LI Qiaochu 李翹楚 2020年9月26日
A Note at the Beginning: As we set out to document our personal histories through words and images, when the year 2020 is recalled in the future, my story will be one of vulnerability and struggle. It will be a tale of holding on to love through separation, of the solidarity and mutual aid within our community, and of the sordid faces of those who do harm… They may try to silence us, to suppress what we say, but what we’ve lived through, what we’ve remembered, remains beyond their control. When the time comes to fight again, let us not forget to keep a smile on our lips and a song of freedom in our hearts.
June 19, 2020, was the day I was released on bail awaiting trial, and also the day Xu Zhiyong was officially arrested and transferred to Linshu County Detention Center on charges of “inciting to subvert state power.” As the national security vehicle carrying me approached the spot where my parents were waiting to pick me up, just a few hundred meters away, they removed the cloth from over my head. Four months later, when my parents saw me again, they found me trembling uncontrollably as I got out of the car. My mother held me and cried for a long time.
From the “small prison” back to the “big prison,” the one person I cared most about had not regained his “freedom.” On that day, I was deeply saddened that I could walk out, but he was being sent off to Shandong. Ahead of me lay a lonely and dark path, and I stood at the crossroads, all alone.
Today marks 100 days since June 19th. Protest and public expression are a process of self-empowerment. What has kept me going is my understanding of the concept of “citizenship,” my feelings for my partner, the support of friends around me, and the question I ask myself every time I overcome fear: “Can I move forward just a little more?” Though my steps may be shaky and ungraceful, I firmly believe that one day, things will turn around.
Handcuffed, Crossing Into the New Year
Question: “Has there been any change in yourself in 2020?” Answer: “I’ve become a little braver.”
In the summer of 2019, I was on the subway when Xu Zhiyong got into a dispute with a security officer over an ID check. I stood at a distance, nervously thinking to myself, “Please don’t let them take us to the police station.” At that time, I was the kind of person who would shrink away in a crisis. I never could have imagined how different my life would be just half a year later.
Back then, I had just been diagnosed with depression and had started medication and counseling. Most of my spare time outside of work was spent with Zhiyong, following the ongoing public events and trying to make a difference in whatever small ways we could. I remember the details vividly:
- June 28: Li Wenzu, after four years of searching for her husband, visited Wang Quanzhang in prison for the first time.
- July 4: Zhang Baocheng, who had been detained for over a month, was formally arrested — his sixth time in prison.
- July 23: Lawyer Wu Lei’s license was revoked; he was the quiet figure who exited as the curtain rose on a new stage.
- July 24: Three public welfare workers from Changsha were arrested, and I helped translate breaking news in the volunteer group.
- July 29: Huang Qi was sentenced to 12 years in prison, where he would remain a voice for freedom and conscience.
- August 12: Zhang Jialong was taken from his home and formally arrested a month later.
- September 19: Chen Yunfei was detained for expressing concern over Hong Kong.
- October 17: Xueqin was detained by the Guangzhou police, later placed under residential surveillance.
- October 31: Qin Yongpei was arrested in Nanning.
- December 17: Xiangzi was taken away and administratively detained.
During that period, I learned how to use WordPress and GitHub. Zhiyong and I compiled his more than 200 articles and the major events of the civil rights movement, creating the “Beautiful China” website: https://cmcn.blog/. He joked, half-seriously, “If I ever get arrested, let people get to know me through this site.”
I can’t recall the exact date Zhiyong left home, but I remember it was after the first snow in Beijing. He kissed me goodbye as usual and went out. A while later, he sent me a message saying he’d managed to shake off the tailing state security and got on the subway. I asked him how long it would take before he could return, and he reassured me he would be back before my 29th birthday.
On December 27, I suddenly saw news online about the arrest of lawyer Ding Jiaxi and three other citizens. My heart tightened. Soon after, I received a message from Zhiyong: “Honey, I may have to lie low for a while. If something happens to me, go find my sister and sign the lawyer’s power of attorney. Take care of yourself. I love you.” I was stunned, not knowing how to respond or what was happening. Slowly, I typed a few words: “Stay safe, I’ll always be here.” After that, we lost contact.
For the next few days, I spent hours scrolling through Twitter and Facebook, trying to understand what was happening. The only indication I had that Zhiyong was safe came from his social media updates. I couldn’t sleep all night, crying as I stared at my phone, feeling helpless and uncertain about what I could do or who I could turn to.
December 30, 2019, I finally received an email from Zhiyong. He said he was still safe and sent me the completed “Beautiful China” anthology, asking me to upload it to the website. I went to a quiet café and began entering his articles on the site, tears flowing uncontrollably. Later that afternoon, while browsing the news, I was shocked and saddened to read that Pastor Wang Yi had been sentenced to 9 years in prison. It felt like a dark cloud had suddenly swept over me, completely engulfing me. After that, I wrote Zhiyong in an email: “If it comes to the point of a verdict, can we apply to get married? I can’t bear the thought of not being able to see you for such a long time.” He replied, “I also really want to marry you, but we must prepare ourselves for the fact that the application process may be very difficult.” Reading his response, I burst into tears, then smiled through the tears. In that moment, I felt that was enough.
December 31, 2019, in the morning, the state security began raiding homes and summoning people. I experienced firsthand how vast the gap is between the law and reality. “Disturbing the peace” can be stretched to mean “guilt by association.” I was locked up in a case-handling center, officially listed as a “Jane Doe.” There were even instances where state security, during interrogations, mentioned my name, as if they had a list of things they planned to search for in my house. One of them mocked, saying: “You’re someone who studied economics management. How would you understand these things? It’s clear you learned it from Xu Zhiyong. Even if we didn’t have the proper papers, what could you do about it if we just wanted to question you?”
From January 1, 2020, my life turned into a daily routine of being followed and watched. In the first few days, I recorded my feelings of despair and helplessness on my phone: “Today, the national security agent following me is a huge guy, he looks so fierce,””How dare they follow me so openly? They don’t even feel guilty,” “I can’t let myself get used to this life. This is not what a normal country or a normal citizen should have to endure.”
On January 9, after discussing it with Zhiyong via email, I finally gathered the courage to publicly disclose the details of my summons and the reasons behind it, in a post titled “Handcuffed, Crossing Into the New Year.” I felt the need to step into the light, to use the truth to fight against the oppression and harassment.
Fighting With You, I Am Happy
Love is a daring adventure that insists on holding on, a belief in true democracy and freedom. It’s about loving this land, acting in the face of the impossible, standing against the powers that be. Thank you, for always keeping your head held high.
In early January, the state security tracked me down through the project team at the Sociology Department of Tsinghua University, and soon after, I lost my job. From then on, my daily routine became: checking emails, writing emails, updating the website with articles, supporting the four citizens under residential surveillance, and publicly sharing the oppression and surveillance that were ever-present in my life.
Through emails, Zhiyong and I exchanged thoughts on the unfolding public events, how to support the detained citizens, and expressed our longing for one another, sharing the status of our lives. He would always ask about my emotional well-being and the status of my therapy. His comfort, optimism, and calmness helped me hold onto a sense of inner peace, even in such a cramped, tense environment. I think that gentleness is like a nerve—once severed, it can’t be sewn back together. Despite the pain and violence he endured, Zhiyong survived—and kept his gentleness intact. It’s a rare feat. With his encouragement, I gradually overcame my fear of being followed. Eventually, I began taking pictures of the cars tracking me and even learned some specific skills—like identifying if I was being followed and how to shake off the agents trailing me.
On January 23rd, the COVID-19 pandemic erupted, and Wuhan was locked down overnight. In the grand narrative of a “great nation,” the people seemed so “insignificant.” Behind the cold numbers of death were individual stories of families torn apart: a woman in Hanyang, Wuhan, used a basin on her balcony to “bang a gong to save her mother,” crying out for a hospital bed for her critically ill mother; a 70-year-old dialysis patient, suspected of having contracted COVID-19, was unable to receive treatment at the hospital and couldn’t wait for a community-arranged nucleic acid test, ultimately jumping to his death… From that day on, I also became a volunteer, providing online assistance to the families of COVID-19 patients in Wuhan. During this period, Xu Zhiyong’s writings also related to the pandemic. Since he had limited access to the internet while in hiding, I would, in between my volunteer work, gather and send him the relevant news of the day.
Every day, I worried about whether he was managing basic survival during his time in hiding. Exile in one’s own homeland is never as “romantic” as it may seem on paper. I am so grateful for friends like lawyer Yang Bin and others, whose help allowed him to maintain some dignity during that bitter winter of escape. Thanks to their support, he was not left in an undignified state, even when he was taken away, still well-dressed and composed.
On February 14, Valentine’s Day, Zhiyong sent me a video he had recorded for the occasion. Even in the midst of our busy work, we made time to send each other blessings. That was the last email he sent me before his arrest. On February 15, a friend contacted me saying Zhiyong had likely been detained. After finishing up work on a ventilator connection project, I sent him email after email, crying alone in my room, helpless. I never got a reply from him. Instead, the state security came to my door in the dead of night to take me away.
My Period Under Residential Surveillance
The body is soft, but we are not cogs in a political or activist machine. How much we must struggle, just to live as we are—normal, human.
I have already publicly shared the details of my arrest and the summons at the case-handling center, and I will continue to do so. Here, I want to share my feelings about this period in my life.
My mind is filled with fragmented memories, such as:
The black hood and handcuffs, the closed room, the constant harsh white light;
The guards who watched me closely, the stern reprimands or the slightly kinder treatment, the white coats and the pills;
The fixed posture I had to maintain while sitting and sleeping, the 24-hour surveillance cameras and intercoms, the lukewarm tap water;
The longing for sunlight, the way I calculated time in my mind, the heightened sensitivity of my hearing, and the ability to capture even the faintest details…
My memory was unusually sharp during that time. I remember every interrogator’s appearance, their manner of speaking, their role-playing, even the sound of their footsteps… They told me I had committed serious crimes, and I often dared not speak for fear of falling into a trap. But the interrogation was the only time I could speak, and at times, the loneliness made me “look forward” to being called in for questioning.
I experienced Stockholm Syndrome: I thanked them in my “confession” for giving me medicine. I often vomited after meals due to emotional distress, and the guards, frustrated and angry, scolded me, threatening to increase the number of personnel watching me from two to three and cancel my time outside. I found myself apologizing for my vomiting, nearly begging them. When I cried, the guards handed me tissues to wipe my tears, and I thanked them. When the interrogators brought me oranges, chocolate, and crispy rice during questioning, I ate them all…
A huge part of what kept me going in that place was knowing that during those months—or even the coming years—those were the closest moments I would get to being near Xu Zhiyong. I longed desperately for some special power or telepathic connection to “talk” to him. The interrogators showed me our photos stored on their computers, and I tried my best to imprint those images in my mind. I replayed in my head the everyday moments we shared, hoping that these scenes would appear in my dreams.
I learned to meditate on the films, poems, and novels I had once seen or read, to fill the vast empty spaces of time while sitting in the chair. Those precious memories allowed me to slowly filter out the brainwashing content they tried to force on me, preserving my own vitality and refusing to let myself become the machine they sought to mold me into. I used up every ounce of my energy.
On the morning of June 19, when the state security read me the decision to grant bail, I sat there, somewhat numb, in the chair. There was no joy in being granted freedom. More than anything, I felt lost, unsure of how to walk the solitary road ahead. The day after I was released, I tried to process my experiences in detention, and I realized I had lost memory of some of the painful moments. Our social movement often emphasizes the need to be strong, to not fear hardship, and showing vulnerability is discouraged. The focus and publicity go toward grand, heroic themes, while the psychological trauma is often ignored or stigmatized.
In the days following my release, I struggled with fear, nightmares, insomnia, lack of focus, heightened alertness, traumatic flashbacks, and trembling limbs. At the same time, I became a “quasi-undercover” individual. When meeting friends, I would speak in whispers, constantly on edge, scanning my surroundings. My parents, worried for my safety, became hypersensitive, self-censoring their thoughts. They worried every time I left the house, feared I was speaking too much, feared I might be followed by “informers,” and even worried that the national security had a bad impression of me. I felt as though our entire family had contracted “paranoia.”
I often dreamt of situations where I was writing confessions. The guilt and humiliation tortured me endlessly, and I constantly blamed myself: Why did I obediently stand there, watching them search through my things and put handcuffs and a hood on me? Why did I sit obediently in that chair, positioned halfway? What did I have to cling to? Alone, helpless, my strength and will bound, that feeling controlled me. We are oppressed by the system, and each of us, in our own way, has contributed to building this system. But in the end, we are powerless to resist, even passively. Our obedience makes it possible for those actively serving the system to do as they please, creating a space for evil to flourish. How can we escape from it?
Breaking the Silence, Confronting the Fear
If we cannot speak courageously, we cannot act freely. We must not shy away, nor avoid the trouble of speaking out. We must share the details, the trauma, and the weakness—because what they fear most is exactly what we must do.
After I was released on June 19, I entered a period of “silence,” afraid to reach out to anyone, terrified of being taken back into detention. On June 24, I nervously posted my first tweet after my release. Although I only dared to post a subtle image, I was happy that I had taken that first step. Not long after, the national security officers called me, saying they were closely monitoring the internet to see if my voice appeared online, warning me to “disappear as if I never existed.” On June 25, I posted my first tweet with text: “They warned me to disappear, I’m so scared of being erased.” As soon as I sent it, I felt my heart leap to my throat, and every time the phone rang, I became tense. But I knew that no matter how silent, evasive, or compliant I was, the national security would still come to harass and monitor me. Since I couldn’t avoid it, why not fight for some space? Perhaps I could carve out even a little freedom.
On July 8, Xu Zhiyong’s second sister went to the detention center to deposit money for him. First, they said they couldn’t find his name, and then they said it had to be approved by the special investigation team. From that day onward, I began speaking out on Twitter about the illegal actions in the case procedures, such as using aliases for detention, denying lawyer visits, and restricting communication. On July 13, I started filing public information requests to the Linyi Public Security Bureau. A month later, I filed for administrative reconsideration, followed by awaiting administrative litigation. On August 27, I began filing requests for information about my rights violations. Every step, no matter how small, was worthwhile—if nothing else, to show people how incredibly difficult it is to protect one’s rights under the law in China. These actions mattered.
As I continued to speak out and take action, national security officers began summoning me more frequently. The number of officers grew from two to three to four. Every time I received a call, my heart would race. During these interrogations, I often struggled to respond, usually just sitting in silence. But each time I returned, I forced myself to write down what happened and share it publicly. The most recent interrogation involved just two officers again, and their tone seemed to have softened somewhat. From the beginning, even just asserting my presence would get me reprimanded; now, it seems that I have gained some space to speak out and take action. Only I know the fear and caution I experienced throughout the whole process. I was so isolated, yet I had to speak out, even though I knew that at any moment, I could be silenced again. Who would take over if that happened? I still dare not imagine that outcome.
On August 19, I published my first detailed account of being placed under residential surveillance. On August 24, I published the second. After that, frequent threats and interrogations disrupted my plan to publish one article per week, but these interruptions inadvertently helped expand the reach of my words and attract more attention. I will continue to speak out. Rage and indignation can fade with time, but facts do not change. Even if everyone forgets, the facts still have their witnesses. We must continue to push for the truth and hold those who do wrong accountable. Whether it’s covert oppression, open threats, or attempts to distort the truth, we cannot be silent or tolerate it.
We need to recognize the kind of fear the authorities want us to feel. It is a fear of punishment, exile, and imprisonment—a deep, all-encompassing fear. We must have the courage to speak of this fear openly, for it shows the connection that binds us together in this struggle. We need to let go of the obsession with individual heroes, public intellectuals, or personal courage. We need to realize that we have the power to support each other, to create a world where fear has less of a grip on us. That is the effort we must make.
What I’m Fighting Against Is Not Only Oppression, But Also Depression
Depression is not an absolute disaster; it can also bring a strength beyond what I ever imagined. I continue with my treatment because, in the end, I still care about myself.
Throughout this struggle, my depression has been unpredictable, never truly leaving. I’ve had thoughts of suicides, and I’ve engaged in self-harm behaviors countless times. When Zhiyong was by my side, there were moments when I locked myself in the closet, holding onto a coat, inhaling the scent of the fabric, trying to feel like I was more than just a body. He would gently encourage me to open a small crack in the door, sitting outside on a chair with one hand reaching through the gap to hold mine. We would just sit there, quietly, together.
After the incident, my depression worsened. The doctor increased my medication, but because of my first experience with being summoned, I feared that if I were arrested again, the medication would control me. So, I often secretly reduced the dosage, ignoring the doctor’s advice, and the situation only got worse. At times, I felt like a puddle of mud, lying on the ground, unable to do anything. But in the end, driven by my deep love, admiration, and curiosity for this world, by my confusion, reluctance, and unwillingness to give up, and by that fragile, almost imperceptible hope for the future, I learned to accept my illness. I continue to walk with it—through this dark, lonely path—determined to see it through to the end.
I Am No Island
The fight continues because I do not want to leave my comrades behind. And by “comrades,” I mean not only the families of those involved in the same case, but all families of those caught in similar struggles, and all those who seek freedom and justice…
The appearance of the 709 families has become a standard for the fight of family members. Yet, I know that the current environment is still different from theirs. So, what should I do?
The first person to reach out to me was Sister Shengchun, the wife of lawyer Ding Jiaxi, who was involved in the same case. Day after day, I followed her on Twitter, witnessing how she “gave everything” to call for attention to her husband’s case. On the tenth day since Ding’s disappearance, she began making videos telling his story, calling for broader awareness. On the twentieth day, she posted videos in both Chinese and English, appealing to the international community. On the twenty-eighth day, she stood on the streets of Washington, holding signs. On the thirty-second day, she started making “one person, one video,” encouraging friends to speak up for her husband. On the forty-third day, she began collecting signatures and sending letters to the Minister of Public Security. On the 271st day, she appeared at the United Nations Human Rights Council to speak out for him… She sent a total of 15 letters to Ding, tirelessly filing complaints to relevant authorities to protect his right to communicate. Her relentless persistence always moved me. Whenever I felt powerless, just seeing Sister Shengchun still in action gave me the strength to keep going.
Cheng Yuan has been arbitrarily detained for over 340 days. He has dedicated his work to advocating for people living with HIV/AIDS and hepatitis B, and promoting reforms in family planning and the household registration system. Since his detention in July 2019 on charges of “subverting state power,” he has had no news. His wife, Shi Minglei, has withstood pressure and threats, speaking out for him and fighting for her own rights. Her gentle strength has been a powerful resistance against injustice. Through seeing Minglei’s perseverance, I came to understand what a remarkable person Cheng Yuan is. Recently, there were reports that the Changsha Public Welfare Three were secretly tried. On that day, I almost lost hope. But the next morning, I woke up to see Minglei holding her little Pea, fully recharged and ready to go back to the courthouse. I was moved to tears.
In addition, there are Chen Kun, the brother of Chen Mei in the Duandianxing case; Hong Bo, the girlfriend of Cai Wei; Liu Lijiao, the wife of artist Zhuihun; Xu Yan, the wife of lawyer Yu Wensheng; Deng Xiaoyun, the wife of lawyer Qin Yongpei; poet Wang Cang and his wife Wang Li; He Fangmei, the mother of the “vaccination baby”; Pu Wenqing, the mother of Huang Qi; and Zhang Zhan, the citizen journalist who has been on hunger strike for days… I think of so many people, many of whom I may have never met in person. But this is what it means to be part of a “community.” We are rooted in the same land, waiting together for the snow to melt and for spring to arrive.
And beyond the cases unfolding right now, my community includes all those who are fighting. They have stood by the families of those wrongly accused, by workers facing injustice, by petitioners suffering violence and persecution, and by migrant workers in urban villages facing eviction… But because of the filth and corruption in the iron tower, their voices have been branded as “crimes.” In an environment where people fear speaking of politics, they are marginalized and stigmatized.
Speech is Resistance
We must learn to approach life with a positive attitude, and, within our own abilities, perspectives, time, and burdens, explore richer forms of social resistance. Above all, we must strive to maintain a self that is “genuine, responsible, and dignified.”
I know I need a social support network, but what if there isn’t one readily available? Then I must start building it myself. I first formed a mutual aid group with friends who had similar experiences of being placed under residential surveillance. It gave us a space where we could express ourselves safely and feel understood, reminding us that we were not alone and helping me regain the confidence to keep going in life.
But what if I don’t want to stop here? What if we want more people to understand the significance of our cries for help? What if we want more than just the fleeting attention of public opinion and seek a long-lasting social consensus? What if we wish to shift the understanding of the concept of “residential surveillance,” so that others need not pay the same price of suffering to have their voices heard?
I believe this is the meaning behind my decision to publicly share my own experience of being placed under residential surveillance. I hope it can encourage others who have gone through similar experiences to speak out about their own stories. Perhaps, there never needed to be a distinction between “us” and “the others.” In the face of such a powerful system, what we can do is preserve our dignity and autonomy, and reduce the crushing force and harm that power inflicts upon the individual.
Conclusion
Not long ago, I did a photoshoot in a wedding dress. I hope one day I’ll have the chance to send the photos to Xu Zhiyong, to let him know that the time spent together with him was filled with happiness, and that the life we fought for together was also a life of joy. During the times I was summoned, followed, questioned, or placed under residential surveillance, those experiences have always taught me how to grow stronger. But when I face known or unknown hardships, what I miss most is him, and I regret that, in my best years, he cannot be by my side.
Looking back, I may never return to the life I once knew. As I continue this journey, I’ve encountered more families, more activists, and along the way, I’ve come to rediscover the people I love, my own rights, and the kind of environment I want for future generations. I’ve come to realize that “being human” can be this way—one can choose to live with integrity, with authenticity.
As long as Xu Zhiyong is not free, I will not stop speaking out or taking action.
Click the following link for the Chinese version: https://seriousli.home.blog/2020/09/30/100/
Freedom is not Free 