此背景下，延安文艺座谈会成了党文化的又一座里程碑。在座谈会上，毛泽东明确提出文艺必须服务于政治、服务于党的需要，文艺创作不再是独立的精神探索，而是彻底沦为路线斗争和阶级斗争的工具。《党史笔记》对此有生动描述：座谈会不仅确立了文艺的政治从属性，更通过批判所谓的“小资产阶级人道主义”等观念，将文艺领域的多元空间彻底压缩，使得创作者必须在党的意识形态框架内进行自我约束。

在此过程中，《简明教程》和延安文艺座谈会共同构成了党文化的“宪章”：它不仅规范了历史的书写，也规范了文化的想象边界。从此之后，党文化不仅是一种政治实践的规则，更成为思想的牢笼，党文化得以从组织结构扩展到文化结构，从而在更深层次上巩固了其在中国政治文化中的主导地位。

4. 望向将来：党文化何时方能去除？

沿着延安整风的脉络回溯，推敲《党史笔记》与《红太阳》所呈现的种种细节，不能不承认，我们所看到的不仅是一段运动史，更是一种政治文化的生成史：布尔什维克党文化如何在中国的语境中被移植、改造、定型，并最终固化为体制的本能与文化的底色。而要理解当代中国的政治文化，就无法绕过这一源头。

不得不说，直到今天，苏联体制，尤其是布尔什维克党文化的拖累，一直是中国政治社会转型的重大阻力。去苏维埃化、去布尔什维克化，至今仍是中国人不能推卸的时代使命。

在此意义上，今天对党文化，尤其布尔什维克化的反思，既是对历史的追溯，更是对未来的召唤：召唤一种新的政治常识，允许复杂、容忍差异、承认灰度、珍视人的自由与尊严；召唤一种新的公共伦理，不再以持续制造内部敌人来强化同质性，而以正当程序生成制度信任；召唤一种新的文化气质，不再把思想与艺术降格为政治工具，而让它们重新承担人文天职。可以说，唯有去苏维埃化的深层转向真正发生，中国的政治文化才可能获得一次真正意义上的再生。

本期推荐档案：

高华：《红太阳是怎样升起的：延安整风运动的来龙去脉》

何方：《党史笔记：从遵义会议到延安整风》

【本文为中国民间档案馆首发，转载时请务必在正文之前注明“本文首发于中国民间档案馆”，并加上原文在中国民间档案馆网站或者中国民间档案馆Substack的链接。】

【作者观点不代表中国民间档案馆立场。】

The Lasting Legacy of Mao’s Yan’an Rectification: The Creation of a Culture of Control

By Hai Wen

Looking back at China’s political trajectory over the past century, one fundamental fact is inescapable: a Party culture—not indigenous to China but transplanted from Soviet Russia—has profoundly shaped every facet of contemporary Chinese life.

In China, Party culture is more than a technique of political control; it is a profound disciplining of the nation’s historical memory and spiritual landscape. Since 1949, this control and indoctrination have persisted for over seventy years. The decisive step in finalizing this Party culture was the Yan’an Rectification Movement of 1942. One could argue that the prototype of the party-state depicted in the famous 1948 dystopian novel 1984 was already forged in Yan’an; everything that followed has merely been an amplification of that original model.

In the world today, de-Sovietization has become a major global trend. Many former Soviet states, most notably Ukraine, have struggled to de-Sovietize. While the Chinese people may feel deep sympathy for Ukraine, to a large extent—particularly regarding political culture—China remains a Soviet-style state. The dead weight of the Soviet system, and specifically the drag of Bolshevik Party culture, remains a primary obstacle to China’s political and social transformation.

China’s Bolshevik Party culture encompasses, but is not limited to, elements such as extreme centralization, a cult of personality, intra-Party struggles, and ruthless purges. Together, these form a self-reinforcing, closed-loop system. From the Yan’an Rectification onward—whether through the total Sovietization of the early 1950s or the current era’s so-called “Sinicization of Marxism”—the essence has remained unchanged. Though ripples of liberalism or democratic socialism have occasionally emerged within the Chinese Communist Party, they have never managed to shake the Bolshevik foundations of the political culture.

Drawing primarily on two seminal works of Party history—He Fang’s Notes on the History of the Chinese Communist Party: From the Zun’yi Conference to the Yan’an Rectification Movement (hereafter Notes) and Gao Hua’s How the Red Sun Rose: The Origins and Development of the Yan’an Rectification Movement, 1930–1945, (hereafter Red Sun)—we will analyze how the Yan’an Rectification of the 1940s served as the foundry for the Bolshevik Party culture that continues to dominate China today.

1. Bolshevik Party Culture: The Supreme Leader Has the Final Say

In the Chinese Communist Party’s mainstream narrative, the mass Rectification Movement launched by Mao Zedong in the 1940s is often portrayed as a self-purification campaign aimed at what was called “anti-dogmatism” and “anti-sectarianism.” The tone suggests that the Party finally broke free from the shackles of foreign Comintern theory to return to a native path based more on the pragmatic idea of “seeking truth from facts.”

However, the evidence provided by Notes and Red Sun allows us to peer deeper into the historical reality. Through the Yan’an Rectification, the Chinese Communist Party purged people alleged to have been agents of Moscow, such as the Moscow-trained senior party leader Wang Ming, at the personnel level while simultaneously embedding Moscow’s political logic deep within the institutional framework. This paved the way for a highly centralized system and the forging of a permanent Party culture.

The Yan’an Rectification was, in essence, a restructuring of power. Mao understood perfectly that whoever controlled the channels of communication and interpretation with Moscow held the power to define orthodoxy. Red Sun reveals that Mao’s core strategy for dealing with Wang Ming was to sever Wang’s direct link to Moscow, creating a closed system where no one but Mao could access that authority. Consequently, the Comintern’s power ceased to be an external constraint on Mao and instead became his exclusive political capital.

In Notes, we see that while Mao was liquidating the Comintern’s Chinese line (represented by Wang Ming and Bo Gu), he simultaneously and repeatedly pledged his public loyalty to the Comintern. Cadre study materials were saturated with the decrees of Stalin and Dimitrov, with The History of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (Bolsheviks): Short Course serving as the core text. As Wang Ruoshui incisively noted: Mao did not criticize Stalin; he only criticized Wang Ming for following him. Mao was actually more loyal to Stalin than Wang Ming was, more deliberate in upholding Stalin’s status as a secular pope, and more committed to using the Soviet Party as the blueprint for the Chinese Communist Party’s own Bolshevization.

The 1942 Yan’an High-Ranking Cadres’ Conference translated “Bolshevization” into organizational reality. Notes records that Mao delivered a two-day report titled Stalin on the Twelve Conditions for Bolshevization. Even earlier, Mao had explicitly called for a “Bolshevized Chinese Communist Party that is completely consolidated ideologically, politically, and organizationally.” Once Bolshevization became the organizational goal, rectification shifted from intellectual debate to organizational overhaul—which is to say, the redistribution of power.

The climax of the Rectification Movement saw the completion of this power shift and the institutionalization of one-man leadership. Notes explains that to allow Mao’s leadership to be “more flexible and unconstrained,” the Politburo established the Central General Study Committee in May 1943. Led by Mao and assisted by Kang Sheng, this committee operated as an independent system with direct authority over all subordinate committees. Since rectification was deemed the “overriding central task,” the General Study Committee effectively held sway over everything. This went far beyond mere education; it controlled the vital gates of the organization—determining who entered the inner circle, who was purged, and when normal operations would cease or resume.

According to Notes, on March 20, 1943, the Politburo passed a resolution to reorganize the Secretariat, electing Mao as Chairman of both the Politburo and the Secretariat. Critically, the resolution explicitly stated that “the Chairman has the power of final decision.” This established that the supreme leader has the final say and signaled the official implementation of the Chinese Communist Party’s leadership system.

2. Silent Domestication: The Daily Evolution of Party Culture

If the Yan’an Rectification allowed Mao to centralize power, the next question is: how did this centralization seep into the very capillaries of daily political life? Absolute personal rule cannot be sustained by decrees alone; what truly transformed it into a silent habit—an internalized instinct—was a sophisticated and continuous technique of spiritual control.

Notes details a series of institutional mechanisms used during the Rectification, such as requiring members to write repetitive “self-reflection notes” and ideological autobiographies, which were then sampled by the leadership. This was more than education; it was a form of “internal colonization.” It transformed the individual’s inner world into a searchable archive for the organization, turning private thoughts into a resource for power. As Gao Hua illustrates in Red Sun, the ultimate goal was to foster a culture of absolute loyalty to the leader and unconditional submission to the Party line.

Personality cults were not merely a matter of propaganda; they were woven into the organizational fabric. Through a constant cycle of “study—taking a stand—restudy,” the worship of the leader was internalized as an organizational reflex. As Notes demonstrates, the Party evolved from a revolutionary group containing diverse ideas into a homogenized entity defined by absolute obedience to a single authority.

Furthermore, the Party began utilizing the “Rescue Movement” to implement a philosophy of ruthless struggle, using fear to ensure submission. Notes describes how this movement to “rescue those who have gone astray”—nominally intended to purge spies—devolved into mass forced confessions and psychological terror. Gao Hua reveals the essence of this process: internal loyalty is cemented by the constant manufacture of internal enemies, and dependence on authority is reinforced by the threat of baseless accusation.

Notes records numerous instances of forced confessions during the Rescue Movement, where members under extreme pressure admitted to being spies and implicated others. This created a climate of universal suspicion, where anyone could be targeted and everyone had to constantly recalibrate their speech and memory during public criticism and self-criticism. Through this, the organization did more than purge dissidents; it planted a visceral fear of power in the hearts of its members, making fear an invisible form of discipline.

The Rescue Movement was not just a phase of the Rectification; it was the moment Bolshevik Party culture truly took root in China.

3. The Charter of Party Culture: The Yan’an Forum and the Short Course

If organizational techniques and the Rescue Movement shaped the “power structure” of Party culture, then the introduction of the Short Course on Soviet Party history and the Yan’an Forum on Literature and Art provided its “legal charter.”

Red Sun highlights the profound influence of the Short Course. This text, overseen by Stalin, was not just an official history of the Soviet Party; it became the template for the Chinese Communist Party to rewrite its own history. During the Rectification, studying this book became mandatory, ensuring that the Party’s past was reconstructed such that the boundaries of right and wrong were set by the supreme leader. Any deviation was labeled heresy.

Party culture became the ultimate measure—and the ultimate taboo—for thought and art. It dictated what could be praised and what must be suppressed. Like mercury spreading across a floor, it filled every gap of the human experience, from the secular to the spiritual.

In this context, the Yan’an Forum on Literature and Art became another milestone. Mao explicitly stated that art must serve politics and the Party’s needs. Creative work was no longer an independent spiritual pursuit but a tool for struggle. Notes describes how the forum not only established the subordination of art to politics but also, by attacking “petty-bourgeois humanitarianism,” crushed the space for intellectual diversity, forcing creators to operate strictly within the Party’s ideological confines.

Together, the Short Course and the Yan’an Forum formed the “charter” of Party culture, regulating not only how history was written but the very limits of the cultural imagination.

4. Looking Forward: When Will Party Culture Be Eradicated?

Tracing the lineage of the Yan’an Rectification through Notes and Red Sun reveals more than just a history of a political movement; it reveals the birth of a political culture. We see how Bolshevik Party culture was transplanted, adapted, and eventually hardened into the instinct of the state. To understand contemporary China, one must understand this origin.

It must be acknowledged that, even today, the drag of the Soviet system—and specifically Bolshevik Party culture—is the primary obstacle to China’s social and political transformation. de-Sovietization and de-Bolshevization remain the unavoidable missions of our era.

In this sense, reflecting on the “Bolshevization” of China is not just about revisiting history; it is a call for the future. It is a call for a new political common sense that accepts complexity, tolerates difference, and treasures human dignity. It is a call for a new public ethics that builds trust through due process rather than the manufacture of enemies. And it is a call for a new cultural spirit that frees thought and art from their role as political tools. Only when this deep de-Sovietization occurs can China’s political culture achieve a true rebirth.

Recommended archives:

Gao Hua: How the Red Sun Rose: The Origins and Development of the Yan’an Rectification Movement, 1930–1945

He Fang: Notes on the History of the Chinese Communist Party: From the Zun’yi Conference to the Yan’an Rectification Movement (Revised Edition)

[This article first appears on China Unofficial Archives. When reposting, please ensure that the following is included at the beginning of the reposted text: “This article was first published by the China Unofficial Archives,” accompanied by a link to the original article on the China Unofficial Archives website or Substack.]

[The views expressed by the author of this article do not necessarily reflect the position of the China Unofficial Archives.]

作者：张彦

By Ian Johnson

The English version of this newsletter follows the Chinese version below.

亲爱的读者们：

随着2025年接近尾声，中国民间档案馆团队特此感谢您在过去一年对我们的关注与支持。

在本期简报中，我将简要回顾我们在2025年的工作，并介绍我们网站的最新改版与功能更新。

回顾2025

2025年3月，我们在Substack上推出了您现在正在阅读的每周简报。每一期简报旨在推介馆藏的一本书、一部电影、一份期刊或一篇文章。我们的目标，是向读者阐明民间档案馆网站上的材料不仅具有历史意义，对于我们理解当下的中国也必不可缺。

因为有您这样的读者，我们的简报获得了不错的阅读量——在短短九个月内，我们在Substack上拥有了4800名关注者和订阅者，以及10.6万次浏览。如果您享受阅读这份简报，也请考虑将其推荐给身边的朋友，以便我们能接触到更多读者。

至今已发布的近50期简报，涵盖了理解中国历史和当代社会的关键主题：从对毛泽东时代政治运动的记述，到关于香港社会运动的分析；从中国长期存在的农村问题，到当下对女性主义表达的压制；从1980年代的自由思潮，到近年来当代行动者的故事，包括刘晓波、许志永、彭立发和张展。一些创作者，如著名作家和纪录片导演艾晓明教授，也为我们的简报贡献了原创研究和独家一手记述。

我们这份双语简报的大多数读者是中文使用者，我们的网站也主要以中文阅读为主，中文版网页占有80%的访问量。来自中文世界的这种关注和支持令我们备受鼓舞，因为我们希望，这些简报可以接触到想要了解真实中国历史的中国人和海外华人。

在过去的2025年，我们也显著扩大了馆藏。我们现在收藏了近600本书籍和700期已被禁的期刊。我们还在网站上重点推介了一百多部中国纪录片，每部影片附有详细说明和观看链接。以上所有内容现在都可以在我们的网站上搜索使用。

中国民间档案馆网站最新升级

2025年12月16日，我们正式对网站进行了第二次升级，增加了新的研究工具并优化了使用界面。

当我们于2023年12月13日首次上线时，我们的网站依靠GitHub开发的软件运行，因为我们主要根据主题、作者、格式和时代归类馆藏，用户可依照上述四个类别进行相应检索和阅读。

在2025年3月的第一次升级中，我们的网站迁移到了名为Omeka S的平台——一个由从事展览、档案和文化遗产的机构使用的开源平台，这次升级使我们能够在网站上发布简报，为我们的档案添加了地图功能，包含创作者数据库，甚至举办在线展览。

在此次最新的升级中，我们改进了搜索功能。过去，搜索仅涵盖我们对馆藏的描述。现在，搜索可以连接到书籍、期刊或文章中的所有文本。因此，现在当你搜索一个词条时，所有结果会显示该词条在正文中出现的位置，读者不仅可以通过我们的简介了解该馆藏，还可以直接进入到某特定词条的使用语境。

作为网站界面优化的一部分，网页上的图像经过了遮罩和颜色编码处理：

• 紫色代表关于网站的功能：图片库、订阅按钮和探索按钮；

• 黄色代表简报；

• 红色代表电影和视频；

• 蓝色代表期刊；

• 青色代表书籍；

• 绿色代表文章。

当用户将光标悬停在物品上（或用手指点击手机或平板电脑时），颜色遮罩会消失，显示出作品的全彩原貌。

这些新的设计迫使我们暂停了一些网站功能。在接下来的几个月里，我们将恢复地图功能、在线展览以及网站上专门的简报页面。

展望2026

2026年，我们计划与当地组织者合作，在德国柏林和美国华盛顿特区共同举办电影节。更多详情将在未来几个月公布。

我们还计划出版中国民间档案馆专题新书。2024年，我们整理出版了向承鉴的回忆录，并向世界各地的图书馆捐赠了副本。读者可以在2026年看到类似的历史记录出版与读者见面。

我们将在网站上增加更多部纪录片的介绍，其中许多将附带观看链接。

我们将继续在档案馆中添加新的书籍、期刊、文章、视频收藏，举办在线展览。这份每周简报也将持续下去，继续在新的一年跟您见面。

如果您有任何建议或意见，请发电子邮件至 info@minjian-danganguan.org 与我们联系。

再次感谢您的支持。

敬祝，

新年快乐

更上层楼

此致，

张彦 (Ian Johnson)

中国民间档案馆创办人兼总编辑

A New Look and New Features for 2026

By Ian Johnson

Dear Readers:

As 2025 draws to a close, the China Unofficial Archives team would like to thank you for your time, attention, and support during this busy year.

In this newsletter, I will provide a recap of our work in 2025 and highlight a major new update to our website.

2025 Recap

In March, we launched the weekly newsletter on Substack that you are reading now. In each issue, we aim to feature a book, film, journal, or article from our archive. Our goal is to demonstrate that the materials on our site are not just historical but also highly relevant to our understanding of China today.

Thanks to readers like you, we have enjoyed great readership—4,800 followers and subscribers on Substack and 106,000 views, all in just nine months. If you enjoy this newsletter, please consider recommending it to a few friends so we can reach even more readers.

In nearly 50 newsletters so far, the contributors to our newsletter have covered a wide range of topics: from accounts of Mao’s political campaigns to social movements in Hong Kong, from China’s longstanding rural issues to the suppression of feminist expression, from the intellectual revival in the 1980s to the stories of modern activists including Liu Xiaobo, Xu Zhiyong, Peng Lifa, and Zhang Zhan. Some authors, such as the prominent writer and filmmaker Prof. Ai Xiaoming, also contributed original research and exclusive firsthand accounts to our newsletter.

Most readers of our bilingual newsletter are Chinese speakers, and many email subscriptions are from Chinese email servers such as QQ and 163. Our site is mainly read in Chinese, with 80 percent of visits on the Chinese webpages. Such attention and support from the Chinese-speaking world hearten us because, if we ever have a target audience, then it would be people inside China or those in the diaspora hoping for a reliable source of materials about their country’s history.

In 2025, we have also expanded our holdings significantly. We now host nearly 600 books and 700 issues of now-banned journals. We are highlighting over a hundred Chinese documentary films on our site with detailed descriptions and external viewing links. All of these contents are now readily searchable on our website.

Our Latest Upgrade

On December 16, 2025, we officially upgraded our website for a second time, adding new research tools and a more visually compelling interface.

When we first launched on December 13, 2023, our site was run on software developed on GitHub. Users could sort the books, films, and journals in the archive by theme, author, format, and era because we tagged each item based on those four categories.

In our first upgrade in March 2025, our archive moved to a software platform known as Omeka S, which is an open-source platform used by institutions involved in exhibitions, archives, and cultural heritage. Omeka S allowed us to launch this newsletter on our website, add a mapping function for our archives, include a database of creators, and even host online exhibitions.

In our latest upgrade, we improved our search function. In the past, searches only encompassed our descriptions of the archival items. Now it includes all the text in the book, journal, or article (as long as the text is optimized for OCR, which most of our archival items are). So now, when you search for a term, you get a snippet below the item showing where the term shows up in the text. This allows you to find things more quickly and figure out if the item is what you need.

For example, go to the “Works” page, which shows the full archive. At the top of the page is the search bar. If you click on “more filters” you get all the tags and all the filters alphabetized. That makes it easy to search for a term like “Cultural Revolution” or “White Paper Movement” because now they are alphabetized—in Chinese, they are alphabetized based on the pinyin romanization system.

As an example, type in the Chinese word for the city of Tianjin. For those who can’t type Chinese, cut and paste these two characters “天津” into the search box and hit enter. You will get five hits with a snippet beneath each one. This allows you to evaluate if the hit is useful, without having to open the item.

As part of the upgrade to the aesthetics of the site, images are shaded and color-coded:

• Purple represents features about the site: the picture gallery, the Subscribe button, and the Explore button;

• Yellow represents the newsletter;

• Red represents films and videos;

• Blue represents journals;

• Turquoise represents books;

• Green represents articles.

You will also notice that when you hover the cursor (or put your finger on your phone or tablet) on the item, the color screen goes away and the full-color representation of the work is revealed.

The new design and functionalities forced us to temporarily take down a few things. In the next few months, we will restore the mapping functions, the online exhibitions, and a separate page on the site for the newsletter.

Plans for 2026

In 2026, we plan to partner with local organizers and co-host film festivals in Berlin and Washington, DC. More on that in the coming months.

We also plan to publish a new book. In 2024, we published the memoirs of Xiang Chengjian as a physical book, donating copies to research libraries around the world. Readers can expect a similar volume later this year.

We will be adding many more descriptions of Chinese documentary films to our website, many with external links for viewing.

We will keep adding new books, journals, articles, video collections, and even online exhibitions to the archive. This newsletter will also continue.

If you have suggestions or comments, please contact us at info@minjian-danganguan.org.

Thanks again for all your support.

Sincerely,

Ian Johnson

Founder and editor-in-chief

作者：李维

By Li Wei

The English translation follows below.

时间是记忆最大的敌人。香港2019年的社会运动，转眼已过去六年，许多当时一手的媒体直播早已散失，多家独立媒体近年来都迫于政治压力而关闭，社交媒体上两极分化的碎片化叙事，更是有意无意地重构了公众的认知。

六年前的11月中旬，香港多所高校的校园成为战场，警民冲突在香港理工大学内部及周边尤为激烈，警方包围校园近两周，大量示威者被捕。如今，理大冲突的火光已熄，无论是亲历者还是旁观者，还有多少人清晰地记忆着当时的场景？

作为一个近距离观察2019年香港社会运动的大陆人，我感受到了这种认知的断裂之深：许多认同民主自由价值观的朋友，依然难以理解当时“勇武派”抗争者为何要选择激进的“以武制暴”。即便查阅第三方资料，如维基百科的“香港理工大学冲突”、“香港中文大学冲突”、“香港黎明行动”、“破晓行动”、“晨曦行动”、“曙光行动”等词条，我们读到的也多是关于暴力冲突的描述。这种困惑在面对2019年11月香港高校校园内的火光时，往往会变成一种本能的排斥与不屑。

正是在这样记忆的迷雾中，纪录片《理大围城》为人们提供了宝贵的一手资料。这部影片不加渲染，拒绝宏大叙事，记录了运动中的个体和细节，将观众带回香港理工大学的红墙内，一同经历那个特殊的历史时刻。要看懂《理大围城》中年轻抗争者的处境，必须先理解2019年香港社会运动的宏观背景。

这场运动始于2019年6月，最初是为了反对香港政府修订《逃犯条例》，该条例允许将嫌疑人引渡至中国大陆受审。尽管有上百万人参与和平游行，政府初期的强硬态度和警方的武力驱散，导致部分示威者认为和平手段已无法奏效。

于是，运动中逐渐分化出一支被称为“勇武派”的力量，他们主张用更为激进的手段，包括破坏公共设施和与警方正面对抗，来迫使政府回应民间提出的“五大诉求”，其中包括撤回修例和落实真普选。到了2019年下半年，向来推崇“和平、理性、非暴力”（“和理非”）的香港民主派与“勇武派”形成了独特的互助关系，被称为“和勇不分”，即和平示威者在道义和后勤上支持前线“勇武”抗争者，而“勇武”抗争者则试图通过“以武制暴”来确保运动不因警暴而收场。

2019年11月的校园冲突，正是这种对抗升级的顶点。当月发生的港科大学生周梓乐坠落身亡事件，成为局势恶化的直接导火索。“勇武派”以此为由，号召在11月11日发动“黎明行动”，意图在天亮前通过瘫痪交通来强制实现全港“三罢”——罢工、罢课、罢市。

抗议者选择占领大学校园，基于战略考量：香港中文大学毗邻连接新界与深圳的交通大动脉——吐露港公路和东铁线；而香港理工大学则紧邻连接九龙与港岛的核心通道之一——红磡海底隧道。抗议者试图通过控制校园，向这些交通干道投掷杂物，从而威胁香港的经济命脉以向政府施压。

面对抗争者的行动，香港警方打破了常规。大学校园在法律和传统上通常被视为警方的禁区，除非接获报案或取得搜查令，否则警方不得擅自进入。然而，抗争者对校园的占领和对交通的阻塞成为了警方强力介入的理由。

11月12日晚，中大“二号桥”发生了标志性的激烈冲突，警方发射了逾2000发催泪弹和橡胶子弹，抗议者则主要以汽油弹回击。当警察在夜间撤离后，一些抗议者误判这是一场战术胜利，随即信心满满地转战香港理工大学。不料，香港警方将理大校园包围，校园内的抗争者进退两难，直到11月28日警方才解除封锁。

《理大围城》没有试图铺陈上述复杂的历史背景，而是将叙事焦点精确地锁定在危机最尖锐的时刻：从2019年11月17日警方彻底包围校园，将抗议者困成“瓮中之鳖”，到次日晚多名中学校长进入校园试图带离学生的最初两天。

影片由“香港纪录片工作者”匿名制作，绝大部分镜头中抗议者的面部被打上马赛克（为了确保被捕人士不被警方“消失”，有抗议者被捕的镜头中，被捕者的面部在影片中清晰显现），这种去个人化的处理反而强调了这是一种群体的共同命运。影片不进行道德审判，不提供全知视角，只是带领观众进入那个封闭、压抑且充满恐惧与绝望的红砖围墙之内。

包围之初，年轻的抗争者们颇有兴致，与校外的警察喊话，还用扩音器放着辱骂警察的说唱。而警察也用喇叭向校内的抗争者劝降，还放出《十面埋伏》等歌曲。但这和香港2019年的其他警民冲突一样，根本不是一场对等的冲突。警察有着充足的支援，拿着高额的加班费，有着装甲车、水炮车、“声炮”、催泪弹、橡皮子弹以及真枪实弹。而抗争者的攻击性武器主要是汽油弹（在《理大围城》中也出现了弓箭），而其它装备主要是防卫性的雨伞和放毒面罩。

很快，抗争者们意识到了自己的困境：冲出重围意味着直接遭到逮捕和暴力对待；尝试跳下天桥或钻下水道逃生则面临伤亡的风险；选择投降登记则意味着日后法律的追责和长期的牢狱之灾；而留守校园则要忍受精神崩溃和弹尽粮绝的折磨，寄希望于渺茫的“围魏救赵”，即校园外的抗争者试图从外围冲破警察的封锁。

到了理大围城的第二晚，有许多中学的校长被警方允许进入校园，带领抗议的学生走出校园。警方允许抗议者当晚回家，但必须与警方登记。虽然有抗议者反对校长的介入，但是许多学生默默地选择和校长们离开。

最令人难忘的场景，要属影片最后两个少年在台阶上犹豫不决的样子。他们看着下方已经撤离“投降”的学生，又时不时地回头看留守的战友，不知道自己究竟应该做出什么选择。个体面临的进退维谷的处境，也是所有香港人在2019年需要做出的抉择。

《理大围城》没有解答——也没有试图解答——许多人对“勇武”的疑惑：为什么“勇武派”造成破坏，民主派却选择“和勇不分”？为什么“勇武派”失策被围攻，但许多香港民众依然同情年轻的抗争者，而压倒性的民意，使民主派在2019年11月24日的香港区议会选举中横扫全港十八区的大多数席位？

这些问题的答案，以及香港2019年社会运动的历史意义，恐怕需要更长的历史维度才能显现。制作《理大围城》的“香港纪录片工作者”记录了可能被噤声的视角，抢救了容易被忘却的记忆，为帮助后人理解香港的历史尽到了一份责任。

与《理大围城》相对的，是中国官方针对香港民主运动的一系列话术与叙事。早在2016年，新华社发布新闻报道禁用词中就特别加入了对于香港抗争运动的“规范”称呼：

对港澳反对派自我褒扬的用语和提法要谨慎引用。如不使用“雨伞运动”的说法，应称为“非法‘占中’”或“违法‘占中’”；不称“占中三子”，应称为“非法‘占中’发起人”，开展舆论斗争时可视情称为“占中三丑”；不称天主教香港教区退休主教陈日君等为“荣休主教”，应称为“前主教”。

而2019年，反修例运动在一开始就被官方定性为“暴动”，致使运动过程中的五大诉求之一就是要求港府撤回“暴动”认定。对于反修例运动中的参与群体，中国新闻中的常用指代语包括“暴徒”、“恐怖分子”、“乱港分子”。

因为中国大陆的信息封锁和无孔不入的新闻审查，不难想象，大部分中国公众对这场运动的认知跟上述官方叙事出入不会很大。而在当下，因为2020年国安法的实行，中央对香港言论的全面镇压，在香港曾经存在过的与官方话语相异的叙事和记录，已经很难进入中文公众视野。

可见，官方深谙孔子“必也正名乎”的统治理论，所谓“名不正，则言不顺也”。权力自史以来就对语言充满警惕，因为独立的叙事具有对正统的破坏力量。

随着官方的“禁用词”和定性，针对香港社会运动的记忆改造工程早已开启。如果持续下去，多年后的大陆和香港公众，也会逐渐因此而丧失对整场运动的理解的可能性，可能进而演化为漠不关心。

在这样的语境下，我们需要看到2019年在运动现场、在事件发生的中心，“香港纪录片工作者”在《理大围城》等纪录片中记录下不同个体、侧面、瞬间的价值。这些记录并不是试图定义整场运动的正义性、历史意义和结论，但会保存下被官方话语覆盖、屏蔽、湮没的事实，让独立的记忆成为真正的可能。

本期推荐档案：

纪录片《理大围城》

【本文为中国民间档案馆首发，转载时请务必在正文之前注明“本文首发于中国民间档案馆”，并加上原文在中国民间档案馆网站或者中国民间档案馆Substack的链接。】

【作者观点不代表中国民间档案馆立场。】

Inside the Red Brick Wall: The Flames of Protest Are Extinguished, But the Camera Remembers

By Li Wei

Time is memory’s greatest enemy. Six years have passed since the 2019 Hong Kong social movement. A lot of the original, raw coverage has been lost to history, several independent news outlets have been forced to close in recent years due to political pressure, and the polarized, fragmented narratives shared on social media have reshaped public understanding of the movement.

In mid-November six years ago, multiple university campuses in Hong Kong became battlefields. The conflict between police and protesters was especially fierce inside and around the Hong Kong Polytechnic University (PolyU). The police maintained a siege of the campus for nearly two weeks, arresting many demonstrators. The fires of the PolyU clash have long since died down, but how many people—participants or onlookers—still retain a clear memory of those events?

As a mainland Chinese person who observed the 2019 Hong Kong social movement up close, I sensed this gap in understanding. Many of my friends from mainland China who identify with democratic and liberal values still struggled to comprehend why the radical faction, known as the “Valiants,” chose aggressive tactics, such as using force to counter police brutality. Even when consulting third-party references, such as the Wikipedia entries for the conflicts, we mostly encounter descriptions focused on violent confrontation. When facing the images of fire on Hong Kong university grounds in November 2019, this confusion often morphed into an instinctive rejection and contempt.

It is within this mist of manufactured memory that the documentary Inside the Red Brick Wall offers crucial first-hand evidence. The film avoids melodrama and rejects sweeping narratives, instead documenting the individuals and intimate details of the movement. It transports the audience back inside PolyU’s distinctive red walls to collectively experience that singular historical moment. To fully grasp the predicament of the young protesters depicted in Inside the Red Brick Wall, one must first understand the broader context of the 2019 Hong Kong social movement.

The movement began in June 2019, initially in opposition to the Hong Kong government’s proposed amendments to the Fugitive Offenders Ordinance, which would have allowed suspects to be extradited to mainland China for trial. Despite over a million people participating in peaceful marches, the government’s initial uncompromising stance and the police’s forceful dispersal methods led some demonstrators to conclude that non-violent means were ineffective.

Consequently, a force known as the Valiants gradually emerged within the movement, advocating for more radical measures. These included the destruction of public property and direct confrontation with the police, intended to pressure the government into meeting the “Five Demands,” which featured the formal withdrawal of the bill and the implementation of genuine universal suffrage.

By the latter half of 2019, Hong Kong’s democratic camp—traditionally committed to its style of “Peaceful, Rational, Non-Violent”—adopted a unique, mutually supportive relationship with the Valiants, a concept known as “Do Not Split.” Peaceful demonstrators offered moral and logistical backing to the frontline Valiants, who, in turn, sought to ensure the movement would not be crushed by police brutality.

The campus conflicts in November 2019 represented the peak of this escalating opposition. The death of college student Chow Tsz-lok from a fall that month served as the immediate spark that worsened the crisis. Citing this event, the Valiants called for the “Dawn Action” on November 11, aiming to paralyze traffic before daybreak and force a city-wide suspension of work, school, and business.

Protesters strategically chose to occupy university campuses. The Chinese University of Hong Kong (CUHK) is situated next to the Tolo Harbour Highway and the East Rail Line, both key transport arteries connecting the New Territories to Shenzhen; similarly, PolyU is adjacent to the Cross-Harbour Tunnel, a vital link between Kowloon and Hong Kong Island. By controlling the campuses, protesters sought to throw objects onto these thoroughfares, threatening Hong Kong’s economic lifelines to pressure the government.

In response to the protesters’ actions, the Hong Kong Police Force disregarded established protocol. University campuses are conventionally and legally viewed as off-limits to police, who typically cannot enter without a formal report or a search warrant. However, the protesters’ occupation of the campuses and the resulting traffic obstruction were cited as justification for a forceful police intervention.

On the night of November 12, a significant and intense clash occurred at CUHK’s No. 2 Bridge. Police launched over 2,000 rounds of tear gas and rubber bullets, while protesters’ primary defense was Molotov cocktails. When the police retreated that night, some protesters misjudged it as a tactical success and, full of confidence, shifted their efforts to PolyU. Unexpectedly, the police surrounded the PolyU campus, leaving the protesters inside trapped until the blockade was finally lifted on November 28.

Inside the Red Brick Wall avoids detailing this complex historical context, focusing its narrative precisely on the most critical phase: the period beginning on November 17, 2019, when the police entirely sealed off the campus and trapped the protesters, up to the following evening, when several secondary school principals were permitted to enter and attempt to lead their students out.

The film was created anonymously by the “Hong Kong Documentary Filmmakers.” In most scenes, the faces of the protesters are blurred with a mosaic (though the faces of arrested individuals are clearly visible to prevent their “disappearance” by police). This deliberate de-personalization ironically highlights their shared, collective destiny. The film refrains from moralizing or offering an all-knowing perspective, instead guiding the audience into the confined, oppressive space within the red brick walls, filled with fear and despair.

At the start of the siege, the young protesters were quite spirited, yelling at the police outside and using megaphones to play aggressive rap music. The police, in turn, used loudspeakers to urge the protesters to surrender, even playing music like Ambush from Ten Sides. However, similar to other police-protester conflicts in Hong Kong in 2019, this was fundamentally an unequal clash.

The police had unlimited reinforcements, earned high overtime pay, and were equipped with armored vehicles, water cannons, acoustic devices, tear gas, rubber bullets, and live ammunition. The protesters’ main offensive tools were Molotov cocktails (though bows and arrows also appear in Inside the Red Brick Wall), while their other gear was largely defensive, consisting of umbrellas and gas masks.

The protesters soon recognized the gravity of their situation: breaking out meant immediate arrest and violent handling; attempting to escape by jumping from bridges or using storm drains carried severe risks of injury or death; choosing to surrender and register meant future legal prosecution and long prison terms; and remaining on campus involved enduring mental exhaustion and dwindling supplies, clinging to the faint hope that protesters from outside the campus would attempt to break the police cordon.

By the second night of the PolyU siege, the police allowed numerous secondary school principals to enter the campus and escort their protesting students out. The police permitted the protesters to go home that night, provided they registered their identities. Though some protesters objected to the principals’ intervention, many students quietly chose to leave with them.

The most poignant moment in the film is arguably its final scene, showing two young men hesitating on a staircase. They look down at the students who have already retreated and left, then occasionally glance back at their comrades still holding out, agonizing over what choice to make. This individual dilemma of being caught between impossible choices mirrored the decision facing all people in Hong Kong in 2019.

Inside the Red Brick Wall does not attempt to resolve many people’s questions about the Valiants: Why did the democratic camp support “Do Not Split” despite the Valiants’ causing damage? Why, even after the “Valiants’” tactical failure at PolyU, did many Hong Kong residents still sympathize with the young protesters? And how did this overwhelming public sentiment lead the democratic camp to sweep the vast majority of seats across all eighteen districts in the Hong Kong District Council elections on November 24, 2019?

The answers to these questions, and the ultimate historical meaning of the 2019 Hong Kong social movement, will likely only emerge over a longer historical timeline. By documenting perspectives that could be suppressed and rescuing memories prone to fading, the “Hong Kong Documentary Filmmakers” who produced Inside the Red Brick Wall fulfilled a vital duty in helping future generations understand Hong Kong’s history.

This is especially important given the way the Chinese authorities construct official narratives and rhetoric about Hong Kong. As far back as 2016, a list of forbidden terms for news reports published by Xinhua News Agency specifically included standardized labels for the Hong Kong protest movement:

Be careful when citing language used by the Hong Kong and Macao opposition to praise themselves. For instance, do not use the term “Umbrella Movement”; it should be called “illegal ‘Occupy Central’” or “unlawful ‘Occupy Central’”; do not refer to the “Occupy Central Trio,” but instead call them the “initiators of illegal ‘Occupy Central,’” and when engaging in public opinion battles, they may, if appropriate, be referred to as the “three disgraces of Occupy Central.” Furthermore, do not call retired figures like Cardinal Joseph Zen “Bishop Emeritus,” but rather “former bishop.”

By 2019, the anti-extradition bill movement was immediately officially designated a “riot,” which is why one of the Five Demands was for the Hong Kong government to retract this classification. Common official terms used in Chinese news to refer to participants in the anti-extradition bill movement include “thugs,” “terrorists,” and “elements sowing chaos in Hong Kong.”

Given the information blockade and pervasive news censorship in mainland China, it is reasonable to assume that many among the Chinese public’s perception of the movement adheres closely to the official narrative. Moreover, with the implementation of the National Security Law in 2020 and the central government’s total suppression of speech in Hong Kong, alternative narratives and records that once existed in the city are now highly unlikely to reach the Chinese public sphere.

Evidently, the governing authorities understand Confucius’s theory of governance: “If names are not correct, language is not in accordance with the truth of things.” Since ancient times, power has been wary of language because independent narratives possess a potent power to undermine orthodoxy.

With the government’s list of forbidden words and official designations, the project to engineer the memory of the Hong Kong social movement is already in motion. If this continues, years from now, the public in both the Mainland and Hong Kong may gradually lose the capacity to understand the entire movement, potentially leading to widespread indifference.

In this context, we must recognize the immense value of the different individual perspectives, facets, and moments documented by the “Hong Kong Documentary Filmmakers” in Inside the Red Brick Wall and similar works, recorded on-site, at the heart of the events in 2019. These records do not attempt to definitively judge the movement’s righteousness, historical significance, or conclusion. Instead, they preserve the facts that are being obscured, shielded, and erased by official discourse, thereby making independent memory truly possible.

Recommended archive:

Inside the Red Brick Wall

[This article first appeared in China Unofficial Archives. When reposting, please ensure that the following is included at the beginning of the reposted text: “This article was first published by the China Unofficial Archives,” accompanied by a link to the original article on the China Unofficial Archives website or Substack.]

[The views expressed by the author of this article do not necessarily reflect the position of the China Unofficial Archives.]