To Build a Free China : A Citizen's Journey [1 ed.] 9781626375918, 9781626375840

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To Build a Free China

To Build a Free China A Citizen’s Journey Xu Zhiyong Translated by Joshua Rosenzweig and Yaxue Cao with an introduction by Andrew Nathan

b o u l d e r l o n d o n

Published in the United States of America in 2017 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 1800 30th Street, Boulder, Colorado 80301 www.rienner.com and in the United Kingdom by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. 3 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, London WC2E 8LU © 2017 by Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Xu, Zhiyong, 1973– author. Title: To build a free China : a citizen's journey / by Xu Zhiyong ; translated by Joshua Rosenzweig and Yaxue Cao ; with an introduction by Andrew Nathan. Other titles: Tang tang zheng zheng zuo gong min. English Description: Boulder, Colorado : Lynne Rienner Publishers, Inc., 2017. | Translation of: Tang tang zheng zheng zuo gong min. | Includes index. Identifiers: LCCN 2016028547 | ISBN 9781626375840 (hardcover : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: China—Politics and government—2002– | Citizenship—China. Classification: LCC JQ1510 .X83713 2017 | DDC 322.4/40951—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016028547

British Cataloguing in Publication Data A Cataloguing in Publication record for this book is available from the British Library.

Printed and bound in the United States of America The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials Z39.48-1992. 5 4 3 2 1

Contents

Introduction, Andrew J. Nathan

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Preface: Being a True Citizen

1

1 One Life for One Dream

5

2 Village Travels: My Days at the Rural Edition of China Reform

27

3 The Death of Sun Zhigang and the Citizen Recommendation to Appeal “Custody and Repatriation”

33

4 The “Illegal” Life of a Private Enterprise: Defending Sun Dawu

49

5 Be True to the Law: Campaigning for a Seat as a People’s Congress Delegate

71

6 On Behalf of Free Expression: The Southern Metropolis Daily Case

87

7 We’re in This Together: Life in “Petitioner Village”

101

8 The Citizens’ Alliance, or Gongmeng

115

9 Returning to China

133

10 What’s Your Motive?

143

11 The Prayers of Poshang Village: For Cai Zhuohua and the House Churches of China

147

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Contents

12 Experience and Reflection: The Gongmeng Tax Case

153

13 In This World

165

14 Practice Love on the Road to Justice

173

15 The Critic: For My Brother, Teng Biao

181

16 Cherish Your Ballots!

187

17 Our 2011

195

18 The Idealists

203

19 China’s New Citizen Movement: A Manifesto

211

20 I Am a Free Citizen

219

21 Hearts Filled with Justice

225

22 Ngaba

231

23 The New Citizen Movement in 2012

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24 The Last Ten Years

243

25 China’s Path

253

26 Love Along China’s Borders

259

27 For Freedom, Justice, and Love: My Closing Statement to the Court

267

Index About the Book

283 297

Introduction Andrew J. Nathan

How to change China? In 1978, a dissident named Wei Jingsheng used his eloquent writing brush to produce a wall poster demanding “Democracy—the Fifth Modernization.” He was sent to prison and later into exile in the United States. In 1989, the leader of the Communist Party, Zhao Ziyang, advocated dialogue with students who were demonstrating for more democracy. He was purged and placed under house arrest for the rest of his life. In 2008, the writer Liu Xiaobo led hundreds of intellectuals to call for the Chinese regime to obey the letter of its own constitution. For leading this “Charter ’08” movement Liu was sentenced to eleven years in prison, which he continues to serve despite his receipt of a Nobel Peace Prize. Xu Zhiyong—whose memoir this brief essay introduces—tried an approach perhaps more creative than any of the others. His career has hinged on the simple yet weighty concept of the “citizen.” Chapter II of the Constitution of the People’s Republic of China is entitled “The Fundamental Rights and Duties of Citizens.” Twenty-three articles long, it lays out extensive rights—to vote, to speak, to criticize government, to enjoy dignity of the person—and duties for all who hold Chinese nationality. Xu Zhiyong’s bold idea was to take these rights and duties seriously. As he puts it (see page 212): At the core of the New Citizen Movement is the idea of “citizenship.” This is a concept that applies to individuals, politics, and society alike. Citizens are not subjects; they are independent and free individuals who comply with a legal order that is mutually agreed upon and are vii

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not required to kneel in submission to anyone. Citizens are not “commoners”; they are the owners of the state and those who govern must get their power through elections involving the entire community of citizens and say goodbye forever to the barbaric logic of “political power grows out of the barrel of a gun.” This idea has a distinguished lineage in China. A prominent reformer of the late Qing period named Liang Qichao had promoted the idea of active citizenship as an alternative to dynastic rule in a journal called The New Citizen, published from 1902 to 1907. But Liang eventually decided that the Chinese people were too disorganized and uneducated to perform as citizens until after a period of benevolent dictatorship. Sun Yat-sen—the “father of the revolution” that overthrew the Qing dynasty in 1911—promoted the phrase “All under Heaven Belongs to the Citizenry” (tianxia weigong). Xu Zhiyong would later use Sun’s calligraphic rendition of the word “citizen” (gongmin) as a logo for his New Citizen Movement. But Sun, too, believed that the Chinese people would have to undergo a period of “tutelage” before they would be ready to perform their roles as responsible citizens. Xu Zhiyong, by contrast, put full faith in the ability of his fellow Chinese to make the Constitution real by living it. As he says in his memoir (see page 268): The New Citizen Movement advocates a citizenship that begins with the individual and the personal, through small acts making concrete changes to public policy and the encompassing system; through remaining reasonable and constructive, pushing the country along the path to democratic rule of law; by uniting the Chinese people through their common civic identity; pursuing democratic rule of law and justice; forming a community of citizens committed to freedom and democracy; growing into a civil society strengthened by healthy rationalism. Xu came to this idea in the course of his struggles for justice as a law student and later a teacher of law. He first emerged in the public eye with his effort to get the government to abolish the system of “custody and repatriation,” a network of abusive labor camps where local police locked up anybody who didn’t have the proper papers. A college graduate named Sun Zhigang had been beaten to death in one of these camps. Xu and two friends, Yu Jiang and Teng Biao, built on the public outrage that this incident created to pressure the government to abolish the

Introduction

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camps. To their surprise, as he recounts in the memoir, the effort succeeded. Yet, success was incomplete, because the household registration system that deprives Chinese citizens of the right to live wherever they want remains in place, and fresh facilities have sprung up where the police detain vagrants, migrants, and others deemed undesirable. Xu pushed ahead with a series of complicated cases recounted in the memoir—among others, those of Sun Dawu, a local entrepreneur unfairly charged with business malpractices; the Southern Metropolis Daily, a boundary-pushing newspaper that offended the provincial party secretary and saw its top officials charged with economic crimes; “black jails,” extra-legal detention facilities where petitioners seeking justice in Beijing were locked up; and Chen Guangcheng, the blind village legal advocate subjected to house arrest. Xu and his colleagues also pushed for a law to require government officials to reveal their financial assets, and for access to Beijing public schools for the children of migrant workers. Xu describes himself as an “idealist.” Even he has a hard time explaining why he chose to be one of the few Chinese who lifted his gaze from the ordinary business of life to see the horizon of social change (see pages 143–144): “What are you trying to get out of it, by helping them?” asked the party secretary, relaying the question he’d been given by others. “Do you really have no other motives? Why don’t you sit back, write some academic articles, try to get a professorship or snag an official position where you can make some real money? . . . “What’s my motive?” I often posed this question to myself as well. Even though this was an abnormal question premised on scary logic, it was still necessary for me to think the question over seriously and try to answer it. The only selfish motivation I could think of was that I did these things for my own well-being and happiness. . . . Helping others allows me to have a sense of well-being. But Xu was also highly practical, developing the nearest thing China has seen to a strategy of impact litigation. In the Sun Zhigang case, for example, he not only sought posthumous justice for the victim, but tried to blow life into the constitutional power of the National People’s Congress Standing Committee to exercise a function akin to constitutional review. In the Sun Dawu case, the goal was not only to help a specific businessman, but to crack the virtual boycott state banks place on lending to private enterprises.

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Xu’s strategy involved selecting cases of egregious injustice that had broader policy implications, using social media to foster attention to the problem, cultivating print media coverage, generating petitions, convening academic and think-tank conferences on the larger issues, and proposing a resolution too moderate for the authorities to refuse. The approach was a combination of legal argument and public relations. As he puts it (see page 95), “there have been those who have criticized us, saying that we used public opinion to interfere with judicial independence. The fact is, however, that we have never tried to use the media to interfere with the judicial process. Our aim was to interfere with those forces outside the law that themselves interfere with the judicial process.” The “forces outside the law” that Xu refers to—local cadres with economic interests in the status quo, security officials trying to keep the lid on any challenge no matter how justified, and more powerful dark forces that Xu chooses not to specify—naturally pushed back. They could do so politely: for example, arranging a crowded itinerary for Xu’s student investigators so that they had no time to investigate the local details of the Sun Dawu case. Or they could use force; indeed, Xu’s tactics involved sometimes courting physical confrontations, such as when he intruded into venues protected by China’s omnipresent plainclothes thugs and took beatings without fighting back. In one example that he recounts (see page 110), “I refused to leave. A tall guy next to Director Liu began shoving me, mixing in some punches and smacks to my head for good measure. He pushed me all the way over to the gate of the nearby Number 62 Middle School, his fists never leaving my cheeks.” In both his failures and his successes, Xu compiled an archive of the remarkable ways things work in China. In his battle against the “black jails,” for example, he discovered the existence of a division of labor whereby “retrievers” (thugs) from one province beat petitioners from another province in exchange for retrievers from the second province beating petitioners from the first province, so that the petitioners could not complain that they had been mistreated by officials from their own province. He also uncovered the collusion of the Beijing police with the black jail system when he and his colleagues stood outside one black jail for a whole day, “continuously call[ing] the 110 police hotline and wait[ing] for police to rescue the petitioners being held in that black jail,” and no one came (see page 129). On the other hand, good things could sometimes happen in surprising ways. After generating a great deal of publicity over the unfair pros-

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ecution of the Southern Metropolis News officials, Xu was rewarded by the intervention of two former Guangdong party secretaries, who wrote to the current provincial boss—the same man behind the attacks on the newspaper—using roundabout language to urge him to treat the case with care lest he offend public opinion. As a result, the sentence of one of Xu’s clients was reduced and a second client was released without indictment. Xu’s idea of changing China by practicing citizenship took shape around the time he ran for a seat in the local People’s Congress in 2003. Looking past the reality that the elections are pervasively manipulated by the Communist Party, Xu decided to practice as-if politics, treating the election process as if it were real. “What’s most important,” he tells his supporters (see page 84), “is to take part. I hope that my participation will tell everyone: Believe in our laws, believe in the progress of this era. Please believe that we have a genuine right to vote.” Surprisingly, he did win a seat, with the broad support of faculty and students at the university where he taught. The story ends there, however, because—as Xu’s Chinese readers would have known—People’s Congress delegates have no power and nothing substantial to do. Also in 2003, Xu formed The Citizens’ Alliance, aka Gongmeng, aka the Open Constitutional Initiative (OCI)—the organization that eventually morphed into the New Citizen Movement and took Sun Yatsen’s calligraphic word “citizen” as its logo. As Xu writes in the preface to his memoir (see page 1), “The most ideal reform model for China is to develop constructive political opposition groups outside the existing political system that can negotiate with progressive forces within the system to enact a new constitution and, together, complete a transition to constitutional democracy.” The members of this group—it was not really an organization—sought to change China by running for the only office available, that of local People’s Congress delegate; holding meetings on public policy; writing letters on policy issues to the National People’s Congress; seeking to rescue victims from black jails; agitating for change in the Beijing dog ownership regulations; pushing for equal educational access for the children of migrant workers; and so on. It is always hard to assess the causal effects of human rights work, and this is true of Xu’s work as well, because of the black box nature of Chinese governance. But by all appearances Xu’s work was influential at first. This, however, was a relatively open time. As Xu recalls (see page 116):

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There was a sort of inherent logic to OCI’s beginning in 2003. That year, more than 100 media outlets throughout the country launched or expanded their opinion pages. One of the most popular television series was “For the Sake of the Republic,” a historical depiction of the last years of the Qing dynasty and the origins of the 1911 revolution. The devastating effects of the SARS outbreak in Beijing led to cracks in decades of habitual information control. That year, the media, legal scholars, and the public coalesced around the Sun Zhigang case to launch a new wave of protecting constitutional rights. A group of legal professionals looking to defend citizen rights appeared on the public stage. The citizens’ rights–defense movement was an inevitable result of our society’s having reached a certain stage in its economic development. Even so, OCI confronted constant harassment in the form of deregistration, tax investigations, and mysterious shutdowns of its website. Xu received a series of warnings (see page 131): The “stability preservation” authorities began putting even greater pressure on Gongmeng beginning in March 2012. Once more, we were forced to lose our office. The authorities had chats with each of our employees, demanding that they quit working for Gongmeng. One of our volunteers, Song Ze, who had been responsible for investigating black jails and rescuing petitioners, was placed under criminal detention on May 5 for “picking quarrels and creating a disturbance.” On July 16, 2013, Xu was arrested, charged with “gathering a crowd to disrupt order in a public place.” Six months later he was sentenced to four years in prison, a sentence he is serving at this writing. His memoir was completed before his arrest—except for the last item, his eloquent “Closing Statement to the Court.” The Chinese government could not abide a citizen. Throughout this memoir, Xu expresses his patriotism, his respect for the authorities, and his belief in gradualism. “Deep down,” he says (see page 76), “I was a nationalist myself. You could say that, deep in my heart, I had a strong China fixation. I longed for our country to be fair and just and for our people to be free and happy.” If a person this loyal and moderate cannot perform his role as a citizen, who can? As Xu warned the court (see page 267), “By trying to suppress the New Citizens Movement, you are obstructing China on its path to becoming a constitutional democracy through peaceful change.”

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Despite repression, China is still rife with activists. Just before his arrest, Xu warned what must happen if the regime would not tolerate pressure for change (see page 254): Revolution will erupt in the blink of an eye and will be unpredictable and difficult to defend against. No matter how imposing the “stability maintenance” system might be, in a society with a huge gap between rich and poor, intensifying conflict between the people and the government, and a cruel and arrogant bureaucracy, the fuse of revolution can be lit at any moment. We have no way of knowing what Xu is thinking as he endures four years in jail. But among China’s options for the future, surely his vision remains the best (see page 255): In order to get democracy running well in the shortest amount of time possible, China must have a relatively mature constructive political opposition. If such a force exists, then China’s political transition will be a peaceful one no matter how the authoritarian system departs the stage of history.

Preface: Being a True Citizen

Our identity as citizens became a reality when, after the 1911 “Xinhai” Revolution, China established Asia’s first republic. No longer were we subjects of an absolute monarchy or docile vassals willing to be enslaved by others. We were neither commoners unconcerned about affairs of state or realm nor an angry, irrational mob. From that moment on, we became citizens possessed of the idea of rule of law. Constitutions stipulated that we held the right to vote and the rights to free expression and freedom of belief, as well as all other universal freedoms. But today, more than a century later, how many of our fellow countrymen take this hallowed status and these sacred rights and their accompanying responsibilities seriously? Have we ever paid attention to our electoral rights? Have we shown any concern about how our country spends its tens of trillions in public finances each year? Have we ever protested when deprived of our freedom of expression? Confronted with inequities of education and healthcare or faced with our defeated society, in the course of going from heaving sighs of despair to feelings of anger, have we ever thought to use our own citizen activism to bring about change? I am a citizen. You are a citizen. He is a citizen. We are all citizens. This is an identity that we all have as Chinese. It is only because many of us have yet to take this identity seriously in our practical lives that citizenship has become a special status that only a small number of us possess. But our collective identity is as groups of citizens. It makes no difference if some don’t like this and want to ban these groupings, because no one can deprive us of our identity as citizens. The New Citizen Movement advocates that everyone be a true citizen. It calls for a spirit of perseverance and advocates the use of 1

2

Preface

rational, constructive methods to push for progress in our country’s democracy and rule of law. It promotes uniting around our common identity as citizens and developing a healthy political opposition force within civil society that will further China’s transformation into a constitutional culture. If one wanted to sum up the New Citizen Movement in a word, that word would be “seriously”: we take our identities as citizens seriously, take our rights as citizens seriously, and take our responsibilities as citizens seriously. We do not need to create a new identity in order to express our political ideals—citizenship is enough, democracy and rule of law are enough. Today, popular republicanism, democracy, and rule of law have already become universal trends and represent a popular consensus that has already been written into the constitution. Chinese authorities have no choice but to say publicly that they wish to pursue democracy and rule of law. One day, true citizens will no longer be a mere minority, and all 1.3 billion Chinese will stand up as citizens. At that moment, the New Citizen Movement will have completed its historical mission. The New Citizen Movement is a bright path to a glorious future for the Chinese nation. The most ideal reform model for China is to develop constructive political opposition groups outside the existing political system groups that can negotiate with progressive forces within the system to enact a new constitution and, together, complete a transition to constitutional democracy. Developing constructive political opposition groups outside the system depends on a common identity and platform, common core values, and a viable model for action. Citizenship is our common identity and platform, and the New Citizen Movement is our viable model for action. When I am free, I work hard to practice the New Citizen spirit of freedom, justice, and love. When I am brought before the court, I defend my procedural rights through silence. When I am imprisoned, I also struggle on behalf of the rights and dignity owed to a citizen. No person at any time may deprive me of my identity as a citizen. As long as we believe, work hard, and do not give up, this identity as citizen will eventually become reality one day. Actually, the situation today is not all that pessimistic. Democracy and rule of law have already become part of the mainstream discourse. No matter how unwilling the conservatives might be to hear this, China can never return to the Mao era, when a person could arbitrarily be sent to laogai for dozens of years or even killed. In today’s New Citizen cases, it is no longer our ideas that are debated at court. They don’t dare say that our advocacy of constitutional democracy is “reactionary”; they

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can only argue about whether our actions disrupted public order. This, by itself, is progress and opens up space for the future. Activity through citizen groups has no leadership, no hierarchy, no commands, no disciplinary punishments—these are voluntary associations formed on the basis of commonly held ideas. This model truly conforms with modern democratic politics, and only a constructive political opposition group based on this type of model can avoid falling into the trap of barbaric traditional autocratic thinking that “those who conquer, rule” and, instead, truly bring about democracy and freedom for China. The Chinese nation needs a group of sincere idealists to establish a democratic political culture and tradition. When you join the New Citizen Movement, it doesn’t enable you to enter someone’s inner circle; rather, it enables you to take your identity as citizen seriously. This is not merely about placing moral demands on individuals; it is more about joining alongside other idealists from the Chinese nation and building a glorious China of democracy and rule of law. Together, let us openly express our identities as citizens through our citizen badges, Weibo avatars, and other means. This type of public expression allows us to become aware of and encourage each other and enables us to coalesce into a positive social force. Together, let us propagate and practice the New Citizen spirit of freedom, justice, and love. Together, let us participate in citizen actions by local citizen groups in order to protect our rights, win back our freedoms, defend justice, and manifest love. Together, let us unite as citizens to voice our rational concerns about major public affairs. We shall follow the principle of rationality at all times and constructively promote the development of democracy and rule of law in our country. We are brave and determined, moderate and calm. Together, we are happy citizens building a beautiful China. Citizen Xu Zhiyong

1 One Life for One Dream

“What’s your hometown?” “Minquan—as in the ‘People’s Rights’ of the Three People’s Principles.” Whenever I answer this question, I often have to add, “China really has a place by this name. It came into being during the idealistic republican era.”

1 This is the first memory from my childhood: It is the 1970s, in a village located on the eastern Henan plains in what had once been the course of the Yellow River. At the front-most house in the village, a sad little boy stands on top of the short wall surrounding his courtyard. Before his eyes is the endless expanse of the North China Plain. My young village companions would dig up layer after layer of sandy soil from the bottom of a dried-up pond. Our elders said this was sediment left by the Yellow River. My first real understanding of the Yellow River’s former course came after I began middle school, when I rode my bicycle more than 10 km to the northeast to see the great Yellow River levees. It was then that I came to the clear realization that my hometown was located atop what had once been a towering riverbed. When I was young, my mother often told stories of how she had had to beg during her childhood. Before she turned seven, her family had been considered wealthy. Then, my grandfather gambled away all the family’s property and left with the Eighth Route Army as it passed nearby. It seems our family’s descent into poverty turned out to be a lucky break, as another villager whose wealth had been comparable to my grandfather’s would go on to be labeled a landlord in 1949. 5

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To Build a Free China

When she was in her twenties, my mother married my father, who was poor but educated. It was the Great Leap Forward, and the villagers toiled day and night under the banner of the Red Flag, turning the fields over and over with their spades. That was followed by the devastating Great Famine, during which the land was cleared of weeds, bark, and anything else that could possibly fill one’s stomach. After a diet of such things, many people’s bodies became bloated with edema, and some of the elderly and infirm began to die. During that period, my father went from place to place in the area around Xinyang, Henan, treating the sick. As he recalled scenes from those days many years later, my father could not suppress deep sighs. He saw villages in which one household after another was completely wiped out, leaving corpses with no one around to bury them. My father was a rarity in villages in those days: a doctor with an actual medical degree. From my childhood, I recall him being awoken in the middle of the night by urgent knocking or even crying at the door and the way he would rush off to distant places to treat fellow villagers, sometimes only returning after dawn the next day. Father was a doctor at the township hospital, and treating villagers free of charge when he was at home was purely a matter of fulfilling his duty. Each Spring Festival, strangers would often come to call on my father. Years later, once I had learned the word “grateful,” I felt moved by the way Father remained in the village all his life. After experiencing so many political movements, by the late 1970s things finally began to settle down in this ordinary village in the East Henan Plain. Our neighbor, as the first demobilized soldier in the village, served as the village party branch secretary. People would often bring him gifts, and whenever officials came from higher levels they would dine at his house and you could often hear the sound of drinking games coming from next door. Because of our neighbor’s change in status and because of my mother’s upright disposition—she had always been disgusted by power and influence and only cared about looking after those less fortunate—the previously friendly relations between our two families soon soured. The fields and streams, the busy swarms of ants, the purple flowers of the Chinese parasol tree—these are my happy memories from childhood. But my impressions of village society are not as beautiful as the tales that some people tell. Political movements, the arduousness of survival, the collective economy, and despotic privilege ruthlessly eliminated traditional village morality and its decent, upright people. The village party branch secretary was the absolute center of power, and the

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shadow of privilege could be felt throughout relationships between neighbors in even this tiny village. Numerous arguments and conflicts developed between neighbors over a chicken, a tree, or a land boundary. People lacked even a modicum of trust for anyone but their closest blood relations. Any kid who was resourceful enough to steal something from the “production brigade” would earn praise from adults. When a new shipment of vinegar arrived at the village’s only shop, the adults would order the children to rush over at once to buy some, knowing that overnight it would get watered down. I was a shy, awkward child who lived in his own imagination, seemingly out of place with village society in every way. More of my memories from childhood are painful, such as a memory of standing alone in a field on the eastern edge of the village, silently staring out into space.

1 In the wilderness roughly two km northwest from my village, there is a red brick building. That was my middle school. The third-year classroom was situated on top of a graveyard. Two meters outside the door was a grave that had been trampled flat by naughty students jumping all over it. Beyond the courtyard wall were fields. There was no electricity, and on winter days we would cut across the fields at 5 a.m. to our classroom, light kerosene lamps and loudly recite our lessons. Sometimes, the chattering of weasels could be heard coming from the courtyard. After morning study hall, I would arrogantly race home often leaving my classmates on their bicycles far behind. On January 1, 1987, a heavy snow fell. Amid the sound of students reciting their lessons, snowflakes would periodically slip past the edges of the black plastic covering the windows. Our English teacher had come to the classroom before daybreak and wrote “Happy New Year” in big letters on the blackboard. For me, 1987 was an important beginning. After countless times racing through the wilderness or thinking long and deeply along the edge of the stream or in the snowy fields, it finally became clear to me what I needed to do in order to make my life meaningful. I had previously thought I might become a scientist. In third grade, my older brother gave me my earliest science primers with books like Galileo and Secrets of the Ocean. By middle school I heard about biological engineering, and I planned to study biology so that I could immerse myself in research and win the Nobel Prize for biology.

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To Build a Free China

But that winter I came to realize that what our society needed most was truth, freedom, and justice and that it required people working to promote the good society. So, I decided to work hard to realize this ideal. From that time, I started keeping a journal to record my development path as an idealist. I’m not sure why that sort of village produced such far-off dreams—dreams that sometimes seemed so distant that they led me to lose hope. Many years later I could only chalk this up to fate. That year, only five of the more than 80 students in our third-year middle-school class tested into the top high school. (Basically, only those who made it to that school would have any hope of reaching university.) I was fortunate in being directly selected to attend the high school based on my performance in competitions covering Chinese, math, and foreign language. In order for us to participate in that competition, one May day our teacher led several of us students to slosh through the mire for three hours under our umbrellas as we made our way toward the highway leading to the county seat. There, we waited another two hours or so before boarding a bus. That was the first time I had ever gone to the county seat, the first time I had ever seen a train, and the first time I had ever passed the Yellow River. From that moment on, the misty surface of its waters would feature in my dreams of home. When I would pass by there returning home from high school for a weekend each month, I would often just sit there, daydreaming for an entire afternoon. My high school was called Minquan High School. It was located on the northern side of the Minquan county seat, with vast apple orchards stretching out behind the campus. Beyond that was the great levee that marked the former course of the Yellow River, something that I would later always come to associate with my hometown. One of my fondest memories of springtime is lazily kicking a slipper through the orchard and arriving at the Yellow River levee, where I sat next to a pile of straw, reading until I fell asleep. I wasn’t an obedient student and spent most of my time each day reading lots of non-assigned books. In my journal, I recorded my impressions after reading Nietzsche, Hegel, the Communist Manifesto, and the like. During my final exam for my first-year politics class, I spent most of my time writing a long essay on the back of my exam paper critiquing scientific socialism and expounding on the meaning of real socialism. (I would continue to think about this type of thing for many years afterward.) Then, I waited anxiously for my kindly teacher to pass judgment. The end result was a bit disappointing—she said nothing about my essay, barely passing me.

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Back in the dormitory at night, we would sit on our long, common bed and have heated debates about which was superior, capitalism or socialism. I often found myself pitted against my nine roommates in these debates. Our politics textbooks back then described capitalism as decadent and in decline. Our politics teacher even taught us that, though an American worker’s wages might seem higher than ours on the surface, there wouldn’t be much left once you subtracted the high cost of rent and living expenses and he might even wind up in debt. The conclusion we were supposed to take away was that American workers lived in extreme misery, but I already knew at that time that the welfare benefits available to American workers far exceeded those in our country. I was the classic example of a teenager concerned about his country and his people. My earliest surviving journal entry from January 1, 1988, expresses my state well: I love China, but we mustn’t be blindly self-satisfied. It’s been more than 30 years since the founding of the new China, but our standard of living remains low, our industry is old and outdated, and our agriculture still principally relies on manual labor. Compared with developed countries in the world, shouldn’t we feel ashamed? We are all humans, all a common people. So why should the Chinese people, with their splendid 5,000-year civilization, be so far behind other people today? There is no reason for us to allow poverty to continue. If we continue to complacently exalt the “Four Gold Medals” left to us by our ancestors and stand still and refuse to make progress, how can we face either our ancestors or future generations? As we prepared to enter our second year of high school, the teachers busied themselves helping us students to choose whether to pursue study in arts or science. I had no hesitation and did not listen to anyone else’s advice. On May 25, 1988, I wrote in my journal: The time has come to choose a course of study. I’m choosing arts without any hesitation whatsoever. This is no impulsive decision; it’s something I’ve been looking forward to for a while . . . . During the second semester of my second year of high school in 1989, we students gathered around the small shop next to the cafeteria, standing on our tiptoes and craning our necks to see the television. June 3 was a sleepless night for me and several friends. A serious rift had

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developed between myself and my family over our differing political views. I took the university entrance examinations ahead of schedule, but the results were not what I had hoped for. One day following the exam, I stood on the railway platform, only one or two yuan in my pockets, and hesitated for the longest time before hopping on a westbound train and beginning my first long-distance travel. I knew little about the complexity of life back then as a teenager and proudly stepped onto a path whose distant endpoint I did not know. It was at Minquan High School that I began to see a kind of link between my personal destiny and my hometown. I came to comprehend the meaning of “People’s Rights” and understand the ideals of our republican forebears.

1 Whenever I think of Lanzhou University, I am filled with emotions. For me, that is the western wilds, the place where I grew up. It’s 9:30 a.m. and I’m sitting in a beef noodle shop on a lane behind the university. I order a bowl of noodles and two pieces of flatbread. Having eaten my fill, I walk over to the Gansu Provincial Library and read Lincoln the Unknown, Napoleon, Comprehensive Mirror to Aid in Government, the Cambridge History of China volume on Republican China . . . . I emerge at 4:30 in the afternoon and go to the banks of the Yellow River. Immersed in thoughts of history’s vastness and magnificence, I walk in the evening glow of the setting sun back towards school. That is a memory of how I spent many a weekend in Lanzhou. When I think back many years later about the four years I spent as an undergraduate, I feel proud of my time there. I practically had three main fields of study: I majored in law, minored in public relations, and prepared for a graduate school entrance exam in international politics. Each of these areas of study has been important for my life’s work. In terms of my law studies, I was not a very good student. For at least three semesters, my cumulative grades put me among the bottom few students in my class. But I read a lot of books about history and politics, subjects in which I had an interest. I hungrily borrowed and read books, almost always having the maximum number of books out from the university library at any one time and spending many weekends at the provincial library. I wrote nine journals during my four years at university. Most entries concerned my ideals and reflections on growing up. For exam-

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ple, I wrote a commentary and made predictions about the August 19, 1991, coup attempt in the Soviet Union. Apart from these journals, I also wrote a separate, 60,000-character volume entitled Freedom for China. In the spring of 1993, I spent many days in a classroom, my head buried in my writing. That was a book about my ideals, expressing my views on 20th-century history and what China would look like in the future. Each semester, we would have two work-study classes where we would go to Mt. Gaolan to plant trees. Those were exciting times for all of us. First, it was a mountain-climbing competition. Everyone brought their field rations and vied with each other to be first up to the section of the mountain assigned to us. Once there, we dug holes, planted trees, and gave them water. When our work was finished, we’d play cards and tell jokes. During our resting time, I would often climb up to the highest peak and look down at the smog-covered city below as I daydreamed or practiced making speeches. As the great Soviet empire came to an end in late 1991, flyers began appearing on campus for a lecture entitled “Why the Soviet Union Collapsed.” We had to write an essay for the final exam in our “Socialist Construction” course. As in high school, I took a risk and wrote an essay entitled “On the Need for a Market Economy in China.” At that time, mainstream socialist ideology in China was still critical of the market economy and my essay received the lowest score in the entire class, again barely passing. Two or three months later, Deng Xiaoping went on his famous “Southern Tour,” during which he raised the curtain on a new stage of major development of China’s market economy. During my senior year at university I registered for the entrance examination to do a master’s degree in international politics at Peking University. International politics was both an interest of mine and a part of my ideals. I had always dreamed of achieving a world government in our lifetime and believed that this was the inevitable trend of human civilization. Besides taking the exam, I sent my prospective advisor two essays—“The End of the Cold War: The Future of Sino-American Relations” and “Rule of Law Development in International Relations”—in which I described my thinking about and forecast for a future international order. Unfortunately, however, I wasn’t accepted. I could have tried again to apply to the international politics program at Peking University, but that advisor sent me a letter telling me that my essays contained political errors. I was extremely disappointed and forever abandoned any hope of studying international politics at Peking University.

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1 Conceited as I was, I had always thought I would get accepted to graduate school, so I basically never looked for a job. Graduation, then, came as a heavy blow. I returned home in early June, feeling depressed. It was the time of the wheat harvest, and just three days before I arrived something big had happened in my hometown. There had been a land dispute between a village and a state-owned farm. When farm employees arrived under police protection to harvest the wheat on the disputed land, the confrontation turned violent. Police opened fire, killing four villagers and injuring seven. In the chaos, villagers took two hostages from the other side, also seizing two handguns and a jeep. At the moment of my arrival back home, police and the villagers were engaged in a standoff at the village entrance. The next day, I rode my bicycle to that village. At first, I just chatted with the villagers as a student, gaining their trust. Later, I spent the afternoon talking with village leaders, eventually convincing them to release the hostages. I of course promised them that I would be willing to provide them with legal advice with regard to their land dispute. Even though I clearly told the villagers that I was only a university student and not a reporter, it still made the local government a bit nervous. That evening, the county party secretary came to my house. He claimed to be there to express his greetings and thanks, but in reality he was looking into me. I told him that he could relax and that I was acting in everyone’s common interest and merely hoped to help the two sides mediate. I later learned that while the county party secretary was visiting our house, the chief of the city public security bureau was waiting just outside the gate to our family’s courtyard. That was my first time participating in a major public incident. Sometimes I think that a person’s stance on things might be instinctual in some way. When I would later help farmers in places like Tieling, Liaoning, or Xishan, Anhui, to protect their rights and interests, I always took a neutral position and tried to find a plan that both sides in the dispute could accept. We need more reconciliation in our society and more people willing to follow the path of mediating disputes. I later found out that the villagers released the hostages and the situation was properly resolved. When I was looking for a job after graduation, I once went to the Shangqiu City Public Security Bureau. When the police chief saw me, he said he recognized me and immediately promised me a job there. But I only planned to work for a year before applying again to graduate school, and we could not reach an agreement on this point because their rules said I had to work for three years

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before applying to graduate school. I decided to pass up the job and went back to Minquan County to work for a business enterprise. My parents had naturally hoped that I would take the job at the public security bureau. My first month’s salary back at the enterprise in Minquan was only 180 yuan, and many people seemed to think my only future was bankruptcy and unemployment. Naturally, there was pressure from my family. Later, when I began taking risks and going around the country protecting citizens’ rights, this kind of pressure would frequently reappear. The good thing was that my mother had been worrying about me for a long time, ever since middle school. After a while, she got used to it and wasn’t so afraid. Given a choice between a steady job and my ideals, I chose my ideals. Fortunately, my application to pursue graduate study in law at Lanzhou University was successful.

1 For my master’s degree, I studied economic law. This included a year of studying economics, which greatly opened up new horizons for me. I began to think about legal costs and the necessity of government control. Thinking about these questions would later be very useful as a delegate to the Haidian District People’s Congress whenever we would discuss matters related to social management. Often, other delegates would propose that the government take control over some problem in response to calls from the media. But I would remind everyone that while, yes, there was a problem, it was not necessarily something for the government to manage. Management by the government might be too costly, so we ought to consider whether or not there were better ways to manage the problem. Deserts and prairies form a big part of my memories of western China. Nearly every summer vacation or holiday I would choose a place and go traveling. In the summer of 1996, I joined an expedition group, the principal members of which came from two different groups. The two members I knew best were Zhao Bing, a judge, and Bing Zhe, a policeman. One August night, ten of us set out, water bottles at our waist carrying nearly 10 kg of water each and packs filled with flatbread and preserved vegetables. We took a public bus to the edge of the desert north of Wuwei and walked into the desert. That night, we set up our tents beneath a beacon tower of the ancient Han Great Wall and watched the sun set beyond the desert, gazing at the glittering heavens and watching the full moon slowly rise over the dunes. After finishing my master’s degree, I once more faced the same dilemma I had faced upon graduation from university: choosing between a practical job and my ideals. I spent some time as an intern at

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Southern Weekly, during which I also took the civil service exam. I wanted to become a civil servant because I hoped to gain familiarity with the way that state organs operated. There was another reason, of course: I liked Beijing. When I was young, I heard my dad tell stories about my great-grandfather. Folks back home said he was buried somewhere near Wangfujing after having been poisoned by the Japanese during the invasion of China by the Eight-Nation Alliance back in 1900. My father said that relatives had gone looking for his grave but never found anything. When I first visited Beijing in 1996, I immediately fell in love with the city and its atmosphere and history. At graduation, though, I encountered some major difficulties. My thesis entitled “Cultural Misconceptions Regarding the Localization of the System of Economic Law” was a critique of Professor Zhu Suli’s theory of local legal resources. The thesis was sent to a professor at Renmin University who had been chosen to serve as external examiner. He wrote a six-page criticism of the thesis, branding it with political labels like “privatization” and “cultural nihilism.” Obviously, he didn’t pass the thesis. With the help of Professor Cai Yongmin, I worked all night to revise the thesis and then flew to Sichuan University to present it to a professor there who could serve as external examiner. The next day, the law department made special arrangements for me to defend my thesis. The defense took 3½ hours, from 10 a.m. until 1:30 p.m. It probably only ended because everyone began to get hungry. A dozen or so of my good friends had come to observe the defense. Together, we left the meeting room and waited for the verdict. A few minutes later the results of the vote were announced: I could receive a graduation certificate but I would not be awarded the degree. After hearing the results, I gave an impassioned speech, saying: “I have spent the seven most valuable years of my young life here at Lanzhou University. I never thought it would end like this. You are all my teachers, and you know that I am a person who lives for my ideals. I will reflect on my errors, but I would like to earnestly request that you, my teachers, give me another chance. Please believe me: wherever I go, I shall never fail to live up to the reputation of Lanzhou University.” I will never forget that moment. I could see that some of my teachers were on the verge of tears. One of them proposed a re-vote. We again left the room and waited. But the chair of the defense session objected, saying that there was no provision in the school’s rules for a revote. I would have to wait six months and defend the thesis again.

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I have since reflected upon this moment of frustration many times, and it has given me deep insight into this society. That arrogant kid who had traveled from the banks of the Yellow River far, far away to school in the great Northwest never gave his advisors or many others the respect that they deserved. A person needs to learn to be humble. I did not fully understand this at that time. At graduation, I was not qualified to wear the robes of a master’s degree holder, so I borrowed my roommate’s doctoral robes to pose for a graduation photo. At the end of July, I learned that there was a problem with my job. At first, the problem was that I had not received my degree, but the Ministry of Education had held that a civil-service assignment could be made as long as there was a graduation certificate. Not long after arriving at my post, however, there were new complications. This was connected to my activities at Lanzhou University. I and some other classmates there had organized an activity called “21 Days,” in which we would meet every three weeks to discuss academic issues or real-world problems. Once, we gathered in a classroom to discuss the book China Can Say No. At the time, I made a sharply critical speech attacking ultra-nationalism, and some meddlesome people started to take notice of me.

1 By August of that year, I had not spoken to anyone about the problems surrounding my job assignment and I wasn’t even in contact with my parents. The next several months were very turbulent. I decided to go to Nanjie Village to conduct a sociological investigation. I learned that this village filled with Maoist propaganda posters and slogans has taken out more than 600 million yuan in loans. But after a week, I soon began to have difficulty making ends meet. I considered finding work in a neighboring enterprise, which would make it convenient for me to continue my investigation. I began working as secretary to the chairman of an enterprise. I woke up each day at 6:30 and returned home tired each evening at 8 or 9 p.m. It was rewarding to be so busy, but I was fully aware that work in the enterprise was taking me further and further from my ideals. If I continued to stay there, I might become a senior manager one day and enjoy a good salary and comfortable life. But my dream was public service. I once thought of running a business, earning lots and lots of money, and then pursuing my dream of building a more just society. After this second experience working in an enterprise, however, I finally realized that making money and public service require two dif-

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ferent sets of abilities and that public service and commerce were two different paths altogether. I decided to leave and make my living in a university or research institute. The Spring Festival holiday in 1999 temporarily interrupted my plans to carry out a sociological investigation of grassroots democracy. So, I spent more than a month reviewing in preparation for the Ph.D. entrance examination. After taking the exam, I considered staying in Beijing to look into the petitioning problem. But staying in Beijing would mean, first of all, dealing with the problem of everyday survival, and finding an ordinary job would mean that most of my efforts would be spent on earning a living. I didn’t want to waste time. At the end of April, after learning I had no hope of being accepted for a Ph.D. program, I decided to return to Zhengzhou. I resolved to stay in Zhengzhou for three years and thoroughly investigate grassroots democracy. After that, I would go back to Beijing on the strength of my academic influence. In Zhengzhou, I could earn a living at a university or the provincial academy of social science and still have considerable free time. There was another advantage for me in returning to Zhengzhou: I could hitch rides on petitioners’ tractors back to their villages to investigate their cases. In Beijing, on the other hand, there was no such convenience, as Beijing was too far from the villages and I could not afford the transportation costs. Once settled in a job and a place to live, the proud and ambitious young man set out on what was to his mind a sacred ceremony: worshipping the Sun Yat-sen Mausoleum and the Yellow River. He wanted to tell his forebears that he would never abandon his dreams, no matter how many difficulties he encountered. After having experienced one frustration after another, he wanted to begin a new journey. Many years later, I still clearly remember the details of that encounter with destiny. At just after 9 a.m. on July 10, 1999, I slowly and solemnly climbed the steps of the Sun Yat-sen Mausoleum. Amid the endless stream of people passing before Dr. Sun’s vault, I stood in silence, meditating: “Here I am, Dr. Sun.” My vision unconsciously began to blur. Later, I went out and sat on the stone steps, thinking about all of the turbulence of the past century and the road ahead for the Chinese people. I left only at 1 p.m., when I began to feel hungry. On July 11, I returned to Zhengzhou, and early the next day I went to the Yellow River. While on the bus that would take me to the river, I received a message from my good friend Wang Jianxun, telling me that I had been accepted to a doctoral program.

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1 In three years at Peking University, this restless idealist seems to have collected more stories than other students: swimming in Weiming Lake, the drunken bicycle ride on the lake edge that chipped a front tooth, pulling a girl who tried to commit suicide out of the lake, giving speeches on Jingyuan Lawn, getting detained by the local government in Tieling, Liaoning, for providing legal aid . . . . Like many Peking University students, I had a kind of deep psychological complex that made me believe that I had a personal connection to the university’s passionate and turbulent 20th-century history. After failing to get into graduate school the first time, I thought that would be the end of it. But when I took the exam for a doctoral program and was faced with the choice of studying with either Professor Jiang Ping at China University of Political Science and Law or Professor Zhu Suli at Peking University, I chose Professor Zhu in order to be at PKU. When I first learned my results in April 1999, I felt that things were completely hopeless because my scores in two out of three subjects failed to meet the admission standards from prior years. I thought about going to see Professor Zhu and let him know that I would definitely find a way to get back to Beijing. But my ego led me to hesitate outside the gate of the Law School for quite a while before silently walking away. School was already out for the summer holiday when my good friend Wang Jianxun told me that he had seen my acceptance letter at the PKU Law School. If he hadn’t happened upon it then, that letter might have sat there forever. That evening, I telephoned Professor Zhu for the first time. We had never had any previous contact before, only seeing each other once during my interview. After that, I took care of the necessary formalities and went traveling in Tibet. I arrived at Peking University at the end of August. Not long after I got there, Professor Zhu went to the United States. Teng Biao and I were handed off to be advised by Professor He Weifang. I am proud to have studied with two such outstanding scholars from PKU Law School, each so very different from the other. The two of them represented different schools of thought in legal studies. One held that if we wanted to modernize we needed to learn from others; the other said that we should not forget our own practical circumstances and that it was no use to be too hasty. He Weifang carried on China’s enlightenment tradition of more than a century, which

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believed that China’s most pressing problem was modernization. Whether we liked it or not, China was already well along on the path toward modern civilization, and what we needed most was to learn from the experience of others. Zhu Suli believed, on the other other hand, that intellectuals were too idealistic. China had its own practical circumstances and would discover its own unique path. In his view, China’s existing system possessed its own rationality. Because I didn’t like to be restricted, I had never taken the initiative to make contact with Professor He. We were connected, however, by the similarities in our thinking. After graduation, our contact with each other actually increased. With Professor Zhu, it was the opposite. Because of the differences in our ideas and approaches, after graduation we gradually fell out of contact.

1 Many of my unforgettable times at PKU were in the company of my two close friends, Teng Biao and Yu Jiang. Teng Biao and I were both disciples of the same teacher, having both been chosen as Zhu Suli’s only doctoral students for 1999. He was a shy, quiet kid from a village in Huadian, Jilin, who did nothing but study during primary and secondary school. Once, when his uncle came to visit, he was thrilled to hear Teng Biao call out “Uncle,” because it was so rare for this child of so few words to say anything at all without prodding from others. Teng Biao spent a total of eleven years at PKU, beginning in 1991. He studied law as an undergraduate, and then got a master’s degree in library science before returning to law school for his Ph.D. For Teng Biao, PKU was a completely new world, and those eleven years thoroughly transformed his life. There, he encountered brilliant new ideas, the likes of which he had never heard before. There, he became a poet, writing many exquisite verses. There, he fell happily in love, the box of love letters from those days becoming the most valuable possession for him and his wife. There, a mere two years after arriving at university, this guy took the unexpectedly daring step of putting up a critical “big-character poster” in the Triangle, an act for which he was sent, in all righteousness, to the university security office. Yu Jiang had served as a police officer for three years after graduating from university. This was an experience he was most unwilling to discuss. Once after having too much to drink, he told a story about a

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time when he savagely beat up a mugger, then he turned and walked out the door, wiping the tears that began streaming from his eyes. This burly guy from a local police station would go on to be a member of the academic elite at PKU Law School. During his three years as a doctoral student, he published more than twenty academic articles, the absolute leader among all of us doctoral students in the law school. So, immediately after graduating at the age of thirty, he was hired as a full professor by Huazhong University of Science and Technology. I really got to know Yu Jiang during the student sit-in at Jingyuan Lawn on May 24, 2000. That was the time of the so-called Qiu Qingfeng affair at PKU. Earlier that month, a first-year student named Qiu Qingfeng had been murdered on the road while returning to the Changping campus of PKU in the northwestern suburbs of Beijing. Students gathered to mourn her death began to express their dissatisfaction about living on the Changping campus, and university officials, fearing an incident, tried to block the students from holding memorial activities. Suddenly, what had started out as an ordinary criminal incident turned into a student protest. Gathered on the Jingyuan Lawn, I gave a speech expressing my views on the incident and criticism of the way the university had handled things. Someone was making a video recording, and some of the students began shouting about wanting to smash his video camera. I told them that we shouldn’t be afraid of being recorded, because everything we were doing was perfectly above-board. After the protest, I received a note from Yu Jiang reminding me to be careful. Though we each knew of the other before that point, we were not friends. After all, there were 108 people in our class of doctoral students. Later, the matter ended peacefully and the Changping campus protest was relegated to history. After the Jingyuan Lawn incident, Teng, Yu, and I gradually came to be known as the “Three Swordsmen” of the law school. The three of us would often discuss subjects like liberalism, “New Left” thinking, rule of law, democracy, tradition, culture, language, and post-modernism. We established a “mini-reserve.” At first we would meet at a small Sichuan restaurant outside the small East Gate, where we would discuss academic topics over fish boiled in spicy chili oil and bottles of Erguotou liquor. After that place was torn down, we moved to a location in the “Tiger Cave” area outside of the south gate of the university. When that area was also razed, we moved to a Laomajia noodle place outside the West Gate. Not long afterward, the spring before graduation, that Laomajia place was also torn down. We were forced to relocate to

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the Triangle Restaurant on campus, which we had always previously looked down upon. However, the good thing about the Triangle Restaurant was that it was not too far from Weiming Lake. When we had been out drinking and hadn’t finished our discussion by closing time, we could always go continue our arguments by the side of the lake. One day in May, shortly before graduation, we had finished drinking at about one o’clock in the morning. We were riding our bicycles around Weiming Lake, singing, when suddenly a young man rushed over to us saying that someone had tried to commit suicide. We abandoned our bicycles and raced over to see. I was the first to arrive and saw that a girl had jumped into the lake. I rushed over and grabbed her by the arm, and the three of us pulled her over to shore. Fortunately, the lake was not deep, and we only got wet up to our waists. We all went over to Building 27 so that she could change her clothes. We soon began to chat. She said her boyfriend was a graduate student at PKU and that, for the sake of their love, she had abandoned a steady job to come to Beijing to be with him. But it was difficult to find work, and the two of them often argued. After their most recent argument she was suddenly overcome with despair and decided to commit suicide. That morning, as I proudly made my way back to my bed from Yu Jiang’s dormitory, I suddenly had a strange thought: these three years, my stories on the shores of Weiming Lake seemed to have become complete.

1 I first logged on to the “Yi Ta Hu Tu” (“Complete Mess”) BBS [bulletin board system] in the spring of 2000. That was a whole new world for me, a place where I didn’t need to keep my thoughts to myself, hidden inside a drawer. My login ID on the YTHT and PKU Weiming BBS systems was “sunnypku.” My screen name was “Free China” and my signature line was “A Life Spent in Pursuit of a Dream.” Here, I soon came to know other users like “monic,” “bridged,” “bambi,” and “puccini.” We were all well known online for being “rightists” who often got into arguments with “leftists.” On the night of September 11, 2001, photos of the burning World Trade Center suddenly began appearing on the YTHT forum. At first, I thought someone was playing a prank, but soon it was confirmed that there had been a terrorist attack. Many online users cheered the attack. I, “monic,” and others issued a signed statement in response to those

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cheering the incident, condemning the terrorist attack and calling on others to cherish life. Over the next two days, I got into heated online arguments with many people. I firmly opposed the terrorist attack and attacked those who hailed the attack as terrorist accomplices. The article that drew the most intense online criticism was one entitled “To the Terrorists’ Minions,” which contained many fierce statements like this: “It would be too kind to call you fascists. You don’t deserve to be called human, let alone Chinese. I’m ashamed of people like you, without a shred of conscience, and the way you insult the dignity of Chinese people infuriates me.” Not long afterwards, though, I came to regret such statements. I gradually came to understand the value system behind those who cheered for 9-11. Often in this world, there is no simple divide between true and false ideas. Rather, it is a question of different sides to an issue. It is just like the way that leftists and rightists view the problems facing humanity from different perspectives and propose different solutions. Even when one side is proven wrong, it is “wrong” only in terms of the past and present and does not necessarily mean that their ideas can never be applied to human society. Instead of saying that Bush represented justice and bin Laden represented evil, or vice versa, it would be better to see each of them as being committed to very different sets of beliefs within humanity. If we truly want to resolve conflict between civilizations, it is no good for one side simply to wipe out the other side. We must find a way of thinking that rises above the two sides. During that period, I wrote two essays: “On World Government” and “Our Common God.” These two seemingly whimsical essays were not the academic explorations of a bystander but rather the product of an activist who was thinking and establishing his goals. “On World Government” conceptualized a new order for humanity’s future. Wherever there are human groupings, there is a need for public power, a power that broadly exists throughout the structural levels of human society. What international society needs now is a public power that transcends national borders. This would include a fully representative democratic decision-making body to serve at the head of government; armed forces to prevent invasions and maintain order; judicial organs to resolve disputes and punish crime; economic institutions to reduce trade barriers, protect against financial risk, and coordinate economic development in each country and region; and environmental protection bodies, a space-exploration body, and social insurance institutions to resolve the problem of poverty.

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World government is no utopian idea, and neither is it something that needs to be created out of thin air. Rather, it is something that has already begun to appear as a response to the changing times. Looking at the institutional structure of world government, the institutions all currently exist in various forms, even though some are still only in their earliest stages of development. For example, the United Nations serves as a decision-making body and the Hague Court serves as a judicial institution. Humanity needs a clearer understanding and initiative to promote the development of transnational institutions of public power. In fact, thanks to technological development, economic globalization, growing moral consensus, and China’s democratization, we are already witnessing this natural trend of development. “Our Common God” was a reflection on religion. All religions worship the same God, but people’s understanding of God is limited. It is this human limitation that causes people to believe that theirs is the only true God and that other forms of worship are incorrect. This, then, has led to religious wars. Civilizational conflict can be prevented if only humanity were to recognize that the different religions are merely vestiges of historical culture and different paths by which people of different temperaments come to understand God. Human social order needs the establishment of democracy and rule of law. Building a transnational world government to resolve cultural conflict and common human problems like the environment is not a faroff, unattainable dream. And I believe that a China with democracy and rule of law can play an important role in the process of building this great human civilization.

1 In March 2001, I had an unexpected opportunity when I encountered a petitioning farmer from Tieling, Liaoning, named Liang Guilin. During the construction of the Shenyang-Harbin Expressway in 1995, 113 acres of land were requisitioned in his village of Diyunsuo. After only a few years, however, local officials squandered all of the funds that had been given to the village as compensation for the land. Liang came to Beijing to petition on behalf of his fellow villagers, who now had neither land nor compensation funds. I accompanied Liang Guilin back to Diyunsuo. After two days of investigation, the basic crux of the problem became clear to me. In

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order to cover up their mishandling of the compensation funds, the village committee planned to reallocate land within the entire village by taking land from village units with more land and transferring it to units that had lost land in the requisition. In the process, Unit 8 stood to lose more than 13 acres, based on its proportion of the village population. I worked hard to help resolve the problem from a position of neutrality. In fact, I was also helping the local government. I gathered together representatives from the villagers and told them my analysis of the situation. I proposed an intermediate plan that involved demanding appropriate compensation from the township government and village committee for any land given up by villagers. As for the corruption by the former village committee leadership, it had already been investigated by the relevant authorities and it was unlikely that there would be any further developments. The focus should be on taking the next round of elections seriously and selecting a village committee that villagers felt comfortable with, as well as on establishing mechanisms for proper accounting and oversight that would prevent this type of thing from happening again in the future. After convincing the villager representatives, I decided to convene a meeting of all the villagers in order to explain my views and hope that a resolution to the conflict could be reached right there. This was, in effect, my attempt to be accountable to the villagers as I prepared to leave. But all of these efforts aroused the misunderstanding and anger of local government officials. At just after 2 p.m. on March 24, 200–300 villagers gathered in the courtyard of the Diyunsuo Village government to listen to me discuss the legal issues in the case. Someone told me that some people had come from the township. Going out to greet them, I was met by a group of public security officers and other cadres led by the director of the Tieling Office of Letters and Visits, which handles citizen petitions. They were very aggressive, and as soon as they arrived they asked me: “What gives you the right to come here?!” I immediately retorted: “I am a citizen of the People’s Republic of China. Of course I have the right to come here!” Then, in front of several hundred people, we began to have a public debate. In their anger, they shoved me into a police vehicle, which was immediately surrounded by a large group of villagers. The atmosphere was very tense, and violence could erupt at any moment. I told the villagers to make way and stop blocking the vehicle. The siren blared the entire way as they took me to the police station. In the meantime, many of my friends from Peking University had

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heard the news and began calling the police station to inquire after me. A call to rescue me was launched online, with some even proposing a march to protest my detention. With this strong support from my classmates, the authorities had no choice but to release me after six hours. That evening, it began to snow heavily. When they set me free, they warned me not to return to the village. But I said that I had to go back, otherwise the villagers would worry about me. I immediately took a taxi back to Diyunsuo. Many people were gathered at Liang Guilin’s house, worrying about me. When they saw that I had returned, some of the old folks nearly began to cry. But that night, as I said my goodbyes, an unidentified black shadow had already fallen over the village. I arrived back at PKU a day later. At nearly the same time, a local official from Tieling arrived at the university, telling school officials that I had disrupted social order and demanding that I be punished.They also used their connections to contact the Ministry of State Security, which contacted the Ministry of Education, which in turn put pressure on PKU. I heard that someone had proposed that I be expelled, but my advisor withstood the pressure and enabled me to continue my studies. I never again heard from Liang Guilin and don’t know how he is doing now these many years later. What I regret most about this incident is that I was not able to help the villagers, and I am deeply pained that Liang Guilin was sentenced to a year of reeducation through labor as a result. In July 2002, as the day approached for leaving PKU and I was gathered for a group chat on the PKU Weiming BBS, I suddenly felt as if the previous three years had gone by so quickly. I began writing a collection of stories set on the shores of Weiming Lake entitled Weiming Memories. Many years later, the sounds from one of those stories continue to echo in my mind. It was the eve of the new millenium, and there was a carnival atmosphere as a whole bunch of us gathered on ice-covered Weiming Lake, holding hands and singing and dancing. As my friends and I danced and sang joyously, we fell down countless times on the ice, only to get right back up and continue celebrating. It was as if we were celebrating together with the entire world—no matter whether we knew each other or not, we all had this moment together. Just before the dawn, we followed the sound of the bells to the lake’s southern shore, where many students were already gathered around the hill that sits there. Suddenly, we were startled to hear a

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voice: “Fellow students, let us pray together for the coming new century! Let us pray for a free, prosperous, and strong China! Long live our great and hallowed Peking University!” Though I did not know whose voice it was, I knew that such a voice could only come from Peking University—the last sacred ground of idealism in China.

2 Village Travels: My Days at the Rural Edition of China Reform

A group of idealists gathered here to carry out an experiment that was doomed to fail. But with the gradual passage of time, the memories that remain are of the accomplishments.

1 My village travels in July 2002 marked the beginning of my time working at the magazine China Reform. I had just gotten my Ph.D. from Peking University and went to teach law at the Beijing University of Posts and Telecommunications. My idealism motivated me to join the magazine, where a group of other idealistic friends was already gathered. Together with my colleagues Liu Xiangbo and Qiu Jiansheng from the magazine’s “rural edition,” I went to investigate conditions in parts of Hubei, Henan, and Anhui. During that sweltering summer as we traveled to the mountains of Shennongjia and to many villages in Hubei and Henan, we witnessed a great deal of hopeless despair. The first few days after we arrived at one village in northwestern Hubei, the local medical authorities conducted a random test of 140 people and discovered six who were infected with HIV. None of the villagers knew the results, though, and they were all trying to guess who might be infected. A panic began to brew from all of the rumors that were circulating, and buses would shut their windows up tight as they passed by on the road. On the evening of July 31, we visited the home of Cui Zisheng, one of the villagers infected with HIV. His body was stooped over as he rose from bed and came out to meet us in the courtyard, where he managed 27

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to offer a weak grin from a face scarred with measles. Ten days after we left the village, we got the news that he had died. In Xishan County, Anhui, we ran into the family members of seven petitioning farmers. To protest the onerous taxes that had been levied against them, these farmers had organized villagers to engage in collective petitioning, and as a result they had been locked up in the detention center for as long as seven months, facing prosecution for the crime of disrupting public order. When we got there, they were still waiting for the court to issue its verdict in the case. We went to make representations with the judges handling the case, telling them that we thought the petitioners were innocent. I warned them that if they convicted these farmers I would personally represent them and appeal the verdict all the way to the Supreme People’s Court. Later, the court acquitted them. By the side of a rugged mountain path through the Shennongjia mountains, my friends and I spent the whole night in long conversations about justice and our ideals. In Wenlou Village, Shangcai County, Henan, we saw cluster after cluster of new graves in the fields, many of them small and child-sized. In September 2002, I formally applied to lead the editorial office at the rural edition of China Reform. There was a group of other idealists gathered there, including Li Changping, Liu Xiangbo, Qiu Jiansheng, and Tu Ming. But, unfortunately, the rural edition seemed doomed from the beginning to be that group of idealists’ failure. I was the editorial director, but my views differed widely from those of the managing editor and editor-in-chief. I wanted to turn the rural edition of this influential, mainstream current affairs magazine into a place for rural people (including new urban immigrants) to make their voices heard and to be a place to promote economic and political reform and urbanization. The editor immediately above me hoped to make the rural edition a magazine that would provide farmers with practical information about agricultural policies, fertilizer, and pesticides. The editor-in-chief’s idea was to provide a platform for anti-market, antiglobalization opinions. With the three of us each going in three different directions, this was truly a recipe for disaster. I have many regrets about the six months I spent at the rural edition. This group of idealists was never able to turn their ideals into anything. Several months later, I left. Three months after that, Li Changping left as well. More than a year later, the rural edition folded due to poor sales. The conflict began with an article about people who had been forced to move because of a reservoir construction project. I refused to

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publish the article because it lacked strong reporting and because I thought it could lead to us getting sued for libel. The author, who was also a colleague and friend, would not listen to my advice, and we had a falling out. I got all worked up and soon obtained evidence that he had received payments from villagers that he had never recorded in the company accounts. The conflict lasted until the end of the year. That was a bitter experience, one that I have often reflected on ever since. But with the gradual passage of time, more of the memories that remain are of the accomplishments. It was at the magazine that I began to focus my attention on the problem of petitioning and focus on custody and repatriation. It was there that I got to know some very good friends.

1 Each weekend, the rural edition editorial office would arrange for editors and reporters to be available to meet with petitioners. For a time, so many petitioners were coming that the local police station started sending a police car to sit downstairs. In my work diary from September 9, I recorded a meeting with a woman petitioner from Jiangxi: This afternoon I met with a woman who came from Jiangxi to petition. Her 55-year-old husband was sentenced to 10 years in prison for kidnapping after detaining a cadre during a dispute the villagers were having with local officials. After reading the appeals court decision, I was almost in tears. The only thought in my mind was how vicious that bunch of corrupt officials were! The facts were clearly laid out in the decision: Her husband had led petitioners demanding that the village accounts be made public, and when a villager representative was taken into custody in the county seat, the villagers angrily detained a cadre that the county had dispatched to the village. Clearly, the villagers’ goal was to have someone give them a proper response and to oppose corruption. But the result was that this bunch of scoundrels actually slapped a kidnapping charge on the farmer and gave him a 10 year prison sentence. This was simply too cruel! Just like that, they treated the law as if it were their plaything, and the poor farmer was simply helpless. I remained in a kind of shock all afternoon. I swear I’ll rescue her husband—I must! But we ultimately were unable to help. No matter how we petitioned the court, we were ignored. For several years afterward, we fre-

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quently found ourselves in the same helpless position as those who were caught up in these tragic individual cases. At the end of 2002, a reporter friend sent me a piece telling the story of a stubborn petitioner from Shuangyashan named Ma Jiyun. After Ma had her family’s tractor cart stolen, the thieves were caught using the car to steal coal. The cart was impounded and was put to use for a long time by the Shuangyashan Public Security Bureau. Ma Jiyun sued, but although she later recovered the cart, the court did not support her demand to have the tractor repaired or her demand to be compensated for the period that the tractor was impounded. So, Ma Jiyun continued to petition court and administrative authorities. The case went back and forth for more than a decade, all part of Ma’s search for some clear accountability. On the morning of October 24, 2002, two police officers assigned to the Baoshan District People’s Court pressed Ma Jiyun to the ground, shoved her in the trunk of their police vehicle, and drove her to the police station, where they locked her up. The Shuangyashan city government told the reporter that Ma Jiyun had been “placed under custody and education for three months” because she had engaged in “many years of annoying litigation” and had “blocked a high official’s vehicle.” I made some telephone calls to find out more details, edited the article, and added the following commentary: Making a Personal Sacrifice for Rule-of-Law Progress Ma Jiyun has spent the past 13 years enduring hardship as she’s gone around from place to place, all because her cart was impounded and put to use by the public security bureau. Perhaps some will ask, “Was it really worth it? Just endure it and let the past be the past.” However, when we look at things from the standpoint of seeking progress for all of society, we will discover that it is precisely the ordinary and stubborn people like Ma Jiyun who rely on their own sacrifices to push forward the progress of rule of law for all of us. It is not that uncommon for a public security bureau or other government agency investigating a case to seize or even make use of the property of an innocent bystander. This reporter has previously received many complaints of this nature. According to current law, when the public security bureau seizes property in the course of an investigation, it is considered a judicial act that does not fall under the scope of either administrative punishment or civil litigation. For the person whose property has been seized, this represents a lacuna in the law. Often, when local public security bureaus seize property illegally, local courts will not even accept lawsuits, and affected parties have no choice but to swallow their anger. Ma Jiyun did not remain silent. She stood up to protect her own rights and interests. Of course, this has meant enduring hardships,

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because ordinary people often can’t win a lawsuit even when the law is clearly in their favor. It’s even harder when the provisions of the law are not clear at all! It is precisely through Ma Jiyun’s personal sacrifice and her identification of this sort of legal problem that the issue has generated widespread popular concern and discussion from legal experts. In this way, it also becomes possible for the legislature to reflect on the problem and serve as impetus for revision or amendment of the law. Yes, this is all merely a “possibility,” but these sorts of possibilities— and the promotion of social progress that accompanies them—are being created by one little person after another. Looking back at more than 20 years of legal development, weren’t many reforms started in just this way? Many people choose silence, but Ma Jiyun spoke up through her actions. She endured intimidation, beatings, and detention, but she did not back down. Relying only on herself, she went around making appeals and ultimately used the objective facts to fill up that blank space in the law. Through her actions, more and more people have begun to pay attention to this problem. This is a weighty social responsibility for a rural woman like her, and she has made a heavy sacrifice for it! We owe her our respect!

Ultimately, I wasn’t able to help her at all. Ma Jiyun and her counsel, Sheng Qifang, continued their struggle. These two venerable elderly people later put forward a recommendation that Heilongjiang’s use of custody and education be made subject to constitutional review. By the end of 2003, those regulations had been repealed. In the course of receiving petitioners, I got a deeper understanding of the custody and repatriation system, which many of them had experienced first hand. As I chatted with the fruit vendors or tricycle-cart drivers in the streets around the China Reform bureau, I discovered that many of them were migrants who had also previously been sent to custody and repatriation. In the area around Xizhimen, I got to know the family of a fruit vendor named Qin Bing. They were a classic example of new immigrants to the city. The husband and wife peddled their tricycle cart throughout the city selling fruit while their daughter studied at Beixiaguan Primary School. Qin Bing would be detained for custody and repatriation nearly once a year. I wanted to experience that personally, so I asked him how I could get myself thrown into a custody and education center. He half-jokingly suggested I pedal around on his tricycle cart, because that would greatly increase my chances of getting detained. Later, though, the Sun Zhigang tragedy interrupted our planned experiment.

3 The Death of Sun Zhigang and the Citizen Recommendation to Appeal “Custody and Repatriation”

As a person with a background in law, I don’t want others to say that our recommendation was a “petition.” This is because our recommendation for constitutional review was not a supplication made to some leading official. Rather, it was a legal document submitted in strict accordance with procedures defined by legislative provisions. The pain of Sun Zhigang’s death was felt by the entire nation. It was a sorrow that we shall forever feel in our hearts. Perhaps many years from now, the importance of the Sun Zhigang affair will become more apparent. After many years, people will see that this wasn’t merely the death of one citizen and it wasn’t simply the end of a bad law. This was, in fact, the beginning of a citizens’ rights movement, and insofar as the continuations of this movement will lead directly into a modern, civilized China with democracy and human rights, Sun Zhigang’s death marked the beginning of a new era.

1 On April 25, 2003, Southern Metropolis Daily published an article by reporter Chen Feng entitled “University Graduate Savagely Beaten to Death After Being Put in Custody for Failing to Carry Temporary Residence Permit.” A university graduate named Sun Zhigang, who had been working as a designer in a Guangzhou clothing factory, had been sent by police to a “custody and repatriation” center for going out without his temporary residence permit. There at the center, he was beaten to death. This article was quickly republished on all of the major web portals, and the death of this innocent young man shocked the entire country. 33

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I learned of the fate that had befallen Sun Zhigang on PKU’s “Yi Ta Hu Tu” BBS. The relatives of this innocent man who had been beaten to death in a strange city had spent nearly a month criss-crossing back and forth between the “relevant departments,” each of which treated them with cold disdain. “What is wrong with this society?” I thought as I stared into my computer screen for a long time. I had been concerned about custody and repatriation for some time. If it had not been for the SARS epidemic, I had originally planned to spend the upcoming May First holiday conducting a two-week investigation in a village in the northern outskirts of Beijing in order to understand the problem of temporary residence permits and custody and repatriation. Instead, another awful tragedy had unfolded at that very moment right before my eyes. It made me terribly sad. Sun Zhigang’s death was not an isolated, random occurrence. Just consider these published reports: At approximately 9 p.m. on June 19, 2001, Biao Yonggen, a resident of Liu’er Village in Shuncheng District, Fushun, who had operated a small restaurant in Shenyang for many years, was detained by a police officer from the Tuanjie Road Police Station in Shenhe District for failing to apply for a temporary residence permit and sent to the Shenyang Custody and Repatriation Center. At approximately 5 p.m. on June 26, a van with public security markings stopped beside the gate of the Liu’er Village Committee, and three or four men in plainclothes carried Biao, who was then unconscious and foaming at the mouth, out of the vehicle and placed him by the side of the road before the vehicle drove away. On the evening of July 11, Biao died at the age of 42 from acute kidney and heart failure brought on by multiple trauma injuries. (China Youth Daily, September 24, 2001) On December 11, 1998, Huang Zhongsheng, a third-year middleschool student from Fangchenggang City, Guangxi, wandered off and got lost while on a trip to Nanning with classmates to view the celebrations marking the 40th anniversary of the founding of the Guangxi Autonomous Region. Huang sought help from a traffic policeman, who then called the 110 emergency line. The emergency response unit sent Huang Zhongsheng to a police station, which in turn sent him to the custody-and-repatriation center. At the center, Huang was beaten by other detainees and had his watch and a silver chain stolen. After leaving the custody-and-repatriation center on December 15, Huang was examined by the Guangxi Medical University Hospital, where he was diagnosed with trauma-induced mental illness, wounds to the chest, and three broken ribs. (http://www.china.org.cn/chinese/11706.htm)

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A young woman from Hunan surnamed Su wanted to go to Zengcheng, Guangdong, to seek employment. She had an outbound employment permit and temporary residence permit, but she was not carrying her identification card when she was stopped for questioning by a patrolling police officer at the Guangzhou Railway Station. The patrol officer tore up her permits on the spot and placed her in a police vehicle, which transported her to a psychiatric hospital that held men and women together where she was detained while awaiting repatriation. She was thrown into a room with several dozen men, who violently gang-raped her over the following several days. (http://www .nanfangdaily.com.cn/ds/0007/27/dszh2712.htm) In December 2000, Beijing police rescued more than 10 women who had been forced into prostitution at the Jinbao Hotel in Shijingshan District. Most of them were minors, the youngest of whom was 13 years old. These “prostitutes” had been “purchased” from a custodyand-repatriation center in Xuzhou, Jiangsu, by hotel manager Miao Changshun and his wife Geng Xiuzhen. This was Beijing’s first-ever case of forcing minors to engage in prostitution, and Miao was subsequently convicted of organizing prostitution and sentenced to death by the Beijing First Intermediate Court. (Yangcheng Evening News, September 13, 2001)

There are too many tragic stories like this. Thousands upon thousands of unregistered members of the “urban underclass” were detained, beaten, forced to engage in labor, and repatriated—all for no reason at all. Most of them simply suffered in silence, because they were powerless to fight back and because those who humiliated them and flagrantly violated their dignity and right to life were not isolated, ordinary individuals. Rather, this was all done in the name of law and in the name of the state. What was behind their humiliation and the violation of their rights? It was a system called “custody and repatriation.” In 1958, China instituted a household registration system that separated people into either urban or rural households. Thus began a halfcentury’s history of partition between the cities and the countryside. Rural people had to remain in their villages, fixed in place to work the land without any social insurance protections. If they wanted to enjoy the social insurance protections available to the urban population, they could only do so through extremely limited paths such as education, military service, or cadre promotion. If they went on their own to the cities to seek new employment or life opportunities, they faced serious restrictions and punishment—detention by the police and forced repatriation back to their hometowns.

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In order to maintain the management order of the planned economy, on November 11, 1961, the Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party approved the Ministry of Public Security’s “Report on Prevention of Free Population Migration,” which decided to establish “custody and repatriation centers” in large- and medium-sized cities. This was the formal beginning of the system of custody and repatriation. On May 12, 1982, the State Council issued “Measures for Custody and Repatriation of Urban Migrants and Beggars,” which made custody and repatriation into a legal institution. In 1991, the State Council issued its “Opinion on Reform of Custody and Repatriation Work,” which expanded the scope of the system’s targets to include any member of the migrant population failing to hold one of the “three permits”—the identification card, temporary residence permit, and employment permit. In Beijing, for example, 149,359 individuals were placed under custody and repatriation in 1999. In the first half of 2000, 180,000 were placed under custody and repatriation. In 2002, the number grew to 220,000. I had long planned to help those subjected to custody and repatriation file administrative lawsuits as a way of raising public awareness of this problem. I had found the case of a scavenger from Anhui who was sent to custody and repatriation and beaten so badly there that he lost the sight of one eye. He had originally been willing to serve as the plaintiff in a lawsuit, but he later grew afraid. This is understandable: after all, he still wanted to continue living in this city and had many apprehensions about filing a lawsuit against the public security bureau. Sun Zhigang’s death was a great tragedy, but sometimes tragedies can serve as turning points for social progress. When a system that has done so much evil for so many years creates an extreme form of evil, that system has reached its final days. Complete strangers set up an online memorial site for Sun Zhigang entitled “No Temporary Resident Permits Needed in Heaven.” As I entered the web site for the first time, tears began streaming down my face. So many online users, strangers to each other, began spontaneously writing posts, expressing sympathy for Sun Zhigang and denouncing the custody and repatriation system. The May First holiday was approaching, and I and other online friends I had never met before began discussing what kind of memorial activity we might carry out that could also serve as a way of expressing our protest. We hoped that the memorial would be peaceful and rational and that it would not violate the provisions of the Law on Assembly, Marches, and Demonstrations. So I proposed that the memorial be held indoors (because, according to the

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law, indoor activities could not constitute an assembly or march) and that Sun Zhigang’s relatives be present. Because of SARS, however, a memorial could not be held in Beijing. In the end, then, memorials could only be held in Guangzhou and Shenzhen. From the beginning, Yu Jiang and Teng Biao also participated in these discussions. On the “Triangle” and “Citizen Life” forums of the YTHT BBS, we discussed with others what we could do besides making public calls for action. At a moment when millions of people were paying attention to the case, the three of us decided that we ought to express our concern in a way that made use of our special legal training.

1 One morning in early May [of 2003] I received a call from Yu Jiang, who was still in Wuhan. He reminded me that Article 90 of the Legislation Law provided for the right of citizens to present recommendations for constitutional review to the National People’s Congress Standing Committee. This citizen recommendation was not the ordinary kind of thing where citizens expressed their opinions and made recommendations to officials at higher levels. Rather, there was a particular legal process involved through which, following an initial review, a formal legal review process could be initiated “when necessary.” One could think of this like citizens filing suit in court. The NPC Standing Committee was like a court, but it had the ability to choose whether or not to accept the “lawsuit” brought by citizens. Teng Biao and I were excited, and the three of us quickly agreed to prepare a constitutional review recommendation and submit it to the NPC Standing Committee as citizens. Our goal was not only to change the custody and repatriation system but also to get the constitutional review system working. I quickly wrote an initial draft of about 4,000 characters. Its main points were that the measures governing custody and repatriation violated the constitution and other relevant laws and that it created a large number of social problems in practice. The draft recommended that the NPC Standing Committee either submit a proposal to the State Council to reform the system or use its own legal authority to abolish the system directly. In an email, Yu Jiang suggested that we avoid discussing the practical problems of custody and repatriation, which, if we wanted, would be better included in an appendix. I made some further revisions to my draft based on the two separate drafts I received from the other two,

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reflecting their different styles, and condensed the recommendation into 1,000 words. The recommendation only dealt with the problems associated with legal procedure. As an administrative regulation, the section of the Custody and Repatriation Measures that dealt with restriction of individual freedom were in conflict with the constitution and other relevant legislation. As citizens, we were submitting a recommendation for review to the NPC Standing Committee in accordance with the law. Even though the material in the appendix was very emotionally moving, this was, in the end, a legal issue. Furthermore, since we lacked a forceful and complete investigative report, the logical exposition and list of tragic individual cases presented in the appendix was inadequate to prove the need for abolition of the custody and repatriation system. So, in order to clarify our recommendation and reduce the degree of controversy as much as possible, we only discussed the procedural issues. Next, we began to consider what might become of our recommendation. Perhaps it would wind up like many others, a mere reference opinion for some government agency. Or perhaps it would even get tossed in the rubbish bin after a simple glance. It was necessary to have the attention of public opinion; without it, there would be no results. But Yu Jiang and Teng Biao both tended toward quiet academic life and did not want to make a big scene, so they were wary about seeking media attention. But we soon came to a unanimous agreement, realizing that what we hoped for would never come to pass without media attention. With it, our actions would have some significance within society, even if they did not lead to results in terms of the law. Another question was how many people should sign our recommendation. One idea was to collect signatures from many people, especially legal experts. This is something that many scholars had done in the past. We vetoed this plan because, on the one hand, we feared that it might create unnecessary sensitivity and, on the other, we hoped that our actions would be understood as a purely legal effort—more like a lawsuit than like a public appeal. For this group of us with our legal backgrounds, our stubborn hope was that we could use the rule of law to solve rule-of-law problems. So, only the three of us signed the recommendation, and we identified ourselves as citizens of the People’s Republic of China. This was not an appeal or recommendation put forward by bystanders. Rather, we were the subjects of a formal legal document, like the plaintiffs in a lawsuit. This recommendation had nothing to do with our profession or

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our educational background. Each and every citizen had the right to make this sort of recommendation. To symbolize our identity as citizens, we listed our identification card numbers after our names. On May 11, we began to think about when we ought to submit the recommendation, as well as to whom and in what form. As far as the opportunity to submit the document was concerned, our main considerations were the SARS crisis and the degree of public concern over custody and repatriation. If we were to wait too long, the issue would begin to fade from people’s memory. I proposed that we submit the document as quickly as possible, and we soon came to an agreement on this. But what truly prompted us to act quickly was a news item published by the Xinhua News Agency on May 13. On May 13, a Xinhua news item appeared simultaneously on all websites: A break had been made in the Sun Zhigang case, with police taking thirteen criminal suspects into custody and three derelict officials under investigation by the procuratorate. This news delivered a clear signal to the public that there were results in the case. But we were much more worried that the case might be considered closed and that the media had been ordered to stop reporting on the case. No matter what punishment were given to the culprits, it would not bring Sun Zhigang back to life. If the matter simply stopped with justice in this individual case and custody and repatriation were not abolished, who knew how many more people would fall into harm’s way. We were extremely concerned that if no new voices emerged, public opinion would slowly begin to die down in one or two weeks, the Sun Zhigang case would end there, and custody and repatriation would continue on as before. It was thus necessary for us to deliver the recommendation on May 14. Even if there were no longer any space to discuss Sun Zhigang’s case publicly, the media had not been prohibited from reporting on the problems of the system of custody and repatriation itself. It was urgent that we shift the focus from the individual case to the institutional level—not only to the institution of custody and repatriation but also to the institution of constitutional review. Only if there were institutional change would there be benefits that reached many more people. It was raining heavily in Beijing that day. I gave the completed recommendation document to Teng Biao. In the afternoon, he sent the recommendation by fax to the NPC Standing Committee’s Legislative Affairs Committee and followed up by telephone to confirm receipt. Then, he went to the post office to mail a copy. At the same time, he contacted the Legal Daily and the China Youth Daily, hoping that they

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would show some interest. These were the top two media outlets on our list.

1 Delivery of the recommendation was merely a new beginning for our work. We didn’t dare harbor any wild expectations that custody and repatriation would be abolished in the short term. At the time, we thought it would take six months or even two years or more of hard work, but we were convinced that abolition was only a matter of time. Of course, abolition of custody and repatriation was not our only goal. We hoped that the NPC Standing Committee would launch a review procedure and require the relevant authorities to reform or abolish these administrative regulations that violated the constitution and other laws. At the same time, we also hoped that the NPC Standing Committee would use the opportunity of reviewing these administrative regulations to establish a set of review procedures and promote a unified national legal system by beginning to review all of the other administrative regulations and local provisions that violated the constitution and other laws. Our work at that point could be divided into two major tasks: criticism and construction. We planned to set up a website dedicated to custody and repatriation, a section of which would be devoted to collecting accounts of the damage that had been done by the system. We wanted to continue telling Chinese citizens: “This evil law exists and it needs to be abolished.” Of course, it was even more important to be constructive and search for a system that could replace custody and repatriation after it was abolished. Even though custody and repatriation had caused many disastrous consequences in practice, every system has its own particular social functions. We had to consider what new problems society might encounter once custody and repatriation was abolished and think about possible solutions. We also needed to study the possibility of transforming custody and repatriation centers into relief and assistance centers, as well as the state’s ability to support such a system. We needed to build upon other countries’ successful experiences in urban management and providing relief and assistance. We hoped that we might quickly come forward with a plan that, on the one hand, could avoid major social problems from emerging when custody and repatriation was abolished and, on the other hand, help to convince the relevant authorities and the general public.

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On June 8, we drafted our recommendations regarding revision of the Custody and Repatriation Measures based upon our preliminary research. We proposed separating the punitive and relief functions of the measures and approach reform of the administrative regulations while keeping practical social functions in mind. The negative impact of the Custody and Repatriation Measures in practice had already led to widespread concerns throughout society, but if you wanted to abolish or reform them, it would not be enough to simply talk about these negative effects. You also had to do further analysis to determine whether the system as it existed in the real world served many functions for which substitutes could not be easily found. It is only when the defects of an institution outnumber its positive aspects that one can safely predict that changing that system will bring more benefits than harms. Moreover, it is only when existing functions can be replaced that reforming an institution becomes a rational possibility. Therefore, given that the negative effects of custody and repatriation were widely known by the public, discussions of whether to retain or abolish the system needed to seriously analyze the possibility of replacing the system’s practical functions. There were two main social functions served by custody and repatriation: maintaining the order of urban society and helping vagrants and beggars to find a place in society. In the eyes of those who were being placed in custody, the former function meant punishment in which the person subject to custody and repatriation became the object of urban social order. The latter function was one of providing relief, in which the person subject to custody and repatriation enjoyed a right to material assistance from the state. First of all, with respect to the function of maintaining urban social order, our initial investigation found that, for the vast majority of those subjected to custody and repatriation, the system entailed serious punishment, including restriction of their personal liberty, and did not involve relief. Moreover, the public justification for this punishment against them was the maintenance of urban social order. Urban management follows a kind of primitive logic, in which outsiders are unlawful, criminal elements and chasing them out will naturally lead to an improvement in urban public safety. In Beijing, for example, 220,000 people were subjected to custody and repatriation in 2002. This meant that 220,000 people were punished in the name of so-called urban social order, even though the vast majority of them were not unlawful, criminal elements. This is unfair treatment and violates fundamental rule-of-law principles.

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Against the larger backdrop of urbanization, these simple and crude control measures were extremely limited in terms of their effectiveness. According to our investigation of migrant laborers in the Beixiaguan neighborhood of Beijing, approximately one third of the cheap urban labor force made up of construction workers and peddlers had been subjected to custody and repatriation. Each time, they spent no more than a few days at home before returning to Beijing. Some even returned immediately upon release from the custody and repatriation center. In other words, custody and repatriation did not prevent the rural population from coming to the cities; it only caused them to endure a moment of discrimination and deprivation for no good reason. Moreover, many migrant laborers complained that many of those sent to custody and repatriation were migrants engaged solely in honest labor, whereas those engaged in illegal criminal activity often avoided it. This sort of arbitrary punishment that pays no attention to procedure or evidence often befell the innocent. And the problem became even greater when custody and repatriation got linked up with economic interests, which turned custody and repatriation into a form of “pay-for-release” kidnapping. Practice demonstrated that a simplistic and crude measure like custody and repatriation was irresponsible and not a good way to keep new migrants out of the cities. Next, turning to the function of emergency relief, we believed that the people being sent to custody and repatriation were in the best position to judge whether the state’s use of the measure served as relief or punishment. A simple standard would be to see whether they volunteered or were compelled to take part. If a person believed that custody and repatriation was good for him and truly offered him relief, he would willingly accept it. On the other hand, if that person, despite all of the government’s claims that it was doing good, was unwilling to accept and even thinks up ways to evade such “relief,” that can only mean that this sort of “relief” is not actually relief and that the true purpose was punishment. Only a very small number of those subject to custody and repatriation went willingly. In practice, custody and repatriation had become an administrative compulsory behavior and its claimed function of providing relief was virtually non-existent. As for those vagrants and beggars who truly had no means of livelihood, the state has an obligation to provide them with necessary material aid. If a society cannot provide its poorest people with the most basic subsistence and protection, then it will ultimately be unable to maintain social stability or security for the property of all. This sort of

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aid ought to be premised on its voluntary nature. No matter what, welfare measures should not become a compulsory obligation. It is not necessary for the government to establish and run detention centers in order to provide state assistance. Rather, this work can be delegated to social organizations and the state can use appropriate means (for example, tax exemptions) to provide a degree of support to welfare institutions that undertake this kind of work. The custody and repatriation system combined two completely different social functions—maintaining urban social order and providing relief—in a single institution that operated under unclear standards. Operating out of its own self-interest, these enforcement bodies had a dangerous tendency to minimize the relief function and expand the punishment function. More than two decades of practice certainly validated the existence of this tendency. This extreme behavior explains how, in some places, custody and repatriation turned into a profitable “industry.” In order to prevent this dangerous tendency, protect against the violation of citizens’ basic rights, and maintain social stability and national unity, we advocated the separation of the punishment and relief functions in the Custody and Repatriation Measures and the revision of those administrative regulations with an eye toward social functions. In consideration of the degree to which the relevant departments would accept reform, we put forward three types of revision proposals. One would completely abolish custody and repatriation, the second would place strict limits on the targets for custody and repatriation, and the third would transform custody and repatriation into a system of urban relief and assistance. Behind these three proposals were some common principles. The first was the principle of free population mobility. The second was that there should be no punishment without evidence of illegal or criminal acts and that the legitimate rights and interests of the migrant population should enjoy equal protection under the law. The third was that when there is evidence of illegal or criminal acts, punishment should be administered in a lawful and fair manner, without distinction between existing urban residents and outsiders. The fourth was that local people’s congresses may establish measures for managing the migrant population, but these measures may not violate the fundamental rule of law principles set out in the constitution. Fifth, for those who have been forced into vagrancy or begging out of poverty, the state ought to provide the most basic material assistance. Finally, as far as any potential harm to social order caused by vagrants and beggars was concerned,

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decisions about whether to impose punishment must be determined by laws enacted on the basis of democratic procedures. Of course, these revision proposals based on protecting citizens’ fundamental rights would definitely increase society’s burdens for protecting public order. For urban management agencies, especially the public security system, this would admittedly pose a new challenge. However, urbanization is a major historical trend, and China cannot let new phenomena adapt to old management models. It can only adapt its management models to the changing times. Before we had a chance to further revise these draft recommendations, however, the custody and repatriation system was abolished.

1 On May 16, the China Youth Daily reported on our recommendation. Some expert scholars held a seminar on the subject of constitutional review, and He Weifang and some other legal scholars issued a recommendation for the establishment of a special investigative committee. We attracted a lot of media attention and public support. I received many moving letters. Han Xueping, a seventh-grader at the Qingshan Petrochemical Factory Middle School in Wuhan wrote: As a middle-school student, I was heartbroken to read about the brutal death of the young Hubei man Sun Zhigang in Guangzhou. Every life is valuable. If people’s lives cannot be protected because of deficiencies in the law, new legislation must be passed as soon as possible to resolve the problem. This is something that concerns the fundamental rights of each and every citizen. I’d heard some time ago about the temporary residence permits required by the Custody and Repatriation Measures. Often, temporary laborers and migrants will be detained and sent home for not having these permits. Most of them are poor and their lives are very difficult. They are already looked down upon by a minority of urban residents—if the public security authorities require them to get permits and pay fees, this is yet another kind of injury done to them. As a middle-school student, I am concerned about the perfection of our country’s laws. I fervently love our country and really hope that its laws can value the rights of every citizen and protect each citizen from any further harm.

An elderly retired gentleman from Hefei surnamed Xu wrote with a recollection of a tragic incident he witnessed at a custody and repatriation camp on the north side of Mt. Dashu in the early 1960s. That was

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during the three years of the Great Famine, when untold numbers of rural people fled to the cities because they could not bear the hunger. But what awaited them in the cities were laogai (“reform-throughlabor”) teams—precursors of custody and repatriation centers: Many rural people were treated like illegal migrants and rounded up and sent to the Shushan Laogai Team, where they were forced into labor. These unfortunate people couldn’t get enough to eat, and yet they were told to take on very strenuous forced labor. There was no way to escape, as the gates were guarded by men carrying loaded rifles. Who knows how many innocent people from the countryside saw their lives waste away at that one camp? Each day at least one person would die of starvation. Later, an official from the camp surnamed Zhang said that they planted pumpkins on top of the place where they buried all the dead, and those pumpkins grew large and plentiful.

In those days, Mr. Xu had just taken up a new post after being discharged from the army. When he saw those scenes and heard these strange and even spine-chilling remarks, he truly could not believe it. But there was nothing he could do but keep his emotions to himself: Forty years later, as time passed and I grew older I forgot about these things. But when I read a report about your petition today, it made me suddenly recall the brutality I saw at the Shushan Laogai Team. I wanted to tell someone about [it], to settle something that had been weighing on my mind for some time.

My eyes grew moist as I read Mr. Xu’s letter. A clamorous revolutionary era lay behind those silent, nameless dead without any gravestones. If we could say that their deaths truly presaged a wonderful heaven-on-earth for the people, then perhaps this kind of suffering could be revered today as a sort of lofty sacrifice. However, what we see is that, 30 years after the revolution, rural people still face the threat of starvation and, with the planned state economy on the margins of collapse, even the urban population that has enjoyed special protection in the past is living in difficult poverty. We must ask ourselves, was the suffering of these countless individuals really necessary? The reason our recommendation received such widespread support was because it touched a scar deep in the soul of our nation. It was high time that we began to resolve these problems left as remnants of history, like the law enforces distinctions between urban and rural people in terms of their citizen rights and the discrimination and humiliation between people that comes as a result.

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On the morning of June 18, 2003, I went with Southern Weekly reporter Shi Xin to inspect a custody and repatriation center in Tianjin. Six months earlier, that camp had begun to experiment with some major reforms to the custody and repatriation system, changing it from forced compulsory custody and repatriation to a voluntary system of relief and assistance. That afternoon, we discussed a number of questions in detail with Yang Jianxun, the center’s director. For example, after becoming relief centers, how many people would voluntarily seek assistance there? If there were too few people, could the system be supported financially? If the numbers were very small or even next to nothing, was there any further need for the relief centers to exist? The answer we came to was that, for the time being, not too many would come seeking assistance, because true vagrants and beggars did not need assistance. Compared to the temporary food and shelter they could seek at a relief center, what those people really needed was to beg to save up some money to serve as their social insurance fund. Looking further down the road, however, a modern, civilized country had to have this sort of relief facility. When those vagrants and beggars were facing extremely terrible weather or illness, the government could not simply watch as their corpses litter the streets. This is a responsibility of the state. As for the problem of financing, Director Yang provided a serious analysis, calculating that it cost more than twice as much to place someone in custody and repatriation as it did to provide them with relief. Therefore, the costs of switching to relief could be totally covered. We had a good discussion lasting the entire afternoon. Many of my logical assumptions had been confirmed, and I learned a lot as well. That evening, past 6 p.m., we went together to the relief shelter to visit a migrant laborer from Rizhao, Shandong, who had come seeking assistance. We were told that he had come there voluntarily. This was a large room, with a dozen or so sets of bedding spread out on the wooden floor and a television on the wall. As we were chatting with this man who was receiving assistance, the nightly news broadcast aired a report announcing that Premier Wen Jiabao had chaired an executive meeting of the State Council that reviewed and passed in principle new (Draft) Measures on the Administration of Aid to Indigent Urban Vagrants and Beggars. After these new draft measures were further revised, they would be promulgated by the State Council and would formally abolish the Custody and Repatriation Measures that had been in place for the past twenty-one years.

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For an instant, I just stood there in shock. Though I had been aware that the State Council Legislative Affairs Office had been working overtime to research a new program for relief and assistance, I never thought they would act so quickly. I had so many different feelings all at once. I felt limitless gratification about living in this era that was so full of hope and believed that China would say goodbye to the custody and repatriation once and for all. I was also deeply disappointed that our hoped-for constitutional review process would very likely be held up. Regardless, this was a major step forward. I let my emotions flow out in my journal, writing in big letters: “I LOVE YOU, CHINA!” That night, on the road back to Beijing, I called Yu Jiang and Teng Biao. Our conversations were interrupted by long periods of silence. One year later, in June 2004, the NPC Standing Committee established an Office for Registration and Review of Regulations that would be responsible for registration of new regulations and for reviewing whether regulations were in conflict with national laws and especially the constitution. Even though this office was only a unit of the NPC Standing Committee and lacked the necessary independence and authority of its own, it ultimately represented a small step in the direction of a system of constitutional review. In December 2005, the NPC Standing Committee completed its revision of the procedures for registration and review of regulations, expanding the scope of review and improving the procedures for receiving recommendations for review and for carrying out review itself. This was the second step toward constitutional review. However, there is still a long way to go towards a full system of constitutional review. Who knows how much more time and effort will be necessary to reach this goal!

4 The “Illegal” Life of a Private Enterprise: Defending Sun Dawu

We recognize that it will be difficult to pursue an innocence defense for Sun Dawu. Given the vagueness of the legal statute, you couldn’t exactly say that the court had made a mistake if it were to convict him, but we remain committed to an innocence plea. At the same time, it is even more important for us to tell people that if Sun Dawu is found guilty, it will not be because he did something wrong but rather because there are problems with China’s laws. Providing legal assistance to Sun Dawu is not merely about helping Mr. Sun himself; we are also helping many entrepreneurs who find themselves in similar positions, helping to create a better environment for our nation’s private enterprises to survive and develop, and helping to further the development of reform. We are willing to work hard and serve as legal volunteers promoting social change.

1 One afternoon in March 2003, I happened to read a BBS posting announcing an upcoming lecture by a private entrepreneur entitled “A Private Entrepreneur’s Perspective on Rural Problems.” I’d always been interested in the subject, and I’d listened to countless numbers of scholars and officials speak on the topic. This was the first time, though, that I’d ever heard of a private businessman speaking on this issue. When I went to the lecture hall at the Peking University library that evening, there wasn’t an empty seat in the house. I squeezed in among the others gathered in the aisle and listened as this “audacious” businessman named Sun Dawu spoke about the “Eight Great Moun49

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tains” that set up bureaucratic obstacles to oppress farmers. It was as a consequence of this lecture, which was widely circulated online, that Sun later ran into so much trouble and also won so much support and assistance. My clearest memory of that talk was a story Sun Dawu told about a rural woman who sold hard-boiled eggs from a basket on the street. If she wanted to sell her eggs in strict accordance with the requirements that had been set forth by all of the relevant government agencies, she would have to get approval from some forty different departments before she could be considered legal. All of these regulations to manage the market were creating serious impediments to the development of the rural economy. Sun said that rural villages had no shortage of either capital or labor; what they did lack was space to develop freely. I had heard a very similar story from a farmer in my hometown back in Henan. I recalled how, at a produce market on the outskirts of the county seat, the farmer pointed to a passing urban management official and sighed: “Whatever business you’re in, they can come up with a reason to fine you. If they keep this up, how can our county be anything but poor?” After he had finished speaking, many people competed with each other to ask questions. Even when faced with politically sensitive questions, this businessman answered with an air of sincerity. After the talk was over, many went up to the podium to chat with him some more. I wanted to meet him, too, as I felt this was a fellow worthy of respect. In the days that followed, my attention was focused on the Iraq War and the SARS crisis. After that, the Sun Zhigang affair happened, and I busied myself campaigning against custody and repatriation. Then, on May 29, I saw a news item on the Yi Ta Hu Tu BBS saying that Sun Dawu had been detained. I began posting appeals online to try to get people to pay attention to the case, because this was a case that involved major issues like reform of the financial system and the viability and further development of private enterprise.

1 Sun Dawu was formally arrested on July 5, 2003. According to the relevant authorities, the Dawu Group, in violation of state regulations, had been openly taking in disguised public savings deposits from employees and members of the general public from surrounding villages. According to their initial investigation, since July 1, 1995, the Dawu Group had taken in a total of 181,167,000 yuan in such deposits. In addition, Sun

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Dawu was also suspected of tax evasion and illicit possession of firearms or ammunition. On July 11, the Southern Metropolis Daily published a report entitled “Did Sun Dawu Commit Economic Crimes or Speech Crimes?” The article included interviews with many residents from surrounding villages, the majority of whom said that they had been depositing funds with the Dawu Group in order to make a little money and felt that, since most of their money had originated as wages paid by the Dawu Company, there was nothing wrong with turning around and using that same money to support the company. The article also mentioned that there had been widespread online speculation that Sun Dawu was being punished for his outspokenness. On July 12, lawyer Zhang Xingshui and I made our first visit to the Dawu Group on the introduction of Du Zhaoyong. Zhang and I had already had several discussions about whether the facts of the case constituted the offense of illegally taking savings deposits from the public or the related charge of tax evasion, but for the time being we considered ourselves to be going simply to “observe and study” the situation. We felt much more confident after a day of investigation at the Dawu Company. Sun Dawu’s business gave off the same impression I had first had of him as a person: honest and trustworthy. The deeper problem behind the case was the challenging environment facing private enterprise in China as it tried to survive and develop, as well as contradictions in the existing financial system. That evening, I posted the following on the Yi Ta Hu Tu BBS: The Sun Dawu case shows real-life problems in China: The financial system is far from being a true market, with a great deal of black-box operation and trillions in bad debts. Legitimate and hard-working businesses cannot get loans and are forced to raise capital from the public. However, the government and the existing administrative rules do not allow private finance to exist. There is a great amount of illegal savings deposits being held by private businesses in China. In a real sense, the sincere, upright, and truth-telling Sun Dawu is being victimized on behalf of all private enterprise and the entire nation. After returning from the visit to the Dawu Group, I accepted an invitation to go to Hainan to speak at the Yedao Group. While there, I got a phone call from the general manager at Dawu, Liu Ping. She

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hoped that I would be able to return to Dawu and take on this case as legal counsel. On July 20, Zhang Xingshui and I again went to the Dawu Group. Since we were going to decide whether or not to take on the case, this time it would be necessary to carry out a more detailed and specific investigation. We needed to understand the circumstances surrounding Sun Dawu’s borrowing from the surrounding villagers. More important, we needed to observe how the villagers assessed the Dawu Company and Sun Dawu himself. We needed to understand whether we could count on their moral support, which would be crucial if we were to be successful in this case. Zhang Xingshui drove through the surrounding villages, stopping whenever he saw someone so that he could have completely random conversations with villagers. We visited three villages that day and spoke with around forty or fifty villagers. In all but one instance, everyone said that Sun Dawu was a good person—or at least they said he was “not a bad guy.” In Dingzhuang, an elderly man in his eighties who had never met Sun Dawu before had tears in his eyes as he told us how every year during Chinese New Year he and other elderly residents would receive things like eggs and flour from the Dawu Company. When Sun Dawu was arrested, they did not have any regrets about the money they had lent to the Dawu Company because they trusted Dawu. It was the government they resented, with some even angrily saying: “What can we do about it? The government’s stolen all of our money!” There was only one exception. One villager was up on a wall reading an electric meter when we walked up to him and started to chat. When we asked if he had heard about the Sun Dawu case, he gave us a look and said, coldly: “I don’t know.” A few minutes later, he came down from the wall and we asked him: “What do you think of Sun Dawu?” He kept walking as he again replied: “I don’t know.” I asked if his family had deposited money with the Dawu Company. Again, he replied: “I don’t know.” Later, we found out that he was a village cadre and then we understood, because a cadre was not permitted to express his opinions so casually. This round of observation strengthened our confidence, so we decided to accept Liu Ping’s request and take on the case. Lawyer Zhu Jiuhu had already joined the case about two weeks earlier. Based on experience living in the real world, the Dawu Company had begun making an effort to “work connections” and quietly try to get some people with power to rescue Sun Dawu. This is a common and often effective strategy Chinese people use in times of need. But I felt that the particular background and impact of this case meant that such strategies were

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unlikely to work. Of course, merely relying on a purely legal defense was not going to be nearly enough either. Once we had a fuller understanding about the case and Sun Dawu’s personal history, we settled on a defense plan. First, we would introduce the world to the difficult history of the Dawu Company and help people to understand how hard it can be for private businesses that refuse to follow the “hidden rules” and want to operate in accordance with the law. Second, we wanted to de-politicize the case by eliminating some of its political shadings that could make some people uneasy and, instead, turning the case into one purely about legal problems and problems of the economic system. Finally, we wanted to use this individual case as a way to reveal some of the widespread problems that existed in China’s economic reform policies. This case was not merely about the fate of Sun Dawu alone; it also concerned larger and more widespread difficulties related to reforming the financial system and the viability and future development of private enterprise.

1 We began the first wave of action during the last 10 days of July. On July 24, I posted an article online entitled “The ‘Illegal’ Life of a Private Enterprise: Investigative Report on the Growth of the Dawu Group.” This detailed report was disseminated widely online, helping many people to understand the truth about the Sun Dawu case. The report’s opening actually summed up its conclusion: “Evaluated according to the standards set out in all of today’s administrative regulations, there have been many “illegal” aspects of the Dawu Group from the time it came into being—for example, its initial capitalization, its sanitary conditions, its land use, or its taxation. However, these are facts of life for small- and medium enterprises in China today. When all sorts of people wearing wide-brimmed hats move into town in the name of enforcing the law, what sort of negative effects will it have on the surrounding area? This is something we need to think about carefully.” I made an effort to tell this story in a calm manner. It had truly not been easy for the Dawu Company to develop into what it had become. It was hard to imagine how this private company in a remote village that had been engaged in litigation with the local land, taxation, and industry and commerce authorities for many years could accumulate up to 100 million in assets. I wanted to use this story to tell people that this was an entrepreneur worthy of our respect and that the criminal charges that had been heaped on him, including the charge of tax evasion, would not stand up in court. But this unconventional businessman was fated to

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misfortune, because his tale was a tragedy with Chinese characteristics. In an environment in which rumors had begun flying and observers were filled with skepticism, it was particularly necessary to have a report like this to clarify the facts. It also helped to depoliticize and publicize the case, as well as show that these were particularly Chinese problems. On July 26, we submitted a recommendation to the NPC Standing Committee requesting that they produce a legislative interpretation of Article 176 of the Criminal Law, which concerned the offense of illegally taking public deposits. Two days later, we submitted an essentially similar recommendation to the Supreme People’s Court. This was a cooperative effort between myself, lawyer Zhu Jiuhu, Li Zhiying, and lawyer Zhang Xingshui. In our recommendation, we focused on the crucial aspects of this case. First, even though State Council Directive Number 247 interpreted illegally accepting public deposits as accepting deposits “from the general public,” it never makes clear what is meant by “general public,” as opposed to a defined group of particular individuals. Second, even if the Dawu Group had violated State Council Directive Number 247, this was not the same as violating Article 176 of the Criminal Law. On the basis of these two recommendations, we started thinking about holding a symposium on the subject. We decided to invite a group of noted experts in law and economics and put their expertise and knowledge to work on an analysis of the way the law was being applied. We also hoped to reduce what was still a somewhat sensitive case to the purer underlying problems of law and economic system reform and, by depoliticizing the case, attract even more people’s attention to it. In thinking about the venue and funding for the seminar, I contacted Professor Sheng Hong, director of the Unirule Institute of Economics, an independent economic think tank. Professor Sheng responded enthusiastically, so I sent the title, agenda, and list of expert invitees over to him. After Professor Sheng made some revisions, the final title we decided upon was “The Sun Dawu Case and the Legal Environment for Private Enterprise Financing.” Professor Sheng and I then split up responsibility for inviting the experts. Attending were legal experts like Jiang Ping, Li Shuguang, and Zhou Zhenxiang; economists like Mao Yushi, Shen Hong, Zhang Shuguang, and Chen Ping; and experts on industry and commerce like Bao Yujun and Hua Yifang. The symposium was underwritten by the Economic Observer newspaper, and Sohu’s “Financial View” page decided to produce a special online feature covering the proceedings.

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Just before the seminar officially opened, on July 30, I posted another article online entitled “Why We Defend Sun Dawu,” in which I clearly articulated the motivation and significance behind our defense of Sun Dawu: We recognize that it will be difficult to pursue an innocence defense for Sun Dawu. Given the vagueness of the legal statute, you couldn’t exactly say that the court had made a mistake if it were to convict him, but we remain committed to an innocence plea. At the same time, it is even more important for us to tell people that if Sun Dawu is found guilty, it will not be because he did something wrong but rather because there are problems with China’s laws. Providing legal assistance to Sun Dawu is not merely about helping Mr. Sun himself; we are also helping many entrepreneurs who find themselves in similar positions, helping to create a better environment for our nation’s private enterprises to survive and develop, and helping to further the development of reform. We are willing to work hard and serve as legal volunteers promoting social change. On the afternoon of July 31, the conference room at Unirule was packed with people. In order to facilitate public understanding of the case as much as possible, we invited reporters from nearly twenty different media outlets. At the symposium, the economists and the legal experts were united in their view that clearer legal boundaries needed to be drawn regarding the offense of illegally taking in public deposits. Legal expert Jiang Ping asked, “What’s the difference between illegally accepting public deposits and normal private lending? Can I borrow money from twenty people? What’s the cut-off point? It seems there isn’t one at present. Does borrowing from fifty villagers turn it into illegally taking public deposits?” Jiang argued that there were three major problems with the current lending situation: First, enterprises cannot borrow from each other because that kind of lending is against the law. Second, when enterprises borrow from local residents it might be construed as taking illegal deposits. If I borrow money from ordinary citizens, I cannot just borrow from one. For instance, if I want to borrow an amount in the tens of millions, I need to borrow from several hundred citizens. But this turns me into a disguised financial institution, making it illegal. Third, can citizens lend money to each other? There are big risks there, too. If I’m facing

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financial difficulties related to a major life event, I can borrow money from you without any issues. But if we expand the scope of borrowing a bit, it turns into a private loan association, which the state has prohibited. So, I feel that more clarity is needed in the investment and lending areas for private enterprises. If this isn’t handled better, it will greatly restrict economic development and there will be criminal charges lurking behind every corner.

Professor Li Shuguang of the China University of Political Science and Law expressed deep concerns about the legal environment for private enterprise in this transitional period: These days, there’s a common feeling that the private sector has faced an increasing number of problems over the course of the past 20-plus years of reform in China. This is because the main trend of economic development has been the private sector, which is increasingly the focal point for reform. But there are many problems. First, property rights in the private sector remain undefined and unprotected. Second, there is no real space for private enterprise to develop. Third, the current environment places a great number of restrictions and constraints on many activities inside the private sector. As a result, there’s no way to let the original creativity and great latent potential of this sector express itself. This is a consequence of environment. With respect to the Sun Dawu case in particular, Li Shuguang believed that there was a huge gap between the existing legal framework and real-life experience of reform. In other words, the practice of reform was making it extremely difficult for private enterprise to raise funds and finance capital.

Professor Chen Ping of the China Center for Economic Research at PKU said: I think this is a strange thing: In an environment in which the four main banks are allowed to compete normally and rural credit unions operate according to normal rules, you would think they would be fighting over themselves to lend money to Sun Dawu given how good his business was. How is it that he can’t borrow any money, then? Why was Sun Dawu forced to go down the path of raising the money himself in the first place.

Professor Chen believed that the monopolistic nature of the financial industry was a direct cause of the Dawu Group’s difficulties. Now I find that the four big state-owned banks in China have all pulled out of the countryside, while the rural credit cooperatives don’t provide support to private enterprise. Why not set up a new type of

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credit cooperative? Because no one has the right to set these up and they won’t get approved. So Sun Dawu came up with his own way to raise funds.

According to Bao Yujun, chairman of the Private Sector Research Association: Looking from the perspective of private-sector development, the relevant laws are designed to protect the monopolistic banks set up under the planned economy. Using these laws to deal with the diversity of existing economic entities will inevitably lead to conflicts. The crucial thing right now is to break the financial monopoly and push forward legal reforms.

The symposium went forward without a hitch. As the chair, I decided not to read from my research report on the Dawu Group in order to allow the experts ample time to speak. I was a bit disappointed that, out of all of the media outlets that attended the symposium, only the China Economic Times published a story. The majority of media outlets hesitated and worried. But the China Economic Times report and Sohu’s special online feature were widely disseminated and had a big impact.

1 August was relatively quiet. The case still had not been handed over to prosecutors, and we were prohibited by the relevant provisions of the Criminal Procedure Law from carrying out investigations or gathering evidence during the police investigation phase. During this time, I reviewed a large amount of materials regarding rural financing and published an article in the magazine Southern Reviews in which I reflected on the exceedingly strict regulation of the rural financial system. On August 26, we three members of the legal counsel team went to Xushui and requested to meet with Sun Dawu, but the public security authorities only agreed to let lawyer Zhang Xingshui meet with him. According to Zhang’s notes, their discussion mainly concerned the issue of illegal possession of firearms or ammunition. Together, lawyers Zhang and Zhu submitted a motion to the procuratorate in hopes that prosecutors would drop that particular charge against Sun Dawu. In reality, the so-called illegal possession of ammunition was based on the fact that Sun Dawu, who had grown up in a military household, had kept a few bullets as mementos after a round of target practice.

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The case was first transferred to the procuratorate on September 2, but we didn’t know it at the time. We were first made aware of this fact only after prosecutors had already sent the case back to police for additional investigation. On September 10, the case was again sent to the procuratorate. Two days later, an indictment was filed with the court. On September 15, we arrived at the Dawu Company and began a new round of work. The indictment made two charges, illegally taking public deposits and illegal possession of ammunition. Of the 150 million in illegal public deposits that had been taken in to date, only 35 million remained. This was an extremely worrying charge, because it meant that Sun Dawu could receive a heavy sentence of around ten years in prison if convicted. We needed to begin making our defense work more specific. The prosecution understood the act of illegally taking public deposits to be “borrowing money from the general public with an agreement to return the principal plus interest.” They further held that, as long as at least one amount among the funds collected was borrowed from the public at large, then the whole amount raised could be considered to have been raised from the public at large and was, therefore, illegal. The alleged amounts of 150 million in deposits and 35 million remaining were based on records of all of the funds borrowed by the Dawu Company that were retrieved from the company’s computers. This even included 4,000 yuan that Sun Dawu’s parents had saved up from collecting recyclables. Can a loan from parents to their son be called an illegal public deposit? No matter how you looked at it, this was impossible to justify. There was also 9 million yuan raised from the company’s employees, plus funds from those employees’ relatives and villagers from the surrounding area who often had economic dealings with the company. These individuals should all be considered part of a specific pool of depositors—not the “general public”—in which case their deposits should be considered entirely legal acts of private lending. Therefore, a big part of our evidence-collection effort involved carefully documenting the different kinds of relationships that each depositor had with the Dawu Company, and separating out the employees, employee relatives, customers, and all others who fell into the category of having some specific relationship with the company. No matter what, these people’s deposits could not be considered “illegal.” I proposed that the next stage of our work should be to go to these employees, relatives, and local villagers and ask them to write affidavits testifying to the nature of their various relationships with the Dawu

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Company. Liu Ping was very much in agreement, and we drew up a specific work plan. On September 16, the evidence-collection work began in earnest. News arrived on September 19 that the procuratorate was withdrawing its indictment. Further word made it clear that there had been a major twist in the case between September 15 and September 19. We weren’t sure what force had had the crucial effect; our efforts had simply been focused on ensuring that our objections to the first indictment would be successful. We couldn’t relax now that the procuratorate had withdrawn its indictment, and the evidence-collection work continued so that we could be prepared for the worst-case scenario. On September 22, we again traveled to the Dawu Company. That morning, we discussed the issue of the school that Sun Dawu had set up. The government had already taken control of the Dawu School and its assets had been estimated at 32 million yuan. But a transfer agreement had still not been signed. We recommended that Sun Dawu’s secretary, Jin Fengxiang, send a memo to the relevant departments urging the government to make a decision—either purchase the school or relinquish control over it. At 11 a.m., we gave the finance department the task of dividing up the depositors according to their different relationships with the Dawu Company in order to establish the amount of deposits that should be considered legal. Then we had a look at a letter than Sun Meng and Liu Ping had prepared to send to a certain official. We thought it was pretty good, so we suggested that they mail it right away. Liu Ping and the others had already sent many such letters to officials at all levels. This is a particular way of dealing with problems in China. Even though such actions would be incomprehensible in a society with an ideal rule-of-law system, we had no choice but to follow this path. Around noon, we turned to the issue of collecting evidence. The plan we had come up with the week before had not gone as anticipated, because it was very difficult for many of the villagers with limited education to write their own affidavits. Moreover, the instructions for this work had not been clear enough, so that some of the statements were written in such a way that they did not have much to do with this case. Instead of taking a nap after lunch, we drew up a form that the different categories of depositors could use as an affidavit. In reality, it looked a lot like a survey form. It mainly consisted of a checklist of possible relationships that the depositor could have with the Dawu Company, together with a space for the depositor to sign his or her name.

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In the afternoon, Liu Ping convened a board meeting. I explained the evidence-collection plan to the board members and told them how to distribute and explain the form to the villagers. This way of collecting evidence did not violate any laws, as the affidavit form was still something that the villagers filled out themselves. We began work that evening, with company employees dividing up and going first to Langwu Village and Ding Village. That evening, Liu Ping, Sun Meng, and I went to Baitapu, Gaolin, and other villages to pay our respects to the company’s agents there. This was a group of 10 company employees who basically ran the company’s representative offices in these villages, each enjoying a high degree of prestige in their respective locales. They were the ones responsible for such things as collecting deposits on behalf of the company, selling company products, and recruiting students for the middle school. Ever since Sun Dawu had been arrested, the agents all became quite nervous that they might get in trouble, and with the company so busy no one had gone by yet to look in on them. And because the accounting department had become so chaotic, the agents’ wages for May had not yet been issued. Once we understood this situation and heard about their unhappiness over the matter, I suggested that Liu Ping immediately arrange for the finance department to pay the agents’ wages. Evidence collection was in full swing from the evening of September 22 until the afternoon of the next day. There were three parts to the work. First, board members went with company employees to each village and, together with the local company agent, went house by house to distribute the affidavit forms and collect them once they were filled in. Second, Sun Meng and Liu Ping went to each village to pay their respects to the company agents, explain the situation to them, and ask for their help. Zhu Jiuhu and I went around to speak randomly with residents of the surrounding villages, explain the legal issues, and distribute newspaper articles about the Sun Dawu case so that the villagers could understand what was going on and start to rebuild trust. We encountered obstacles from the moment we started this work. At after 9 a.m. in the morning, the relevant authorities came to the Dawu Company and told us we needed to suspend our work because our method of collecting evidence was inappropriate. We had already anticipated this, so I recommended that Liu Ping try to hold them off with a bit of flattery while we intensified our evidence collection work in the meantime. We promised that any responsibility would be borne by the lawyer team.

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That whole day, Zhu Jiuhu and I ran around to Ma Village, Baitapu, Gaolin Village, Beili, and Zhanli. At each location, we would first pay a visit to the company agent. Then we would have random discussions with villagers and find a good place for disseminating information like a small store or medical clinic. We’d give them the newspaper articles, explain the legal issues, and have them communicate these things to the villagers on their own. In a society based on acquaintances, it would cause an “incident” if two outsiders like us were to come and directly communicate information from the newspapers. The local people were already very concerned about the case, so we could count on them to deliver the information quickly on their own through oral means. The vast majority of villagers had a high regard for Dawu, but a few depositors could not stop worrying about whether or not they would be able to recover their deposits. Zhu Jiuhu and I tried to use the experience of selected individuals to serve as a guide for the whole group and help to bolster people’s confidence. That evening we went back to the company and prepared to return to Beijing. But Liu Ping and Sun Meng urged us to stay, so we decided to wait a few days. After 8 p.m., several company agents called to say that the village cadres had come back from a meeting in the town and were saying that those who were helping to collect evidence were “disrupting social order” and that the township would dispatch a group of cadres to help the village cadres obstruct evidence-collection work in each village. Zhu Jiuhu and I were forced to post an item online asking for help. Our evidence-collection methods were completely legal, so we were not worried about interference. We needed to speed up the evidence-collection process in order to be prepared in case the court suddenly decided to convene a trial hearing. I decided to stick around and leave on the 24th instead. On the morning of September 24, Zhu Jiuhu and I went to Zhanli Village to collect evidence. The economic crime investigation team from the Xushui County Public Security Bureau was also there collecting evidence, so we went straight to the village government headquarters, walked right up to the police investigators, and calmly greeted them. The police captain leading the investigation team ordered us to stop collecting evidence because the case had been sent back for additional investigation and only they could collect evidence during this phase of the proceedings. I replied that the decision by the procuratorate to withdraw the indictment only meant that the court had sent the case files back to the procuratorate.

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The fact was, we had never received any formal notice that the case had been returned to police for additional investigation. He said he was notifying us verbally right there, but I informed him that verbal notifications had no legal validity. Later, as we were preparing to collect evidence from the villagers outside that the police had summoned, the captain was forced to come out and take a call from the prosecutor’s office right in front of us so that the director of the prosecutor’s office could inform Zhu Jiuhu that the case had been sent back for additional investigation. In fact, verbal notifications like this ought to be considered invalid under the law, but out of consideration for reducing the pressure on the Dawu Company, we decided to suspend our evidence collection work. At 11 a.m., I headed back to Beijing. Over a day and a half, we had collected more than 650 statements regarding nearly 10 million yuan in deposits. Later, when the procuratorate filed its second indictment, it dropped this amount that had been deposited by people with “special relationships” to Dawu, meaning that the 150 million in “illegal public deposits” was now down to just over 140 million. This manner of gathering evidence was very effective. In special cases like this one, lawyers face some difficulties in gathering evidence. First, with more than 3,000 depositors, lawyers lack sufficient manpower to meet with everyone. When the lawyer enters the village, he is a complete outsider, and if he doesn’t have any experience conducting investigations in rural areas he might say the wrong thing and attract hostility from the local residents. Afterward, in our last effort to collect evidence, it took three days to collect forty-nine statements. Of course, having a large team of lawyers collecting evidence is significant in its own right. But speaking purely from the perspective of the amount of evidence collected, things could have gone better.

1 At noon on September 29, a group of nineteen university students from PKU, Tsinghua, Beijing Normal University, and the China Academy of Social Science came to the Dawu Company in preparation to carry out a rural study mission in the surrounding villages. This was both an opportunity to provide these students with a chance to become familiar with rural villages and to enable more people to understand the true situation regarding this case. University students are among the more neutral and detached segments in our society, so their research had the potential to provide more objective and accurate voices in a case like this one that badly needed more public attention and understanding.

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When I was working at the rural edition of China Reform, we had organized several groups of university students to conduct village research. If you want to get a better understanding of Chinese villages in a short amount of time, you should go to places where there are conflicts. In a calm and tranquil village, it is difficult for an outsider to get the village “story” right or get a handle on the various roles everyone plays in that story. As a result, one typically comes away with an impression that everything in the village is harmonious. It is only when there is conflict that you can discover in a short time the relationships between people and learn the reality about how people live together there. The history of the Dawu Company’s growth and its present misfortunes were a valuable subject for investigation. In the midst of such a huge incident, one could clearly see many more rural problems in a short amount of time by looking at the villages in the area surrounding the company. On September 23, I began to think about organizing university students to come do research in Xushui. I thought of the Rural China Student Association at PKU and hoped that I could organize this research under its auspices. I had once been a member of this organization and hoped that this activity would help to raise the group’s profile. But people in the organization were worried, so I had to give up the idea. Later, I thought of China Reform, but they, too, had some worries about getting involved in such an effort. We published some information online and solicited for any students who were willing to join the village research group. Several dozen students responded, but because we didn’t want to have a group that was too large, we only selected the first nineteen students who signed up. Within a half-hour after the students arrived at the company, a cadre from Gaolincun Town came over to “greet” them. That evening, the town’s party secretary led a group of cadres to meet with the students until after midnight. On the one hand, they said that because of SARS the students could not be permitted to do anything on their own. On the other hand, they enthusiastically arranged an itinerary for the students, saying that there were many tourist spots to visit in the area around Baoding. Around midnight, I went out for a walk with several of the students. We saw a sedan parked at the gate of the Dawu campus. As we walked 200–300 meters outside the campus gate, the sedan followed us. Several men came out of the vehicle and told the students that they needed to return to their lodgings for their own safety. That night, word came from the surrounding villages that there was a SARS scare in all of the vil-

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lages in Gaolincun, where the Dawu Company was located. A person was standing guard at each village entrance and strangers would not be permitted to enter. On the morning of September 30, I went out with Liu Ping and Sun Meng. We returned to the company a bit after 10 to discover that only two students were still there. It turned out that there had just been an argument. The students wanted to go out into the villages to do interviews, but the local cadre simply refused to agree, on account of the SARS outbreak, the busy farming season, and so on. The two sides deadlocked for nearly two hours. In the end, the students simply couldn’t break the cadres down, and they had no choice but to board the waiting vehicle outside and go on a visit to the agricultural demonstration zone. Only two—Wang Dan from PKU and Fu Jian from Tsinghua—refused to board the bus and remained at the Dawu campus. I called for Wang Dan and Fu Jian to come downstairs. After a brief chat with the two men sitting outside the entrance to the Dawu Company, the three of us walked out into the fields while those two men trailed us at a distance. We returned to the company at noon. I told the students that we had to return by lunch, otherwise there would be no village research. Everyone decided that we wouldn’t ride in the authorities’ vehicles anymore. If they wouldn’t allow us to go to the villages, we would just stay inside. Fortunately, that afternoon the town party secretary agreed to allow the students to conduct interviews in the village. Five students went to Langwu Village, with six cadres accompanying them. Every house they visited, the cadres would go with the students and the villagers wouldn’t have much to say. That evening, after arranging for a bus to take everyone back to Beijing on October 2, I myself returned to the capital. In the middle of the night, Sun Meng drove me to the Baoding Railway Station. As I paced back and forth along the spacious platform, I had a peculiar feeling: I was not returning home but, rather, was about to begin a long journey. This is just what China’s like, I silently warned myself. Don’t harbor any grudges over all of the obstacles we’ve encountered so far. Those local government officials belong to a past era, and their actions and way of life are remnants of history. They fear the arrival of the new era. We must keep our hearts merciful and forgive them like we forgive history.

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On October 9, our group of three defense team members went to Xushui. The relevant authorities at the provincial level had contacted Zhu Jiuhu and asked us to go have a word with them. We went to the court to exchange views on the case with the relevant personnel there. They tried to convince us to pursue a guilty plea, but we insisted on a plea of innocence and our negotiations ended in deadlock. That night, our team met to discuss strategy. Sun Meng, Liu Ping, Zhang Xingshui, Zhu Jiuhu, Li Zhiying, and I were all in agreement: accept “leadership responsibility” but don’t discuss questions of guilt and innocence. Three days later, the relevant authorities came to Beijing to discuss the case with the two lawyers, but there was no clear outcome. On October 11, the three members of the defense team met with Sun Dawu in the detention center. It was cold and rainy as we met for two hours in the interrogation room. Sun had a crew cut and wore an ordinary jacket. He was in good spirits and spoke about many of the things that had happened recently. Chief among these was that officials had gone to see him many times in an attempt to convince him to plead guilty. He also spoke of the Third Plenum of the 16th Party Congress that was about to get underway, and you could hear a sense of optimism in his words. As we parted, he and I stood under a single umbrella. I said: “I’m looking forward to your release!” At that moment, I was overcome with feeling: How could we not help such an outstanding Chinese person? On the evening of October 14, Zhang Xingshui brought a group of five lawyers from the Kingdom Law Firm to the Dawu Company to gather evidence. No sooner had the lawyers arrived than they were surrounded by a group of men who claimed to be from the local police station. The lawyers demanded that the men show identification, but not a single one did so while they kept the lawyers surrounded for more than 30 minutes. On the 15th, we sought out the deputy secretary of the local political-legal committee to protest this interference with our lawful efforts to gather evidence and to ask him to put an end to the interference. As a consequence, we began our new round of evidence collection in the company of a large group of government officials. There was simply too much pressure during this effort, and the lawyers could only manage to obtain forty-nine statements during a three-day period. On October 18, the lawyers left. I went to Xushui one more time on October 21. At 2:30 p.m., Liu Ping met me and took me directly to the court. We spoke with a judge

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there for a long time, mostly about irrelevant things. Later, the vice president of the court joined the conversation, which lasted until after 6 p.m. They hoped that we lawyers would convince Sun Dawu to confess to the facts of the case and admit that he had raised capital illegally and agreed to solicit funds from the general public. They said that if he did all this, it would be a sign of his good attitude that might get him a reduced sentence. We considered that in such a big company, it would make no sense to argue that Sun Dawu had been unaware of his responsibility in raising such a large amount of capital. Moreover, Sun wanted to fight against a law that he believed to be irrational, not exploit legal loopholes. Admitting that he had known about and agreed to an expansion in the scope of fundraising could prove the prosecution’s allegation that Sun was responsible for illegally taking public deposits, but we still had some room for a defense. We would hold that the Dawu Company and Sun Dawu were only legally liable based on State Council Decree No. 247 and could not be held criminally liable under Article 176 of the Criminal Law. So, we agreed to their request to work on convincing Sun Dawu. That evening, Liu Ping and Sun Meng each wrote Sun Dawu a letter urging him to moderate his attitude for the sake of his family and his company. Sun wanted to sacrifice himself to bring down these irrational laws and said that he was prepared to go to prison. But we wanted him to be free as soon as possible so that he could continue his business, give lectures, and campaign on behalf of changing the law. But if he continued to be locked up, after a while, his business might collapse and its employees scatter, his school might get handed over, and people would slowly start to forget about him. Late that night on the Dawu campus, I finally had a moment to sit and think over the whole course of the case. More than three months had passed since we had taken on the case, and summer had almost turned to winter. We had watched as the corn sent up its first shoots, witnessed the arrival of the harvest season, and now saw the barren fields that had just been planted with winter wheat. Each visit to Xushui had meant facing a battle. The conflict between tradition and change seemed to have made everyone want to keep silent, so that each step along the way had been difficult for us. On October 22, I went downstairs to eat breakfast at 7:30 a.m. Seated at the table next to me was a government work team, and we exchanged pleasantries. After eight, I helped Zhou Hongyun revise an application for guaranteed release pending trial. She was making the request again on behalf of her husband Sun Zhihua, the deputy chair-

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man of the Dawu Company’s board of directors. Earlier, on October 17, the procuratorate had withdrawn the tax evasion charges against Sun Erwu and Sun Sanwu. Later that morning, we went to the procuratorate to speak with the director of the prosecutor’s office. The procuratorate and the court had the same message: Sun Dawu should voluntarily admit guilt. At 4 p.m., Sun Meng, Liu Ping, and I went to a meeting at the county party committee. Two officials first expressed their views and said that the county had grounds to continue arresting people. They said they could arrest all of the company agents and board members and warned Liu Ping that she was “standing on the edge of a precipice.” One official related the main contents of two letters that Sun Dawu had sent him, saying he believed that deep down Sun Dawu had not admitted guilt and that the lawyers’ efforts to collect evidence amounted to a confrontation with the government. Liu Ping expressed remorse and said she had initially misread the government’s intentions. Now she understood that the government wanted to help the company and that her attitude had changed. They said this was the last chance and hoped that we would take advantage of the opportunity. We really were left with no alternative. We then made arrangements for the three of us to meet Sun Dawu at the detention center. Others were there, including the head of the local political-legal committee. I felt extremely sad as we approached the visiting room. I told Sun Dawu how all sides hoped that he would admit guilt, and Liu Ping and Sun Meng both began to cry. Sun Dawu sat with his head in both hands. He thought it over for a long time and finally said: “I agree.” There was not much left to say. The meeting wrapped up about 30 minutes later. The three of us went to eat. Liu Ping suddenly began to wail loudly. She said she had let the chairman down, that she hadn’t run the company well, and that she was unable to let this suit go forward. That night, we drank a lot of baijiu liquor. The court now clearly began to work with greater efficiency. It wouldn’t be long before the trial. We, along with many others, hoped for a result as soon as possible.

1 On October 25, the judge responsible for the trial personally came to Beijing to deliver formal notice that the trial hearing would open on October 30. I disseminated the news online and via text message and

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asked the media to attend. It was important for the media to be present not only for this particular case but also to ensure that there would be a discussion about the deeper issues behind the case. But then something unexpected happened. A reporter scheduled an interview with me about the People’s Congress election. As we were eating, the subject of the Sun Dawu case came up. I explained a few things about the case and mentioned that “there might be a positive outcome.” I later told her very clearly that, other than the scheduled date and time of the trial hearing, she must not publish anything I told her about the case, because it might influence the outcome of the trial. But I had made a mistake, because on October 28 the Internet was filled with reports that Sun Dawu was about to be released. One website even reported the case in an extremely politicized way. This taught me a very important lesson. On October 28, we arrived at the Dawu Company. The next day was the least busy one we had ever spent at Dawu, but we were very nervous nevertheless. At 7:40 a.m. on October 30, Liu Ping, Zhu Jiuhu, and I set off toward the court. A little while later, Zhang Xingshui arrived by car. Vehicles were blocked from entering the road in front of the courthouse. The surrounding area was filled with police and onlookers. We walked into the courtroom at 8:30. The seats set aside for observers were all full. The presiding judge announced the commencement of the hearing, which was followed by the long and tedious court inquiry and cross-examination phases of the trial. For the most part, we did not take issue with the factual evidence. Our main area of dispute was the amount of funds that could actually be considered “illegal” and the statements provided by some of the company agents. During the debate phase, the courtroom turned completely silent when I said: “If you tell me that the law must severely punish this man of such high moral integrity who has brought such benefit to the ordinary people, then I say there must be something wrong with the law itself.” The only sound then was Sun Dawu’s sobbing, and many others had tears in their eyes as well. After each of us read out our three respective defense statements, the prosecution made its rebuttal. We made our own brief rebuttal, and then the debate phase was over. Court adjourned for 45 minutes, but I couldn’t relax at all. The hearing resumed at 2:30 p.m. When the judge read the verdict and announced that the sentence would be suspended for four years, I really wanted to run over and embrace Sun Dawu! What a difficult several months these had been! I gently patted Liu Ping’s shoulder. We smiled at each other understandingly, but we both felt a little like crying.

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On the morning of November 1, I wrote an article entitled “Did We Win the Sun Dawu Case?” In it, I reflected on our hardships, hard work, and ideals, and I wrote about the sorrow I felt regarding some of our country’s existing institutions. At 11 a.m., I left the Dawu campus and walked out into fields blanketed in thick fog. Beneath my feet was withered grass and a layer of fallen leaves. For the first time, I walked in a full circle around the Dawu Company all alone, with an indescribable sadness in my heart. This was my tenth visit to the Dawu Company and my fifth meeting with Sun Dawu himself. (The first was at PKU, and the last three were in the detention center.) I had helped out a friend, and now it was time to leave. I returned to the company at noon, just in time to run into Sun Dawu getting out of his car. We embraced each other warmly. Together, we walked into the kitchen, where a bunch of people were already gathered in waiting, including Sun Dawu’s parents. Lining up to embrace Sun Dawu, they all began sobbing uncontrollably.

5 Be True to the Law: Campaigning for a Seat as a People’s Congress Delegate

Now, I am about to begin a new action: running for People’s Congress delegate as an independent candidate. Actually, the result is not what is most important. What’s most important is to take part. I hope that my participation will tell everyone: Believe in our laws, believe in the progress of this era. Please believe that we have a genuine right to vote. I also want to tell people: Let us cherish the democratic rights we’ve been granted by law. Let us be true to the law, our fellow Chinese, our government, and our nation’s past. No matter how many people have suffered harm in the past, no matter how skeptical you may be about the present, no matter how many difficulties we may face in the future, let us take action! Only when we act is there the possibility for progress!

1 In the winter of 2003, there was an upsurge in the number of people seeking election as independent candidates for the position of people’s congress delegate. Beginning in October, Shu Kexin, Qin Bing, and Wang Hai issued an open letter announcing their candidacy and set up their “Three-Man Campaign Office.” The establishment of the “Three-Man Campaign Office” shook up the ordinarily quiet elections for grassroots-level people’s congress delegates in Beijing. On November 9, Duan Jun, a master’s student at Peking University’s Center for Economic Research announced his own candidacy in an statement posted on the PKU BBS entitled “Our Shared Commitment.” That same day, Chen Junhao, an undergraduate in the 71

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Tsinghua University Law School announced his candidacy with a post on a Tsinghua BBS entitled “Your Trust, My Action.” On November 11, a PKU undergraduate named Chen Meng posted his own announcement on the PKU Weiming BBS, entitled “The Road Stretches Out Before Us: Letter to Voters of the Law School.” I had originally planned to help another independent candidate, Yao Lifa, run for a local people’s congress delegate seat in Hubei. But since there was an opportunity in Beijing, I thought it would be even more significant to stand for election myself. I had actually had the idea for some time, thinking that a run for a seat as a people’s congress delegate would be a good way to promote the development of democracy and rule of law. In short, I saw the people’s congress elections as a practical way of making China more democratic. In the past, some had suggested expanding village elections could serve as a prelude for a bottom-up democratization process in China. Some had also worked hard to promote elections above the village level. But after a long time, experimentation with direct elections at the township level remained the exception, as it faced obstacles originating from the current constitution and laws. According to China’s election laws, voters at the township level could only directly elect township people’s congress delegates, whereas township mayors had to be chosen by township people’s congresses. So, any reform for direct election of township mayors ran the risk of being found unconstitutional, even if other provisions could be found to support the constitutionality of direct elections. In the end, the constitution and other relevant legal provisions were clear, and further debate on the subject was unlikely to yield any results. At the same time that direct elections for grassroots government were facing legal obstacles, in 2003 there was an upsurge in independent candidates taking part in grassroots people’s congress elections from Shenzhen to Beijing. This showed people another path for promoting a more civilized politics in China. The big difference between people’s congress elections and elections for township mayor was that there was a legal basis for direct election of grassroots people’s congress delegates. The Law on Election of Delegates to the National People’s Congress and Local People’s Congresses clearly stated that people’s congress delegates at the county level and below were to be chosen through direct election. According to current electoral law, candidates for county head can be nominated by joint recommendation of at least ten people’s congress delegates. Imag-

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ine if all of the people’s congress delegates in a county were directly elected and these delegates all had their own independent viewpoints. Under such circumstances, then the election for county head would become competitive. If urban districts and counties throughout the country all had competitive elections for seats on their people’s congresses, then it would be almost as if executive leaders at the district and county level were directly elected. This would represent many positive changes for the Chinese political environment. Some might consider this idea to be incredibly naïve, but at least there was a practical basis for following such a path. After many years of reform and opening, rule of law had become a politically correct phrase in China. We could use legal tools to improve elections and improve the people’s congress system. Under the banner of rule of law, we now had space to work hard on behalf of improving our electoral system. Social change is a product of incremental progress. Having civilized politics, democracy, and rule of law requires that each person make an honest effort. Perhaps this will be a long process, but it is ultimately necessary for people to take positive action, work hard to take advantage of each possibility, and promote electoral standardization and reform of the people’s congress system. No matter what, this was a path to civilized politics that the constitution has set out for us. It deserved to be taken seriously and demanded that we take positive action.

1 If I was going to stand for election, I needed to be clear about what significance my campaign would have for social progress. People like Yao Lifa were pioneers, and in Beijing there were others like Shu Kexin who had run before me. They had all been symbolic figures, but my run wouldn’t have the same kind of pathbreaking significance. However, I was first of all going to use my special skills and knowledge to promote improvement of the electoral process. Second, I would work hard to get myself elected and use the promise of my election to rally people’s support. To achieve these goals, however, sometimes enthusiasm is not as important as technique. According to the provisions of the Election Law, a group of ten or more people can jointly nominate a person as an initial candidate. In 2003, this stage of the grassroots election process in Beijing lasted from November 20 to November 25.

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I had no experience with elections, and didn’t really understand how the electoral procedures worked in practice. To be safe, I decided to expect the worst and work to prepare myself. Forming a campaign team made up of volunteers was not a violation of any existing law. I spoke with Gu Xin, a second-year law student, about my plan to run for election and she gladly offered to help. This later proved to be the most important decision I made in the early stages of running for election, as she played an extremely important role during the entire election process. Gu Xin quickly contacted several other students, and together they formed a campaign team. Campaigning formally began on November 10. That afternoon, I went to the election office at Beijing University of Posts and Telecommunications to inquire about election procedures and to see whether I could get a copy of the candidate nomination form. The person working there told me that the nomination period hadn’t begun yet. That evening, our campaign team held its first meeting. It was the first time I had ever met most of the team members. We talked about how to arrange the work of getting people to nominate me as a candidate. This was an extremely crucial step, as some independent candidates had seen their campaigns derailed by not paying enough attention to this in the past. On November 12, I formally announced that I would stand for election. Actually, it would be more accurate to say that I took the opportunity to share my heartfelt vision for the future with the entire society and express my hope that more people would take elections more seriously [Editor’s note: see the addendum to this chapter, pp. 82–85]. What would actually help me get elected would be more focused work within the BUPT electoral district. But for me, social progress was the more important thing. So, from the beginning I worked at two levels. The first level involved low-key preparations for the campaign at BUPT, while the other level was a high-profile appeal for everyone to take part in the election and promotion of the early-stage campaign process. I was fortunate that someone with more experience had taken the time to make sure I was aware of the importance of getting voters to nominate me as a candidate. The election law said that initial candidates needed to be nominated by a joint nomination made by at least ten voters. After that, there would follow an “incubation” process, during which the list of initial candidates would get transformed into a list of formal candidates. In practice, if an initial candidate is nominated by a lot of people, there is a higher probability that he or she will become a formal candidate. On the other hand, an independent candidate who is

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nominated by only 10 voters might get knocked out for having too few supporters. In the final analysis, the more people you have nominating you, the better off you are. At noon on November 13, I downloaded a copy of the nomination form and gave it to Gu Xin. She and the other volunteers went around to classrooms and dormitories to collect signatures. That night at 9 p.m., they had already collected more than 600 signatures from people willing to nominate me. With the firm support of teachers and students from the School of Humanities, we could expect to exceed 1,000 signatures in the first round. With that much support, I would at least be qualified to file a protest if I weren’t included among the formal candidates. November 18 was an extremely busy day. That afternoon, during the time between classes from 3 p.m. to 5 p.m., I visited with students to tell them about my campaign devoted to promoting social progress in China. I told them about how, during the past year, I had participated in the Sun Zhigang incident and represented Sun Dawu—all of these efforts aimed at promoting democracy and rule of law in our country. Now, the same goals were motivating me to run for a seat as a people’s congress delegate, and I hoped that by taking personal action I could help promote improvement of the electoral system. I, myself, became quite moved as I expressed these heartfelt aspirations. But, in fact, when you stepped back to analyze the situation without all the emotion, I was stating my own basis for running. Voters consider a number of different factors as they decide whom to vote for. Basically, voters are seeking two kinds of benefits: material and non-material. Voters primarily voted for Nie Hailiang, a candidate from the Huilongguan housing development in Beijing, because they knew, based on all that he had already done to protect the rights of homeowners, that he either could or hoped to bring them actual material benefits. Of course, there are also non-material factors as well. People like Nie Hailiang win fame and respect for struggling on behalf of homeowners, who in turn get to have the kind of happiness that comes from being a bit rebellious. As for me, I didn’t really understand the specific material needs of voters in the BUPT district, and my strength was not fighting for material interests in the first place. My basis for running was as a person who worked for justice and the public interest. Perhaps I couldn’t bring concrete material benefits to my voters, but my work on behalf of justice could make people feel a sense of pride. The fact is that people are not simply concerned about their own material well-being; they also care about the fate of their society, their

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nation, humanity, and even the entire universe. In this era of change, as long as you are sincere, sometimes you get more support for showing concern about things that seem distant than you would for things that are right next door. Everyone has dreams and longs to make others know about their deepest, purest hopes. We want people to see clearly what is true, what is good, and what is beautiful. It is through this kind of common emotional response that we can create a better society. At 3 p.m., Gu Xin, Pan Xinyi, and other students helped to print out campaign promotional materials while I revised an open letter to the BUPT electoral district. This would be different from the campaign declaration that I had made to the entire public—kind of like the difference between posting an article online and putting up an actual poster in public. As a result, I got rid of some of the more emotional language. At 4 p.m., I was interviewed by a reporter from the Beijing News. I had learned to be a bit more careful in dealing with reporters. On the one hand, the election process was just beginning and boasting wouldn’t make a lot of difference. On the other hand, I needed to criticize less and praise more. After all, this kind of campaign was still quite a novel phenomenon. There were some questions I couldn’t avoid when facing the domestic media, but I had to try to be less critical in front of the foreign media. On the afternoon of November 22, I was interviewed by a Japanese reporter from the Tokyo Shimbun newspaper. I spoke in detail about the election process at BUPT and about those areas where I saw progress, but I hardly said anything about any of the difficulties we had encountered. To be sure, the situation in the BUPT electoral district was already pretty good to start with. It was unnecessary to moan and groan about things that were still wanting. We needed to be positive, work hard, and adopt a more tolerant mindset when facing the realities of China. And when it was necessary to criticize, those critical views ought to be expressed domestically as much as possible. It was not necessary to complain to outsiders. I wanted to tell the world that China was making progress. Even though I often criticized nationalism online, what I actually opposed was a kind of fierce and fanatical nationalism that ignored the value of individuals. Deep down, I was a nationalist myself. You could say that, deep in my heart, I had a strong China fixation. I longed for our country to be fair and just and for our people to be free and happy. At 5 p.m., I went to the election office to make some inquiries. There, some well-intentioned teachers cautioned me not to make too much of a show. So, I decided to suspend my original plan to put up

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campaign posters. BUPT is mainly a school for applied sciences, and students there study very hard. It was not a good idea to make a scene. This is not only what the teachers at the election office meant but it was something I also needed to pay attention to. I told them not to worry and said that I would be careful. But I also asked them to understand that I would need to do some publicity work, since I had only been at BUPT for a little over a year and many teachers and students still didn’t know who I was. That day, they released the list of 285 initial candidates who had been nominated in the BUPT electoral district. The list included teachers, students, and other people who resided in the district. Among them was my name, with 1,071 recommendation signatures, the second highest number of all the candidates.

1 Between November 26 and December 5, four formal candidates were chosen from the list of 285 preliminary candidates in the BUPT electoral district. This process took place in two stages. First, from November 26 to 30, the election office delivered the entire list of 285 preliminary candidates to voters, who were then permitted to select no more than three. A new list was then formed based on the top six vote-getters. Then, from December 1 to 5, this six-candidate list was sent out to each of the voter groups, which held a round of discussions and then narrowed the list down to four formal candidates essentially based on the number of votes they received in the previous round. On November 30, the results of the first round of incubation and discussion were released. I was third on the list of six preliminary candidates selected for the next round. Considering that I was still too much of an unknown, I prepared to give a lecture entitled “2003—An Era of Rule of Law Progress: Looking back at SARS, Sun Zhigang, and Sun Dawu.” Objectively speaking, the lecture was a practical way of creating momentum for the election in an environment in which there were no real campaign speeches. I also hoped that the lecture would provide some advance publicity and let more teachers and students understand my campaign goals and ideas. On December 2, Gu Xin and the other students began putting up posters to advertise the lecture. The posters were simple: black characters written on white paper. But some of the older folks got upset, and the posters were pulled down. Gu Xin and the others were sternly criticized by the school’s youth league committee. Gu Xin felt that she

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had been treated unfairly, but I explained the situation to her and hoped that she would understand that this was just how things were done in China. I was not at all surprised by what had happened. We had to make concessions, and I told Gu Xin and the others to suspend all publicity for now. At 6 p.m. on December 5, I arrived at the classroom where my talk had been scheduled to be held and told everyone that the lecture had been canceled. I said that this was probably because things were a bit sensitive during the election period and apologized to everyone. At 6:30, I again apologized to some late-arriving students. In the same building, another lecture scheduled that night by Professor Wu Qing had also been canceled. Professor Wu was a delegate to the Beijing Municipality People’s Congress. A few young lecturers at BUPT like Mou Huansen and Wang Zengmin had originally invited Professor Wu to speak about her experience as a people’s congress delegate to the BUPT Humanities Forum. We didn’t hold any grudges over the cancellation of the lecture. It always took time for new things to be accepted. I kept reminding myself that this was China and that social progress would not happen overnight. We needed to be able to understand those conservatives and set of survival skills that they had developed. Their sense of dignity and wisdom had been formed around a way of life in which one could only act after receiving orders from above. The changes of present-day society left these people feeling afraid. For those of us who were pushing for change, we didn’t need to be in such a hurry to come into conflict with the ideas that had become so firmly rooted in these people’s minds. It was unnecessary to create pointless hostility. Instead, we needed to be good at finding all possible paths for moving forward and let time wash away the dust of history. Moreover, conservatism was not the preserve of a minority. This is the inevitable fate of humankind. As far as elections are concerned, big shows of publicity have their advantages and can be socially significant, but if you want to have good results you must be able to understand the reactions of the most ordinary people around you. If you want to gain their support, new things must be taken in gradually and in a manner that everyone can accept. Therefore, I continued to remain low-key on campus because I didn’t want people to feel uncomfortable. Of course, this isn’t a criticism of anyone who campaigned in a more showy way. As far as elections are concerned, their big publicity efforts were even more significant. They were pioneers ahead of their

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time, even though their efforts didn’t win them a lot of support. I was willing to keep a low profile because I was focused on the outcome of the election, which in turn was aimed at a longer-term goal of building people’s confidence in me. In the midst of all these frustrations, there was also some good news. On the evening of December 4, 2003, China Central Television broadcast an awards ceremony honoring “Rule of Law Personalities of the Year.” Yu Jiang, Teng Biao, and I were named as winners of one of these awards. The award ceremony had actually taken place on November 17, and I never expected that CCTV would broadcast it at a crucial moment during my campaign. On the night of the ceremony, only Teng Biao and I attended because Yu Jiang was unfortunately down in Wuhan. Yu Jiang had been in Beijing from August to October, and the three of us had many opportunities to get together. It was as if we had returned to our school days at PKU. We were a bit sad when Yu Jiang left Beijing on October 7, not knowing when we’d next be able to see each other. During the awards ceremony, the directors carefully plotted a “surprise.” On stage, the master of ceremonies, Sa Beining, asked Teng Biao who he most wanted to have present the award. Teng Biao replied, “I’d like to have the most ordinary, unknown farmer present the award.” Then, Sa called the presenter to come onstage. It was not until he reached us that we realized it was Teng Biao’s father! Teng Biao just stood there, open-mouthed and dumbstruck. On the afternoon of December 4, Pan Xinyi took the initiative of printing more than 200 fliers announcing that a BUPT lecturer would be receiving an annual rule-of-law award on CCTV that evening. Professor Jiao and Professor Chen from the School of Humanities and Economics also put the news of my award on the BUPT homepage.

1 The BUPT electoral district made the list of four formal candidates public on December 5. I was one them, and the other three were the deans of the School of Computer Science, the School of Telecommunications, and the School of Information Engineering. Facing these three famous professors, I felt a great sense of competitive pressure. But I was really fortunate, as I later found out. The dean of the School of Information Engineering, Guo Jun, told his graduate students one day in class: “Don’t vote for me. If you’re going to vote, vote for Xu Zhiyong, because he can do more to promote social justice than I

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can.” Later, Professor Guo lost the election. To this day, I still have never met him. Even all these years later, I continue to feel a great sense of respect and pressure about the trust and expectations that Professor Guo and so many other silent supporters have placed in me. I feel I must work hard to live up to their expectations, and this has encouraged me to work even more in pursuit of justice. December 10 was the day to cast ballots. The first sound I heard on waking up in the morning was one I’d never heard before. It was the sound of a loudspeaker coming from Zhongguanyuan. After playing “Jingle Bells,” a voice came over the loudspeaker and called on everyone to go vote. As I lay there, silently looking up at the ceiling, I felt an indescribable emotion come over me. This was going to be a very important day for me, both a conclusion to the momentous year of 2003 and the beginning of something yet to come. I paged through my first journal from high school and found an entry from the summer of 1988, an account of the first time I had ever gone to observe a grassroots election: People stood around the crude and simple structure, each holding a sheet of paper, their voting registration certificate. A spirited discussion was underway, as people talked about the latest news in the village and their domestic affairs. “Everyone, please quiet down!” the village party branch secretary said. “Hurry and vote! Fill in those ballots!” The discussion died down. Some had stopped to ponder whom to vote for. Then, one talkative old auntie spoke up: “How about I choose someone for everyone?” Before anyone could answer, she continued: “How about we vote for our party branch secretary? What do you think?” “Good idea!” chimed in a few women. “What are we even voting for? Just let our branch secretary do it,” added a few more. “Okay, so it’s settled!” The whole thing took about a minute. People started walking out, tearing their unmarked ballots into pieces and tossing them into the air like confetti. Some of the youths were indignant: “What’s the point of a ballot? Why are we going through this false exercise?” One middle-school graduate understood the situation well: “I guess we’re not going to do this democratically!” “Mind your own business, youngster,” the older people scolded him. “It’s not as if it would do to send you to do the job, is it?”

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At noon, we went first to the polling station to have a look. Then I went to the university office to pick up my voting registration certificate. At 2 p.m., we returned to the polling station and solemnly cast our ballots. On December 11, I got the preliminary election results while on my way to Changping. Of 12,609 valid ballots cast, I had gotten 10,106 votes, the most of any of the other candidates. On December 12, I posted the following thank-you message online: When I learned the election results, I was filled with feelings of both limitless gratitude and heavy responsibility. I want to say thank you, but I don’t know where to begin because there are too many people to thank! Thanks to the faculty and students at the School of Humanities and Economics! Thank you for the support and assistance you have given me for more than a year, especially during this election when nearly all of you gave me your votes. Many of you also took the initiative to tell others about me. I feel so happy whenever I see each of your smiling faces! Thanks to Gu Xin, from the second-year law school class. For nearly a month, you have worked so hard, and that hard work proved decisive in the election results. Thanks also to Pan Xinyi, Tongtong, Feng Tianchi, Shao Guangming, Zhu Wendan, and all of the other secondyear law students who ran around helping my campaign. Thanks also to Wang Huan, Mou Huansen, Jiao Aiping, Yang Ganlin, Xu Yeping, Chen Wei, Professor Cui, Professor Shi, Professor Du, Professor Zhang, Professor Xiao, Prof. An and all of the other members of the faculty at the School of Humanities and Economics who gave me such powerful backing each step of the way. Thanks to the members of the first-year law school class—you are all simply wonderful! Thank you, School of Humanities and Economics! Your support has made me feel the warmth of a home! Thanks also to all of the faculty and students at BUPT! Thanks to Wang Zengmin, Su Hua, Dai Xianmei, Ai Wenbao, Li He, Li Yajie, and other faculty members too numerous to mention. So many members of the faculty I’d never met before worked tirelessly on my behalf! Thanks also to students Xue Haiqiang (who I’d never met before) and Wu Zhen, and to Pan Na, Wang Yilong, and Zhang Jingwen. You were my earliest volunteers, and you contributed so much to my campaign! Thanks also to the BUPT party committee and the election office for their careful and conscientious work. Many, many thanks for your care and support!

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Thank you, all of you teachers and students who voted for me! I understand the responsibility you have placed upon my shoulders. Please believe me when I say that I shall take on this responsibility. I shall earnestly exercise the rights the law has given to people’s congress delegates and become a genuine people’s congress delegate! BUPT is my new home. I feel so happy and proud to be here. Thank you, fellow teachers and students! Xu Zhiyong, December 12, 2003 In fact, over the previous year I hadn’t done anything for BUPT other than teach my classes. During my campaign, I made no promises to BUPT. People didn’t vote for me because of any promises I made or because there was anything specific that I could do for them. They voted for me because of my hard work to promote social progress in 2003. Their support for me was actually a show of support for a kind of belief, a kind of conscience, a kind of hope for social justice. In me, they saw traces of conscience and a sense of social justice, and, for me, this became a serious responsibility.

Addendum: Why I’m Running for Election to the People’s Congress (November 12, 2003) From the moment I saw the news in October that elections would be held for people’s congress seats in each of Beijing’s districts, I have been thinking about how I should take part. For me, taking active part in the election is just like submitting a recommendation for constitutional review of custody and repatriation or providing legal defense for Sun Dawu. All of these actions are logical extensions of my sense of responsibility as a citizen. In September, as I busied myself with the Sun Dawu case, I had already begun preparing to take active part in November’s election. Running for election was one of the four things I had decided back in July that I would do this year: make the recommendation for constitutional review of custody and repatriation, work on the Sun Dawu case, participate in the people’s congress elections, and publish a book recounting each of the other three. At the time, however, I had planned to help Yao Lifa campaign for another term in Hubei by organizing a “study mission” to the elections in Qianjiang that would be made up of officials, scholars, and media. Later, when I learned that there would be district people’s congress elections in Beijing, I had a change of plans. Yao Lifa

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had already made excellent preparations for his campaign, so since there was an opportunity in Beijing to take active part I felt I should do so. After all, elections in Beijing had a particular symbolic value, and I thought I could use my effort to push for progress in our society. As a person with specialized legal training, I have a deep understanding of how important democracy and rule of law are to modern nations. Of course, I also know that democracy and rule of law are not things that appear overnight. They require gradual effort from many people. I am willing to be a legal volunteer and promote social transformation, seeking a modern China with democracy, rule of law, and a fair and happy society. I began this effort back when I was a doctoral student at Peking University. I got locked up by local government officials who misunderstood my efforts to provide farmers with legal aid, but this didn’t lead me to to develop any prejudices or resentments. Instead, it allowed me to gain a more rational understanding of China. On April 25, 2003, Southern Metropolis Daily reported on Sun Zhigang’s tragic death. As someone who had studied rural problems for many years, I was deeply aware of the evils of the custody and repatriation system and, now, there was no way that I could remain silent any longer. On May 14, I and my friends Yu Jiang and Teng Biao submitted a recommendation to the NPC Standing Committee as citizens, requesting that it conduct a constitutional review of the Measures on the Administration of Aid to Indigent Urban Vagrants and Beggars that had led to Sun Zhigang’s death. On June 20, following lots of hard work by millions of people, this custody and repatriation system that had created so much misery for countless people was abolished. Even though we were deeply disappointed that the question of its constitutionality was never resolved, in the end all of our hard work actually resulted in something. I feel very proud to have taken part in this effort on behalf of the public interest. When I heard the news that Sun Dawu had been arrested on May 27, 2003, I immediately went online to post an appeal calling for people to pay attention to his case and telling them that they should care about Sun’s fate if they cared about the reform of China’s financial system and the viability and future of private enterprise in China. In July, I joined Sun’s defense team. With the combined effort and concern from the entire society, Mr. Sun has now returned to head the Dawu Group. Just as with the constitutional review effort, we were left with a few disappointments. But we truly believe that the effort we put into the case has had a positive impact overall.

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In all of these efforts, I had the same goal: to make our country more democratic and improve rule of law. There is no time to wait for our society to progress, let alone time to sit around an complain. I am a citizen of the People’s Republic of China, and I have a responsibility to promote democracy and rule of law in China through direct personal action. I have worked hard for this in the past, and I shall continue to do so in the future. Now, I am about to begin a new action: running for people’s congress delegate as an independent candidate. Actually, the result is not what is most important. What’s most important is to take part. I hope that my participation will tell everyone: Believe in our laws, believe in the progress of this era. Please believe that we have a genuine right to vote. I also want to tell people: Let us cherish the democratic rights we’ve been granted by law. Let us be true to the law, our fellow Chinese, our government, and our nation’s past. No matter how many people have suffered harm in the past, no matter how skeptical you may be about the present, no matter how many difficulties we may face in the future, let us take action! Only when we act is there the possibility for progress! I love this country, and I believe that a country’s modernization does not merely mean economic abundance—it also includes social justice and individual freedom. I believe that in this great era, democracy and rule of law are not simply empty phrases or beautiful lies. I long for genuine elections, and that’s why I have begun to campaign. Success lies not in the results, but rather in making this new beginning. Yes, I want to take part part in this campaign. Elections need to be competitive, and without competition there is no real election of which to speak. We don’t need to paste the label of some “-ism” on campaigning and keep it at arm’s length. There’s no reason to treat the results of humanity’s common culture with such hostility. I am an idealist. I long for a fair and just society and a constitutional China that has rule of law, freedom, and happiness. I have such a deep longing to see democracy and rule of law in our country, a society that is just and humane, and a population that is happy. I believe that democracy and rule of law offer the only path to justice and happiness. This is a bitter lesson taught by the experience of the past several hundred years, especially the experience of the 20th century. Of course, democracy and rule of law are not mere empty words or some castle in the sky. They need to be built up for real through concrete hard work by each and every one of us. I feel such a great sense of goodwill when I think of all of my fellow Chinese. We all want progress

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in this country. No one wants to stand in the way of the tide of history. And I, as a common citizen, am making a positive effort by taking part in the construction of democracy within our existing legal framework. I believe that social progress depends on the incremental accumulation of hard work by millions of people. I hope that, through my own sincerity, I can win the support of many more people, and I hope that even more will join me in this effort. As ordinary citizens, we took part in the abolition of custody and repatriation in 2003. Now, the new measures for aiding the indigent will allow millions of new urban immigrants to avoid the disastrous consequences of custody and repatriation. We also took part in the defense of Sun Dawu, helping him and many ordinary people around him. In the near future, I intend to continue making use of my specialized knowledge and training and showing my concern for social justice, concern for the dignity and rights of disadvantaged groups on the fringes of our cities, concern about irrational legal institutions, and concern for constitutional rule of law. Perhaps, my election will not help any one person directly, but this process will allow us to tell our fellow citizens: There is a new hope! This process will allow us to tell the entire world: China is truly making progress! If, in the future, I have the opportunity as a people’s congress delegate to help enact good laws, I will be able to help far more people. That is my greatest aspiration. Yes, I want to help many more people. There is still much to be done in this country. I want to become a genuine people’s congress delegate.

6 On Behalf of Free Expression: The Southern Metropolis Daily Case

Never before has there been an “embezzler” who is so firmly respected and esteemed by his colleagues. Even from prison, Old Yu continued to offer his opinions on strategy and development, just as he had when he was at work. During his four years in prison, wave after wave of his former colleagues from the Southern Daily Group went to visit him, from the top senior leaders to ordinary employees, and they sent petition after petition calling for his release. Old Yu suffered on behalf of the Southern Media Group and the cause of press freedom in China. I am truly proud to have defended this kind of “embezzler.” Even though the masses are not very familiar with this case, I continue to consider it one of the most worthwhile cases I ever took part in. On behalf of free expression, I and tens of thousands of friends I never met in person stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the front lines of the battlefield. When Yu Huafeng finally emerged from prison in 2008, we could still see the [Southern Media] banners flying. It is still moving to think of all of our past hard work.

1 My relationship with the newspapers of the Southern Daily Group dates back to 1997. At the time, I was in the third year of a master’s degree program at Lanzhou University. As graduation neared, I naturally thought back to my sole aspiration as a high school student—to become a reporter who would speak out for justice. When I graduated from high school, though, I couldn’t find any top-level universities with journal87

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ism departments that were looking for students from Henan, so I randomly picked law instead. But throughout my undergraduate days up through graduate school, I never gave up on that dream of being a reporter. I continued to keep journals, write articles, and submit items for publication. As I faced graduation in the fall of 1997, I sent Southern Weekly a few of my articles and a self-introduction that I still remember clearly to this day. The first line was: “As I stood on top of the short wall in front of our house, the great expanse of the North China Plain stretched before me as far as the eye could see. This is where my memories of childhood begin.” Luckily, I soon received a telephone call from the offices of Southern Weekly, asking me to send them more detailed information about myself. It was December and I had just taken the civil service examinations in Beijing when I got another call from Southern Weekly telling me that managing editor Jiang Yiping was coming to the capital and hoped to meet me for a chat. That evening, I met Jiang at a guesthouse near the offices of People’s Daily. She was very approachable and easygoing, coming across almost like a big sister. I discussed my ambitions and future plans and told her that I wanted to join Southern Weekly. She decided that I could work there as an intern, so I set out for Guangzhou the next day. At the paper, I was guided by Li Hui and Tan Tinghao, who patiently taught me how to edit and how to write. There, on the 12th floor of the Southern Daily Group building, I worked at the desk of Fang Sanwen, who had just gone to Shanghai. I often stayed at the office until very late. When I would get up to go to the toilet, I often spied another night owl—editor Shen Hao. Afterwards, I would go to sleep up on the 19th floor of the same building. I didn’t care for Guangzhou’s humid climate, and because I was kind of a loner and couldn’t speak the local language, my days there were rather depressing. There were three incidents, though, that left an impression on me despite the depression. The first was Southern Weekly’s reporting on the Zhang Jinzhu case. Zhang was a Zhengzhou police official who, just before taking on a new post, got drunk and drove his car the wrong way down a pedestrian walkway, killing a boy and seriously injuring the boy’s father. After Southern Weekly published a front-page feature on the case, it unleashed a wave of anger nationwide and the hallways were plastered with angry letters from readers. Another memorable moment was when Southern Weekly published Professor He Weifang’s famous and controversial article, “On the Trans-

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fer of Demobilized Military Officers to the Courts.” Upon receiving the article, managing editor Jiang Yiping hesitated a bit and asked for my opinion. I said the piece was extremely valuable and should be published. A lot of people took issue with that article after it was published, but it played an important role in helping to enlighten the public about the way judges were appointed in China. The third incident was a discussion I had with former managing editor Zuo Fang right before I left. That afternoon, I sat for four hours as Zuo recounted the bitter history of Chinese press freedom in the 20th century. He spoke of his generation’s sense of helplessness and the aspirations and responsibilities of China’s new generation of journalists. I was greatly moved by his idealism and lofty sentiments. At the beginning of January 1998, I went to Xi’an to investigate an election dispute and, as I was nearby, took the opportunity to make a return visit to Lanzhou University. But because I forgot to give timely notice of my whereabouts to the personnel department at the Southern Daily Group, I lost my chance at a permanent position with Southern Weekly. Years passed, with many twists and turns and ups and downs, until I suddenly had another chance to enter the Southern Daily Group building in February 2004. But this time, I was there in the midst of a crisis. One day that month, a deputy editor-in-chief at the Beijing News named Yang Bin came to find me. With a heavy heart, he filled me in about what had happened at the Southern Metropolis Daily and expressed his fears for how the case might turn out. In 2003, Southern Metropolis Daily had been first to report the outbreak of SARS in Guangdong. On April 25, the paper published a report on the death of Sun Zhigang that sent shockwaves throughout the nation. Because of this report, the whole of society came to sympathize with Sun Zhigang’s tragic death in a custody and repatriation center. At the same time, it helped to set off a wave of support for abolition of this inhumane system and launch the citizen’s rights defense movement. But just as people at the paper were feeling a sense of pride in what they had accomplished, the crisis suddenly hit. Beginning in July 2003, Southern Metropolis Daily was put under a six-month investigation that looked into nearly every one of the paper’s advertising customers. On December 14, general manager Yu Huafeng was placed under residential surveillance. On January 6, 2004, police summoned the paper’s managing editor and deputy editor-in-chief, Cheng Yizhong. Three days later, Yu Huafeng was placed under criminal detention on suspicion of embezzlement and bribery. The charges

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stemmed from the distribution of a collective bonus in 2001, a decision that had been made unanimously by the paper’s nine-person editorial board. Yu was formally arrested on January 14, and his trial opened on March 4. This was an unprecedented crisis for a newspaper that had once represented the direction of media reform and the future of reporting in China. Everyone at the core of the paper’s operations now found themselves in danger. Yang Bin asked me whether I would be willing to get involved in the case. I said I would think it over and made clear that, if I did take on the case, I would do so voluntarily because I cared about this kind of platform for free expression.

1 The first hearing of Yu Huafeng’s trial opened on March 4. Just as in the Sun Dawu case, we were facing one of the top 10 prosecutors in the country. Prosecution and defense argued their cases passionately in a trial that lasted the entire day. With respect to the corruption charge, the basic facts were as follows: Southern Metropolis Daily had signed a contract with its parent group that included provisions for setting aside funds to pay performance bonuses to main employees on the paper’s business side. But it was very difficult for reporters and editors to earn these performance bonuses, so the editorial board decided to set aside 1.56 million of the bonuses paid to the deputy editors-in-chief and others and make those funds available to the newspaper as a whole. So that year, after the terms of the annual contract had been satisfied, with the addition of this 1.56 million yuan the paper had more than 6 million yuan that it could distribute in bonuses. The editorial board decided that the first round of bonuses would go to the entire staff, the second round would go to managers at the middle level and above, and the third round would distribute 580,000 yuan in bonuses to the nine members of the editorial board who served as the paper’s senior management. The decision was formalized in a resolution, and vouchers were issued and signed upon payment of each bonus. Yu Huafeng and Cheng Yizhong each took home a bonus of 100,000 yuan. The prosecution insisted that Yu Huafeng had taken this large bonus “without exposing it to any sunlight” in a process that amounted to a “secret” dividing-up of state assets. As for the bribery charge, the prosecutor alleged that Yu Huafeng had bribed Li Minying, a member of the editorial board, “in order to get

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a bigger bonus.” When evidence was put forward to refute this charge, the prosecutor changed his story and claimed that Yu Huafeng had bribed Li “in order to get his bonus ahead of schedule.” But they never showed any evidence to show that Yu had any interest in getting the bonus “ahead of schedule.” After this accusation was refuted as well, the prosecution gave a new explanation, saying that Yu Huafeng wanted to get his bonus “ahead of schedule” so that he could “get a new contract for Southern Metropolis Daily ahead of schedule.” Our basic defense argument regarding the embezzlement charge was that, in fact, the 1.56 million yuan was part of the bonus owed to Southern Metropolis Daily, that both the basis and origin of the funds were lawful, and that the Southern Metropolis Daily editorial board was within its rights to distribute those bonuses lawfully. There were details of the case that many people didn’t know anything about. In the course of collecting evidence, we discovered that there were only eight signatures on the receipt for the 2001 year-end supplementary bonus in the amount of 580,000 yuan and that the only member of the editorial board whose signature was missing was Yu Huafeng’s. Even though the finance department had a receipt signed by Yu Huafeng for his year-end bonus of 100,000 yuan, the receipt was not dated. According to the law, it would be difficult to use this evidence to prove that Yu Huafeng had taken 100,000 of the 580,000 yuan bonus. Yu Huafeng recalled that this 100,000 yuan was probably an amount he sent to an elderly former boss on behalf of Southern Metropolis Daily. We had considered raising doubts based on this point, since if Yu Huafeng insisted that he had not taken the 100,000 yuan then the prosecution most likely would lack the evidence to prove their claim. But we also considered that this case concerned the entire senior management of Southern Metropolis Daily, not just Yu Huafeng alone. In particular, Cheng Yizhong was the main person responsible for the paper, so how much good would it do to use evidence to exclude Yu Huafeng from suspicion? Therefore, the main point of our defense was to argue that distributing bonuses to all of the editorial board members did not amount to embezzlement. As for the bribery charge, there was no evidence to show that Yu Huafeng attempted to acquire any improper benefit, and Yu Huafeng had no motivation to pay a large bribe to Li Minying, who at the time had no real decision-making authority at the paper. On the contrary, the 970,000 yuan Yu paid to Li was a bonus in recognition of Li’s huge contributions on behalf of Southern Metropolis Daily’s advertising sales.

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At trial, Yu Huafeng made a very moving final statement, saying: More than twenty years ago, eighteen rural households in Xiaogang Village, Anhui, took a huge risk when they began experimenting with household responsibility contracts that allowed families to farm their own plots and keep the surplus for themselves. Under the socialist institutions in place at the time, these families faced the possibility of severe punishment under the law. Fortunately, they were not prosecuted, and from that point China entered a new era of reform and opening in which such contracts became the norm. Today, there is a need for innovation in the way that state-owned media companies are managed. It was in the same era of reform and opening that we at Southern Metropolis Daily began our own new experimentation. In the space of just a few years, Southern Metropolis Daily rose up quickly. Last year, we sold 1.2 billion in advertising and made a profit of 160 million yuan. The main reason for our success is that we were able to come up with a set of effective incentive mechanisms. Of course, in the process of these explorations, we encountered resistance from the traditional institutional setup, but we found ways of adapting. How should we characterize these adaptations? History tells us we should be cautious before judging these methods to be illegal or criminal. A common cold and SARS may both cause fever and coughing, but if you try to treat a common cold with the treatment for SARS, the results will be devastating. I believe that the goal of law is not to punish, but rather to realize justice and social progress. I hope that, just like the household responsibility contracts of the past, our new explorations can avoid a tragic fate.

On the evening of March 4, I had dinner with Yu Huafeng’s wife Xiang Li, lawyer Wang Bo, and Southern Metropolis Daily reporter Yu Liuwen. I said that we had done our best under the law but that Yu Huafeng could still receive a heavy sentence, because it was political power behind the scenes that would ultimately decide this case. But a huge surge of public opinion could influence this political power. If we had begun linking the case to reform of the media industry from the very beginning, public opinion would likely have come to our support. But we had been too conservative, and now the media basically didn’t dare report on the case. Early on, our idea had been to get the media to publicly discuss the problems facing reform of the media industry. We could then use that public discussion and the opinion it generated to exert pressure on those forces outside the law that were influencing the Southern Metropolis Daily case behind the scenes. It would have been similar to the way we made use of public discussion of financial reform and the worsening

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environment for private enterprise during the Sun Dawu case. In an environment where media organizations were increasingly being run like any other business, the question of how to distribute bonuses should have been considered an internal decision that had absolutely nothing to do with embezzlement. We thought that turning an issue of free expression into an issue related to reform of the market economy should have been part of our strategy, especially since that year top propaganda officials had been openly discussing reform of the media industry. However, senior officials at the Southern Daily Group had hoped that this case could be resolved quietly and worried that any high-profile discussion of the case would lead to more problems. This kind of thinking was something we often ran into, and it was also understandable in this instance, especially since no one had ever encountered a situation like this before. Everyone had the best intentions and believed that low-key compromise would yield favorable results. On March 5, I posted an article online entitled “Please Let Us Move Forward: Behind the Scenes of the Southern Metropolis Daily Case.” At the end of that article, I wrote: As I left the Southern Daily Group on March 5, I heard that an official work team had already been sent in. I thought back over all of the bad news from the past few years and really wanted to express the respect I felt from the bottom of my heart. The tragedy of enterprise marketization in China is that companies are stuck between outdated laws on the one side and present-day realities on the other. You either choose to take risks and break through or you allow yourself to become overly cautious. Such are the tribulations of living in a changing era! Our defense of Yu Huafeng is not merely for the well-being of a single person or family. We want to tell everyone that the times are changing and that this is an era in which we are moving toward greater openness and freedom. We want to say to those whom the people have put in power: “Please let us move forward.” Some might characterize our good intentions as either naïveté or foolishness, but we say these things with sincerity. No matter how often we may feel disappointed or helpless, we have never abandoned our hope for a just legal system in China or our pursuit of an open and just society. On March 19, the day I had been fearing finally came. We arrived at the gate of the Dongshan District People’s Court at 8:15 a.m. At 8:30, the court that had heard the case against Li Minying

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for taking bribes and against Yu Huafeng for embezzlement and bribery would announce its verdict. As Yu Huafeng’s defense counsel, my mind was uneasy. At 8:20, we received some shocking news: Guangzhou police had gone to Danba County, Sichuan, to take Cheng Yizhong into custody at 3 o’clock that morning. When she heard the news, Xiang Li let out a scream. In that instant, we knew that Yu Huafeng was likely to receive a heavy sentence. At 8:30, the judge announced that Li Minying was sentenced to 11 years for taking bribes. Li immediately said that he did not accept the verdict and wanted to appeal. At 9:30, the judge read the verdict against Yu Huafeng: 10½ years for embezzlement and two years for bribery, with a combined total of 12 years in prison. The verdict directly implicated Cheng Yizhong as the primary culprit in a collective embezzlement scheme in which all nine members of the editorial board had taken part. It claimed that editor-in-chief Cheng Yizhong had proposed distributing the bonuses, signed and issued the vouchers used to obtain the bonus money, and distributed the bonuses from his office. The verdict left no doubt that he was the primary culprit, so it was not hard to predict the strong possibility that he would receive an even heavier sentence than Yu Huafeng. Yu Huafeng let out a loud wail. He said in the courtroom: “An individual is simply too insignificant in the face of such powerful institutions!” I also felt my emotions turning extreme. There was too much that I wanted to say. Like Yu Huafeng, at that moment, I knew that these tribulations were simply the fate of one individual.

1 A lot of bad news came all at once. Cheng Yizhong’s home was searched, and some banned books and video discs of films suspected of containing sexual content were confiscated. This was a signal that the authorities were prepared to demonize Cheng Yizhong’s character. At almost the same moment, there was another piece of bad news: the head of the Southern Daily Group might be forced to resign. That afternoon, I got in touch with some friends in Beijing and asked them to help me organize a press conference there in a couple of days. At that point in time, there was next to no opinion coverage of the case domestically, apart from a clever opinion piece that had been published in Caijing magazine. We had no choice but to make use of the Internet and overseas media.

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Whether in the Sun Zhigang case, the Sun Dawu case, or any of many other later individual cases, our most powerful weapon has always been publicity. But there have been those who have criticized us, saying that we used public opinion to interfere with judicial independence. The fact is, however, that we have never tried to use the media to interfere with the judicial process. Our aim was to interfere with those forces outside the law that themselves interfere with the judicial process. It would be the same thing in the Southern Metropolis Daily case. Public opinion functions just like sunshine. Expressions of public opinion through the media are like the sunlight scattering the clouds. In today’s China, the judicial process needs the warmth of sunshine, and this is something that the media can offer. On March 21, 2004, I held an information session on the Southern Metropolis Daily case for the media on the second floor of a Beijing café. Most in attendance that day were friends from either the legal profession or from the media. The session was chaired by Hou Wenzhuo, founder of the Empowerment and Rights Institute NGO. I provided an introduction to the case, and then everyone had a chance to ask questions or make comments. Over the next week, I held three online group chats to publicize case details so that people online could help disseminate the facts. It was around this time that we began to feel the strength of our supporters. This was not merely the effort of a minority; it was an effort being carried out jointly by people from the media, intellectuals, and us. On March 21, Chen Feng, the reporter who had reported on the Sun Zhigang case in Southern Metropolis Daily the year before, sent an open letter to the Guangzhou party committee, government, procuratorate, and court. On March 29, the same day that Yu Huafeng filed his appeal, a group of noted media personalities including Zhan Jiang, Wang Keqin, Zhao Mu, and Chen Feng issued an “Appeal for Southern Metropolis Daily,” calling on the media and intellectuals to sign on in support. On April 1, Cheng Yizhong was formally arrested on suspicion of embezzlement and illicit distribution of state assets. That same day, OCI held a symposium of legal experts in Beijing to discuss the Yu Huafeng case. Nationally reputed legal scholars like Jiang Ping, Chen Xingliang, Chu Huaizhi, and Fan Chongyi gave their opinions on the case and were unanimous in maintaining that Yu had not committed any embezzlement or bribery. On April 5, OCI and the Unirule Institute of Economics jointly organized a seminar of legal experts and economists to discuss the issue

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of public assets. He Weifang, Zhang Sizhi, Sheng Hong, and other legal experts and economists expressed their opinions on the Southern Metropolis Daily case. On April 8, we finally got a response from the relevant authorities in Guangzhou. An item entitled “Dongshan District Court Responds to Questions from Media” was published on the website of Southern Daily, the official newspaper of the Guangdong Provincial Party Committee. This piece provided an explanation of the court’s first-instance verdict and maintained that there was “no sign of bias or irregularity” in the Yu Huafeng verdict and that Cheng Yizhong had been “arrested in accordance with the law.” This offered us an important opportunity. Before, no matter how much we tried to rally people to our side, the opposition hadn’t responded. That kind of battle leaves one discouraged. But now, our opponents had suddenly come out in the open. I wrote two separate commentaries in the course of two hours and posted them on the OCI website and all the major online forums. In my response, I wrote: When the editorial board decided to distribute 580,000 yuan in bonuses, editor-in-chief Cheng Yizhong issued vouchers clearly marked “Supplementary Annual Bonuses of 580,000 yuan” and drew up a detailed distribution plan. Each member of the editorial board signed the vouchers before the funds were disbursed. These pieces of evidence remain safely in the paper’s finance department. Does this sound like an effort to conceal fraud by deliberately not entering details into the books? Is there really an embezzler in this world who is so stupid as to commit his crime after first holding a meeting to discuss the matter and getting everyone to sign off on it? Then, I compiled the opinions of each of the legal experts who had met to discuss the case into a piece that I also published online. These legal experts were always very cautious, but at this moment we needed to give the case everything we had. On April 10, intellectuals like Li Jian, Shen Haobo, and Yin Lichuan issued a very powerful second petition. By May, they had collected more than 600 signatures from individuals from all walks of life. That same day, I posted an online reply to someone who had questioned whether I was using my role as defense counsel and public spokesperson to seek personal benefit. I knew that, in a major and highly contentious case like this, someone had to have the courage to stand up. This person could be a defendant’s relative or a defense

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lawyer, but, no matter what, someone had to be willing to take that risk and come forward. In the Southern Metropolis Daily case, I unexpectedly came to play this essential, but easily misunderstood, role. I had to explain myself in a piece titled “We Cannot Shirk our Responsibility: On the Southern Metropolis Daily Incident”: On March 19, 2004, Yu Huafeng was sentenced to 12 years in prison. On April 1, Cheng Yizhong was formally arrested. These are two outstanding journalists who have greatly enriched this country in both material and non-material ways, but because of bonuses distributed three years ago they are facing heavy prison sentences. This tragedy does not merely concern the fates of Yu Huafeng and Cheng Yizhong. It involves freedom of expression, media reform, judicial fairness, and social progress—issues that concern each of us and the future of our country. Therefore, in the public interest, I took on the role of defense counsel for Yu Huafeng, and I am also actively helping Cheng Yizhong. This is a responsibility for which I feel dutybound. I have never handled a case in order to reap any material benefit. I don’t understand power, so I’ve never sought false reputation or any official position. I just want to be a person who tells the truth and a Chinese citizen with a sense of responsibility. When I see injustice being done, I cannot remain silent. If society is to make progress, everyone must do his or her part. In mid-April, two former Guangdong party secretaries, Ren Zhongyi and Wu Nansheng, sent a joint letter to Zhang Dejiang, who was at that time serving as Guangdong party secretary and a member of the Politburo. In their letter, Ren and Wu wrote that, first of all, the public had always shown great enthusiasm for the Communist Party’s efforts to punish corruption. Even when there were dissenting voices, they had always been restricted to a small minority. The fact that the Southern Metropolis Daily corruption case had aroused widespread public opposition deserved some further reflection. Second, Ren and Wu noted that, besides the general public, many legal experts and economists had expressed views on this case, views that appeared to be objective, rational and pertinent and deserved attention. Third, Guangdong was at the frontlines of reform and opening for the entire nation, as well as a pacesetter for the media industry. How to handle new problems that emerge in the media during the course of reform and opening was an issue that deserved more thought as well.

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Zhang Dejiang was away from Guangzhou on an inspection tour when he received the letter, but he responded immediately with personal, handwritten instructions. Zhang wrote that Ren and Wu had made some important points and that the case needed to be handled fairly and, in making a decision, the potential impact of the verdict and the need to preserve social stability both needed to be taken into account. This marked a major turning point in the Southern Metropolis Daily case.

1 Even though I had already heard the news about Zhang Dejiang’s instructions, as a legal professional I didn’t dare start to slacken my efforts. The next step was to begin a new round of evidence-gathering and prepare for the appeal trial. On May 21, the Guangzhou Intermediate People’s Court notified Yu’s family and defense counsel that the trial hearing would begin on May 24, but this was later postponed. Yu’s appellate hearing finally opened at the Guangzhou Intermediate Court on June 7, lasting the entire day. The court accepted some of our argument, finding that the editorial board had been within its rights to distribute bonuses. But the court elaborated a new logic to prove that Yu Huafeng was guilty. They said that even though the editorial board had had the power to distribute bonuses, it did not have the power to distribute this particular 580,000 yuan in bonuses, because Yu Huafeng had allocated these funds “without authorization” from bonuses originally targeted for employees on the business side of the paper. We maintained that there was no way that Yu Huafeng could have allocated 1.55 million yuan in bonuses “without authorization.” At the time, he was merely the manager of the advertising department and had no authority to allocate funds for bonuses. All he had done was to convince his subordinates to give back some of their bonuses for use by the entire newspaper. Moreover, the 1.55 million yuan that was reallocated was under the control of the finance department, and Yu had no authority over its disbursement. Even more important was the fact that this 1.55 million yuan had been combined into the total annual bonus of 6 million yuan for 2000. This 6 million yuan in bonuses was to be paid in three phases. The first phase went to bonuses for all employees. The second phase went to managers at the middle level and above. The third phase went to the nine senior managers on the editorial board. You could only say that the 580,000 yuan in question was a portion of the 6 million yuan, not a por-

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tion of the 1.55 million yuan reallocated by Yu. In other words, there was no necessary relationship between the funds reallocated under Yu Huafeng’s direction and the final distribution of bonuses. The annual bonuses for 2000 might have ultimately been paid in only one or two phases, so it very well could have been possible that the third distribution of 580,000 yuan in bonuses to senior managers never happened. How could Yu Huafeng have hatched such a meticulously planned scheme over more than a year in an “attempt to gain 100,000 yuan”? The court’s new logic actually worked to exclude each of the other members of the editorial board from any suspicion, because it suggested that none of them knew where the 580,000 yuan had come from. Yu Huafeng could thus take sole responsibility, while the other members of the editorial board were released without conviction. The appellate verdict was announced in the trial of Yu Huafeng and Li Minying on June 15. (Li’s appeal had been tried without a court hearing.) The court continued to find Yu Huafeng guilty of embezzlement and bribery, but his sentence was cut to eight years. Li Minying was convicted of taking bribes, and his sentence was also reduced to six years. On August 27, 2004, Cheng Yizhong was finally released after five months of detention. Prior to that, Southern Metropolis Daily’s deputy managing editor Deng Haiyan had already been released. Each was released after the Guangzhou procuratorate formally decided not to prosecute their cases. From that moment, the dark cloud that had been hanging over the Southern Daily Group had essentially dissipated. For all those netizens, media institutions, reporters, experts, scholars, lawyers, and former officials who had helped to raise the appeal on behalf of the case in the months prior, this was a rare bit of good news.

7 We’re in This Together: Life in “Petitioner Village”

In a society where there is a serious deficit of justice, petitioners are a group who experience particular misery. Over the years, I’ve spent quite a bit of time among them. Here, I have chosen three types of experiences: visiting a “petitioner village,” the terrifying entrance to the State Bureau of Letters and Visits, and what it’s like to investigate a “black jail.”

1 On March 24, 2005, about 500 meters southwest of the Beijing South Railway Station, a crowded stretch of small dwellings sits surrounded by railroad tracks, public streets, high-rise buildings, and the banks of the Liangshui River. The cramped paths that run between them bustle with people who seem like beggars, all looking for a place to stay. Many of the buildings are full of people. North of the houses, on the banks of the Liangshui River, are a group of shacks pressed up against each other, also filled with people living there. Nearby, a group of people are cursing corruption. This is Beijing’s “Petitioner Village,” a place where poor petitioners gather to live amongst each other. For over two months beginning in March 2005, I spent most of my time here. For several years afterward, I continued to pay close attention to the people gathered in this place. Petitioners have naturally gravitated toward this place because many of the government offices where people regularly petition—the State Bureau of Letters and Visits (also known as the State Petitions Office), the National People’s Congress Office for Receiving Letters and Visits, or the Supreme People’s Court Office for Receiving Letters and Visits—are all located nearby in the area around Yongdingmen. 101

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Dongzhuang was the nearest village where one could find cheap accommodations in the capital, so from the 1960s onward it and the surrounding area became the place where petitioners congregated to live while they were in Beijing. In 2002, Dongzhuang was razed and its inhabitants relocated, and the stretch of one-story houses south of the railway station was turned into a park. But some small buildings remained on a patch of land south of the Liangshui River, east of Kaiyang Road, and west of the railroad tracks. During the third great wave of petitioning in 2003, this stretch of houses essentially became a village reserved solely for petitioners, the well-known “Petitioner Village.” There are a total of sixty-five rental units here, dwellings ranging in size from one to eleven rooms. On average, each unit has about four rooms, each containing anywhere from a few to thirty or more beds. An average of 10 people live in each room, each one renting a bed for between three and five yuan per night. When full, the village can house about 2,500 people in total. I first approached this community on March 24, 2005. That evening, I went along with a petitioner I knew well and found a place to stay in a ten-person room. This was the smallest room in the courtyard. There were actually only two beds with sheets of plywood stretching between them to make two large communal beds, one sleeping six and the other sleeping four. There was no space between our bunks, which were designated by numbers scrawled in blue chalk on the wall. Early the next morning, petitioners crossed in groups of twos and threes over the railroad tracks, through Dongzhuang Park, and across Xingfu Street to head over to the SPC Office of Letters and Visits or the State Petitions Office. All the daily petitioner traffic had led to a flourishing of small businesses on Xingfu Street, with cheap restaurants and photocopy shops lining both sides of the street. Photocopying was cheap here, costing only a couple of cents per page. Each day, several people would arrive to set up small book stalls specializing in three different kinds of books: law, sex, and divination. Others set up shop in large stalls spread out on the street, where they offered all different kinds of photocopied “reference materials”—including the “Regulations for Letters and Visits,” “Regulations for Letters and Visits Work by Public Security Organs,” and the like—as well as sheets of paper listing contact details, web addresses, and other public information for each of the central government offices and the various major media outlets. Nearly an hour before it was scheduled to open, around a hundred people had already begun gathering outside the SPC Petitioning Office.

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Some sang anticorruption songs, others were giving speeches, and there were even a few trying to organize the others to join a protest march. The place became a kind of early-morning distribution center for information, with people exchanging notes on laws and policies and sharing their personal experiences and the lessons they had learned during their months and years of petitioning. All of this would be put to use by the people who gathered here to petition. Nearly every day, someone in the crowd would start giving some speech or another, almost always on the subject of anticorruption. The main gates opened at 7:45, and everyone began pouring into the alleyway. Some queued up in the courtyard as they waited to fill in paperwork. Once that paperwork was complete, they could enter the main hall and wait for their names to appear on a screen. Even more people streamed directly into the reception office, where they stared at the red electronic screen and watched the names and queue numbers of petitioners from every province flash by. Once their number was finally called, they could go in to talk with someone. From the time you filled in your paperwork to the time you actually got to speak to someone, you might wait a week or even longer. Every morning, even more petitioners would make their respective ways to the bus station near the South Railway Station. From there, they could reach any of the other government petitioning offices and commence their petitioning for the day. The number 20 bus from Beijing South Railway Station had become something like a dedicated shuttle bus for petitioners, taking them to Tiananmen, from where they could transfer to nearly anywhere in the city. Some of the older petitioners carried on a tradition from the 1960s: riding the bus for free. The practice dated back to 1958, when petitioners began to enjoy a kind of special treatment. At that time, any person who was carrying a special note issued by one state organ instructing them to take their petition to another unit could ride without purchasing a ticket. There were never any specific rules issued for how this was supposed to work, but there were never any orders formally rescinding the practice, either. Over time, it turned into a vague sort of tradition. The other mode of transportation frequented by petitioners was the police vehicle. Whenever they tried to protest in any sensitive location, they would immediately be taken away by the police and sent to the holding facility at Majialou to wait for some official from their hometown’s Beijing representative office to come get them. If no one came for them by 4 p.m., they would be released and start heading back to Petitioner Village.

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During the more than two months that I lived among them, I tagged along when they went to petition, listened as they recounted their stories, and gradually came to understand this special community. The people gathered in Petitioner Village had come from all over the country, each with his or her own specific grievance. But all had come with an identical goal: getting the attention of some high-level official who could deliver justice. What made “Petitioner Village” unique compared to what we ordinarily thought of as villages was its particular community of residents. More accurately, “Petitioner Village” was not defined geographically as much as it was defined by a particular group of people. Anywhere that there was a large group of petitioners, no matter where they happened to relocate, that became “Petitioner Village.”

1 Every day in Petitioner Village you would hear talk about people getting beaten at the gates of the State Bureau of Letters and Visits. In order to experience for myself this aspect of their lives, I went to the alleyway in front of the entrance to the State Petitions Office on April 1, 2005. I was wearing a suit, since I had to attend a meeting later that afternoon. These were not the best clothes to be wearing if I wanted to experience the place as a petitioner would, however, since anyone could see right away that I wasn’t one of them. The majority of petitioners in China come from the most disadvantaged segments of society. They have little money and even less power, and most of them dress in wornout clothing and carry their petitioning documents in makeshift backpacks. All the pain they’ve experienced is etched on their careworn faces. When they’re out on the streets of Beijing, they’re very easy to identify. I reached the alley in front of the State Petitions Office a bit after 10 a.m. Petitioners called this place the “Two Offices.” In the past, there had been no sign at the entrance to identify what went on inside. It was only during the annual meeting of the National People’s Congress in 2005 that they carved a new sign into the wall: Reception Office for People’s Letters and Visits of the Chinese Communist Party Central Committee General Office and State Council General Office (State Bureau of Letters and Visits). Police vehicles lined both sides of the street outside the alley entrance, which when I arrived was filled with around 100 people whose job was to “receive” the petitioners—actually, to intercept them

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before they reached the State Petitions Office and registered their complaints. These interceptors were mostly all dressed alike, each looking like a local township cadre. Maybe it was because I didn’t look like a petitioner. As I entered the alleyway, many people sized me up but no one tried to stop me. Besides the State Petitions Office, this alley also led to the Xuanwu District Education Bureau and a few other government units, so there were always a few people other than petitioners going in and out. As a consequence, those who were there to intercept petitioners had to judge people correctly so that they wouldn’t make a mistake and stop the wrong person. It was said that once an official from the State Petitions Office was himself intercepted and beaten up here. Several dozen meters inside, there was another group of even more densely packed people obstructing the alley. As I kept moving toward them, they began looking at each other, none daring to block me. Suddenly, one of them thrust out his hand and grabbed my shoulder, asking me where I was from. I said I was from Henan. The gathered crowd erupted in shouts: “He’s from Henan! He’s from Henan!” Three people suddenly emerged from the crowd and grabbed me by the arm. They asked me, “Where in Henan?” When I said I was from Kaifeng, the men grabbing my arm again began to shout, “Kaifeng! Kaifeng! Hey, Liu! Director Liu!” A man who looked to be a local cadre came up to me and showed me his identification, which read: “Deputy Director of the Kaifeng Bureau of Letters and Visits.” Then, the other three who had grabbed me began pushing me back toward the entrance to the alleyway, saying, “Let’s go outside to talk.” I told them to let me go and that I wanted to go inside. But I had already gotten trapped in a dense mass of people who were intentionally jostling me to and fro. People were taking turns punching and kicking me from behind, but I was surrounded by people and couldn’t see who was doing this. I was finally able to take advantage of a passing vehicle to break free of the crowd that had been surrounding me, but, just at that moment, Director Liu reappeared. He said that there were people from ten different provinces there receiving petitioners, but that none of the ones who hit me were from Kaifeng. Later, I realized that Director Liu had mostly been telling the truth. Petitioner-interceptors ordinarily came from counties and cities throughout a particular province. The petitioners and interceptors from a given province got to know each other over time, so interceptors often had misgivings about beating someone from their home province, since there might be retaliation once the petitioner

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returned home. Henan, Liaoning, and Heilongjiang always had more interceptors than other provinces, so there eventually came to be a kind of tacit agreement whereby personnel from one province would agree to help beat petitioners from other provinces. For example, Director Liu only needed to give the signal and interceptors from Liaoning, Heilongjiang, Jiangsu, or Anhui would start beating someone up. Likewise, when personnel from other provinces discovered a petitioner they needed to prevent from reaching the petitioning office, Henan interceptors would have no qualms about giving them a good thrashing. I saw petitioners from Inner Mongolia being beaten by interceptors from Heilongjiang, petitioners from Hunan being beaten by interceptors from Luoyang, Henan, and petitioners from Henan being beaten by interceptors from Liaoning. They used these savage beatings to try to teach petitioners a simple “lesson”: Don’t come back to Beijing, or else you’ll get another beating. It was nearly 11 by the time I reached the compound of the Petitions Office, which was about to close for lunch. Security guards were trying to clear the area, and the group of people who had been gathered in the compound began to disperse. Three interceptors practically lifted a skinny farmer up in the air as they pushed him into a vehicle with Liaoning plates waiting just outside. It was then that I discovered that my pants were covered with footprints. Back at the entrance to the alleyway leading to the Petitions Office, a young farmer was being pushed around by four or five people. You could see the fear all over his face as he began shouting himself hoarse: “They’re beating me! Let me go!” No one paid him any attention. A police officer silently watched the whole scene unfold through the window of a Beijing police car that was parked nearby. Suddenly, the young man broke free and bolted away as fast as his legs would take him. Once he got far enough away, he stopped and turned to look back. I walked over and greeted him, hoping to have a word. Again, a look of panic swept over his face and he hurried away. I went back two weeks later, on April 15, 2005. To avoid being noticed, I had the taxi drop me off several hundred meters away and then walked over to join the group gathered near the entrance to the Petitions Office. I wanted to know what was in the minds of these people who came here every day to watch and take part in the beating of petitioners. From time to time a petitioner would pass through this bustling crowd, invariably receiving a shove or a kick for his or her efforts. When a tricycle cart tried to pass, the interceptors again began to shout

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and pulled it to a halt, preventing it from entering. They’d quarrel with people like this for a while, and then they’d all have a great laugh with each other. Around 2:30 p.m., a white-haired old couple got cornered near the foot of a wall just two or three meters away from me. The old woman said they were from Lianyungang, in Jiangsu. The interceptors tried to drag the old couple away, but the pair kept close to the wall and refused to leave. Suddenly, two or three men from the surrounding group began shoving and punching the old couple. With a single punch, a swarthy, middle-aged man in his forties knocked the old woman to the ground and then began savagely kicking her as she lay there. In that instant, my blood began to boil and I rushed over and punched the brute in the head. He reeled, dazed for a moment, and then came at me in a frenzy. Two or three others started punching and kicking me from behind. I lost my footing and my shoulder-bag fell to the ground. I got back to my feet and was about to grab someone when a man beside me diverted my attention. He picked my bag up off the ground and handed it to me, along with all of my documents and identification cards that had scattered on the ground. Worried that I might lose my ID card, I stopped briefly to put my things away. In the flash of an eye, the rest of them ran away. I couldn’t help myself. I pointed my finger at the hundred or so interceptors gathered there and began to loudly reprimand them: “That old woman is as old as your mothers! How the fuck can you beat her like that? Are you even human?” The old woman also began bawling them out as she picked herself up off the ground: “Do you have parents or children? I hope they all get run over by a car to repay you for all the evil you do!” In the face of such brutal force, the weak often have no other weapon than their curses. Afterward, the old couple began to spread their petition documents out on the ground. One was a photograph of their son wearing an army uniform. I never fully understood the whole situation, only gathering that someone had killed their son and the person responsible had not received the appropriate punishment. Petitioner interceptors from Lianyungang came over to try to reason with them and get them to leave. The old woman came over to thank me, saying that if I hadn’t saved her there’s no telling how far they would have gone in beating her. Over the next half-hour or so, no one else got beaten up. At 3:30, I had to leave to attend to other matters. As I sat in the taxi’s calmness, my eyes suddenly began to tear up.

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I wrote down these experiences and posted them online. The piece attracted a great deal of attention, including from some senior officials. In June 2005, I was invited to a meeting with a deputy director and head of the reception office at the State Petitions Office. On the one hand, they wanted to apologize for the beating I’d received. On the other hand, they pledged that there would be no more beatings at the gate of the State Bureau of Letters and Visits. And, in fact, from May 1 that year security was stepped up at the entrance to the bureau and there was an obvious decline in beatings. However, until there was real democracy and rule of law in China, it was likely that petitioning would continue to be one of those problems peculiar to Chinese society.

1 Before 2003, custody and repatriation centers were used to hold three main types of people: vagrants and beggars, petitioners (who were held in medical wards, indicating that they were “sick in the head”), and people—mostly migrant laborers—caught without any of the “three permits.” It was this last group that made up the main bulk of the custody and repatriation centers’ free labor pool. After the custody and repatriation centers were abolished in 2003, migrant laborers were basically left alone. Vagrants and beggars would occasionally be sent to rescue centers, but the authorities weren’t so strict about picking them up anymore either. That left the petitioners, especially persistent, long-term petitioners. This led, in turn, to the appearance of “black jails.” I came up with the name “black jails” to refer to the guesthouses, basements, and study classes where petitioners were unlawfully detained. This designation reflected the total and unlawful way they deprived people of their liberty in what were basically illegal prisons. I first started hearing about black jails in 2005. In 2007, during the annual meeting of the National People’s Congress, I began receiving text messages from petitioners from all over China, all of whom were looking for someone to rescue from the same location in Beijing. This indicated to me that black jails were becoming more and more specialized. But prior to September 21, 2008, I had never had the opportunity to visit one firsthand. On that morning, I received a text message from a petitioner saying that she and others were being held in a black jail located off an alley behind the Youth Hotel on Taiping Street, near the Taoran Pavilion. I happened to have some free time that day, so I quickly made my way

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over to the run-down hotel and asked a shirtless middle-aged man if he knew of a place nearby where they held petitioners. He said that the place was behind a non-descript white metal gate located at the rear of the hotel. The gate was shut tight, but through a nearby window I could see a girl watching television and a man lying on a bed. I knocked on the gate, but there was no answer. When I knocked on the window, the girl woke the man and told him to hurry up and open the gate because someone had come to collect one of the people inside. Flustered, the man fumbled with the lock as he asked me where I’d come from. When I told him I was from Henan, his expression suddenly changed, as if something wasn’t quite right. He said I should contact my local government’s Beijing representative office and have them get in touch with him. I told him I knew a woman inside named Wang Jinlan and wanted to see her for a minute. The man said there wasn’t anyone there by that name. So, I telephoned Wang Jinlan and, a minute later, she came up to the window. She demanded to be let out, but the man refused. I began to take photographs through the window, at which point the man rolled down the grate. Suddenly, six or seven men came running over from every direction, and one of them reached out to grab my camera. The shirtless man who had earlier given me directions rushed over and stabbed his fist in my chest. He had a menacing look on his face and carried an iron chain and lock in his other hand. I remained calm despite their curses and the occasional punch thrown my way. For a moment, they thought about dragging me into the black jail, too, but their leader stopped them. After they grew tired of making such a show of aggression, I asked them if I could leave. At first, they refused, but then they seemed to reconsider and let me go. As I was leaving, I turned and said, “You’ll come to regret the way you acted today, not because anyone is going to punish you but because of your own consciences!” When I went back the next day, I went fully prepared. Even before I reached the entrance to the black jail, I ran into four or five guards already waiting for me. As I approached, they began shouting, “What do you want?” I told them I was looking for someone, and they snarled in reply that I’d better get the hell out of there. One of the guards, a man in a red shirt, looked familiar to me. If I wasn’t mistaken, this was the same Director Liu, from the Kaifeng Bureau of Letters and Visits, who I’d encountered three years earlier in

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the alleyway outside the State Bureau of Letters and Visits. I never thought that I would run into him again. I said that it was illegal for them to detain petitioners like this. Director Liu shouted, “Who said we’re detaining anyone? They’re all here voluntarily!” I said, “Let’s pick an example. Is Wang Jinlan here voluntarily?” As I took out my mobile phone and prepared to call Wang Jinlan inside, Director Liu came up and snatched the phone away. He waved a fist in my face and shouted at me to get the hell out of there. He said it was a government matter and that I should mind my own business. Later, I learned that Director Liu had always been one of the people who beat petitioners the most fiercely. Many of the petitioners were afraid of him, and all of the guards called him “Director Liu” out of respect. Perhaps the Bureau of Letters and Visits thought that this kind of person was the most appropriate person to take on this kind of work. I refused to leave. A tall guy next to Director Liu began shoving me, mixing in some punches and smacks to my head for good measure. He pushed me all the way over to the gate of the nearby Number 62 Middle School, his fists never leaving my cheeks. The shirtless guy from the day before then came rushing over, shouting and carrying his lock and chain, but he was held back by a man standing nearby. I shouted over to some middle-school students who were then on their way home, “Please don’t forget! There’s a black jail right next door where they lock up innocent petitioners!” Wang Jinlan sent another text message from inside, saying: “They won’t let me leave. There are thirty-one people here. A moment ago, a steel-factory worker from Luoyang named Liu Cuihua had her ribs broken by local authorities, and they brought her in connected to an IV tube and left her in the hallway.” Earlier, Wang had sent messages warning me not to go there because it was dangerous. She said the local governments were hiring hoodlums as enforcers, paying them 1,000 yuan for each light beating and 3,000 yuan for each heavy beating. I thought of the shirtless Beijinger I met earlier, probably the most ruthless of all the enforcers they had there. The guards discovered my friend from the media outside the gate of the Number 62 Middle School. The big guy from before grabbed her mobile phone and smashed it on the ground. I told them to leave us alone. Several of them blocked me from going anywhere, all the while making frantic calls to the local government officials telling them to come over immediately and pick up Wang Jinlan. Things calmed down for a moment. I gently asked the tall guy who had just been beating me what he did for a living. To my surprise, he

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bellowed at me: “It’s no business of yours what I do! If you think you’ve got what it takes, take the civil service exam and become a senior official—then you might be able to change all of this!” I replied that I was just trying to have a conversation and he didn’t need to get so angry. About 10 or 15 minutes later, an official from Wang Jinlan’s hometown arrived. Wang was brought out and handed over to a judge. At that moment, actually Wang Jinlan and I were both free to go. Looking for a way out of their predicament, the guards were only too happy to get us out of there as soon as possible so that they could report back to their bosses that the matter was resolved. Wang said she had just finished registering to file an ordinary petition at the Supreme People’s Court when she was taken away and brought there. She said she hadn’t broken any laws. I asked her if she was willing to go with the judge, and she said she was, as long as local government officials were really willing to talk. The judge promised that nothing else would happen to her and agreed that they would have a real talk. So, we parted. When I got back to the calm and quiet of my office, I began to feel very upset. I wasn’t upset about getting beaten or simply about those thugs. I was upset that these black jails had been allowed to exist for so long. The thugs were hired by relatives of officials at the petition offices, and there were many such black jails located in the area surrounding the State Petition Office. The market rate for an ordinary room at the Youth Hotel was 120 yuan per night, but if you held six or seven petitioners in a single room, local authorities would pay the hotel 150 yuan per person per night. Just like that, so many innocent petitioners were being beaten up. In some ways, this was far worse than even the Shanxi “black kilns” discovered the year before, where poor people and children had been forced to work as virtual slaves in illegal brickyards. On October 13, I got a message from a Henan petitioner named Ma Xirong, asking me to come rescue her. So, we made our fourth visit to the black jail at the Youth Hotel. I arranged to meet three friends from the media at the hotel at 4 p.m., and we walked up to the gate of the black jail. Ma Xirong came to the window and demanded to be let out, but the guards wouldn’t let her go and called up the local government’s Beijing representative office. We spoke with Ma through the window. She said she had been out walking on Wangfujing Avenue when police stopped her for questioning. When they discovered she was carrying petitioning documents, they first took her to the police station and then had her locked up in the

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black jail. More and more petitioners began to gather at the window. A guard pushed Ma Xirong back inside, away from the window. We heard her shout at the guard: “I’m a law-abiding citizen! Who do you think you are? What gives you the right to keep me locked up here?” That shirtless thug came riding over on a bicycle, passed in front of us, and then squatted over in a distant corner to watch us. Several guards stared at us from the entrance to the Number 62 Middle School. I called Teng Biao, told him we’d come to the black jail again, and asked him to check in periodically. Next to me, Guo Jianguang knocked at the gate and asked when they were going to release Ma Xirong. The guy on the other side said they were contacting the relevant officials. All of the guards and lookouts had arrived and were glaring at us menacingly from both ends of the alleyway. The standoff lasted for nearly an hour. Suddenly, a van that I’d seen before at the gate of the black jail drove over and parked at the gate. Three people jumped out and began beating Guo Jianguang. The other nearby guards began moving in to surround us. Under a frenzy of slaps, punches, and kicks, Jianguang was backed into a corner against the wall, but he stoically remained on his feet. Then, another guard rushed over, grabbed him by the hair, and knocked him to the ground. I stood there next to Jianguang, unable at that moment to say whether I could prevent myself from losing my cool. It was like that time outside the State Petitions Bureau when I punched that other bully in the head. But I had to restrain myself and calm myself down. We weren’t here to fight—we were here to suffer. At almost the same moment, I was pummeled with punches to my neck, chest, and face. That shirtless guard came up behind me and gave me a sharp kick to the back of my knees in an attempt to get me to kneel down. I just stood there, calmly, and said to him: “I’m not going to fight you.” He let out a string of curses, while I just looked at him in sympathy. The big fellow kept hitting me as he shouted, “What are we afraid of—we’re acting on behalf of the government! If you think you’re so tough, just try calling the police! What are you waiting for?” Actually, I had been thinking about dialing “110,” the police emergency hotline, or filing a formal complaint with the Beijing Public Security Bureau. Up until that point, in fact, we had been collecting evidence in preparation for filing such a complaint. But we worried that making a complaint would do no good. The police had come the first time I was beaten here, but the police officer merely took a look around and left without a word. Was that something to rely on? The only thing we could rely on was the consciences of hundreds of millions of Chinese.

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After all of the fierce violence, none of the three of us left. We continued to wait calmly for Ma Xirong. Then, a local cadre rushed over to take Ma Xirong away. The tall guard shouted at her, angrily: “Ma Xirong, if this is the way you’re going to act we’re not going to bother with your situation anymore.” I immediately understood what he meant. Beating us and threatening Ma Xirong was all intended as a show for the other petitioners gathered at the window. There were many petitioners who never resisted, despite being forcibly deprived of their liberty in this place. For one thing, they thought that resistance was futile. For another, they continued to hold out hope that local government officials would come and get them and resolve their grievances. It was rare for a petitioner to be as brave and persistent as Ma Xirong in insisting on her rights as a citizen. Petitioners like her would always pay a higher price. Actually, those petitioners who didn’t resist were already pretty brave by the standards of our society, because they at least had come to Beijing seeking justice. In 2003, Sun Zhigang’s death brought a kind of freedom for millions upon millions of people without urban residence permits who nevertheless stubbornly come to the cities seeking better lives. This was the freedom of no longer having to worry about when they might lose their personal liberty by being sent to custody and repatriation. But today, the innumerable numbers of people who come to Beijing seeking justice still need to worry that they might lose their personal liberty at any time. Black jails are what remains of the custody and repatriation system, and it’s there that countless petitioners are beaten. Do we really need to wait for another Sun Zhigang before we can make a tiny bit more incremental progress? Once Ma Xirong was released, we left. At that moment I actually realized that Ma Xirong wasn’t really free. She could leave with us, but what could we actually do to help her? Her only choice was to go with the local official who had come to get her. As we left, the guards shouted and cursed at us behind our backs. As we passed the south entrance to the hotel, I turned and said, “We’ll be back.” The guards immediately rushed toward us, and the tall guy yelled as he opened the door to his car, “You better not dare come back! I’ll run you over with my car, just try me!” I remained calm. The shirtless guy again ran over and began tugging at my suit jacket, clutching at my neck, and yanking on my shirt so hard that a button popped off. Then, we left.

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Ma Xirong took out her petitioning documents. Her son had been killed in a traffic accident as a student at Xi’an Jiaotong University, and she began petitioning because she didn’t accept the court’s decision in the case. Suddenly, she kneeled down before us and thanked us for rescuing her. She wailed loudly because we had been beaten up. I lifted her up off the ground. What I really wanted to say to her was that we didn’t get beaten up for nothing. It was our honor to have the opportunity to share the burden of their suffering just a little bit. In a society where injustice has become the norm, those who dare to stand up and protest on behalf of justice are mercilessly cast by the wayside. Ma Xirong was merely walking down Wangfujing Avenue when she was picked up and sent to a black jail. What could we possible do about that? There was nothing we could do to help them, but we could share in just a little bit of their suffering. Only by sharing in their suffering could we begin to shine a bit of light on the problem, restore a bit of righteousness to our society, and urge our fellow citizens to pay closer attention to the problem. Postscript: Over the next 20 days or so we didn’t receive any more rescue messages, so Zhang Yadong and some other friends took the initiative to go back to the Youth Hotel to have a look. They found there was nothing left. The guards made a very fierce show that day we went to rescue Ma Xirong, but the response of public opinion when we broadcast an account of our efforts had had a tremendous impact. This, after all, was something too shameful to be shown in public. For several months afterward, we organized many more investigations of black jails like the one run by the Beijing representative office of Tanghe County, Henan, the one at the Juyuan Guesthouse (where a guard had raped a female petitioner), and the one at the Jingyuan Guesthouse (where a black jail was operated by the Beijing representative office of Nanyang, Henan). One time, we had nearly forty people go to investigate a single black jail. The last two times we went, the black jails seem to have gotten word we were coming and picked up and left. This effort continued until 2012. I knew that we couldn’t rescue every single person as long as black jails were in existence. However, by standing together, sharing in the petitioners’ suffering, and shining a bit of light on the problem, at least we could improve their treatment in the black jails a little bit.

8 The Citizens’ Alliance, or Gongmeng

This is an era full of hope. No matter how many ups and downs and frustrations we may experience, we remain persistent in our belief that a political opposition faction based on a healthy and rational civil society will begin to develop and that this faction, together with all outstanding citizens inside and outside the system who are firmly committed to conscience and justice, will promote a peaceful transition to constitutionalism in China. We believe in this era and that this is the destiny of our nation’s people, and that, after more than a century of upheaval and hardship, we shall at long last welcome the dawn of a new century of constitutional civilization.

1 Lawyer Zhang Xingshui called me one day in July 2003, and we arranged a time to meet. I now forget the details of most of what we discussed, except for one thing: setting up an organization for citizen participation and social improvement. This idea could potentially have a profound impact on our work for the next several years or even further into the future. This meeting was the beginning of Gongmeng—the “Citizens’ Alliance.” In October of that year, we formally registered a company called “Beijing Transparency and Constitutional Path Social Science Research Center. We came up with this provisional name because we could not register the name “Transparency and Constitutionalism.” But in our minds, the official name of our team was the name we used on our website: “Transparency and Constitutionalism”—or, as we came to be 115

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known in English, the “Open Constitutional Initiative” (OCI). Transparency and constitutionalism: these were our two sincere dreams for China. I first had the idea to set up a citizen-participation organization while I was studying for my Ph.D. At the time, I was trying to decide between two different paths: setting up a law firm or setting up an NGO. Though we registered as a company, we were entirely non-profit in nature. We emphasized that this organization was there for conscience and justice and didn’t exist to serve any economic interest. In this era, civic organizations were necessary to integrate the rational power of civil society and promote the development of democracy and rule of law by defending the dignity of the law, upholding citizens’ rights, and pushing for the reform of public policies. The more rational and powerful this group could be, the more moderate and lowcost China’s transition in political culture would be. There was a sort of inherent logic to OCI’s beginning in 2003. That year, more than 100 media outlets throughout the country launched or expanded their opinion pages. One of the most popular television series was “For the Sake of the Republic,” a historical depiction of the last years of the Qing dynasty and the origins of the 1911 revolution. The devastating effects of the SARS outbreak in Beijing led to cracks in decades of habitual information control. That year, the media, legal scholars, and the public coalesced around the Sun Zhigang case to launch a new wave of protecting constitutional rights. A group of legal professionals looking to defend citizen rights appeared on the public stage. The citizens’ rights–defense movement was an inevitable result of our society’s having reached a certain stage in its economic development, and it began to become an important force for promoting social progress in China. After its founding, the first item on OCI’s agenda was the promotion of people’s congress elections. November and December 2003 marked the period when elections were being held throughout the country to choose a new slate of local people’s congress representatives. It was at this moment that I first stood for election, but there was little direct connection between our team’s work and my decision to stand for election. OCI mainly did things like conduct a survey at Peking University to measure people’s knowledge about elections, draft an appeal letter to people’s congresses at all levels that demanded primary elections, and organize experts to discuss the importance of primary elections with the media. In these efforts, individuals like Guo Yushan and Wang Yan did a great deal of work.

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In January 2004, as our country was about to amend its constitution, we organized a group of legal scholars to draft a “Recommendation for Improving Human Rights Provisions in China’s Constitution,” which proposed reforms that would establish a full set of human rights protections in the constitution. We collected signatures from a group of noted scholars, including He Weifang and Ji Weidong. On February 28, we held an academic conference in Beijing entitled “Improving Human Rights Protections in Our Constitution.” In March, during the annual meetings of the National People’s Congress and Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference, we submitted our recommendation by mail to the NPC. We never saw any concrete outcome, but this was an attempt to have citizens participate in the constitutional revision process. Beginning in February 2004, we acted as legal counsel in the Southern Metropolis Daily case. [NOTE: In retaliation for the paper’s tough reporting on the Sun Zhigang case and SARS crisis, local authorities launched a corruption probe that snared the paper’s general manager, Yu Huafeng, former editor-in-chief Cheng Yizhong, and two other employees, Li Minying and Deng Haiyan.] Lawyer Zhang Xingshui organized a discussion panel of legal experts, Teng Biao and Yu Jiang wrote in support of the paper, and Guo Yushan and Li Yujie organized online discussions. The OCI website served as our platform for generating public opinion. Even though we were small, some important news was released by our tiny site, such as the position statements issued by Jiang Ping and other legal experts. That case became a mighty struggle that led to our first setback: the OCI website was shut down three times. One afternoon not long after publishing the legal scholars’ opinions, we suddenly received a telephone call from a woman calling on behalf of our web hosting service, who asked us to remove the posts concerning the Southern Metropolis Daily case from our website. We gave in a bit and deleted some of the posts, but on May 30 the thing we had feared finally came to pass: the OCI website suddenly became unreachable. We registered a new domain, but a few days later that website became unreachable as well. The day before the verdict in the Yu Huafeng trial, our backup domain became unreachable as well. From that point on, OCI became more and more “sensitive.” As a response to the shutdown of our website, I wrote an essay entitled “We Remain True.” The conclusion of that essay conveyed our aspirations then: Perhaps OCI will face even more difficulties in the future. We are clearly aware of the 2,000-year-old autocratic tradition in this ancient

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land, and that the path ahead to constitutional government will be a slow and difficult one. But someone has to pursue the cause of justice, so we shall do so in earnest. We take citizens’ rights seriously, take our laws seriously, and take our country’s history and current situation seriously. We believe that this is the era to put democracy and rule of law into practice, and we believe in our great country’s ability to make progress in its political culture. We believe in so, so much of that solemn and sacred stuff— even though, ever since we were young, many people have told us that all those moral-sounding things that had been written down on paper were really just there to fool people. We are a devout bunch of believers who cling tightly to a sincere promise, a voice that has been calling out again and again for more than a century. We cannot lose hope or give up just because others have. We believe in the future of our motherland and remain steadfast and persevering in pursuit of happiness for ourselves and, even more, for the people of our nation. Yes, we remain true. We are a group of responsible Chinese citizens. We try our best to understand the pressures and difficulties that the central government faces during this era of change and in the context of international and domestic circumstances. We try our best to understand the confusion and helplessness that all Chinese feel in the face of an old system. We are trying our very best to think of what we can do for this society. We are not critics, we are constructive. Looking back on a century of revolution, upheaval, and misery, we are fortunate to be living in such a constructive era. We believe that all Chinese—no matter their position in life—have a common hope and responsibility: building a modern China. That China will not be based on plots, violence, lies, or fear. Its foundation will be freedom, rule of law, reason, and love. We continued our work with great effort and enthusiasm. On April 26, 2004, China Youth Daily reported that the Beijing Zoo would relocate to the distant suburbs of the city. No matter who might have designs on this piece of land behind the scenes, our view was that the zoo served as a major public benefit for the residents of Beijing and that any decision on whether or not to move should therefore be made following a legal process in which residents participated fully. We decided to block the move. We took steps like registering a website dedicated to the subject and went to the zoo to collect signatures from those who also opposed the move. Together with many other

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NGOs like Green Earth Volunteers, Green Island Environmental Protection Association, Environmental Development Research Center, Friends of Nature, and Global Village, on May 22 we held a conference made up of environmental experts, scholars, Beijing People’s Congress delegates, and legal experts. The conference comprised two seminars held simultaneously. In one, Green Earth Volunteers and other groups held a seminar focused on children that was broadcast on Beijing Radio so that the public could hear the opinions of children. Our seminar was focused on the issue of the government’s public decision-making process. The next day, China Youth Daily and other media outlets reported on this conference and an official from the Ministry of Construction issued a response, saying that the zoo should not be moved. The issue of moving the zoo was never raised again. This was a classic example of NGOs organizing to influence the public decision-making process. In June 2004, Yu Huafeng and Li Minying had their sentences reduced on appeal, and in August Deng Haiyan and Cheng Yizhong were each released without trial. During this time, Guo Yushan held six forums for people’s congress delegates attended by people’s congress delegates from Haidian District and Beijing Municipality. The OCI office was filled with a sense of hope about the prospects for progress. Then, in September 2004, OCI faced an unprecedented crisis over the closure of Peking University’s “Yi Ta Hu Tu” BBS. I have many fond memories of our time on the YTHT BBS. I registered my first ID and published my first post on those forums back in March 2000. There, I became acquainted with many liberal online friends like “Bambi,” “Monic,” “BridgeD,” and “Puccini.” At the moment when SARS was spreading in April 2003, we used the BBS to obtain information from all over about the epidemic. In May, after the Sun Zhigang case, Yu Jiang, Teng Biao, and I went to the “Citizen Life” section of the forum to discuss what we could do. Those days, the Internet had just started to become popular, and BBS services were playing an important role in the exchange of ideas and transmission of information. YTHT was one of the largest BBSs in the country, and, for this reason, there were constantly rumors that it would undergo “rectification.” On August 19, 2004, the site was rectified once more, with users blocked from posting to most of the sections dealing with political or social problems, such as the “Citizen Life,” “Taiwan Strait Observer,” “Disadvantaged Groups,” and “Anti-Corruption” sections. On September 13, only four days before what would have been its fifth anniversary, this online community, a forum made up of 300,000 registered users (more than 21,000 of whom might be online

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at the same time, engaging in the freest exchange of ideas), suddenly disappeared from the earth. As loyal users for many years, Yu Jiang, Teng Biao, and I once again issued an open letter. Several days later, a small rally was held on the PKU campus. Afterwards, several committed users were followed by plainclothes police when they came to hang out at the OCI office. Because of our open letter, it appeared that this spontaneous action by users had been a plot carried out by OCI. Under considerable pressure, the people’s congress delegate forums that had been ongoing for quite a while were stopped. By the winter of 2004, all work basically ceased at the OCI office in Wudaokou. In March 2005, I was summoned to the Haidian District Office of Industry and Commerce, where I was told that our company’s business registration had been nullified. I asked for the reason and the legal basis for the decision but was told this was the result of a decision made by an official higher up. When I pressed them, the deputy director told me that he didn’t know what was going on either and that that was as far as he could explain things. Later, I heard that some people were nervous about the prospects of “color revolution” and that six NGOs had had their registrations canceled, including OCI, Friends of Nature, and the Shanghai-based economic and social research center set up by Jiang Ping and Wu Jinglian.

1 We weren’t too bothered by the deregistration of OCI. Most of the time, we just focused on moving forward. In June 2005, we registered the Beijing Gongmeng Consulting Co., Ltd., under which we set up the Gongmeng Law Research Center. I thought up the name “Gongmeng” while I was in the United States in 2004. The idea came from the American Civil Liberties Union, the civil-society organization well known for defending citizens’ constitutional rights in the United States. Most of its members were left-leaning lawyers and intellectuals who volunteered to work for the organization, which primarily focused on using litigation to defend individual rights—especially First Amendment rights of free speech, association, and religious freedom. Many people saw them as quite radical, because it was unusual for members of society to defend the rights of minorities like Communist Party members, members of the Ku Klux Klan, racists, or extremist religious believers—on behalf of freedoms often considered quite extreme and “unconventional.” They were thus quite contro-

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versial, even in a relatively open society like the United States. After nearly a century of their efforts, however, more people had come to understand the value of freedom and tolerance, and the ACLU had come to be better understood and supported by more and more people. China is different from the United States. We were a long way from having the luxury of defending the rights of minorities. We were rarely successful even when we pursued rights that had the strong approval and support of the majority. We ordinarily selected the most extreme individual cases that would be able to arouse widespread sympathy and strong support. We reminded ourselves at all times that we were standing on the side of the public. Much of the time, when we defended constitutional rights, the judicial process we faced was often overshadowed by external political power. When we defended our clients, we needed to use the tools of public opinion to rescue the judges from that shadow. In some cases, it got to the point where legal technique was less important than salvaging the dignity of the judicial process through public opinion. An even more important difference between Gongmeng and the ACLU was that the ACLU mainly faced problems of judicial practice, whereas our main mission was the construction and improvement of a democratic, rule-of-law system and the changes in political culture of an ancient nation. This was a much more serious responsibility by far. In 2005, we began a project to investigate China’s petitioning problem. We selected three counties in Henan, Fujian, and Hubei and looked deeper into the factors that led people to petition there. In March of that year, I went to live with the petitioners in the “petitioner village” that had sprung up near Beijing South Railway Station. In April, outside the State Office of Letters and Visits, I got a taste of something that many ordinary petitioners regularly experience—I was beaten up. I completed a 200,000-character report entitled “Investigation into Petitioning in China” and signed a contract for publication with a Beijing publishing house. However, we were later forced to shelve the report due to pressure from certain directions. We took part in a series of very influential cases in 2005. I got involved in the case of Cai Zhuohua, a Beijing house church pastor charged with “illegal business activity” for printing bibles and other religious books, and, together with Zhang Xingshui, Fan Yafeng, and other legal professionals, put forward a defense based on freedom of religious belief. I also took part in the private oil well case in northern Shaanxi, writing an investigative report entitled “In the State’s Name: Investiga-

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tion into the North Shaanxi Private Oil Well Case” and, together with lawyers Teng Biao, Gao Zhisheng, and Li Heping, worked to rescue lawyer Zhu Jiuhu, who had been arrested in connection with his work to represent those who challenged local authorities’ confiscation of their wells. I continued to represent the four defendants in the Chen Guoqing wrongful conviction case in Chengde, Hebei, and went to Cangzhou Prison with Chen Yueqin and Li Yujie to uncover the truth. I continued to provide assistance to Yu Huafeng, going to Guangzhou with lawyer Pu Zhiqiang to gather further evidence. I assisted Chen Xintao, who had fallen victim to a criminal who colluded with local police to commit a murder-robbery, and went to Fuzhou with lawyer Chu Bei to investigate the shocking background to this case. But during this period I spent the longest time working on the Chen Guangcheng case. One day in July 2005, a very unique individual came to seek our help at the Gongmeng office near the PKU South Gate. His name was Chen Guangcheng. Completely blind, he had studied law on his own after graduating from university and was helping villagers to protect their rights. He had been forced to come to Beijing to seek help because the government in his area had initiated a family planning campaign in which hundreds of his fellow villagers had been illegally locked up and willfully beaten. Teng Biao and Guo Yushan later went to Chen’s Village in Linyi, Shandong, to investigate. They posted a series of articles online exposing the shocking truth about the local government’s savage law-enforcement practices, like the use of collective punishments, in which relatives or neighbors would be penalized for the “wrongdoing” of one person. Officials would also do things like lock up nearly 100 people in a huge room and refusing them access to a toilet or force an elderly brother-sister pair to slap each other in the face. In September, the National Family Planning Commission admitted that barbaric lawenforcement practices had taken place in Linyi. Not long afterwards, Chen Guangcheng lost his freedom. At the beginning of October, I went with lawyers Li Fangping and Li Subin to Dongshigu Village to see Chen Guangcheng. I slipped into the village on a bicycle, unnoticed by the men who stood guard at the side of the highway and at the entrance to the village. I went right up to Chen Guangcheng’s house, but the main gate was shut and a group of eight or nine men were on guard outside the gate, sitting on a wooden bench. I was just about to try to rush past the guards when a person grabbed me from behind and started pushing me toward the village

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entrance. When I refused to leave, a crowd of guards and villagers began to gather around me. Guangcheng heard what was going and and pushed his way through the crowd to where we were at the entrance to the village. We embraced warmly. All I could say that that moment was: “Take care of yourself! We won’t forget about you!” A few minutes later, we were forced apart. In our later consultations with local government officials, we only made a single demand: to be allowed to make an ordinary visit to Guangcheng’s home. They didn’t agree, so we again went to the village entrance. There, we were pushed and beaten by the guards, who nearly pushed lawyer Li Fangping into the stream at the side of the road. That was the first time they assaulted us. Over the next several years, Dongshigu Village became more and more terrifying and outrageous—all because of a blind man. On March 11, 2006, Chen Guangcheng was placed under criminal detention for the offense of “gathering a crowd to disrupt traffic.” The truth was that plainclothes guards had surrounded Chen Guangcheng on a public road as he was trying to go petition. In July, I tried to act as Chen’s defense counsel but was taken into custody on charges of being a “thief” and sent to the police station. In September, lawyer Li Fangping was intercepted on the road to Linyi by a plainclothes thug, who beat him on the head with an iron bar. Four years and three month later, in September 2010, Chen Guangcheng was released from prison, but his home immediately became another prison. Several dozen guards kept watch day and night over the area surrounding his house and each of the roads leading into the village. Equipment was installed at his house to block cellular telephone signals, so for more than two years the only time he was able to make a telephone call out was one night during a rainstorm after a lightning strike had disabled the signal-blocking equipment. In 2011, groups of brave citizens went one after another to try to visit Chen Guangcheng, gradually turning into a citizen movement. In 2012, Chen Guangcheng escaped from Dongshigu and, with the help of Guo Yushan and others, took refuge in the American embassy. At the end of 2005, the Hong Kong newsmagazine Asia Weekly (Yazhou Zhoukan) selected rights defense lawyers to be its “Persons of the Year,” featuring me, Teng Biao, Zhang Xingshui, Gao Zhisheng, Li Heping, and others. This was the first group of legal professionals outside the system in China to form a team, unite, and cooperate on a series of cases. In the autumn of 2005, the authorities were preparing to shut down Gao Zhisheng’s law firm. Li Fangping and I represented him at

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the penalty hearing. When Gao began his relay hunger strike protest the next year, more than twenty of us sat down with him and tried to convince him to slow things down. We could have our differences, but everyone must respect the rules. After several decades, the Chinese democracy movement was finally putting forth a group willing to engage in tenacious struggle.

1 In September 2006, Gongmeng’s help to Chen Guangcheng led it to come under the biggest pressure since its founding in 2003. When the political atmosphere improved somewhat in November, we began two positive actions. One was helping enthusiastic and civic-minded property owners in residential communities to run for people’s congress seats. The other was a project to put forward recommendations for revising the rules governing dog ownership in Beijing. The term of office for people’s congress delegates is supposed to be five years. But this is China, where, because of the Olympics, they can arbitrarily “disband the government and legislature ahead of schedule.” (That was the wording we used in the joint objection raised by 123 Haidian District people’s congress delegates that was sent to the NPC.) When it came time to hold people’s congress elections in 2006, we took the opportunity to promote direct elections. We sent out a mass mailing to residential community owners’ associations, lawyers, and other groups that might be concerned about public affairs, encouraging them to stand for election and giving them instructions about how to go about it. I also decided to run again in the district surrounding Beijing University of Posts and Telecommunications. The dog-ownership legislation project was connected to my duties as a people’s congress delegate. I had first begun to pay attention to this issue as a delegate to the Haidian District people’s congress, where we reviewed the implementation of the “Dog Ownership Management Regulations.” At the time, I told the assembly that these regulations were not feasible. I was first approached for help by a teacher at BUPT whose dog was in danger of being seized by police at any time because it was more than 35 cm tall. After some discussion, Gongmeng made revision of the Beijing Dog Ownership Management Regulations the focus of a legislative research project. We divided the work in three parts: a large-scale investigation to research existing problems with enforcement of the current regulations,

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a study of dog-ownership regulations from cities around the world that we then used as the basis for drafting new dog ownership regulations for Beijing, and lobbying people’s congress delegates to promote legislative change. In January 2007, forty-three delegates from the Haidian District People’s Congress signed on in support of our recommendations, and we also successfully lobbied delegates to the Beijing Municipality People’s Congress to put forward a proposal. Even though our recommendation did not lead to revision of the Beijing Dog Ownership Management Regulations, in September 2006 the widespread seizure of large and unregistered dogs basically ended. Enforcement essentially followed the rule of “no official involvement without a public complaint,” and the police didn’t create conflicts on their own initiative. In 2007 and 2008, we helped some courageous lawyers push for direct elections at the Beijing Lawyers Association, mobilizing members by sending express mail to 16,000 lawyers in Beijing. We provided legal aid to many disadvantaged groups, including victims of illegal brick kilns and melamine milk powder poisoning. We organized and drafted a report calling for early ratification of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, a research report urging reform of the household registration system, a legislative proposal for a Real Estate Expropriation Law, and an investigative report entitled “Economic and Social Factors Contributing to the March 14 Incident in Tibetan Areas.” News of the Sanlu melamine milk powder scandal suddenly came to light on September 11, 2008. Within a few days, we had set up a team of more than 100 lawyers from all over the country who had volunteered to provide legal advice to the families of the “kidney-stone babies” who had been affected. At the same time, we contacted a group of parents and prepared to file a group lawsuit. Before the state had made public the number of victims, we had been gathering information from hospitals in certain areas. Based on these figures, we were prepared to estimate that as many as 300,000 babies might have been affected. Based on this fact, we drew up a compensation plan in accordance with the relevant civil law procedures and calculated that a total of 3.9 billion yuan would be required to compensate the victims. The government’s compensation scheme was divided into three categories. It would pay out 200,000 yuan in cases of death, 30,000 yuan for surgeries, and 2,000 yuan in ordinary cases. For many families, this was not nearly enough—especially for those tragic little children who had undergone surgeries.

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During the three-year period from September 11, 2008, to September 11, 2011, we directly represented more than 400 victims throughout the country. Only about a dozen cases were ever accepted for trial, only one ever reached the hearing stage, and none ever yielded a verdict. We were forced to go to Hong Kong twice to sue Sanlu shareholders, but there was never any result there either. During that period, the largest amount of compensation we ever received was not for personal injury but rather from a false advertisement that we had gotten hold of. A court accepted the suit for trial, but we subsequently held sincere negotiations with a responsible person from the company, which agreed to pay 1 million yuan to compensate more than fifty victims affected by that brand. That was a very proud moment for us, because we had stood by our promise. In August 2009, when Gongmeng was fined 1.42 million yuan, donations poured in from all corners of society and Lin Zheng was able to deliver the 1 million yuan in compensation to the victims. After the March 14 Incident in 2008, we wanted to analyze the social environment that lay behind this “eruption” in Tibet. We hoped that, through research and interviews, we might provide a relatively objective understanding of the changing Tibetan areas, deepen people’s understanding and tolerance for ethnic minorities, and promote ethnic harmony. To this end, Gongmeng decided to set up a research team led by Fang Kun, a Tibetan graduate student in the Peking University School of Journalism. The four-person team spent more than a month investigating the situation deep inside the Tibetan area and several more months before and afterward studying relevant background materials and interviewing experts. By year-end, they had completed a first draft of their report. The basic conclusion of the report was that, although Tibetan areas had seen enormous economic development as a result of modernization, Tibetans in these areas clearly remained relatively backward in relation to other provinces, other countries, and even other ethnic groups living in the same Tibetan areas. Particularly when Tibetans looked at the fortunes being made by outsiders who had moved to Tibetan areas, it was hard to avoid developing a sense of deprivation. At the same time, traditional religion and culture had been seriously affected by modernization, and many young Tibetans were growing up perplexed and confused. Furthermore, the system of vertical power relations had created a group of local Tibetan officials who used their power and resources from higher levels to construct intricate and complex webs of connections, through which much state economic aid turned into personal proj-

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ects designed to enhance the legacies of a handful and personally enrich a select few. Most ordinary Tibetans had a clearer sense that they were objects of expropriation, rather than beneficiaries of state assistance. Like people in many places elsewhere in China, many of them were unhappy with local government administration. The frustration and anger that had been building up over time, plus the influence of external forces, led to the March 14 Incident. On the basis of this research and analysis, we made a series of recommendations about the need to listen more seriously to the voices of ordinary Tibetans, to guide rational economic development and construction in Tibetan areas, and to pay attention to the livelihood prospects for young Tibetans. We also urged the need to respect and protect Tibetans’ religious freedom and to find a modernization path that respected the special characteristics and desires of Tibetan society by standing on the side of Tibetans rather than on the side of the Han population or political ideology. Considering that some might feel the report touched on sensitive subjects, we first mailed copies to the responsible officials at each of the relevant state departments. After more than a month had passed with no feedback whatsoever, we then published the report online. Once the foreign media started paying attention, the report suddenly became very sensitive and was widely censored from the Internet. The relevant departments called me in for a chat, but I made my standpoint very clear. As a nationalist, I hope of course that our country can be united. From the outset, in fact, our goal was to seek ways to better preserve national unity. Some people did not see it this way, however, and Gongmeng came under heavy pressure. This was, quite possibly, one of the things that sparked the tax-evasion case that was soon to come. The Gongmeng office was even busier in 2009. During the annual meeting of the NPC and CPPCC, we sent copies of our Tibet report to the heads of the relevant state bodies and promoted a series of ten citizen policy recommendations. These included proposals to carry out substantive political reforms at the county level, eliminate the administrative monopoly over the educational sector, halt coercive birth control policies, protect human rights by banning “black jails,” and establish a system of punitive damages for civil offenses. In April, we compiled a “Citizens Rights Defense Handbook,” conducted the first legal-knowledge training session, provided legal assistance to Deng Yujiao, and set up a legal assistance fund when Yao Jing was assaulted for petitioning. In May, we submitted formal applications requesting that seventy-three government agencies in Beijing make public their “Three Public Expen-

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ditures” (the amount of public funds spent on official foreign travel, official vehicles, and official receptions) and detailed accounts of income and expenditures for each body. In June, we convened a seminar of lawyers, Internet experts, and media representatives to oppose the “Green Dam” filtering software. Much of the time, we used these concrete, individual incidents to push for the idea that power should be brought under the framework of rule of law. We believed that rule of law progress relies on bit-by-bit accumulation, and we were willing to play a positive and constructive role in this historical process. But some didn’t see it this way. In their eyes, enemies were all around, and, faced with the growth of civil society, they became full of hostility. It was thus that, in July 2009, this public-service organization that never once earned a profit faced severe punishment from the tax authorities. Once again, Gongmeng faced unprecedented peril.

1 The notice we received from the tax authorities on July 14 left us in shock and angry. It said that Gongmeng, a non-profit civic organization, would be given the highest possible fine of five times the tax we allegedly owed, or more than 1.42 million yuan. The fine was connected to three grants we had been given by Yale University over the previous three years, but the sum of these grants did not even add up to that much. On July 17, the Beijing Civil Affairs Bureau declared the Gongmeng Law Research Center to be an illegal organization. On July 29, Gongmeng office assistant Zhuang Lu and I were detained on suspicion of tax evasion. At this most dangerous moment, Gongmeng’s decision-makers and office staff withstood great pressure and continued to carry on their work. Fortunately, our society had not gone completely backwards and the moderate, rational path had not been fully blocked. As appeals and assistance came from all corners of society, things took a turn for the better. On August 23, Zhuang Lu and I were released. Considering that Zhuang Lu had just obtained her qualification to practice as a lawyer and factoring in concerns about the space for our work in the future, we decided to pay the fine. On August 22, 2010, the tax case against Gongmeng was withdrawn. We renewed our work in October 2009. Since the Gongmeng company and the Gongmeng Law Research Center were both involved in pending litigation, we registered a new company. But we would no longer publicly work in the name of the company; we would act as “citizens.”

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Each of us was a citizen, and united we were still considered citizens. This citizens’ alliance could still be called “Gongmeng” for short. We continued to provide legal aid to disadvantaged groups like the victims of melamine milk-powder poisoning. In 2011, we also continued to assist Xia Junfeng, a street vendor who killed two urban management officers in angry resistance as they were beating him. We provided assistance to Zhang Haofeng and his son, from Xinxiang, Henan, who, during a struggle with intruders armed with knives who had broken into their home, killed the leader of the gang—who turned out to be the son of the village party branch secretary. The father was sentenced to death and the son was sentenced to death with two-year reprieve. Later, the case was sent back for retrial. We also continued to pay attention to the issue of black jails. For the entire afternoon on New Year’s Day 2011, we went to Fengtai District to stand outside a three-story building that was surrounded by wire netting. There, we continuously called the 110 police hotline and waited for police to rescue the petitioners being held in that black jail. In late 2009, venture capitalist Wang Gongquan suggested that we pay attention to the problem of education equality. After some discussion, we established a three-year work plan aimed at helping children whose parents had come to Beijing to work, but who did not have Beijing residence permits, attend school normally and take the university entrance examination. We gave ourselves three years in consideration of the difficulty of promoting social progress and realizing that without sufficient pressure, it would be difficult to achieve substantive change. Thinking in terms of feasibility, we decided that our first-stage goal would be to achieve equality in middle-school placement. Before 2010, children with Beijing residence permits who graduated from primary school could participate in a computerized placement system to get a spot in middle school. Children without Beijing residence permits, however, needed to rely on their parents’ ability to find a spot on their own if they wanted to attend middle school. We completed a research report entitled “Inequality from Birth,” laying out the ways that Beijing primary and middle schools discriminated based on household registration status. We organized parent representatives to meet with the Beijing Municipality and Haidian District education commissions eight separate times in order to “consult” with the government on how to implement its statutory responsibilities. At the same time, we also prepared to file a lawsuit demanding that the Beijing government fulfill its legal responsibility to provide compulsory education.

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By the eighth time we met with the Haidian education commission, everyone was already under a great deal of pressure. From that point on, there was continuous friction between the parent group and the authorities in charge of preserving stability. In June 2010, most areas in Beijing began allowing children with non-Beijing household registrations to participate in the computerized placement system for middle school, for the first time placing them on equal footing with children who were Beijing residents. Then, we began the second stage of our work. We continued to collect signatures of support and went each month to the Ministry of Education to present our petition. We conducted an investigation and then formulated a plan that would allow migrant children to participate in local university examinations, organized an event to publicize the plan, and mobilized people’s congress delegates to help us raise the appeal. In August 2010, we set up a website; by September, more than 10,000 people had signed up in support. The Beijing News and other media outlets carried long feature articles. We later found out that it was at that point that the Ministry of Education set up an expert team dedicated to studying the issue of migrant children participating in local university examinations. In November and December 2010, we wrote letters seeking the assistance of more than 200 NPC delegates. By the time of the annual NPC meeting in March 2011, this was a major issue that the Ministry of Education could no longer avoid discussing, and Minister Yuan Guiren announced that they were in the process of developing a plan. On New Year’s Day 2012, more than 100 parent volunteers spread out to over 20 locations throughout Beijing in order to collect signatures of support. On January 12, when we went to the Ministry of Education to deliver the 20th petition, our numbers exceeded 100 for the first time. By February 23, more than 90,000 people had signed on in support. Nearly 300 went to the Ministry of Education to submit the 21st petition. By the time of the annual NPC meeting in 2012, the number of signatories broke the 100,000 mark. When a minister and deputy minister from the Ministry of Education were interviewed by the media, they each said that a plan for migrant children to take the university exams would be made public during the first half of the year and that local implementation plans would be put forward before the end of the year. The education equality program concerned the rights of China’s 200 million “new immigrants.” In Beijing alone, more than 100,000 people had participated, each of whom had provided us with their contact details. Adding this to our investigation of black jails, our assistance to

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Chen Guangcheng, and other activities, the “stability preservation” authorities began putting even greater pressure on Gongmeng beginning in March 2012. Once more, we were forced to lose our office. The authorities had chats with each of our employees, demanding that they quit working for Gongmeng. One of our volunteers, Song Ze, who had been responsible for investigating black jails and rescuing petitioners, was placed under criminal detention on May 5 for “picking quarrels and creating a disturbance.” In 2012, we were temporarily without an office. This was a major turning point on our development path. From this point forward, the focus of our work would not be on defending rights in individual cases. Instead, it would become more important to advocate the idea of citizenship and build our team. We began advocating the “New Citizen Movement” as a constructive political opposition faction. Our mission—freedom, justice, and love—had become even clearer.

9 Returning to China December 19, 2004

Nearly every time I have a conversation with an American, I ask the same question: What do you think of when you think of China? A construction worker I met while he was fishing by the side of a river north of New Haven told me that, to him, China meant the Great Wall, Chinese restaurants, and human rights. “Chinese people are very smart,” he said, “but the government isn’t so great.” A Yale University student who’d spent a year living in China told me that China is very crowded and personal space is limited. She mentioned that Chinese were very curious about foreigners and always called her “laowai” behind her back. She also said that when she was staying in a hotel in a small town she noticed that the police there seemed to be particularly “on alert” with respect to foreigners. An American who had spent time teaching English in Liaocheng, Shandong, had some very fond memories of China. He said that there were very few foreigners back then in that small city, so a lot of people came to recognize him and were quite friendly. When we went out to eat he refused to split the bill and insisted on treating me, saying that his students in Liaocheng had often treated him to meals. An eight-year-old girl who was studying Chinese and had visited China told me how she had once called a waiter “tongzhi” at a restaurant in Shanghai and noticed the strange look he gave her. I told her that people in China rarely call each other “tongzhi”—or “comrade”—anymore and that, in some places, “tongzhi” has become a way of referring to homosexuals. She stared at me in shock when I told her this, her mouth agape. I was rather surprised by the response I got from a university student of Chinese descent. He was born in the United States, and his par133

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ents both came from Hong Kong and still work most of the time in Shanghai. We met while sharing the same table as we had lunch at the airport in Chicago. Looking across the table at his Asian features I felt a kind of closeness and thought he would be very willing to talk about China. I didn’t expect it when he replied: “I don’t really know much about your country. After all, I’m American.” I can’t really blame him, I thought. So I was especially surprised when a Swiss-born girl of Chinese descent told me that she not only could speak Chinese fluently but could also recite a large number of ancient Chinese poems. As she began telling me her life story, the first thing she said was: “I’m Chinese, of course.” The man who drove me from New York to New Haven complained that everywhere you turned in the United States you found Chinesemade products and that many Americans had lost their jobs as a result. When he was young, he said, there had been many small factories in Connecticut, but they were later all bought up by large corporations and the manufacturing jobs went overseas, especially to China. I told him that there were many poor people in China and that the social welfare system was quite inadequate. For many, it would be hard to imagine what their lives would be like if they lost their jobs, and so they perhaps needed those job opportunities even more.

1 I spent July in New York City. I liked to go to Times Square and just observe. I would find a set of steps by the side of the street and sit and watch the people walking by under the busy glow of the neon lights. Manhattan is such a fertile piece of land that people of all colors from all over the planet are able to come here and set down roots. In just two centuries, this place had produced so many of humanity’s stories. Fresh and lively faces of all different hues streamed along these narrow streets, in the shadow of tall buildings that blocked out most of the sky. They passed right before my eyes but yet were distant, because I was merely an observer, someone who didn’t belong to this land. I liked to walk the streets of New York’s Chinatown. I didn’t necessarily want to buy anything, but I still liked to window-shop. Later, it became a habit, and whenever I passed through New York and didn’t have anything urgent planned I would stop and make a trip to Chinatown so that I could just stroll around for a while. My first visit to Chinatown was probably three days after I first arrived in the United States. New York’s mess of a subway system can

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really make things difficult for people who aren’t familiar with it. I lost my sense of direction as I exited the station, and I was trying to figure out which way to go when I suddenly saw a familiar sign off in the distance: McDonald’s. So I thought maybe I should grab something to eat first while I got my bearings. I thought the food at this McDonald’s wasn’t as good as at the ones in Beijing. I inadvertently noticed that there were auspicious Chinese characters covering the walls and felt rather confused. I exited the restaurant and asked someone on the street how to get to Chinatown. He answered, “You’re already here.” As I neared the back of the Confucius Plaza housing projects, I began to feel that I was really in Chinatown. Everywhere you looked the signs were in Chinese and the streets were filled with people with the same dark eyes and skin tones I saw back in China. People set up stalls on both sides of the street, selling fruit, vegetables, and all sorts of small items for daily use. The shop windows carried posters advertising the Miss Chinatown beauty pageant. The restaurants sold Erguotou liquor for $10 a bottle and Wuliangye for $35. Vegetables were rather expensive, though—especially the Chinese celery, which was $4 per pound. I found a busy Sichuan restaurant where you could get a decent bowl of noodles for $5, though I found it wasn’t spicy enough. The next day there was going to be a big antiwar demonstration to protest the Republican National Convention that was meeting in New York to nominate George W. Bush for a second term as president. I decided to spend the night, but I couldn’t find a hotel. I’d heard there were lots of small hotels in Chinatown, so why was I having such a hard time finding one? It was nearly midnight when I had the good fortune to run into a Hunanese man who brought me to a small hotel, where I got a room in the basement for $15 a night. Later I realized that most of the Chinese-run hotels didn’t advertise with signs on the street because they were operating illegally.

1 As the school year began in September, the population of New Haven suddenly swelled. I’d originally planned to immerse myself in a totally English-speaking environment, but later I came to realize that this wasn’t very practical. Every Tuesday afternoon, there was a course on Chinese legal reform at the Yale Law School’s China Law Center. Even though the course was conducted in English, it was an opportunity for all of the visiting scholars to get together. After class, we’d often find an

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excuse to go out for a meal together and have a nice, satisfying discussion in Chinese. One place where Professor Wang Liming and I would often go to enjoy a free meal and carry on boisterous discussions was a house on the south side of campus that four Chinese had rented. Wang Jiancheng was a professor of criminal procedure at PKU Law School and a visiting scholar at the Yale Law School. Peng Ya’nan was a Ph.D. student in constitutional law at Yale Law School, a devout Christian, and a strong supporter of President Bush. Wang Ting, who had moved to the United States from Beijing at the age of eight and graduated from Harvard, was a JD student at Yale and a staunch opponent of President Bush. Ge Yunsong was an assistant professor of civil law at PKU Law School, an LLM student at Yale, and an extremely intelligent and cultivated scholar. The four of them lived a happy, communal life arguing over whose turn it was to carry out the daily chores like cooking, washing dishes, or sweeping up. Wang Jiancheng, the house elder, looked more like a gangster than a professor. He was a cool customer, even when playing shoot-’em-up video games, and he had an air of confidence, believing that even if he went back home to raise pigs he would still be more successful than anyone else. He had a knack for cooking, and you risked offending him if you didn’t try his dishes. Of course, the most unforgettable meal for Professor Wang Liming was the fish that Chef Wang caught from the river north of the city.

1 At the beginning of October, Yale received a visit from the president of China’s Supreme People’s Court, Xiao Yang. Everyone at the China Law Center was busy preparing to welcome this distinguished visitor. He had originally planned to give a public speech at the Law School, but the location was changed and the number of attendees narrowed at the last minute. I heard it was because of fears that human rights organizations might use the occasion to carry out protests. President Xiao discussed the judicial reforms that China was then undertaking and spoke of the efforts the SPC was making to professionalize and protect human rights. He expressed hope that in one or two years there would be further reforms to China’s criminal procedure and said he hoped China’s procuratorates would cooperate in pushing for these changes. His talk was chaired by Justice Sandra Day O’Connor from the US Supreme Court, whose appointment by President Reagan as the first woman on the court had had a deep impact on American

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society. They discussed the differences in their respective responsibilities, and the audience showed its appreciation for the talk with enthusiastic laughter and applause. During the question period, a few professors asked some insightful questions. Professor G asked how judicial reform would handle the relationship between legal institutions and other organs of state power. Xiao Yang answered by talking about the problem of local protectionism, but it was clear that his answer wasn’t satisfactory. As the head of China’s highest court, there was no way that he was going to be able to give a full answer to the question, because everyone present knew that the crux of the issue was the relationship between the legal system and the Communist Party. Professor Hecht asked how the SPC planned to use the judicial process to safeguard constitutional rights. Xiao Yang replied that according to Chinese law, the power to interpret the constitution rested with the National People’s Congress Standing Committee. The SPC didn’t have the power to interpret the constitution and could not conduct constitutional review. But he noted that there had been a trend toward giving increased consideration to constitutional rights and that there would likely be more litigation concerning constitutional rights in the future. The conversation continued at a small dinner held after the talk. I told Xiao Yang about the Chen Guoqing case that we were working on at the time and criticized the bureaucratic way that the Hebei High People’s Court had handled the case. Perhaps he wouldn’t recall our conversation, but in any case I came away feeling respect for this senior judge who was starting to reform the Chinese judicial system in seemingly minor, but important, ways, such as replacing the military-style headgear judges had been required to wear with judicial robes.

1 The trees began turning color throughout New England. Autumn turned New Haven into a gorgeous oil painting, with the stately old gray stone buildings of Yale University sitting under deep blue skies. In the fall, Yale held many commemorative events to mark the 150th anniversary of the graduation of its first Asian student, a Chinese man named Yung Wing. Unfortunately, it was only after I’d attended these commemorative ceremonies that I began to have a little understanding of who this great and respected Chinese person was. In 1847, Yung Wing set sail from China on a ship that was carrying tea destined for sale in the United States. Together with an American teacher, he spent ninety-eight days at sea before reaching port. He then

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went to study at Monson Academy in Massachusetts before entering Yale in 1850. As a student at Yale, Yung Wing still dressed in the long scholar’s gown and wore his hair in the queue that marked him as a subject of the Qing empire. Later in life, he recalled (in My Life in China, p. 41): “Before the close of my last year in college I had already sketched out what I should do. I was determined that the rising generation of China should enjoy the same educational advantages that I had enjoyed; that through western education China might be regenerated, become enlightened and powerful. To accomplish that object became the guiding star of my ambition.” After graduation, Yung Wing returned to China. From 1872 to 1875, he arranged for four groups of 120 young Chinese boys to study in the United States. Many of these exceptional students went on to play important roles in the history of modern China. At the unveiling of a statue of Yung Wing on the Yale campus, the university vice-president noted in her remarks that Yung Wing had been an extremely accomplished student, even winning a prize for English composition. Through what became known as the Chinese Education Mission, he supported and encouraged the education of many of China’s outstanding future leaders. After graduation, he had made the decision to serve society and his country. His spirit was a valuable treasure of Yale University. Yung Wing spent his life working toward the cultural progress and strength of his homeland. But the China of a century ago was not a very hospitable place for people like him. Because of his support for political reformers during the “Hundred Days Reform” in 1898, at the age of 73 Yung Wing had a ransom put out on his head by the Qing court and had to flee the country. He said: “I’m prepared to die for China at any moment, as long as my death is worthwhile.” I felt no pride as I stood before the statue of this ancestor. All I could do is ask myself why our country continues to face the same kinds of problems a century later.

1 At the beginning of December, Professor Edward Friedman invited me to visit frigid Madison and give a lecture at the University of Wisconsin. I spent the night at his home, where we discussed many issues concerning rural China. He had previously spent many years living in Chinese villages and was keenly aware of the ways that China’s grassroots bureaucracy would create and intensify social conflict. He couldn’t see any signs of reform on the horizon and was deeply worried about

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China’s future. I was worried, too, but I still believed that China was undergoing a transformation and that there was reason to hope that change was coming soon. Professor Friedman kept refilling my glass with baijiu liquor, saying that when he’d lived in Ding County the villagers had always toasted him with lots of the local specialty. That night I had too much to drink, but I was fortunately able to keep my emotions under control. The next morning, he drove me to the airport. As we parted, he said quietly, “Take care of yourself. I hope that China’s future will be as optimistic as you believe it will be.” While I was at Professor Friedman’s, I learned that the respected journalist Liu Binyan was sick with cancer. When I was in high school, I considered Liu’s reportage literature to be a window through which I could learn about my own country. Now, he was in his seventies and had just finished a painful course of chemotherapy a couple months earlier. After hesitating for a long time, I finally decided to go pay my respects. I decided I couldn’t abandon my conscience out of fear that visiting him might be considered politically sensitive. (I had already abandoned a great deal.) The whole afternoon on the day we met, he listened with rapt attention as I told him about the changes that were occurring in China. I told him stories of how in recent years people were becoming increasingly prosperous and more and more people were moving to the cities from the countryside. People’s consciousness of their rights was growing stronger, and society was much more open than before. With deep feeling, Liu recalled his home in Beijing and the names of the surrounding neighborhoods. Beginning in the 1950s, he was labeled a rightist. After 1988, he was never again able to return to his homeland. As we parted, Liu accompanied me outside. He told me how unusual it was for him to go the entire afternoon without feeling any discomfort. On the train back to New Haven, I wondered what I could do for him. Perhaps the only thing I could ever possibly do for him was to give him a happy afternoon like this one. Just think how many political exiles our country has produced over the past century!

1 Professor Gewirtz asked me if I wanted to extend my stay, as he hoped to arrange a visit to California for me in January. I told him that I wanted to go home.

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Professor Gewirtz was a teacher and friend with whom I could discuss almost anything, and I felt a great sense of gratitude for all he’d done. But there was one small thing I’ve never felt able to discuss with him, something that has left one of the deepest impressions on me about my time in the United States. It was such a minor incident, though, that I’m sure he would have a difficult time remembering it. It’s quite possible that he’d have no memory of it having occurred at all. One day in September, Professor Gewirtz invited me to his home, which was located just outside a small town in eastern New York. This was the famous “backyard” of New York City, where stately homes were nestled among the great forests and green fields. That evening, I watched a movie called The Blue Kite with Professor Gewirtz and his two children, who were studying Chinese at the time. I’d heard of this movie many years earlier but had never seen it before, as it had been banned in China. Told from the point of view of a young boy, the movie portrays how one Chinese family was affected by the difficult history of the 1950s and 1960s. The boy’s father was branded a rightist during the AntiRightist Campaign and died in a labor camp. One after another, two stepfathers also died under unjust circumstances. In the end, the boy’s mother was sent to prison during the Cultural Revolution. In one scene, the boy’s sick stepfather is shown at home, lying on his deathbed, the boy’s mother seated by his side with tears streaming down her face. Suddenly, Professor Gewirtz’s eight-year-old child asked why they didn’t just bring him to a doctor. Professor Gewirtz stared at the screen as if in thought and said, quietly, “Because it’s a poor country.” Instantly, as if a switch had been thrown, I felt deep sadness. Yes, China is a poor country. Many years later, the muddy dirt roads and frigid winters of my home village are still just as I remember them. For the family living in that old cave in the area around Gansu’s Huining County, a stove, an old table, and an earthen kang bed were their sole possessions. Then there was the dilapidated house with the antidrug slogan painted on it in that poor mountain village beside the railroad tracks in Guizhou. There was the man dying of AIDS I met in northwest Hubei who managed to squeeze out a grim smile despite the hopelessness of his situation. And there’s so much more. Those distant memories of all the villages I’ve passed through suddenly became much clearer to me while I was in someone else’s country. I realized that I was born in that kind of a poor country, and all of that poverty and suffering is a part of me as well. I realize that the movie only depicts a small part of China’s history. And I know that Professor Gewirtz had no intention of looking down on

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China. But that’s my country and I feel very sensitive about it. This poverty pains me, just like injustice pains me. The poverty and suffering caused me to reflect on the path I’d taken in the past. It’s led me to continually question myself: Have my actions been too radical, or have they in fact been too timid?

1 As everyone busily prepares for Christmas, I’m counting the days until my return to China. There’s still a week left before I head back to Beijing, but I’m already too excited to do anything. I know that I’ll miss Yale’s beautiful campus and the sound of the bells as they ring throughout New Haven. I’ll miss bustling Times Square and the comfortable apartment where I’ve spent nearly the past six months. But this isn’t my country; it belongs to someone else. I know I’m being too sensitive, but I simply can’t shake this feeling. I came here to study elections and constitutional issues and then go back to my own land. I can’t stop thinking of those bygone eras and those cries for change that have been made for more than a century. Li Hongzhang was insulted in Japan. Ji Hongchang was forced to wear a sign saying “I am a Chinese.” Soong May-ling went to speak before the US Congress in order to seek “this great nation’s friendship” and aid in fighting the Japanese. Why, after more than a century of continuous suffering, has China still failed to become a modern nation? Is it because our country is too large, our history too ancient? Today, that mournful history is all long past. But as a Chinese person I have not completely lost my forebears’ sense of dignity or their sensitivity. When I see posters on campus concerning China’s human rights problems or someone asks me how elections were held in China, no matter how well-intentioned they might be, I still feel a deep sense of hurt. Who knows how many letters seeking help I’ll have to face when I get back to China or how many hopeful faces will come looking for me with expectations? Who knows how much more guilt and anxiety, misgivings and reproach, or even loss of freedom I’ll have to confront? China needs to develop its economy further, but it also needs social justice. On the one side is an illegitimate elite, and on the other side are the weak and disadvantaged who are being deprived. Those who have experienced injustice have no place to seek a remedy or lodge a complaint. When the minority among them who can take no more go to the nation’s capital to seek justice, they are dragged back home and locked up in all

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different kinds of “education centers” where they suffer humiliation and abuse. What can we do? Maybe there’s nothing we can do, but I’m genuinely worried that our nation cannot have a prosperous future when a minority is forced to endure such brutal suffering. I worry that this country will be forced to face retribution. I’m going back to China, my home. It’s a place that has suffered a century of upheaval and suffering, a place that has yet to eliminate poverty and despotism, a place where the people are working very hard to catch up with the rest of civilization, and a place that is full of hopes and dreams. There’s a solemn responsibility there, suffering that must be borne, and a life of happiness and pride.

10 What’s Your Motive? January 2005

Not long after I returned to China, the secretary of my university’s party committee passed on a warning from the “relevant authorities.” He said I was not permitted to participate in any more social action, otherwise I risked losing my job or even winding up in prison. “Over the past year, have I ever violated the law?” I asked him. “I don’t have any radical ideas and have always advocated gradual social change. Everything I’ve done was merely to fulfill my responsibilities as a citizen.” I said that I could try to be even more low-key in the coming year, but that there were some things that I could not avoid getting involved in. Apart from my academic research and the Southern Metropolis Daily case that was not yet concluded, I only had plans to get involved in one more court case, the wrongful conviction case of Chen Guoqing and three other innocent young men sentenced to death five separate times as their case went back and forth on appeal. If no one helped them, they would spend the rest of their lives in prison, victims of injustice. “Why shouldn’t I help them,” I asked. “Please give me a reason.” “What are you trying to get out of it, by helping them?” asked the party secretary, relaying the question he’d been given by others. “Do you really have no other motives? Why don’t you sit back, write some academic articles, try to get a professorship or snag an official position where you can make some real money? Instead, you go around helping all of these victims of injustice and representing people in court, all for free. What’s your motive? Are you trying to be a selfless hero like Lei Feng? What’s your motive?!” “What’s my motive?” I often posed this question to myself as well. 143

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Even though this was an abnormal question premised on scary logic, it was still necessary for me to think the question over seriously and try to answer it. The only selfish motivation I could think of was that I did these things for my own well-being and happiness. At the moment they announced that custody and repatriation was abolished, I was happy. I was happy when, after repeated attempts by Chen Guoqing’s relatives to get me to take their money, I was finally able to refuse. Once these four wrongly convicted Chinese citizens finally get justice, walk out of prison after more than a decade, and embrace their family members, I will be happy. If I can make even the tiniest contribution to bringing the same kind of justice and harmony to my country that other countries enjoy, I will be happy to have helped bring about this historic development. Yes, I am pursuing my own happiness. Helping others allows me to have a sense of well-being. And in order to pursue an even greater sense of well-being, I need to do even more meaningful things in a limited amount of time. So, I need to pick and choose what I get involved in. I am always looking for that individual case that will allow me to help many others as well, so I choose cases with broader social significance. Of course, that means that many times I feel guilty about refusing people who seek my help. I am always looking for research projects that can make an even bigger contribution to social progress, so my research topics need to be on the cutting edge. I’m always looking to use individual cases to promote modern ideas or institutions, so I must seek help from the media. If I’m going to use the limited time I’ve been given on this earth to do even more things, I must communicate in a way that influences people. I will not refuse any opportunity to do so. Having influence is not my goal; it is my responsibility—my unshirkable responsibility. If someone insists on saying that my motivations are political, I won’t shy away from the issue. “What are your political goals?” Behind this question is an ugly kind of mistrust and suspicion. Throughout China’s long history, rulers, generals, and government ministers have stopped at nothing to increase their personal power. In pursuit of their desires, they didn’t care about conducting wars resulting in “Bleached bones lying exposed in the fields / No rooster crowing for 10,000 li” or the millions who starved in times of peace. It is Chinese people’s misfortune to live in a society where politics is synonymous with conspiracy and evil. The China of my dreams is a free and just country. It ought to enjoy a kind of system that can guarantee politicians make it their own personal business to bring benefits to

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the people. At least, it should be a system in which the kind of conspirators who’ll do anything to satisfy their own desires cannot go strutting around this country like they are victors. I’m not interested in pursuing power; I simply won’t turn my back on my responsibilities, that’s all. If, one day, the word “politics” no longer carries the connotation of ruthless intrigue but, rather, means seeking benefit for the public, morality, and conscience, then I won’t reject politics. But today, if someone whose only understanding of politics is as intrigue and power games says I act out of political goals, then I need to make very clear that what I am engaged in is not politics. My motivations are not loftier than those of others simply because I spend the majority of my time working for the public interest. This is merely my nature. Everyone pursues their own form of happiness, and each person shares their happiness with others in a particular way. I don’t have the ability to bring society beauty through art. I can’t bring material wealth as an entrepreneur, solve society’s pressing scientific problems, or bring new ideas as an outstanding scholar. I don’t even have the ability to be a person who worries only about his family’s wellbeing and goes about his life quietly, taking no notice of the outside world. When I am faced with injustice, I cannot control my anger and sorrow. Along the road of life, I have already gradually dropped many of my aspirations, but I have never learned how to stay quiet. Today, what brings me the greatest happiness is working hard to use individual cases or my research to push for social progress that will bring dignity and happiness to even more Chinese people. Perhaps I ought to turn the issue around and say that if I didn’t do those things, I wouldn’t feel happy inside. When I witness such brutal injustice, I suffer. This is my destiny. For my own happiness—or, more accurately, to avoid my own suffering—I must work hard to help those fellow Chinese who have experienced such misfortune. Helping others is a source of happiness. When Bill Gates provides money to support African children, that is his happiness. When Bill Clinton went to live in Harlem after retiring from the presidency, that was his happiness. When a child helps a blind person cross the street, both of them are happy. There’s no limit to the amount of happiness that can be shared in this world. Many people have this kind of feeling, this kind of longing. On the other hand, those who turn their backs on their responsibilities or actively create trouble for other people must inevitably hear, deep down, the voices of their own consciences condemning them. These people will never feel true well-being. I believe in

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this very simple common-sense truth. I am thus willing, like so many, many people who help others, to become a faithful practitioner and a happy person. “What’s your motive?” At a time when power has seriously corrupted morality, it’s not shocking at all for those in power to raise such suspicions about a person who genuinely works on behalf of the public interest. And when a sincere idealist is faced with this question, no matter how ridiculous, he is required to make a sincere effort to respond. Living in China is a kind of misfortune. There are simply too many sources of suffering and sadness. But living in China is also a kind of fortune. Every day, one can see that things are changing and find new reasons for hope. I long for a free and just society and have devoted my entire life’s efforts to this goal. I am hiding no ulterior motives beneath my idealism. I am simply following my destiny, being true to my conscience, and pursuing my own happiness. If, in the course of pursuing my own happiness, I can bring some happiness to people I’ve never met before, then this is something I’m more than willing to share with them.

11 The Prayers of Poshang Village: For Cai Zhuohua and the House Churches of China July 7, 2005

Poshang Village lies on the outskirts of Beijing, just east of the Central Party School. In that village, there is a Christian “house church,” a place where people came to worship outside of the state’s authorized system of churches. In September 2004, the young pastor at this church in Poshang Village—a man named Cai Zhuohua—was arrested for printing a large quantity of Bibles and other religious books and distributing them for free to fellow believers. For this, he was charged with a peculiar offense: the crime of illegal business activity. Whether you looked at the indictment or the relevant evidence, you could plainly see that this was most likely a ridiculous charge. But it was still necessary for us to carry out an on-the-ground investigation. I wanted to know whether Cai Zhuohua was a businessman trying to dress up his quest for profits in the mantle of religion. I wanted to know, in other words, whether he was someone worthy of my respect and assistance, because I could only defend someone when I believed in my heart that he or she was innocent. So, on July 3, 2005, I and several other legal scholars went to visit this church. After passing through a small alleyway and making a couple of turns, we arrived at a residential courtyard. The tiny church looked a bit rundown. Despite the scorching summer heat, there were only two electric fans on the wall. Inside, the place was packed with people, heads bowed in prayer. I approached the last row, and someone pushed his bag away to clear a seat for me. I willingly immersed myself in these sounds of prayer and was moved by the blessings they conveyed. These were blessings aimed not 147

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only at other Christians but to all Chinese. They were praying for China, beseeching the Lord to spread his love and justice throughout this land.

1 Many years earlier, I had dabbled in Christianity. I have a very religious mindset, but that mindset seems to transcend any particular religion. So, I can only dabble. In the summer of 1995, I attended a house church back home in Minquan County and shared some of my views on real-world issues with the people who gathered there to pray. Those days, I also went to attend an official church located in the county seat. At the time, I didn’t understand the distinction between house churches and the official “Three Self” churches. Later, I would visit a church nearly every Christmas, whether I was in Lanzhou, Beijing, or New Haven. In 2001, a friend from Peking University took me to a church in the Xiaonanzhuang neighborhood, next to the Haidian District People’s Congress. All of the congregants were young people in their 20s and 30s, and every newcomer had to make a self-introduction, get to know everyone else, and shake hands with the people around them. Everyone prayed, clapped, and sang in unison, and at noon, everyone joined together to prepare lunch. I’ll never forget those delicious lunches or the way that people there seemed to have no barriers or suspicions between them. Our country’s history was too depressing, and there were always so many barriers between people. But there, before God, everyone was equal, and there was freedom, justice, and love. Later, the church in Xiaonanzhuang was shut down, and they moved to another location. From that point on, I lost touch with them. I’ve met many Christians and am always moved by their devotion. They love God, love others, and love the world. They find spiritual support by giving their moral conscience to God for careful protection from the tarnish of the material world. Faced with the temptations of power and desires, they remain at ease. When they are wealthy, they do their best to help those who are poor. I feel that one of the reasons behind the rapid growth of this force in society is that the more we find ourselves living in an era without any moral standards, the more people begin to long for a sense of morality. There is no stopping the continued development of this healthy force in society.

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Cai Zhuohua was extremely intelligent, but he missed out twice on the university entrance examinations because of illness and never went to university. He had a real talent for business, though, and had some success selling travel insurance and mobile phone SIM cards. A few years back, he struck it rich playing the stock market and had several millions in savings. Perhaps it was because of some of the misfortunes he experienced when he was young or because of his mother’s influence, but Cai became a Christian in 1997. He continued to do business while eagerly making it his life’s mission to promote religion. He printed translated religious publications from the International Bible Society or translated books and articles downloaded from the Internet and gave them, free of charge, to his fellow believers. Auntie Zhang recalled that a church in Zibo, Shandong, once insisted on sending 1,000 yuan for books Cai had sent them. Cai refused to accept the money, and the two sides were deadlocked. In the end, Cai Zhuohua reluctantly accepted the money, but he used all of it to purchase video discs that he then sent to the Zibo church. He personally edited and printed two Christian magazines, Agape and The Path, which discussed the philosophy of life and urged people to live kind, decent lives. He became a pastor, and gradually developed six house churches that he presided over in his community. Cai Zhuohua said that during his missionary work he discovered that many churches at the bottom of society were misreading scripture when they proselytized. He felt he had an obligation and responsibility as a Christian to disseminate the ideas of high-quality Christian thinkers to China, so he began to put this thought into action. However, in the eyes of some whose humanity was concealed beneath ideological hostility, Cai Zhuohua’s efforts to spread the Bible was seen as a major case of “religious infiltration.” They tried to think of all sorts of ways to convict him, but they couldn’t find a suitable political offense. So, they found an economic offense: illegal business activity. It’s practically impossible for anyone in a civilized society to imagine how a devoted Christian trying to spread his religion by printing Bibles and other religious books for his fellow believers could be convicted of “trying to make a profit” and “seriously disrupting the order of the market economy,” which was the essential definition of the crime of “illegal business activity.”

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I asked one of Cai Zhuohua’s fellow Christians what they planned to do now that he had gotten into trouble. She said that the only thing they could do was pray. “Perhaps this is a trial sent to us by God,” she said. “In the past, we all came to rely too much on Brother Zhuohua.” Auntie Zhang told us about Cai Zhuohua’s life. She said that three generations of Cai’s mother’s family had experienced miscarriages of justice and described how his mother had suffered. She related how intelligent and kind Cai Zhuohua and his younger brother were and recounted many stories of ways that Cai Zhuohua had helped others. I went out into the courtyard and began chatting with a young woman. I asked her if she knew that Cai Zhuohua had gotten into trouble. Gloomily, she replied, “Of course. There’s a lot of news about it online.” “Do you think he committed any crime in what he’s done?” I asked. “No,” she answered, “because I really understand Brother Zhuohua. He gave away all of the books he printed, and all of them went to other believers. How can this be illegal business activity? They’re just persecuting us Christians!” “Then what are you planning to do?” I asked. She replied: “We’ll pray for Brother Zhuohua.” “Isn’t there anything else you can do besides prayer? Is there any way to use the law to help him?” “We really don’t know what to do,” she said. “Perhaps it is God’s will to have Brother Zhuohua suffer, as a way of testing the rest of us. Perhaps God has done all of this on purpose. After all, there’s a need for people to spread the Gospel inside prisons.” Her response shocked me a bit. She seemed so kind and yet so weak. But, I thought, that’s what Christians do. They put their faith in God, so all they can do is pray and pray.

1 Fan Yafeng helped me find a 2004 issue of Agape, the religious magazine edited by Cai Zhuohua. This particular issue was one that the police had confiscated and designated as an “illegal publication.” The cover was a simple dandelion posed against a light green and white background. In the top left corner, the title “Agape” was written in emerald green. In the bottom right corner was written “Dedicated to Pastor Zhao Tianen” in small white print. As I turned to the table of contents, I saw the first article was a discussion of preaching the Gospel among China’s ethnic minorities. Next

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were several pieces in which people gave witness of their faith, followed by a collection of essays remembering the renowned missionary Dr. Zhao Tianen, who had passed away in California on January 12, 2004. Next was the “Historical Memory” column, which had an item titled “Withdrawal Notice.” The piece described a 1999 incident at the Jinling Union Theological Seminary in Nanjing, in which three students were expelled for refusing to sing revolutionary songs during a celebration to commemorate May Fourth. For their refusal, the three seminarians were criticized by K. H. Ting, the former head of the China Christian Council, and the school demanded that they “voluntarily withdraw.” Instead, the students published a joint “Withdrawal Notice,” in which they expressed their intention to remain loyal to God, refusal to “voluntarily withdraw” from school, and sharp criticism of the high level of politicized secularism at the seminary. Afterwards, the seminary expelled the three students, issuing a statement saying that they had engaged in a “serious political incident.” But it was the last section of the magazine, “Requests for Prayer,” that left the biggest impression on me. Here, people expressed their prayers for police officers, for social responsibility, for local government, for the country’s 900,000 rural people. One house church from Sichuan had been fined 1,000 yuan by local police, who didn’t even issue a receipt. Members of the church prayed for the police, asking: “Merciful Lord, please bless the public security bureau, and allow their living expenses to be guaranteed through the state administrative budget so that they no longer have to rely on fines to make ends meet. Lord, may your righteousness enable all of China to follow the path toward legality.” Chinese people typically have a very weak sense of themselves as taxpayers and there is a lack of social trust. So, they prayed: “Dear Lord, open the eyes of China’s leaders so that they may see that the more moral a society is, the less it costs to govern.” Local governments have countless responsibilities. A minority of people controls the great majority of society’s wealth. Civil servants are constantly getting pay increases while China’s wealth gap grows larger and larger. So, they prayed for government officials at all levels: “Dear Lord, make their hearts honest and clean so that they have a will to act as servants of the people.” These were prayers on behalf of China’s 900,000 rural people, prayers for the Lord to grant them equality and dignity. These people weren’t actually consciously taking part in politics, but their expressions of desire for freedom and justice were aimed at

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finding a place of spiritual refuge for themselves in a society corrupted by absolute power. However, in a country where political power can be felt everywhere, they could not avoid violating certain taboos. Finally, I had come to understand why this magazine had been designated an “illegal publication.”

1 Too much evil and brutality is carried out in the name of the law. Too much sincerity and decency has been trampled over in the name of the law. Only in a country permeated with the hostility of class struggle is it possible for a decent pastor to become an “enemy of the state.” Through endless crimes and prisons without borders, arrogant power stains every inch of this land and even deep into every person’s soul. China’s Christian house churches are working hard to rebuild our society on a foundation of conscience and morality, At least they’re not standing in anyone’s way. However, they’re the ones who are being persecuted. Believing that it is their honor to “bear the cross,” they remain stoic and persevering. But please have faith in the historical progress of human civilization! No power can endure if it violates moral law and is established on a basis of fabrication and violence. The more brutal and utterly inhuman such unfounded power is, the more tragic and bankrupt its end will be. The kind and decent people of Poshang Village are just like any of the other millions of house churches that have cropped up all over China like shoots after a rain. They are a part of the civilized world. They are praying for those who go against their own consciences to recover their humanity. They pray for our country and its people to live happy, peaceful lives. There is strength in their prayers.

12 Experience and Reflection: The Gongmeng Tax Case September 14, 2009

Perhaps it’s still too early to sum up my experiences over the past few weeks right now, but the passage of time will only make everything less clear. Telling everyone about my experience and thought process is also necessary to prevent people from having certain misunderstandings. I was held for more than twenty days in 2009 at the Beijing Number One Detention Center. When I wasn’t being questioned, I spent most of my time thinking about philosophical and religious questions. I wrote a thirty- to forty-page journal during my time inside, but they unfortunately wouldn’t permit me to take it when I left. That period can be divided into three stages, as far as the tax case against Gongmeng is concerned. During the period from criminal detention to just before formal arrest, my thought process underwent a transformation, going from honestly answering that I couldn’t remember details to volunteering to bear all responsibility. For a few days after being formally arrested, I prepared to defend my innocence and spend several years in prison. Then, when things began to turn for the better after August 17, I began to compromise.

1 At 6 a.m. on July 29, I was awoken by the sound of continuous knocking and ringing of my doorbell. When I opened the door, a group of people I didn’t know entered and said they were from the local police station and the economic criminal investigation unit of the Beijing Public Security Bureau. They made video recordings and searched my place for roughly an hour, shut down the power supply, took all the 153

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food out of my refrigerator, and then took me to the city public security bureau. I spent nearly the entire day in that metal chair they use for interrogating suspects, but no one asked me anything substantive. In the meantime, someone came by and gave me a couple of steamed buns to eat. One officer, muttering to himself, said: “This is politics. Individuals have no significance in the face of politics!” As evening approached, I was sent to the Number One Detention Center and given a notice of criminal detention to sign. I was stripsearched, told to put on a prisoner uniform, and photographed and video-recorded. With a thankful heart, I padded down the long corridor in oversized plastic slippers, my bedding clutched in both arms, and passed through gate after gate until I reached my cell. “Thank you,” I thought. “This is the only path toward freedom for the people of our nation.” I was first taken for questioning on July 30. I was asked whether I knew why I’d been detained. I looked my interrogator in the eye and replied, “I’m here to suffer.” The gist of what he said to me during the ensuing session was: “I don’t care about your public-interest work or anything else. I’m only here to discuss tax evasion.” I got along well with the five other men in my cell, all of whom were suspected of ordinary criminal offenses. We were permitted to watch the nightly news broadcast and read Beijing Daily. I was glad to see from the news that rule of law had not regressed completely after I was arrested. I’m also thankful to all those friends who came to deposit money for me at the detention center. It’s not about the amount deposited—just knowing they were out there gave me hope. Many were petitioners, each of whom deposited 10 yuan a person. When I saw their names, I knew that they were still free and that things had not gone totally bad in society. After I got out, I learned about all of the friends who sent postcards. I’m sorry I never received any of them, because this, too, would have been very meaningful to me. Perhaps it was because of all the emotions I was feeling or perhaps it was because I finally had an opportunity to set aside the cares of the world, but, sitting there in my cell, I was often flooded with beautiful inspiration. I asked the guards for a pen and some paper. They finally gave me some on July 31, and I started recording my thoughts. On August 1, I was feeling very alone. Over the past several years I’ve occasionally felt powerless, but never were those feelings as strong as they were at that moment. I wished I could have a home and a full life. By the next day, lying on my black bed-board, my mind suddenly

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became clear and I finally understood why I had been feeling so afraid. It was because, facing injustice, I still sometimes felt hostility and resentment and did not love broadly or purely enough. I made a note to myself: You need to love everyone, because every person deserves to be loved. I felt I needed to be honest, even when I was facing my interrogators. I had no understanding of finances or taxation. It was only as I was preparing for the tax hearing in July that I came to understand the difference, as far as tax evasion was concerned, between recording and not recording income. At the time, I had always believed that Gongmeng had kept accounts and had merely failed to record income properly, something that we had later rectified with a supplementary report of income in May. At the tax hearing, it became clear that I, Li Xiongbing, and Peng Jian had no idea that there were no account records of the funds in question. So, that’s why when I wrote the essay “Heaven’s Above” I dared to say that I would rather go to jail than pay a fine. I later regretted some of the extreme things in that piece, but at the time I felt that we had absolutely no legal room to maneuver. I truly had no recollection, but my interrogator clearly didn’t believe me. We had many intense arguments about this. He asked, “How can you possibly not remember?” I answered: “I simply don’t remember! What do you want from me?” Back in my cell, I reflected on my actions: “Don’t get angry. Love everyone.” August 6 was probably the fifth time I was taken for questioning. Most of the time, questioning took place in a small interrogation room. This time, however, we were in a large room used for special interrogations, which was equipped with at least three video cameras. The interrogator vehemently insisted I was lying to cover up the truth. I didn’t get angry. I felt like I was viewing the whole thing from far above, watching these people below me playing different roles in the human world below. “Tell me, what do you have to say after all I’ve just said?” my interrogator asked. “Forgive them.” “What? Forgive whom? Who ought to be forgiven?” “By ‘them,’ I mean ‘you.’” I replied. The investigator seemed confused. He continued to talk in grand terms about how confession would bring me lenient treatment and then asked again, “What do you have to say?” “In this world, every person has his or her role to play,” I replied.

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“Is that supposed to be your answer?” he exclaimed. “Tell me then, what role did you play in this incident?” “I played the role of conscience.” Yes, we have been engaged in an endeavor of conscience. This was something I often noted during our exchanges. We had no hostility toward anyone. All we wanted was to do something to make our society a bit more fair and just. We certainly had ambitious ideals for a better society, ambitions so remote that several generations of our predecessors had already lost hope in ever achieving them. But our dreams had no connection to our earthly interests in this life. We weren’t out to secure money or power. We were only after our dreams. That interrogation session was hastily brought to a conclusion. From that day forward, I began to think about the reasoning I would use to answer them. Around the fifth day, I was able to confirm that Zhuang Lu had also been detained. My interrogator said that each time Zhuang was questioned, she would end up crying and didn’t want to return to her cell. The officer in charge of Zhuang Lu’s case was always reminding me what I ought to do. I knew the responsibility was mine. Anyone could see that the problem was not taxes; actually, it was that I had insulted some people. Zhuang Lu and I were being punished as a result. No matter how heroic I might want to be myself, if an innocent young woman was sent to prison this would be an unbearable shame. Forced to choose between honesty, courage, and ethical responsibility, which one should I choose? My interrogator repeatedly told me that the external accountant we hired had failed to report the funds we received from the Yale Law School. Those funds weren’t reported until a supplementary record was made in 2009, but the accountant had been totally unaware that those funds even existed. Of course the police didn’t believe that I could possibly be unaware of all this. They also couldn’t believe that I didn’t even know the name of the accountant and had never contacted him. But this was, in fact, the truth. I’m sorry: I really failed to fulfill my responsibilities as Gongmeng’s legal representative. Based on their attitude, I gathered there was a real likelihood that we never reported the funds. If they absolutely had to punish Gongmeng, then the Criminal Law specified that the individuals who would be held responsible should be the person in charge and the person directly responsible for failing to report. If they considered Zhuang Lu to be either the person in charge or the person directly responsible, it would be difficult for her to avoid prosecution. As for me, I couldn’t bear it even if she were only given a suspended sentence. She had just

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passed her legal exam last year, and a suspended sentence would mean destroying her future. So, around August 7, I began to adjust my thought process. The interrogator was definitive in saying that Zhuang Lu had told them I instructed her not to report the funds. I truly didn’t remember this, but if I denied it then Zhuang Lu would have to bear a heavier responsibility. If I acknowledged instructing Zhuang Lu not to report the funds, on the other hand, it would just be a case of her carrying out my instructions. Responsibility for reporting the funds rested with the accountant, so, as far as the law was concerned, I would be the person in charge of finances, the accountant would be the person with direct responsibility for not reporting the funds, and Zhuang Lu would be cleared of all responsibility. From that point on, I began to acknowledge that I had instructed Zhuang Lu not to report the funds and stated that she had no responsibility for the matter. The interrogator said he would report this up the chain of command and try to get Zhuang Lu released as soon as possible before a decision was made on whether to arrest her formally or not. This forced me to confront the issue of honesty. It had always been a principle of mine not to tell lies, but there I was saying that I had given the instruction not to report the funds. So, after finishing the interview, I told the investigator that, in truth, I really didn’t remember. This led to a serious argument, with the investigator threatening to tear up my statement and saying that it was useless if it was false. I could only keep quiet. That evening, I returned to my cell and thought things over. Had I done the wrong thing? They were clearly after me, not her, and now they had the statement they wanted. But if I truly didn’t know about the failure to report the funds, then that would have to mean shifting the blame on others. But it should have been my responsibility from the beginning, so I ought to be the one to bear that responsibility.

1 The other point of dispute in this whole affair was the allegation that we had “falsified accounts.” Their logic was that, when the tax office audited us in May, our supplementary reporting and tax payment was an attempt to “falsify accounts and cover up the truth.” I insisted that the reason we had the accountant make a supplementary filing was to fix our earlier oversight. It ought to be considered a tax payment, not tax evasion.

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They spent a long time pursuing the details of the so-called account falsification. They said we’d held a special meeting to discuss it, but I truly had no recollection of this. My biggest offense was not understanding finances at all. Zhuang Lu didn’t really understand them either. In February, I specifically asked Zhuang Lu whether we had any problems with our taxes. She called to check with the accountant, and then passed along the message that there was no problem. Because I didn’t understand finances, I didn’t get involved when the tax authorities began their audit in May, but I did tell Zhuang Lu to go talk to the accountant and think of some way to resolve Gongmeng’s problem. My other mistake was thinking all along that the real issue was not taxation but the work that we’d been doing. Had we offended someone, I wondered? So, I concentrated my efforts on looking for problems with our report on the Tibetan riots or our investigation into the redevelopment controversy in Beijing’s Beiwu Village and considering how we might resolve any such problems. I even spent two days in the outskirts of Beijing primarily so I could think about these questions in peace. Gongmeng was devoted to providing legal assistance in individual cases and research into specific legal institutions, and our primary focus was livelihood issues. Our research report on the economic and social factors contributing to the Tibetan riots that began on March 14, 2009, was probably the most likely source of any misunderstanding. The report’s basic conclusion was that, while there should be no doubt that external factors had been involved in the March 14 incident, internal factors must not be ignored. In the process of modernization, Tibetans had come to feel a sense of relative economic deprivation, a loss of culture and traditional education, and anger over local corruption. These factors helped to intensify the conflicts within Tibet. Because the riots were such a sensitive subject, we had been very cautious. All of the funding for that research report came from individual contributions made by people inside China. The report itself was extremely moderate and reasonable, and after it was finished we first sent copies to the relevant state officials. Only after more than a month with no response did we publish it online. Perhaps some people unfriendly to China made use of it after it was published. We repeatedly tried to explain and apologize for this, even in our report to the tax authorities. We made our best effort to pay our back taxes and communicate and explain things to the authorities. We’d hoped that would resolve the crisis. But we never imagined that on July 14 the tax authorities would impose such a devastating penalty on us. Other than publicly rallying for support, we didn’t have any other choice at that point. .

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Sometimes, my interrogator and I would argue for the entire day over basic logic. His logic was that, because it was registered as a company, everything Gongmeng did was business related and should be subject to tax in accordance with the law. Under those circumstances, failure to account for revenues and underpayment of taxes was tantamount to tax evasion. My logic was that Gongmeng was a company in form, but in substance it was a non-profit organization. The nature of Gongmeng’s mission and funding ought to determine whether the relevant tax code applied or not. In fact, we felt we had overpaid—not underpaid—our taxes. During this time, Haidian District industry and commerce regulators came to ask me questions about what our intentions had been at the time we registered Gongmeng. They took my formal statement and were preparing to revoke Gongmeng’s business license. I asked a lot of questions about what the legal consequences would be. They explained that it would mean a loss of the qualification to engage in business, but it did not mean that Gongmeng would lose its legal status as a company. We had never engaged in business in the first place, so I figured it would be okay as long as Gongmeng was still allowed to remain in existence. Considering that the tax problem had already exhausted much of our energy, that a hearing to discuss revocation of our business license would, like the tax hearing, not have much real significance, and that loss of our business license was relatively minor compared to the criminal punishment the company was facing, I felt it wasn’t necessary to add another problem for the lawyers and divert their attention from the matter at hand. So, three days later, I decided to waive my right to request a hearing.

1 On August 13, I was again summoned from jail for questioning. In the corridor outside the interrogation room, I suddenly saw Zhuang Lu. She was wearing the same red vest as me, and the silver handcuffs looked particularly conspicuous on her tiny arms. I called out to her, and she looked over at me blankly before I was ushered into the adjoining interrogation room. This scene made a very painful impression on me. The main issue that morning was to announce that I had been formally arrested. The investigator reached through the iron bars that separated us and passed me the notice for my signature. He asked me what I was thinking. I said I wasn’t thinking of anything. If I had had any illusions in the past, now I could completely put them aside. Now it was time to wait for trial—my inner hero-complex came to the forefront. I

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asked, “What about Zhuang Lu?” He said she had also been arrested. “Didn’t you say you’d make an effort to allow Zhuang Lu to avoid arrest?” I asked. “How come she’s been arrested, then?” There was no answer. The next morning, I met with lawyer Zhou Ze to discuss three main issues. The first was the need to get Zhuang Lu some money and hire a lawyer for her as soon as possible. The food inside the detention center was terrible, and you needed money to buy things to supplement. When I learned that Gongmeng had already deposited some money for Zhuang Lu to use, I felt a great sense of relief. At least she would feel as if there were still people out there trying to help her. The second issue concerned my defense. If the case went to trial, it would mean conviction was inevitable and there would be no more room for negotiation. So, we would have to stick to an innocence defense. As a public-interest organization, Gongmeng had no sales revenues, so there was no issue of paying sales tax. Gongmeng made no profits, so there was no issue of paying tax on income. Again, we maintained that Gongmeng had overpaid—not underpaid—its taxes. In a real sense, we were not only defending Gongmeng—we were also defending many other public-interest organizations forced to register as companies. The third issue was to have Li Xiongbing and Wang Gongquan make arrangements for my personal affairs. The lease on my apartment was about to run out, so they should arrange to have my things moved to Guo Yushan’s place and return the household items I had borrowed. I also asked to have some books on philosophy and religion sent over to me. The weekend that followed was quiet and calm. I came up with a title for the book that I would write about the next several years I expected to spend in prison: Spiritual Growth. The long history of human civilization was a path of spiritual growth, one that relied on scientific progress, economic development, educational enlightenment, improvement of the legal system, and pursuit of religious salvation. For individuals, spiritual growth mainly involved three things: service, responsibility, and sacrifice. How many contributions have you made to society in your life and how many people have you helped? What degree of negative consequences, suffering, or disability are you willing to assume on behalf of social change or the well-being of others? How much are you willing to sacrifice your own ego?

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Things seemed to undergo a change on August 17. The investigator became more anxious to have me confess, even saying things like, “It’s for your own good.” One day later, he told me plainly that I could leave if I paid my fine and displayed a good attitude. I said I didn’t care about getting out of jail. To a certain degree, by that point I truly didn’t care anymore. If fate had intended for me to become a martyr, I could spend a few years inside without any problem and use that time to give serious thought to philosophical and religious questions. Of course, it would be nice to go free, too. I could continue with my work and see what fate had in store for me. I had felt quite tranquil after they formally arrested me, but, when I saw how anxious they were to find a way out, I must admit that I began to have a renewed longing for freedom. They again began talking about Zhuang Lu, saying that she had been volunteering to give statements, describing her tear-stained face, and the like. They said, “Maybe it doesn’t matter to you, but why should that young woman have to go through such a hard time, too?” I knew they were anxious to find a way out, but I didn’t dare take any risks. After all, I wasn’t the only one in danger. On the question of confessing guilt, I demanded to see the Criminal Law as amended in February 2009, but they gave me a preamendment copy of Article 201. As I regrettably hadn’t had a chance to look at the recent revisions to the Criminal Law, I didn’t realize at the time that there was a difference. I carefully studied the statute for a long time and began to feel that the prosecution’s logic was not totally unreasonable. Gongmeng was a company that had not properly accounted certain funds and had underpaid taxes, which, according to the statute, constituted the crime of tax evasion. If the other side was willing to give a little, then we could, too, and step back from a defense position insisting on absolute innocence. We never sought to be confrontational. If it was necessary to give the other side a way to step down, there was no reason not to do so. So, I admitted that “Gongmeng’s actions constitute the objective criteria for tax evasion” and that “if the funds Yale University provided to Gongmeng were not properly accounted for, it was under my instruction.” For the last two or three days, they tried to get me to admit that not reporting the funds was done “subjectively in order to evade taxes.” I was adamant that I wouldn’t say that, because I didn’t believe it to be a factual statement. Moreover, I considered that, were the case to be sent to court, the lack of subjective intent would be a necessary condition for any innocence defense. The longest day involved a nine-hour

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deadlock stuck in the interrogation room, lunch boxes piled up off in the corner, neither side willing to eat. On Friday afternoon, we had our last big argument over the issue of subjective intent. They said, “This is not really a confession of guilt, so Zhuang Lu can’t be released.” I said, “I’m sorry. This is the most I can do for Zhuang Lu.” The stalemate continued for a while, and then a higher-up from the public security bureau came by with a lot of comforting words, saying that there would still be space for me to remain active after I was released, I could continue to promote rule of law, and so on. We reached a compromise. I would write a statement of a few hundred words entitled “Thoughts on Gongmeng’s Alleged Tax Evasion.” The main points would be as follows: First, Gongmeng is a public-interest organization established to promote democracy and rule of law in a rational and constructive manner. As a non-profit public-interest organization, we had truly intended to pay less tax. However, with respect to the specific issue of failure to record the three payments from Yale University in our accounts, the subjective reasons for this are multi-faceted. There had been a debate from the beginning about whether these contributions ought to be taxed or not, and mainly we just set the matter aside and forgot about it. Further, I would acknowledge that Gongmeng’s actions satisfied the objective criteria for the crime of tax evasion and guarantee that we would not make the same mistake in the future. I also wanted to make clear that Gongmeng’s tax case deserved some additional reflection on the legal status of public-interest organizations in China. On the one hand, public-interest organizations registered as companies ought to pay taxes in accordance with the law. On the other hand, the government ought to relax restrictions on public-interest organizations registering as civic organizations. They demanded that I delete that last part. On the subject of subjective intent, I never accepted their accusations, and I left space for an innocence defense in case of a possible trial. They were not satisfied, but they had to accept it. I had to protect my bottom line, in case there was a trial one day. That evening, a deputy party secretary from my university came to see me. I’m grateful to the faculty and students at BUPT for their concern and support. Actually, even without their expressions of comfort, I wouldn’t have harbored any hostility toward anyone. We’ve never harbored any hostility toward anyone, even those who’ve treated us unjustly.

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1 On Sunday morning, I was in the middle of pondering the problem of space and time when a voice came over the loudspeaker: “Xu Zhiyong, gather your things!” Ten minutes later, I embraced my cellmates and said goodbye. After taking care of the paperwork, I asked the investigator, “How about Zhuang Lu?” He said she had already gone home a day earlier, released under guarantee pending further investigation. I still had my doubts, but he insisted that she had already been released. I quietly walked out of the gate, my heart filled with a sense of sadness. During those twenty-odd days in jail, I had had my periods of weakness. The first two days, I’d longed for a home. Fortunately, that was just a passing phase and, over the entire process, my basic mentality was gratitude. I continually reflected upon my limited “confession” and whether I had done the right thing. On the one hand, I still considered myself completely innocent. As a non-profit organization, Gongmeng shouldn’t have to pay taxes. But looking at the issue from the other side’s perspective, Gongmeng was a company and, according to existing laws, had truly failed to record funds and underpaid tax. According to the provisions of the old Article 201 of the Criminal Law, this constituted the crime of tax evasion. Even though the authorities applied the wrong statute, many with legal training would agree that there was at least something to their logic. If someone insisted on trying and convicting us, we could only choose to try to defend our innocence. After all, it was ridiculous to go after a non-profit organization for tax problems. However, if we could compromise, it seemed to make sense for a person with legal training like myself to acknowledge that Gongmeng had made mistakes in paying its taxes as a company—so long as this was done with the fundamental promise by the other side that there would continue to be space for Gongmeng to continue promoting rule of law. I had felt conflicted about the need to be honest. Over the past two or three years, honesty had begun to be a basic criterion of life for me. But this honesty came under two kinds of challenge. First was the matter of “white lies,” as for example when I forgot an appointment and would tell a lie without any hesitation to cover up my mistake. Now, I told no more lies. If I forgot, I forgot. The other challenge was when I faced interrogation. If I told the truth, I would say that I truly didn’t know about the failure to report the funds and that, prior to going to jail, neither Li Xiongbing, Peng Jian, nor I knew anything about this. But that should have been my responsibility, and I should have had a clear

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recollection. Since it should have been my responsibility, I could only lie and say that I had ordered postponing recording the accounts. But after taking on this responsibility, I still wanted to return to my principle of not telling lies, which is why I had said that I “actually don’t recall clearly.” Inside and outside, I received some strong moral condemnation. People can say I was a coward, but the biggest injury I feel is when people call me a liar. Our society is filled with so many lies, so many acts that violate one’s inner conscience. We need to change this, starting with ourselves as individuals. We need to become honest citizens. And I had been arrogant. When the investigator would go on and on, asking over and over about the details of how we “falsified the accounts,” I even began to doze off. When he and I were having lofty discussions about our outlooks on life, I had to remind myself repeatedly to love everyone. Throughout the whole tax case, the thing I regret the most is publishing the article “Heaven’s Above.” I should have first gotten feedback from my colleagues at Gongmeng and expressed myself more moderately. My Christian friends constantly warn me against the sin of pride. Thank you for this reminder! We should be humble, because none of us is perfect and because we should love each other. Perhaps this has all been but a minor episode in the development of civil society in China. I’m grateful to each and every person, including those who showed such concern for our well-being by donating money, signing petitions, making appeals, writing articles, carrying out performance art, and making T-shirts, badges, or postcards. All this gave us so much emotional support. I also want to thank those who gave us this opportunity to grow and learn—I believe each person has a valuable role to play in this world. My way of repaying everyone’s concern and support will be to continue with my mission of conscience and justice. No matter what might happen to us, we shall continue to follow our own path and promote democracy and rule of law in a rational and constructive way. This is because we believe that this is the only path that can lead us toward a free and happy society.

13 In This World January 11, 2010

With a low of -16°C, they say this is the coldest day in Beijing in forty years. Here, members of a very special group in our society live packed together in an underground passageway below the Second Ring Road on the south side of the city. By the time we got here, there were no more long underwear or quilts left in the car belonging to Mr. Huang, a volunteer. All that remained were a few steamed buns. The past few days, these volunteers have been handing out several hundred pairs of long underwear and quilts every day, along with more than 100kg of steamed buns. For twenty years, a group of Korean Christians used to come here every Saturday to distribute food, but then they were all kicked out of the country. I first came in contact with these people twelve years ago. At the east entrance to the China Central Television building, a woman from Heze, Shandong, slowly had a nervous breakdown right before my eyes. She cried and wailed about how she needed to get inside to find some higher-ups at the station. A few minutes later, a police car came to take her away. I also vividly remember how ten years ago, on a day when the temperature reached -14°C, in a lane near the entrance to the State Petition Office that was blackened with soot and covered with slogans, a white-haired woman stood stooped over and dumbstruck, her quilt having just been burned up by the police. Hasn’t our society progressed beyond this? In this frigid winter, on Christmas Eve, police and urban management officers twice came to seize the quilts of the people who were living in that underpass. Then, they stopped. Only then did Liu Anjun and the rest of the volunteers have the opportunity to continue distributing goods that people online had donated. 165

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It only takes an hour by subway to reach this underpass from the center of Beijing’s central business district, but it’s as if you had traveled through time. In this world, each person plays his or her predestined role. In this freezing winter, some people are scheming to use their power to send their money and children overseas while others silently freeze to death in forgotten corners beneath tall buildings. Every country has its homeless people. Some of Beijing’s homeless are beggars, but mostly they’re not the vagrants who beg on the Champs-Élysées or the barefoot, white-bearded old ascetics who roam the banks of the Ganges or the black tramps who choose to live the vagrant’s life next door to the White House. Mostly, they’re there because they can’t stop pursuing the truth. In this cruel and unjust society, this vast group of people who are almost single-minded in their pursuit of the justice they feel inside includes farmers whose land has been taken from them, urban residents whose homes have been demolished, workers who have been laid off, entrepreneurs who have fallen victim to selective law-enforcement, and city party secretaries who were retaliated against. Those who live in this underpass are the very poorest of them, people who cannot even afford to pay the five yuan per night for a space on a communal bed in one of the urban villages on the outskirts of town.

1 Every country has its homeless people. In the fall of 2004, two drunk black homeless men sitting on a bench less than 200 meters from the East Wing of the White House merrily beckoned me to come over. This formed one of my most vivid impressions of the United States. Later, I found out that they weren’t on the street because they had no place to live. The government had provided them with housing, but they preferred to live like this. Every society has people like this who seek escape from society’s conventions. Perhaps they have a willfully bohemian personality. The government provides them with food stamps that they exchange for alcohol; it gives them a house, but they don’t want to live there. They are a burden of the state, one that the state cannot abandon. Actually, shouldn’t they also be considered a state asset? In this world, if it weren’t for their homelessness, how would we know the warmth of the city’s myriad twinkling lights? To think that such a “dirty, disorderly, and bad” place with this kind of homeless men could exist so close to the White House! This is something I think that many officials and urban management officers in Beijing would have a hard time understanding. Before the Olympics,

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police and urban management officers repeatedly swept through my neighborhood, roughly tossing the tricycle carts, tables, and stools that vendors had set up into the back of a truck. At that moment, I really understood how the demobilized soldier Cui Yingjie must have felt when he stabbed that urban management officer for seizing his tricycle. “Dirty, disorderly, and bad” is a phrase I often heard as a delegate to the Haidian District People’s Congress. The delegates couldn’t achieve anything else, so they stood on the side of the elites and cleansed society of these disadvantaged sorts, as if this gave them the feeling of greatest accomplishment. In the town of Hamden, Connecticut, north of New Haven, almost all of the bus passengers were black. They carried themselves in a serene and composed manner. Many black people resided in that area, living in public housing provided by the government. I once met a volunteer with a local community organization that assisted the government with demolishing old public housing and building new houses that it would sell back to the public. Turning public housing into ordinary housing was a way of removing the stigma that people felt about living in public housing. Perhaps this was just a bit too politically correct. It was like how, in every advertisement you saw on an American street, one out of three persons pictured would have to be black. If there were four, then you’d have to add an Asian face as well. But recalling the sad and humiliating history of racial discrimination in America, I could understand what seemed like crazy political correctness. It was that fall that a young black man with no family background was elected as a state senator. His ancestors were from Africa. Four years later, he became the President of the United States. Actually, the homeless people outside the White House are not the same as those around Beijing’s South Railway Station. For the vagrants of Beijing, homelessness is no romantic lifestyle. They have their own homes, but they’ve come to the national capital in search of their own sense of justice. I only saw one homeless woman in front of the White House who at all resembled the vagrants of Beijing. That old woman had set up a tent on the South Lawn of the White House to protest the lack of democracy and freedom in the United States.

1 In this world, there probably isn’t any city where you can’t find “dirty, disorderly, and bad” corners. Maybe Pyongyang is an exception. In July 2008, I saw a group of homeless people gathered to eat at a charity soup

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kitchen on the eastern end of the Champs-Élysées in Paris. A few blocks away, several hundred black men and women gathered in rows in front of the police bureau, illegal immigrants demanding residency rights. They were originally from Africa, a continent of brilliant humanity despite its poverty and starvation, one known for its great valleys, equatorial snow-covered mountains, Sahara Desert, Rwandan genocide, and Nelson Mandela. If it weren’t for those who had once occupied their lands, would they now be able to come to rich and populous Europe? But they’ve come, stealing across the border, hiding out in this land of their dreams. They hid out until one day France decided to cleanse itself of all foreigners without the right of residence. In a city north of Paris, there was an illegal immigrant who worked as a teacher. According to the new regulations, he would be required to leave. The residents and mayor of the city sent a letter to the central government urging it to allow him to stay. This love that spanned borders and racial divides ultimately enabled the man to stay. At the same time, in Paris, those who were illegal began to stand up before the police bureau. Europe, with your ancient history, there’s no way to rid yourself of Africa, no way to rid yourself of the poverty on this planet. No one knows how far we are from a world of great peace and harmony, but I believe there will be a day when racial difference and national borders will be a thing of the past. Without our realizing it, nations have become irretrievably linked to each other. No matter how the contentious nature of the Copenhagen Climate Change Conference may have irritated some, the smoke of wartime guns has dissipated, and humanity has limped forward from its distant youth. There’s no way for Paris to rid itself of the immigrants that irritate a few people, because we are all human and deep within us resides an inexplicable concern and sympathy for each other.

1 Mumbai’s Taj Mahal Palace Hotel faces the sea. This is the most extravagant place in South Asia’s most flourishing city. Across the street from the hotel entrance, you can find street vendors selling chapati. Rich people stroll by leisurely and carefree, while the poor enjoy their chapati as they squat on short stools. Not far from here are the rundown shacks where the fishermen live. There are no urban management officials around to clear them out. In Mumbai’s famous Dharavi slums, where up to a million people live, one need not ask about “dirty, disorderly, and bad.“ Many Chinese

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visit this place with hearts full of ridicule, but they do not realize that many of the residents here possess property rights. They live here and travel to the south side of the city center each day to go to work. The government has not yet seen the need to redevelop this city within a city because of a loss of face. However, in this country that has become somewhat inert in its freedom, I even ran into a radical revolutionary. In a wide-open restaurant in Delhi, several Maoists seemed a bit disappointed in us, their revolutionary comrades from China, because we supported the progress that these years of reform and opening has brought. In their view, India is a country in a terrible mess, suffering from corruption, poverty, injustice, fake democracy, and the like. To tell the truth, though, after long conversations with many Indians and after passing through both the poorest villages and the wealthiest cities, you come to understand that the main social basis for these revolutionaries is the lack of social security. Giving people freedom is not enough; they also need equality of outcomes. After several decades in which this ancient civilization stubbornly resisted modern culture and imagined itself to be one great big village, India was finally dragged into the tide of modernity in 1991 with cars, tricycles, trucks, and camels all crowded together on characteristically Indian highways still in the process of being widened. But who knows how long it will take to go from economic development to the establishment of social security? At a symposium on comparative research between China and India, I pointed out that Beijing also had slums. If I hadn’t personally taken everyone to Liulang Village, several of the Chinese scholars in attendance never would have believed such places even existed. In this village where the original inhabitants number a bit more than 4,000, more than 50,000 members of the urban poor live here and go off to labor in Beijing’s high-tech center, Zhongguancun. Each day at dawn and dusk, thousands of bicycles flock like migrating birds as they shuttle back and forth between the prosperous Zhongguancun and this district of poverty. Soon, however, this area will be demolished. I’ve heard that in 2010 Beijing will demolish 50 urban villages. Why are there no revolutionaries here? China has no shortage of Maoists, it’s only that they have no guns in this society where there are strict controls. My fellow countrymen, what can they do other than kneel before the national flag, jump into the Jinshui River, take poison, or set themselves on fire? We have always opposed revolution, but these past several years I have begun to better understand where those revolutionaries are coming from.

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1 It’s really cold this winter. Even though the underground passage near Beijing South Railway Station fills with people every winter and even though I understand the long, cruel history behind this, it’s still too much for me to see a child appear among the people living underground like this. He was around five or six years old, his face red as he used both hands to press a bowl of instant noodles against his lips. His expression was innocent and helpless. I shouted: “Whose child is this?” A short man in his fifties came up to me and began telling me of the tragedy that’s befallen his family. I didn’t have patience to listen and began to get a bit angry. “How could you bring a child to this place? Why isn’t he in school?” The man nearly began to cry as he told me how he had rescued the child from beside a garbage dump. He’d taken the boy to the hospital twice to undergo operations. Someone had beaten the man’s wife to death, so he had no choice but to keep the boy with him. That’s when I first noticed that the boy had a cleft lip. I didn’t know what to say as I gently stroked the child’s hair. At that moment, the boy couldn’t understand why this stranger appeared so heartbroken. My child, you still have no idea why your father has drifted to this underpass on such a cold winter day. You don’t yet realize that there are things more delicious than instant noodles. You don’t yet know that, in this world, people are unequal from the time they are born. You still don’t understand how a disfigured baby born to a poor family can be discarded by his parents next to a garbage dump. Or how, if a person is stubborn and refuses to accept privilege and corruption or to submit to his wretched fate, he will be callously discarded by society. Let me give you some money to buy something to eat, my child. You still don’t understand that this group of strangers has come here to tell you that, no matter how cold and uncaring this country may be, you mustn’t become resentful. In this land engulfed by the haze of its authoritarian history, each person is just as fragile and hopeful deep inside as you are.

1 I got the call from Mr. Liu, who told me that arrangements had been made to send five children, including the one I’d seen, to a boarding

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school in Tongzhou District. In a few days, I would go along with other volunteers to help take the children over to the school. This is such a cold winter! In recent days I’ve already gotten news of two deaths at the Beijing South Railway Station. A few days ago that person from Heze posted a photo online, but when we went to the station we found quilts piled messily in a corner near the buses. He had died just the night before, his companion sleeping beside him completely unaware. Those people who remain committed to their interior sense of justice come to this flourishing metropolis, and, because of the cold or illness, they quietly die off in some wretched corner. Sun Zhigang, Tang Fuzhen, Li Shulian, or this man whose name I didn’t know or the tens of thousands of hopeful people in Petitioner Village—perhaps they are really like the victims of legend, living in an age before the arrival of a just social order. In this world, each person plays his or her predestined role. On the path toward justice, they are the martyrs for a just cause, even if they don’t realize it themselves. We are the fortunate ones. In this world, God has given each person a different role to play. He has also given us certain tendencies in our complex and contradictory personalities: bright or foolish, hard-working or lazy, stubborn or obedient. This is what makes up our complex human society. There are rich people and poor people, healthy people and sick people. Some have power and some do not. But God has given each of us a merciful heart, so we can see all of the volunteers who go out into this world to extend an arm of warmth and kindness. He has also given each of us a persistent sense of inner justice. Behind the soaring cost of housing, we can see the anger in the streets like dry kindling, and we can hope that in the not-so-distant future justice will appear in some form. As the Buddha taught, that is karma. We are the fortunate ones. Not only do we have warm homes and food to eat this winter, but we also have this wonderful opportunity to dedicate and redeem ourselves. Love is the eternal theme of our lives. We don’t have the ability to give them the justice they desire, but we can at least give them a bit of warmth.

14 Practice Love on the Road to Justice Speech delivered at meeting of petitioners, February 6, 2010

Today, I want to speak to you all about love. I know that it’s a bit cruel to talk about this subject with a group of people who have suffered such serious harms. This is a group that has experienced suffering. Some of you have spent more than three decades petitioning for justice. Hao Wenzhong, who lost her husband during the Cultural Revolution, has been locked up more than 200 times in her life. A year ago, she called to say that her daughter had just paid 50,000 yuan to get her released from a psychiatric hospital. Some have suffered barbaric violence in black jails. Yao Jing was beaten so brutally by a group of men that her spleen ruptured. Some pass away quietly as they lie in underground passageways in the freezing cold. We love our family and friends. We love those people whose contributions to society move us, who help us out, or who even just offer a kind word. On the long road to justice, we’ve experienced much emotion and love. But those people who have hurt us—the police who beat people, the mass of “interceptors” who appear each year around the time of the “two meetings,” and the bullies of the black jails—are we to love them, too? Yes, we should love them—each and every one of them. That’s because each person is a human being who deserves to be loved. A murderer loves his family and friends. He might be a good son, husband, or father. The policeman who beats people, the person who intercepts petitioners, and the guard at a black jail are all human. They each have families and friends, interests and hobbies. Just like us, they even have their own sense of justice deep inside them. 173

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Years ago, I had a brief chat with the most ferocious thug outside that black jail behind the Youth Hotel, the one who came after me swinging an iron chain. I asked him: “Did you know that this is a black jail, a place where they lock up people petitioning to redress injustices?” He answered, angrily: “There are so many cases of injustice! Can you help them all? I’ve also been treated unjustly!” What he meant was that ours is a society where people do bad things like this. What gave me the right to go around doing good? Didn’t I want to earn a living? I calmly answered that if he’d been wronged, he should tell me and I’d be willing to do what I could to help. The next two times I saw him, I noticed that each time he wanted to beat me he would have to first drink some alcohol before riding over to us on his bicycle to threaten us. Then there was that tall guard who punched me in the head and neck. In a relatively quiet moment after he’d hit me, I asked him gently what his job was. He replied, furious: “It’s no business of yours what I do! If you think you’ve got what it takes, take the civil service exam and become a senior official—then you might be able to change all of this!” Yes, even a person like that knows that there’s something wrong with the way things are today. There is no original evil in this world. Evil is actually the human ego. When people in this world feel insecure, want to satisfy their cravings, or obtain more wealth—when one person harms another in order to satisfy his or her own desires—this is what our society considers evil. Even the most terrible person has some goodness in his or her heart. That is the seed of conscience that God has planted deep in the heart of every human being. So, we can’t simply divide up society into good people and bad people. In particular, we can’t simply treat all those who hurt us or have different viewpoints as “bad people.” It is a difficult choice to make, to love those people who hurt us. We’ve encountered so much hardship along this endless petitioning path. On the road to justice, we’ve met with discrimination and misunderstanding. At any moment, we could lose our freedom and be subjected to brutal violence. However, we must overcome the suffering of this life and face our fate with a new sense of comprehension: we must do this not only for our own sakes, but even more to secure the freedom and happiness of our fellow Chinese.

1 Love is not a conspiracy. Someone might appear mighty, but we don’t hide our fear and hostility and then paralyze them in order to obtain our

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own interests. It’s blasphemy to treat love as a kind of conspiracy! If we treat love that way and try to compete with them to see who can be more conspiratorial, can we ever beat them? Even if we do successfully compete with them, it would only be to see which of us could be worse. Our society is so seriously devoid of sincerity that showing a little warmth to others is often a kind of show. Actually, though, deep down each of us longs for sincere love. There’s no use feeling hatred. The basis of this regime is hostility and hatred. The class struggles of the past were about inciting hostility and hatred between people. That was a painful and humiliating experience for our nation. Our mission is to seek another source of strength in human nature—the power of love. Only the extreme power of love can overcome the extreme powers of hostility and hatred. What do we, the poor people of this society, have to offer it? We have no money or power, but we have love—each and every one of us. Love is not something for which the disadvantaged must beg. Many people are begging. We can understand how, in a society where the law of the jungle reigns, people might do this simply in order to survive. But what the weak and disadvantaged beg for is not love. If you treat yourself like a weak person, then even if you receive a little bit of charity the most we can become is a supplicant. If society is forever to be divided between the strong and the weak and our children and grandchildren are forever to live under in a world where the strong eat the weak, then what good is a little bit of charity? So, we stand up and pursue our own lawful rights and interests. Standing up doesn’t mean opposition or hatred. Standing up is a kind of dignity. We are citizens, and we use the law as our weapon—even when we know that it is often useless. It is essential that people stand up in this society. Only when more and more people stand up will society begin to change. Love is a kind of faith. Love for each and every person of the world is our eternal and steadfast belief. The seed of love exists inside each and every one of our hearts. Love inspires more love. Love can overcome hatred. Only love can melt the ice that has frozen over this land and rescue our fellow countrymen from the hell of indifference and hatred. It doesn’t matter whether we’re religious; in this secular society, a society of freedom, justice, and love is our faith. Our mission is love, to let love arouse love in every person, to build a world full of love. This is not simply for ourselves but even more for future generations. Love is sympathy. Those thugs who work for the demolition offices or who hurt others for the sake of their own livelihoods or desires don’t occupy elevated positions. Their minds are consumed with struggle and

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they’re incapable of happiness. All of the wealth and power in this world is transient. The more high and mighty one acts, the more troubled one feels. But even though we appear to be the weakest and most disadvantaged members of this society, we stick firmly to our own moral principles. We do it for a better society, for all people. We also do it for those people who hurt us and for their descendants. We become brave warriors—not weaklings—for the sake of our nation. We sympathize with those passing travelers through history, those people whose minds can never find peace. Love is lenience. We forgive those judges who take bribes and pervert justice and those inhuman black-jail guards. Some of those who persist in petitioning are merely seeking someone to take responsibility. A sincere apology can resolve all resentments. At the moment when justice is realized, we are not only lenient but grateful—grateful for the other person’s role in causing us such difficulties, making us take on this previously unrecognized historical responsibility, and causing our lives to become that much more meaningful. Love is about being humble. I don’t mean humility in front of any particular person but, rather, humility before God. A year ago, a bunch of petitioners went to Peking University to condemn Professor Sun Dongdong’s statement that at least 99 percent of petitioners were mentally ill. Many people gathered outside the East Gate at PKU shouting slogans. That was not enough of a show of humility. If everyone just stood there silently, that would have been a much stronger protest than shouting slogans. It was much more powerful when, on last year’s December 4th “Legal System Promotion Day,” several thousand petitioners streamed into the area around the east gate of the China Central Television offices and then calmly queued up for the buses that were sent to take them back to the Majialou petitioner detention center. It was so powerful to see this group of people who have suffered so much harm because of the failures of rule of law filling up Majialou on a day that is supposed to be devoted to rule of law. I hope that in the future those protesters who fill up China’s prisons can be even more steadfast and calm. Love is honesty. There’s no point in lying to those who cannot themselves tell the truth. There are some things that we don’t need to say, but we must never tell lies. No matter how many tricks the other side uses to talk about their successes and failures, we must be different and remain committed to honesty. We are fighting to redress the injustices that have been done to us and to realize a more just society in general, so there’s no need for us to tell lies. We are not unruly people who simply tell people whatever they want to hear. No matter what injustices

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we have suffered or what demands we may have, we must honestly face others. Love is an offering made with respect. We are not only standing up to defend our own rights and interests; we must be even more concerned about others and unite with everyone. We must show concern for the injustice around us and for the unfairness that exists in the cities or villages where we live. We must speak on behalf of all, working hard to become citizen representatives with a kind of moral prestige that allows us to speak out against land requisitions, housing demolition and forced removal, or privilege and corruption. On the petitioning road, we look after and care for each other. In the past, there was unfortunately too much suspicion harbored by those within the petitioning group. Some would undermine group solidarity, while others would report some information to the authorities. This is really no big deal. Our own hearts are magnanimous, and we even love those petty scoundrels. Love is responsibility. We take responsibility for each and every word we speak. We are moderate and reasonable. We do everything our humanity and sense of duty calls upon us to do. Yes, we emphasize our own duties. In a seriously unjust society like this, a group of people who have been wronged are talking about their own responsibility and duty. In a society that is submissive and petty, this is our responsibility and also our honor.

1 Our silent suffering over these many years has finally begun to get broadly noticed within society. Today, we are in touch with many friends online who have never personally been hurt by state power. But more and more of them are standing with us. In a certain respect, all those citizens who stand up and say no to privilege and corruption are standing alongside us. Before 2003, for most ordinary people the petitioner was merely an image seen in literary works, like that old man carrying a sack, wearing a badge on his chest, and walking along with a can and a face filled with distress. Their reality would be a corner in a custody and repatriation center—a corner it was said was reserved for the “ill.” It must have taken me two years before I realized that by “ill” they meant mental illness. At that time, there were basically three types of people who got locked up in custody and repatriation centers: petitioners, beggars, and migrant laborers or others who looked like they were outsiders who got caught up at random.

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After Sun Zhigang died in 2003 and the custody and repatriation system was abolished, that compound behind the high walls and electric fence to the east of Dingfuhuang Village stood empty. Petitioners walked the streets. One of them is there today, a woman from Xinjiang named Feng Yongji. Seeking redress for an injustice done to her husband, she led hundreds of people in chanting “the NPC is an old-age home!” outside the NPC’s office for receiving letters and visits, causing many of the office workers to stick their heads out the windows and look on with curiosity. About a year later, she finally received a notice from the Supreme People’s Court ordering that her husband’s case be retried. But her story was far from finished. I’m sorry that I don’t have time today to tell the long and ridiculous legal story behind the scenes of her case. Since 2003, petitioning has became a nationwide social problem. In the past few years, the central government has made a great deal of effort and leading cadres have gone down to the grassroots to listen to problems, established a coordinating council for letters and visits, and so on. But their efforts have had limited impact. Even though more and more funds are being spent on receiving petitioners and listening to their complaints, the size of the petitioner group has not decreased. This is an overarching systemic problem that cannot be resolved through a little bit of fixing up here and there. At its root, the problem is about the source of power: whether officials are elected by the people or appointed from above. Even though the problem is at the top, that doesn’t mean that a just official can appear and deliver justice to everyone. The problem is the lack of any institutional checks on power. It’s a problem with our democratic system. Therefore, whether we’re willing or not, we’ve already taken on social responsibility. While we struggle on behalf of our own sense of justice or the rights of our families, we have an even more important role to play as promoters of social progress. We are the ones voicing and protesting the serious injustice in our society. Some of us have even given our lives for this. This is a society of social connections. Behind each social connection there is someone trying to use power for his or her own personal gain. This corruption of privilege is a serious social injustice that has already become a normal part of our lives, so much so that the vast majority of people simply accept it without a word. But someone must eventually stand up, and we are the citizens who are taking the lead to stand up and speak out. Just think how many people took to the petitioning road over the issue of village taxation before 2004! I recall a villager from Jiangxi

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who led a protest against unreasonable taxation in his village. A village representative had been detained for petitioning in the county seat, so this man took it upon himself to detain all of the cadres who had been sent down into the village, which led to a 10-year prison sentence for kidnapping. In the fall of 2002, when I was working in the editorial department of China Reform, I met the man’s wife after she came to Beijing to petition. That entire afternoon, I was unable to control my sense of anger and sadness over the story she recounted, but there was nothing I could do to help him. Later, China got rid of the agricultural tax, but there was still that villager sentenced to 10 years in prison as well as tens of thousands of other people, including those of you here today, who suffered under the tax. Today, they’re talking about reform of the demolition and removal system. The new regulations say that the government can only use force when demolition is in the public interest and that compensation should be based on market standards. Even if there are many things about which we’re unsatisfied, this is, after all, a step forward. You must realize how many people have been running all over and how many families have even been broken up because of these policies. With everyone watching, Tang Fuzhen doused herself with gasoline and set herself alight. That horrible scene has even repeated itself three times in a single day in this magical land—yesterday, three individuals were in hospital in Beijing and Guangzhou for injuries caused as a result of selfimmolation. The wife of Dai Jianming, who came close to setting himself on fire, came to Beijing together with a bunch of other petitioners from Changsha, only to get picked up and forcibly sent back home to Hunan to be locked up. Maybe it’s because this country is too large or there are too many onerous historical burdens to overcome, but even the slightest bit of progress comes with such difficulty. Throughout the 20th century, our predecessors have been willing to step up, one after another, and raise their voices in urgent protest. Despite their efforts, however, China has still not made basic progress in achieving civilized politics. Today, we are still carrying on this effort. On the surface, China appears to be making rapid progress toward becoming a powerful giant, but it could collapse with a deafening crash at any moment. This country has problems internally: there is no moral basis for the state’s power and society is divided between officials and ordinary people. We are trying hard to prevent her from collapsing and working to heal the country’s internal wounds. Those of us gathered here today represent a part of that effort.

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We’re not mentally ill or a group of selfish troublemakers. We are firmly committed to conscience and justice. Because we believe in those sacred rights that have been written in our constitution and believe in our dreams for a more beautiful society, we have embarked on a path of protest and perhaps even despair. But no matter how much suffering we may experience on this road to justice, our mission is love—love for this country. We were born in this land. It is our home, the home of our ancestors and our descendants. We are bound together by both culture and geography into a community. It is our role in this world to fight on behalf of a better future for this community. We shall work hard to make this society a better place. We cannot allow privilege, hatred, hostility, and cruelty to run rampant. Only love can bring about a better society. Only love can melt the hatred and hostility. Only love can awaken the love inside each of us. Only love can enable us to keep each other warm. Only love can truly change this country, long submerged in the haze of dictatorship. Let us use our love to melt this frozen land, to dissolve the despair and hatred deep inside each of our hearts, to establish a free and democratic China—a country where our children and grandchildren can enjoy freedom and dignity.

15 The Critic: For My Brother, Teng Biao April 5, 2011 (the 43rd day since Teng Biao was taken away by police)

We had our last serious argument on the night of January 25, over whether or not to publish the second investigative report on the death of Qian Yunhui. Li Xiongbing, Peng Jian, and I were all confident that Qian’s death was the result of a traffic accident and that we ought to publish. The whole purpose of this investigation was to determine the truth, and we needed to provide the public with our conclusions. But you said our goal should be to monitor procedural errors by the government. Given all of the remaining doubts about Qian’s death, why be in such a rush to publish the report? In this kind of political system, is it really possible to uncover the truth? That day, we debated for three hours. You were away from Beijing, and the three of us talked until the batteries in our phones went dead. Most of the time, we have stood firmly together, whether it was to investigate black jails, rescue petitioners, provide assistance in wrongful death penalty cases, help victims of poisoned milk powder seek justice, or assist the children of Beijing’s new migrants to pursue their rights to attend high school and university. For eight years, ever since Sun Zhigang’s death, we have continued to stand together. Even when our advisor kicked us out of his fold, you and I stuck together. Sometimes, though, we would argue fiercely, just like we did over the report on China’s human rights situation we began compiling in 2005. I proposed using one third of the report to discuss areas of progress, one third to make criticisms, and one third to make recommendations. You maintained that citizens should adopt a critical position and that there were already too many voices praising China’s human rights situation. I’m aware that we have different viewpoints. I

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already knew that more than a decade ago, when we used to meet every week to discuss democracy, rule of law, liberalism, neo-Confucianism, and the like. You and Yu Jiang often said I was the radical and you were the critic. Those days, we still lived in Peking University’s ivory tower and hadn’t yet really come into contact with the darker side of society. When you became a crusading human rights lawyer and began working with those innocent people sentenced to death, one broken family after another, friends said that you became more and more radical. Actually, I know that it’s just that you’re too straightforward. It’s not that other people don’t recognize all that suffering. It’s that they’ve learned how to turn their eyes away or forget that it exists. Over time, I’ve learned to avoid some of the more dangerous traps that lie along this bumpy road. But you still haven’t learned. Perhaps you never will, given your nature. You’re the legendary independent intellectual, the critic who remains eternally staunch and steadfast. But this country is not yet nearly civilized enough to tolerate independent intellectuals like you. A few months ago, you asked me whether I was willing to join an online video conference with the Dalai Lama. I was willing and understood how significant something like that would be. I feel it’s perhaps too much to say that we, alone, can do much to improve communication between the Han and Tibetan communities. But in any case, I respect him and would cherish this kind of opportunity. After the Tibetan riots in March 2008, you, Jiang Tianyong, and around a dozen other lawyers announced your willingness to defend Tibetans who’d been arrested. Your position was actually quite simple: lawyers have a professional responsibility to protect human rights. The state is far more powerful than the individual, and without adequate defense there would be a potential for wrongful conviction. That would be an affront to rule of law. Thus, any person—even the most extreme terrorist—ought to receive normal legal defense when being prosecuted for criminal responsibility. In a modern, civilized country, this would simply be common sense. But in China, the fact that you want to defend bad people and separatists makes you a bad person, a separatist, a member of the hostile powers. You said you were defending the dignity of rule of law and the basic human rights of each person in this country—each person, including you! But your voice was immediately drowned out by the most vile curses: “Don’t give us that bullshit, you bastard!” Then you were suddenly “disappeared”—that time for more than forty hours.

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Even more important, and another reason why many people cannot tolerate you, is that you stand up for the weak and disadvantaged. At that moment, you are not a subject of the state. You are an individual, a natural person who does not wear the brand of any particular country. Whenever an individual or ethnic group is persecuted, you share in their persecution; their suffering is your suffering. You’re like the members of the intelligentsia depicted in Tolstoy’s stories, men who see themselves as individuals transcending all states. But there’s no place for that sort of intellectual in the country where you live. You’ve obviously queued up in the wrong line. Patriotism is a natural emotion. We have a deep love for this land that nurtures us, our fellow countrymen, and our cultural heritage with its long history. Under authoritarianism, however, patriotism often gets distorted into obedience to the ruler. If you refuse to accept this kind of “patriotism” and dare to criticize the ruler, then you’ll be labeled a “traitor.” I didn’t concern myself with what you and the Dalai Lama said during that online video conference and wasn’t really in the mood to ponder over each and every word. We always imagine this world to be a bit better than it actually is, even if reality often proves us wrong. Some people will hold grudges against you. Their world is filled with enemies. Perhaps, for some of the more intelligent ones, their world even needs enemies. The day after you were taken away, news came that police searched China Against the Death Penalty and took away a computer and some funding applications. You organized China Against the Death Penalty in order to work for the abolition of capital punishment in China. Since you weren’t able to register it properly, it will naturally face numerous difficulties. Many of us actually didn’t really support this project—not because we approve of the death penalty but because China is still so far away from being able to abolish it. There are currently so many other pressing things we can work on instead, like achieving educational equality, opposing violent housing demolition and removal, and promoting more democratic people’s congress elections. But you’re not like us. You’re more of an idealist than we are and don’t feel the need to consider whether something is practical. Your efforts are driven by your own internal sense of conscience. In Chinese, you named your organization after a person, Teng Xingshan. On January 18, 2006, the Hunan High Court acquitted Teng Xingshan of intentional homicide charges in a retrial held after the alleged

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victim had been discovered to have “risen from the dead.” But seventeen years earlier, Teng had already been put to death. His former cellmates recalled how he had been tortured into confessing and how he had wailed when he told them, “I couldn’t hold out any longer, so I confessed to the killing.” No matter how much his lawyer had argued on behalf of Teng Xingshan’s innocence or how much Teng shouted about the injustice that was being done to him as he was being led to the execution ground, no one paid any attention. Even though she could prove her husband was wrongly executed, Teng’s wife kept silent for ten years and never petitioned to have him exonerated. Faced with their daughter’s questions, she said, “We have no money, and I’m afraid to take the government to court.” In this ancient land of ours, how hopeless someone must feel to refuse to petition over an unjust death! So you began to be active in this area. You got involved in the case of Chen Guoqing and the others accused of a fatal robbery in Chengde, in the homicide cases of Nie Shubin and Gan Jinhua, in Leng Guoquan’s drug trafficking case, and in the case of Xia Junfeng, accused of killing two urban management officers. And there were many, many others. You were concerned about the death penalty, so you devoted all your efforts to representing defendants facing the death penalty. In some cases, the facts actually made it quite clear that an innocent person was in danger of being put to death. Many people could easily understand your position in those cases. But in others, it appeared that the defendants were really killers. Your choice to defend these people led many to have misunderstandings. It is said that 80 percent of Chinese people support the death penalty. The more a place is filled with hatred and accumulated grievances, the more likely people are to support the death penalty. But you chose to raise your banner of opposition to the death penalty in this land of so many deep-rooted accumulated grievances. Once, many years ago, you said that you would always be a critic. For Chinese, this type of person is still quite rare. If you don’t obey those currently in power, then they think you surely must be out to overthrow authority. Even for someone like you, who can only produce ideas and whose ideas often seem ahead of their time and even strange, you are expected to serve one interest group or another. This is the traditional survival logic of the Chinese literatus. However, history repeatedly proves that the truth is often grasped only by a minority. In the 16th century, Giordano Bruno was burned at

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the stake as a heretic for maintaining that the Earth revolved around the sun. During the Cultural Revolution, Yu Luoke boldly challenged the idea that a person’s family lineage determined his or her political stand. Each step in the progress of human civilization has at some time been considered radical or even crazy. This should be a pluralist society in which each person’s beliefs reflect a facet of the truth, but the truth is like a sphere with an infinite number of facets. A free society ought to have guarantees for different ideas, especially ideas that seem radical by the standards of a given era. Today, even developed countries still have their radicals, many of them teaching in universities. But China has no university in which power has not intruded. Intellectuals who speak boldly will be cut off from the media and lose their jobs. You keep pushing further and further, despite repeated reprimands, threats, detentions, and disappearances. This has become the normal state of being for you. Actually, you’ve already learned a lot about how to compromise, but in this cynical era, you always insist on standing up and living your life like a human being. That makes you too radical, indeed. One of our goals in life is to enable people to speak their minds freely. Our country’s future should be one in which criticism is tolerated. Perhaps, many years from now, you will still be a critic, but at that time you will no longer get “disappeared” or have to wear the black hood for your criticism. You might not have any idea how you came to be disappeared. That day, we had arranged to meet and discuss how we might help Chen Guangcheng. But by that evening I could no longer reach you. At the time when we were both students, we never imagined that you would have gone as far as you have today. Perhaps it’s the longing we all feel these days, or perhaps it’s all the uncertainty about what lies ahead that attracts you to this path of redemption. I’m traveling along this rough and bumpy road, But I’ve never stopped singing, my love. The willows by the roadside are slowly changing color, And the sound of distant melting snow arrives faintly in the breeze. These days have brought news of the disappearance or arrest of many brave citizens like Ran Yunfei, Ai Weiwei, and Wang Lihong. Even though it is bright and sunny outside, this has been a particularly cold spring. In such a country, at such a period in time, we are engulfed

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by the haze of history. We are so petty and helpless that there’s practically nothing we can do other than wait. Please forgive me for not mentioning you by name here. Our Internet is fragile, and I want this essay to survive and be disseminated widely.

16 Cherish Your Ballots! October 18, 2011

In October 2011, independent candidates all over China came under strong pressure. I hadn’t originally intended to run for office, but I decided to come forward and campaign a third time for delegate to the Haidian District People’s Congress. Below is a campaign letter I wrote to students at Beijing University of Posts and Telecommunications.

1 On November 8, 2011, you will receive a ballot listing the names of four candidates. After each candidate’s name, you have the right to express support, abstention, or opposition. After any name that you reject, you may also write in the name of another candidate. Perhaps you’ve never cared much about voting. You might feel it makes no difference and you’ve felt disappointed or indifferent for too long. But in 2003 and 2006, those students who preceded you at this school cherished their ballots. On those two occasions, BUPT took pride in holding lawful and fair elections. As their chosen delegate to the Haidian District People’s Congress and as a former lecturer in constitutional law, I urge that you, too, cherish those ballots and cherish this opportunity that comes once every five years to take responsibility for your country and society. According to the constitution, the most important duties of people’s congress delegates are the essential work of election and supervision of government, procuratorate, and court officials and the setting of budgets. During eight years as a people’s congress delegate in Haidian District, I felt deeply that the reason this organ of state power had become 187

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a “rubber stamp” was because very few delegates actually carry out those duties assigned to them by law. When the “fundamental political institutions” of the state are such a sham, how can we build a credible society? And the reason that there are so few delegates who carry out their duties in accordance with the law is because there is a lack of competition and because voters don’t cast their ballots conscientiously. I can understand your indifference, because you’ve never seen your “own” candidate—a living, breathing human being—and have only been able to see his (or her) slogans. You don’t know what he (or she) plans to do or is capable of accomplishing, and you don’t even know who he (or she) really is. Therefore, I—like every other candidate— have a responsibility to use posters, text messages, speeches, and all other forms of expression allowed to citizens by the constitution to tell you who I am and what I intend to do. Then, each voter will make his or her “choice.” This is not the kind of “vote-buying” that is a special feature of China’s corrupt officialdom. This is a true candidate “introduction” necessary for true elections. Your responsibility is to cherish those ballots. Don’t think that voting doesn’t matter. The injustice in our society is connected to everyone’s indifference. Were every state organ—whether people’s congress or judicial body—capable of carrying out their duties in accordance with the law and taking responsibility for the people, China would not be as corrupt and unjust as it is today. Maybe you think that you’re far removed from the person who sets herself on fire over a forced housing demolition, the petitioner locked up in a black jail, or the despairing prisoner sentenced to death despite continuing to proclaim his innocence. But Haidian is not remote at all— are you really willing to continue seeing Haidian delegates overwhelmingly elect a district head who just a year later gets sentenced to a suspended death sentence for corruption? Are you willing to watch them spend 2 billion yuan to turn wheat fields into a “state wetland park”? Are you willing to see schools for the children of migrant laborers suddenly torn down? What about an “organ of state power” that does nothing while privilege and corruption run rampant and there is no sense of justice? If you say that the last four years have had nothing to do with you, the time has come for you to cast your sacred ballot. Please cherish your ballots! You only get one chance every five years. It doesn’t matter whom you vote for; what matters is that it is your choice. On November 8, the law doesn’t require you to just circle a few names passively or at random. It requires you to select, on behalf of the people of Haidian District, a responsible member of the legisla-

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ture. (Based on their duties according to statute, people’s congress delegates are essentially members of a legislative body.) Don’t pay any attention to who might make recommendations or whether the candidate has previously served as a delegate or whether he or she is an official. You should make your own judgment as to whether the candidate is willing to show concern for public affairs and carry out his or her duties in accordance with the law. Then, make a circle next to the name of the candidate you approve of, abstain for a candidate you don’t know well, and make an “X” after the name of a candidate you oppose and write in the name of any citizen you’d like to see as a delegate in the space next to “Other Candidate.” Like you, I considered not voting in the past. I hesitated a long time over whether to run for election a third time, asking myself over and over whether I really cared about this position. The first time I ran for election in 2003, I urged everyone to treat their electoral rights as genuine. When I ran again in 2006, I wanted to prove to everyone that an independent candidate without official backing could get reelected. I insisted on telling people that there was hope for our society. I originally didn’t intend to run a third time, but in eight years as a delegate I haven’t seen any progress in our political system. On the contrary, I’ve watched the continued repression of independent citizen candidates and the continued silence of voters manipulated into carrying out this hypocritical charade. I don’t care about the status associated with this position. For eight years, I’ve experienced deep frustrations, but I care about the countless men and women of principle who have fought continually over more than a century for those sacred rights and principles that have been written into our constitution today. I care about the freedom and dignity of each and every Chinese person and about the true suffering caused by social injustice. What matters to me is a dream of a simple, honest, and kind society. I am compelled to care about this. I also care about whether the university campus where I’ve lived for nine years will be destroyed by the false, ugly, and evil in our society. I want to see campus life be an honest, free, and happy time without hypocrisy or the corruption and selfishness of bureaucrats or quasi-bureaucrats. Students shouldn’t have to continually commit spiritual castration for the sake of a so-called future. I hope this election will be honest, free, and happy, without fear of receiving warnings or threats from above, without forums being shut down, and without fear and indifference. I know that some teachers and students have already been brought for a “chat” and warned against supporting me. I apologize for becom-

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ing too “sensitive.” My innate sense of mission has led me to follow this path of seeking freedom and justice. I’ve sought compensation for the babies poisoned by melamine milk powder, represented Chen Guangcheng, investigated black jails, and brought warm clothing to the poor petitioners huddled together in underground passages to escape the winter chill. I’ve opposed the demolition of schools for the children of urban migrant laborers and spoken out on behalf of an ideal society of democracy, rule of law, equality, and justice. As I’ve progressed further along this path of conscience and justice, I’ve become more and more “sensitive.” I don’t know how to turn a blind eye to the suffering and anxiety in this country. There’s always a voice telling me that this society can be made better. For so many years I’ve been living for this dream, a dream that forces me to bear witness to so much suffering while continuing to go forward. This dream for a free China has led me further and further from BUPT. For nine years, this school has provided me with a sense of security. But the school came under pressure after I got elected as a people’s congress delegate. Many teachers and students deserve my eternal thanks. I once believed that I could find a balance between this political system and my conscience and that I could be a competent teacher of legal theory and constitutional law while simultaneously serving the cause of justice. I wanted to explain to these beloved students what the law was, how to be a person of the law, and the meaning of free expression. At the end of each semester, students would bring in their cameras and preserve a smiling, happy memory out on the lawns of the Hongfu Campus. I loved those days. But since the summer of 2009 I haven’t been allowed to teach. I haven’t adjusted well to my relegation to the laboratory or library. Though I’ve done my best to lend a hand whenever teachers or students come to me for assistance, my ability to help has been limited by my choice to act as a modern citizen and refuse all “connections” and compromise. I’m afraid the only thing I can promise you is the same thing I promised back in 2003: I will focus on social justice and promote democracy, rule of law, freedom, and happiness in this country. Please don’t ask me what I can do for BUPT; ask me instead what we can do together for this country. Yes, we all have a responsibility to consider what we can do for our country. Perhaps you’ve never noticed the inordinate greed of those with wealth and power, the increasingly large gap between rich and poor, or the growing anger over housing costs, education inequality, state monopolies, and judicial corruption. Perhaps these problems fill you with a feeling of resentment. Or perhaps you’ve learned to turn a blind eye to

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these problems. But you actually have a deep connection to those who suffer in despair because of social injustice. One’s sense of well-being is relative. All of our feelings of success and failure, happiness and misfortune, poverty and wealth are dependent on those around us. When you, as members of the elite class of society, enjoy the happiness associated with wealth and success, don’t forget your fellow Chinese who are poor and disadvantaged. Your happiness is closely connected to the price they are forced to pay. As humans, our interdependence requires us to love one another. Please cherish your ballots! Don’t say they’re useless and never give up hope or even the tiniest bit of your efforts. No matter how many frustrations I’ve experienced, I’ve never weakened in my resolve to turn this “rubber stamp” into a true “organ of state power.” I’ve never given up my dream of a just, free, and prosperous China. This dream will require the concerted efforts of many, many people to achieve. Please help me awaken the apathetic and indifferent! Treat your own rights and the future of this country seriously! That yearning for justice and beautiful light exists deep in the hearts of each and every one of us, but we must arouse them in others through our own action. No matter how much pressure I face, I intend to remain firm. I shall light the faint and flickering candlelight of truth and love in this dying society. I earnestly hope that the teachers and students of BUPT and millions of modern citizens will join me in lighting the flame with which we may light the path to our nation’s future. Thank you!

Addendum: Thanks and Reflections (November 16, 2011) On November 15, 2011, the list of three delegates to the Haidian District People’s Congress elected by the BUPT voting district was announced. I knew well in advance that my third campaign for delegate to the Haidian People’s Congress would end in failure. Thanks to the more than 3,500 brave voters who wrote in my name on their ballots. The only thing I can promise you is that I will remain true to my ideals. Please believe that, no matter what the obstacles, there is a person from BUPT who will devote his life to a dream of a free and prosperous China with democracy and rule of law. Thanks for letting me know that there is a group of other idealists at BUPT who feel a sense of responsibility to their nation and their society. You’ve reminded me that, no matter how bumpy the road to freedom might be, I won’t be traveling alone.

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I’d like to thank my campaign team. You were brought in for “chats” and chased off by campus security for distributing leaflets. The campaign posters were torn down as soon as you put them up, and the new batch of posters you designed yourselves were confiscated. Some of you I’ve met, but for others I’ve not yet had the pleasure. Thank you for sharing articles online and for printing the letter I wrote to your fellow BUPT students. You are proof that a spark of idealism remains on today’s university campuses. I’m sorry that in this abnormal society security precautions prevent me from listing your names one by one. Thank you all! The election results have shown me that there is still a long way to go on the road to freedom. I didn’t promise you anything about lower prices in the cafeteria, free online access, or more individual study areas. I didn’t want to make promises too easily. I only wanted to let you know that idealists like me exist. I wanted to find out how many people these days would be willing to show support for ideals. It saddens me a bit to say that I overestimated the appeal of idealism. I haven’t congratulated the victors, because this was not a fair competition. The candidates put forward by the party committee mobilized nearly all the school’s administrative resources available to them. Some of the school’s political advisors even openly warned against putting my name forward, and my campaign volunteers came under great pressure. In the School of Humanities alone, at least three students and one teacher were brought in for “chats” by the party branch secretary or their advisors, who warned of threats to their futures if they worked on my campaign. At least three groups from different colleges who proposed my candidacy were forced to withdraw their support or had their nominations “disappear” before they became official. The university sent text messages saying: “We’ve proposed a fourcandidate ballot. If you have different opinions, let your electoral caucus head know.” Large photographs of the official candidates could be found in locations throughout campus, and televisions in the dormitories played their campaign videos non-stop. As an independent candidate, I was prevented from distributing leaflets or putting up posters—even having the posters seized from our hands. Then there were the intentional rumors and libels saying that it had been my choice to stop teaching, that I was in league with foreigners, or that I had used unscrupulous campaign tactics. Unfortunately, no sooner had the campaign begun when these rumors and libels began flying around everywhere. Sometimes, outcomes in our lives are determined by the choices we make. In a broad sense, I chose to lose this election. I didn’t make

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advance preparations, like abandoning my ideals about justice or being a bit more obedient in order to avoid such huge obstacles being thrown in my way. I didn’t employ “strategy” to get elected—for example, by going all out to help bring about a second election or by exposing other candidates’ problems in their personal lives or finances. I didn’t even want to distribute too many campaign fliers, out of concern for the pressures my assistants were under. Some say I “used” these students, but this is too harsh. When I stood there on campus raising my campaign poster, I wasn’t campaigning for myself; I was taking up the banner of democracy previously carried by all those who have come before me. I have nothing new to say; it’s all common sense in these days of modern civilization. I detest dirty politics so much that, even though I knew clearly that my idealism would fail to succeed, it remained my deep conviction. More than three decades have passed since the campus began holding elections for people’s congress delegates back in 1980, but there remains a long way to go on the road to modern civilization. Because of the serious repression during the elections in the fall of 2011, I decided to stand up one more time. Thanks to you who stood up with me. It doesn’t matter that we lost. Please believe that each fight on behalf of our ideals is significant. I still believe in the future and the good things that can be found in human nature. I believe that our generation’s resolve and call to action will eventually awaken the silent majority.

17 Our 2011 December 29, 2011

I have a vivid memory of the first day of 2011. That whole afternoon, we stood in front of a three-story building in Fengtai that was surrounded by barbed wire, repeatedly dialing the police emergency hotline and waiting for police officers to come rescue petitioners from a black jail. By evening, with a bitterly cold wind blowing, a brave petitioner took advantage of someone having left the door open a crack and forced open the metal gate and stormed the bunker-like building. The petitioners inside all began rushing out, and a few minutes later the police arrived. Wang Gongquan, Shan Yajuan, I, and around a dozen others demanded that the petitioners be set free. One of those released was Zhao Kefeng, mother of Xu Hao, a Hubei man jailed over thirteen years for a murder he did not commit. That frigid evening, she went off to live under a bridge. Nine years of tireless petitioning to clear her innocent son’s name had left her absolutely penniless. For many years, this kind of story had become a fact of life for us. Fourteen years after that winter day in 1997 that I first saw throngs of petitioners outside the east gate of the China Central Television building, one could still find them gathered in droves around the Beijing South Railway Station. This is a country where privilege and corruption run rampant, where the powerless have no place to have their voices heard when they’ve been wronged. With such longing for fairness and justice, the mournful cries of those like Yang Jia, the Zhong sisters, or Qian Mingqi will surge throughout this divine land. In a country where the number of petitioners exceeds 10 million annually, we can only select a few of the most extreme cases to work on in the name of justice. As for the dozens of sites in Beijing where they 195

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lock up petitioners in black jails, we are also only able to investigate occasionally and rescue a handful of people at a time. As for those petitioners who, out of extreme poverty, are forced to live under bridges during the cold winter months, the most we can do is offer them some long underwear and quilts in an effort to prevent them from freezing to death. Over the past seven years, we’ve petitioned the Supreme People’s Court forty separate times on behalf of the four innocent villagers from Chengde who were sentenced to death five separate times. Over the past three years, we’ve fought for 2 million yuan in compensation for the victims of poisoned milk powder, most of them the most disadvantaged residents from rural villages. In 2011, we continued to assist Xia Junfeng, the street vendor who stabbed two urban management officers as he resisted the beating they were giving him. We assisted Zhang Haofeng and his son from Xinxiang, Henan, sentenced to death for fatally stabbing the son of the village party secretary as he led a bunch of knife-wielding toughs in breaking into their family’s courtyard. In many cases, the most we could do to help is tell people where to file their petitions, even when we knew that petitioning would do no good. More often, we had to apologize to one petitioner after another as we told them we could only select cases with the broadest value to society or ones that concerned the right of a large number of people. We needed to use our very limited time and resources to help as many people as possible.

1 It was on New Year’s Day that we were being universally condemned by people online. Qian Yunhui, the village head of Zhaiqiao Village in Jiangsu, had died under mysterious circumstances. Given the grisly photograph taken after his death, the background of many years of difficult petitioning by people in the village, and the broken video cameras at each crucial moment, to many people it all looked a lot like murder. People were anxious for the truth, and we went to investigate and quickly came to the conclusion that Qian’s death had been caused by an ordinary traffic accident. The reason his death had become such a major public incident was because of the pressure that local petitioners had been under following many years of land requisitions, combined with the general mistrust of officials in society. Unfortunately, our report got some of the details wrong in the initial version, and we expressed our conclusions in a manner that was perhaps too open-and-shut.

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The fierce criticism over this even continues to this day. Had we switched sides and begun speaking for the authorities? Had we been bought off by 2 million yuan? Were we in a conspiracy with those who murdered Qian Yunhui? I felt deeply ashamed about the self-satisfied way I rushed to publish our report. Looking back from one year later, however, I still support the decision to publish the truth—I just wouldn’t be in such a rush. We aren’t critics, we’re constructive. This has been our position since 2003. When those in power are at fault, we criticize. For example, after the Wenzhou train collision on July 23, we published an opinion demanding more than 900,000 yuan in compensation for the victims. We firmly opposed secret arrest provisions in the proposed amendments to the Criminal Procedure Law. Between a wall and the egg that breaks against it, we stand without hesitation with the weaker side, but we shall never say that an egg is black when it is actually white. When the image spread of Qian Yunhui beneath the wheel of that vehicle, many people actually hoped that it was a murder, because it would have fit with their value judgment of government officials and the bad things they want to do to these officials deep inside. Sorry, but we don’t share the desire to do the officials such harm. They’re guilty to be sure, but not for causing this traffic accident. They’re guilty of being part of the greedy and arrogant political system that formed the backdrop to this whole affair. We pointed this out in the second version of our report, but not many people were willing to listen at that point or even care much about the future of those villagers. Given this experience, should we learn to be “smarter” and, for example, keep quiet when we see that the truth doesn’t suit everyone’s taste? No, we didn’t change and we won’t change. When the ruptures between officials and the public become deeper and deeper and everyone on Weibo feels the need to pick sides, we shall stick to our original position. Actually, we chose our side a long time ago: the side of truth, justice, and a belief in a better politics.

1 We’re committed to being constructive. Back in January 2010, when we drew up our two-and-a-half-year plan for promoting educational equality, we felt that it was such a long amount of time. But the first two years went by really quickly. In that period, our team of parent volunteers grew from four to over 60,000. We went to petition the Ministry of Education nineteen times, forcing the officials in charge to respond four

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times in a single year and set up a special team to come up with a plan for introducing the children of urban migrants into the high-school examinations held in the places where they live. Our activism in this area actually began back in 2002. At that time, I was part-time editor of the monthly rural edition of China Reform. Each weekend, we’d regularly meet with petitioners and learn about the problem of custody and repatriation or the millions of people who died during the 1961 famine as they were being repatriated back home from the cities where they had fled. After Sun Zhigang’s death in 2003, we recommended that the NPC Standing Committee carry out a constitutional review of custody and repatriation. In 2006, we continued to promote reform of the household registration system, summarizing the nineteen different privileges that official residents of Beijing enjoyed that other people living in Beijing without formal household registration status did not. Beginning in 2010, we began to focus on the way that household registration affected education. We’ve always worked hard to promote social fairness and change the historical practices of discrimination based on urban and rural household registration status. The bulk of conservative opinion seems to imagine that if Beijing wants to be as magnificent a city as Tokyo, New York, or London, it must get rid of its poor people. These people don’t even have enough to eat and they get thrown on the trash heap. Some in the education bureaucracy fear that they’ll lose their jobs if something goes wrong, so the two sides combined forces to ban schools for the children of migrant workers beginning in 2006. In June 2011, they ordered the closure of more than twenty schools. In August, we represented the children who had attended these schools in a suit against the government. Like many so-called sensitive cases, the court refused to hear the case, demonstrating the way it gave more consideration to the bureaucrat’s “big picture” than it did to the dignity of the law. Later, under the pressure of public opinion, the authorities promised to find a spot for each child affected, but in fact the more than 100 children who had attended the Dongba Experimental School once again all became “left-behind children,” with no one to care for them while their parents were at work. People at the school had wanted to keep it operating, but the authorities turned off the water and electricity and, after six months, they were forced to give up. With the historical trend of urbanization as backdrop, the 220 million new urban residents each year are unable to enjoy an ordinary home life. The most unfortunate are the children, who from a young age lack intact families. Now, their parents have begun to take action, gath-

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ering signatures and expanding their ranks. They petition the Ministry of Education, send letters to NPC delegates, and organize public-interest activities. These are already the most moderate methods conceivable and the only methods possible. By remaining firm and tenacious year after year, they hope to move the emotions of this nation.

1 As the jasmine bloomed in the ancient deserts of the Middle East, northern China was being ravaged by the bitter winds of winter and a few brave citizens disappeared. It was our responsibility to help the citizens around us, so we prepared legal defenses on the one hand while daring not to say anything publicly, out of caution. Each time we met with them, each side would try to find out a bit of news. I asked, “How’s Teng Biao?” They would ask, “What’s your next move?” I answered truthfully: “If they launch criminal proceedings, we’re all prepared to go to jail.” At the beginning of April, Ai Weiwei also disappeared. I only found out later that night, as I, too, had been taken to a guesthouse that same morning. The situation had become extremely precarious. Should we close the office for a while? A few well-intentioned friends had advised me not to go rushing forward on purpose, but objectively speaking we once again found ourselves standing on the front lines. But if a rational and constructive group like ours could no longer exist, was there still hope for this society? That year, we’d only planned to work on a few things: legal aid and assistance, the problem of violent housing demolitions, promotion of educational equality, and the push for competitive people’s congress elections. The last of these was the most sensitive, but elections involve a right that the constitution grants to all citizens. All we did was compile a “Guide to Nominating Independent Candidates for Election” and an analysis of election law. We contacted some independent candidates who were willing to come forward and met over dinner to share experiences. We answered questions from anyone who came looking for assistance, and we wrote a report summarizing our election observations. In May, Liu Ping was the first to launch her independent candidacy in Xinyu, Jiangxi, and was taken away for distributing campaign flyers. I was also illegally detained that month. In June, the NPC Legislative Affairs Committee came forward to say that there was no legal basis for “independent candidates,” and a complete media blackout followed. When Li Chengpeng and other courageous citizens tried to launch high-

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profile campaigns, they were met with all sorts of strange pressure. In Beijing, thirteen citizens who tried to campaign were deprived of their liberty. In Guangdong, which claims to be so open, not a single independent candidate won election. The first pioneers began running for election thirty years ago, but unfortunately after these many years we can barely see any progress in our political system. I had to run for election, even if it was only to make my stance clear. I wanted to ask voters to cherish their ballots and treat elections as if they mattered. I wanted them to know that those desperate victims of social injustice are actually closely linked with you and me. I wanted to tell them that there must be a bottom line in politics, and that no matter how much the other side was willing to spread rumor or libel, I would not do the same. I might be the loser today, but I’d rather use countless losses to construct the foundation of a political ethics deep in the souls of the Chinese people. For the 100th anniversary of the 1911 Revolution, when the subject of democracy became popular again, we didn’t debate the question of whether democracy was a good thing or not or whether democracy would mess everything up. Making our politics more civilized is our lifelong endeavor. No matter how many people lose hope and give up, we shall never be pessimistic about our country’s future. This is because we are not bystanders, nor are we merely participants. We are activists, people trying to do something constructive, and we have taken on the responsibility of making history.

1 This year brought the deaths of Muammar Gaddafi and Kim Jong-il. From the Middle East to Northeast Asia, the authoritarian ice field is beginning to break apart one chunk at a time. The wave of revolution brought on by new technologies is sweeping across this great blue planet of ours. And in the ancient land where I live, the people who long for justice are thronging in great numbers. On the eve of International Human Rights Day, I received a text message: “Dear Sir: This is Wang Jinying, come to Beijing from Changge, Henan. I have late-stage cancer and don’t have much longer to live. Please help redress the injustice that was done to my younger brother! Thank you, Lord!” One day in May 2005, Wang Jinying was lying at the end of a corridor in Beijing’s Chongwenmen Hospital as she tearfully told me her story. Her younger brother, Wang Mingxuan, had been, before his death,

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a people’s congress delegate from Changge City. He was framed for a homicide and sentenced to death in a case that only took six months from start to finish. Later, when I went to talk to his defense attorney, he gave a long sigh and said the case was politically motivated and there was nothing he could have done. As she petitioned to clear her brother’s name, Wang Jinying was savagely beaten seven times. This time, the official who intercepted her broke her ankle and three ribs and left her in a dried-up well near where the Beijing South Railway Station is today. Fortunately, she was rescued by other petitioners, who took her to the hospital. But she had no money for treatment, so they left her out in the corridor. I never imagined that she’d still be alive six years later. A few days after I received her message, we met again. Wang hobbled along as she lifted her wheelchair over the doorframe to enter Gongmeng’s office. I once again saw her thick tears. I really wanted to embrace her and tell her that, in this world, we all merely play out the roles assigned to us by the game. How can any of us rid ourselves of the misery and tears that fate has foreordained for us? We live to serve a mission: to bring happy smiles to faces worn down by the injustice in the world and to ensure that the faces of our children remain pure in the next generation. Talk of revolution quietly began to surge in 2011, but we remain committed to being constructive. Under history’s skies, there is a group of citizens who have stood up. We don’t believe that the end of the world will come in 2012. We still believe in a beautiful future for this country of ours.

18 The Idealists April 2, 2012

Today, our volunteers for education equality went to plant trees in Qinglong Lake Park. We thought this was among the most moderate and friendly forms of promoting social progress possible, but after the authorities got wind of our plan they decided to shut the park down temporarily. And, in a result that is familiar from many of the other actions for education equality over the past couple of years, I have been put under house arrest again. No matter how sincere and good-intentioned we are, we can’t seem to get past the vigilance and fear that are both such a deep part of this political system. Seven years ago, I wrote about this subject in an essay entitled “What’s Your Motive?” But the tradition of seeing conspiracies everywhere is so deep-rooted in this country that I can’t help but revisit the topic again, seven years later. Every month we go to the Ministry of Education to present our petition, each time with more signatures of support than the last. We drafted a proposal to allow the children of urban migrants to take the university entrance examination without returning to their official place of residence. We’ve sent letters to NPC delegates and organized seminars. For more than two years, all of these efforts have been in pursuit of a single, simple goal: eliminating the residence restrictions on the university entrance exam so that all children, regardless of residence status, level of wealth, or social status can enjoy the right to equal access to education. As China modernizes, hundreds of millions of people have come to the cities to engage in other forms of industry. They reside in these cities, but no matter how many years they’ve worked and lived there, if 203

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they don’t have a formal residence permit they will forever be treated as an outsider. Even if their children were born and raised in a city, when those children get to high school they must say goodbye to their parents and return to the totally unfamiliar place where their official household registration is located in order to take the university entrance exam. This system deprives tens of millions of “left-behind children” of family warmth and ruins the futures of millions of children of urban migrants. Someone must stand up to oppose such a serious problem in our society. People ask me what any of this has to do with me personally. I’m an official Beijing resident and none of this affects my own interests in any way. But it is connected with my sense of mission. When I sat in front of a computer on April 25, 2003, and read about the death of Sun Zhigang, it brought tears to my eyes. I’d heard stories of people who’d been “sent to work in the Changping sandpits.” I knew that on National Day in 1999, police tore up the temporary residence permits of many people before hauling them away. And I knew that after this high wall between cities and the countryside was constructed during the suffering of the Great Leap famine, countless people who went to the cities looking for a way to survive wound up dying on the way to custody and repatriation camps. On June 18, 2003, I was at the Tianjin Custody and Repatriation Center when I heard the news that the State Council was abolishing custody and repatriation. In my joy at hearing the news, I couldn’t help but write in my journal: “I love you, China!” But it takes a long time to heal history’s wounds. The abolition of custody and repatriation freed the “floating population” from the danger of being picked up at any moment, and vagrants and beggars were freer as well. But the petitioners who had been labeled “mentally ill” by the custody and repatriation authorities continued to be subject to regular detentions and beatings. In 2005, we began researching the problems associated with petitioning. Like the petitioners, I too was assaulted outside the State Office of Letters and Visits, and I got beaten up again while investigating black jails. In 2006, Beijing began tearing down schools for the children of migrant laborers. I and several other delegates from the Haidian District People’s Congress challenged the Beijing Education Commission over this. Then Gongmeng set up a project to research the problem of discrimination based on residence status and we discovered that policies related to employment, social security, and more than a dozen other areas featured discrimination based on household registration. The most urgent of these was the problem of children’s education.

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In June 2009, we noticed that it wasn’t only a problem with schools for the children of migrant laborers; there was also serious discrimination against many children without Beijing resident status who nevertheless managed to attend Beijing public schools. We began a research project that fall, during which I met Cong Yuanyuan. Yuanyuan was an outstanding girl, first in her grade at Guozijian Middle School and recognized by Beijing education officials as a “Three Good” student for her excellent moral character, grades, and physical fitness. Her grandfather ended up in Beijing after being demobilized from the army, but her grandmother didn’t have a Beijing residence permit and neither did her parents. This made Yuanyuan a third-generation immigrant to Beijing, so when she graduated from middle school she was forced to return to her family’s place of household residence—a place that was totally unfamiliar to her—to continue her education. Yuanyuan’s older sister had once shown as much promise as Yuanyuan, but her grades began to slip after she had to return to the countryside where she had no close family members and the way of life was strange to her. Then there was Yuanyuan’s neighbor, a boy named Zhang Xudong. In the 1980s, Xudong’s father had been able to use family connections to find work in Beijing, where Xudong was born and raised. The boy had been at the top of his class, but when he graduated from middle school his family had to work their connections to find him a place at a high school 200 km away in Zhangjiakou, where his grades ranked at the bottom of his class. A few months later, we met Zhang Xudong again and almost didn’t recognize him. He had become dark and thin and had lost his earlier youthful vigor. He slumped sullenly on a stool as his mother sat next to him, tears running down her cheeks. I thought back to my visit to New York’s Chinatown in 2004 and my conversations with local Chinese about the problem of illegal immigration there. Even in a place where so many illegal immigrants were gathered, you’d never hear stories like these. Of course, the sadness we felt about the impact that inequality has had on individual lives is not the only reason we decided to make education equality a priority. The more important reason is that this is a problem that affects more than 200 million Chinese. In Beijing alone, there are more than 7 million of these “second-class citizens.” In January 2010, Gongmeng held a meeting to discuss a proposal put forward by Mr. Wang Gongquan, out of which came a decision to establish a three-year project focused on the issue of education equality. Three years seemed like forever at the time, especially for a civil-society

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organization that faced the prospect of being shut down at any moment. All of a sudden, more than two years have already passed. This is China, where if you want the people in charge to pay attention you need to get enough people to raise their voices and speak out with sufficient force. Only then is there any hope of promoting reform. So, our most important work has been to expand our base of support through canvassing for signatures. In more than two years our supporters have swelled from four to nearly 100,000. As our numbers have grown, however, we’ve come under more pressure from the authorities responsible for “stability preservation.” In the first phase of our project, which was focused on the rights of primary students to attend middle schools, the most common topic of discussion at each meeting with supporters was how to face the police in a calm manner. Over the course of eight “consultations” with the Beijing Education Commission, the number of our volunteers grew from a few at the very beginning to more than 2,000. By June, we had basically secured equality for the primary-tomiddle transition, so in July we began the second phase of our effort: eliminating residence restrictions on the university entrance examination. In all of my rights-defense work to date, the problem I’ve worried about most is how to make our voice strong enough while remaining moderate and rational enough to avoid getting into too much trouble. After we exceeded 10,000 signatures of support in September 2010, many media outlets began to report on our work. In November, we sent letters to several hundred National People’s Congress delegates. On March 10, 2011, the Education Minister publicly stated that his ministry was “developing a plan to allow the children of urban migrants to take local university entrance examinations.” When, after we held a relatively large petition demonstration on June 23, our website and online social network community had not been shut down, I began to relax a bit, feeling that we had built a sufficiently large group that could adequately represent the voices of new urban migrants and that the government response had been rational and restrained. So, on Tomb-Sweeping Day in 2012, everyone went to plant trees. This was the third phase of our citizen action—Beijing residents showing their love for Beijing. Through this effort, we would use the most moderate and friendly methods to promote social progress. But things didn’t turn out as we’d planned, unfortunately. It’s been more than two years. I’ve watched as our team of volunteers has grown larger and more capable of organizing their own activities. And the government has already made a clear pledge to issue a new policy. Most of our work on this project is basically complete. My only

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regrets are over some of the misunderstandings that have arisen, like parents being afraid to mention my name on social media or the website. As I’ve watched this group grow day by day from nothing, it makes me sad whenever people intentionally avoid mentioning the connections between this group and our organization, which has been forced to relocate from office to office. But I understand the pressure everyone is facing. Even if it means one day having to draw a line between themselves and us, I will still understand. However, faced with continual provocations and threats, I feel I ought to explain once more to everyone exactly what the point of all of this has been about. Is it all about money? On February 23, a self-proclaimed “online opinion analyst” at People’s Daily named Hu Rui wrote that while parents were out taking great risks in front of the Ministry of Education, I—a “notorious rights-defense lawyer”—was most likely sitting at home counting my money. When I read that, I could only give a weak and bitter laugh. From Gongmeng’s 2009 tax-evasion case to my campaign last year for people’s congress delegate, there have been people who say that I am “worth millions.” If it was really all about money, would I really be so foolish as to stand up to privilege and power? All of the income and expenses for our education equality project are transparent. When someone donated a computer to me, I immediately turned it over to Gongmeng as office equipment. I support myself from my salary at Beijing University of Posts and Telecommunications. If I were to lose my job at the school one day because of my work serving society, I would gladly accept donations from society approximately equal to my current salary. I only need to maintain a very basic standard of living while I do my utmost to use my God-given intelligence in service to society. This, for me, is a matter of conviction. Is it all about fame? There’s nothing wrong with giving away wealth in exchange for reputation—like Bill Gates has done, for example. But my nature is to find a quiet corner to live my own life. I’ve been an introvert ever since I was young. I like freedom and simply want to be left alone. However, God has also endowed me with another trait: a stubborn fixation on justice. This is what has motivated me to leave my own little corner, enter the public arena, and follow this path. I share in the misfortunes of the disadvantaged, I’ve had my personal liberty restricted, and I’ve been misunderstood and condemned. Having a certain degree of influence is not the goal; it’s an inescapable responsibility made necessary by the nature of this society. Is it all about power or status? What is it that Gongmeng actually does that makes the police so afraid of a bunch of volunteers? Yes,

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Gongmeng promotes more than simply education equality. We also helped the families of children poisoned by melamine milk powder obtain compensation and innocent villagers wrongly sentenced to death seek justice. We’ve investigated black jails and rescued petitioners who’ve been unlawfully detained. We’ve promoted competitive elections for people’s congress delegates and issued criticism and recommendations regarding the compensation standards for the Wenzhou train disaster. All of these actions have been carried out above-board and were based on conscience and motivated by justice. In the eyes of some people, though, those actions are seen as selfish, greedy, and evil. In a country where power permeates everything, all of these actions are related to “politics.” For those people, “politics” is synonymous with selfishness, greed, and unscrupulous scheming. Such demonization of “politics” is a profound tragedy for our nation. If you say that politics involves a willingness to do anything for power, no matter how unprincipled, then I was destined to have nothing to do with politics. But this country can’t remain mired in jungle politics forever. Someone must remain firmly committed to an ideal of a better political culture and restore politics to its proper nature—a perfectly good endeavor aimed at securing benefits for the public. We’ve never hidden our political ideals. Our country ought to have a civilized politics, with democracy, rule of law, equality, and justice. Ours should be a genuine and simple society with checks on the powerful and protections for the weak and disadvantaged. We want a country with less privilege, misery, anger, and despair—a place where everyone wears a pure smile on their face. This ought to be the dream of each and every Chinese, even though it doesn’t have much connection to our worldly interests. For us—and for 1.3 billion other Chinese—it’s about enabling future generations to enjoy lives of freedom and happiness. We are true idealists, each with our own sense of devoting our lives to a mission. I don’t care about power or status; I care only about the meaning of life. If you insist that I use these actions to achieve a personal goal, I guess that goal would have to be about moral improvement. I am taking the true suffering in this society and trying to transform it into happiness in order that I might continuously better myself in this lifetime. Actually, this isn’t quite accurate. I’m only doing what I’ve been fated to do, which is to improve this imperfect world. I have no goals for myself. When, one day, the residence restrictions on university entrance exams are eliminated and left-behind children from even the most

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remote mountain villages can be reunited with their parents in the city; when, one day, our legal system delivers impartial justice, no matter how late, to those people who have been crying for it all over for so many years; when, one day, China realizes the dream of democracy and freedom that previous generations have fought to achieve for more than a century—when that proud moment arrives, I hope only to find some quiet corner and express my thanks to God. I realize that some people will never believe me. They have lived for too long under the law of the jungle and have developed a serious obsession with vigilance and fear. Their occupational disease is that they see enemies everywhere and they don’t believe in dreams. They don’t believe in the existence of “good people” or in anything else that’s beautiful. They even claim that I’ve kidnapped these parents and am using them. I don’t care whether they believe or not. They have their own predetermined role. Once, I would have rebuked them angrily to their faces, but now that I’ve calmed down I can only express a deep sense of sorrow. I don’t know what it will take to bring salvation to these despairing souls, but this is exactly what we’re trying to do. But I want to make you believe—you, the volunteers who have stood alongside me for over two years, and you, all of those who we have worked hard to help—there is nothing in what we’re doing that should cause anyone to fear. This great nation needs—and already possesses—a group of true idealists who live not for worldly interests but for a sense of mission, for natural equality, for the freedom and dignity of strangers, and for that ultimate glory in the lives we’ve been given. For many years, we have remained stubbornly committed to that which destiny has impelled us to do. We’ve withstood endless pressure on the road to freedom and justice. We’ve been misunderstood, beaten, and imprisoned. Time and again, we’ve been forced to relocate our office and been forced to give up our personal freedom. Please believe that this is not because we’ve done anything wrong; rather, it’s because we’ve always done the right thing. We are guided by our conscience and sense of justice and go forward with a sense of righteousness in the direction set out by God. We are doing this for a free China, so that this great country can have a glorious and proud future for generation after generation.

19 China’s New Citizen Movement: A Manifesto May 29, 2012

China needs a New Citizen Movement. This is a political movement through which the people of this ancient nation can bid farewell to autocracy once and for all and make the transition to constitutional government. It’s also a social movement that will break with corrupt privilege, abuse of power for personal gain, and the huge gap between rich and poor and instead build a new order of equality and justice. And it’s a cultural movement to create a new national spirit that can replace the authoritarian culture of subjects. Finally, it’s a movement for peaceful progress, one that will advance the level of the entire human civilization. China experienced many movements during the 20th century. Before 1949, there was the 1911 Revolution, the New Culture Movement, and the New Life Movement. Each attempted to make a break with autocracy and transform the way of life and spiritual level of the Chinese people. However, internal and external problems soon brought the Republican era to an end, so none of these short-lived movements was able to achieve fundamental reform of the political system in spite of their correct historical orientations. After 1949, the revival of Chinese totalitarianism introduced new campaigns aimed at land reform, elimination of counterrevolutionaries, socialist transformation, punishing “rightists,” and carrying out a “Great Leap Forward.” Then came the Cultural Revolution. Because these movements went against the tide of history, each of them was fated to end in tragedy. In the 1980s, the Communist Party introduced a campaign focused on “Five Disciplines, Four Graces and Three Loves,” but whenever an authoritarian regime introduces a social reform movement, it tends to mix in too many of its 211

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own selfish interests, making it impossible to bring about real social change. Today, China has still not been able to break free of dictatorship. A whole series of serious social problems have their roots in the autocratic political system: monopoly power, rampant corruption, the wealth gap, violent demolitions, educational imbalances, and the pension crisis. The people of China need a great citizen movement that is in step with the historical tide, a bottom-up movement in politics, society, and culture that can awaken individual citizens on the way to a rebirth of the entire Chinese civilization. The goal of the New Citizen Movement is a free China with democracy and rule of law, a just and prosperous civil society, and a new national spirit of “Freedom, Justice, and Love.” At the core of the New Citizen Movement is the idea of “citizenship.” This is a concept that applies to individuals, politics, and society alike. Citizens are not subjects; they are independent and free individuals who comply with a legal order that is mutually agreed-upon and are not required to kneel in submission to anyone. Citizens are not “commoners”; they are the owners of the state and those who govern must get their power through elections involving the entire community of citizens and say goodbye forever to the barbaric logic of “political power grows out of the barrel of a gun.” Citizens are neither obedient nor a mob; they share in the prosperity of a just order and assume responsibility for maintaining it. They are honest and forthright, moderate and rational. What makes the New Citizen Movement “new” are new historical conditions, new modes of action, and a new liberal order. The corresponding idea from which new citizenship departs is the old subject mentality, not some old idea of citizenship. The new historical conditions include technological progress, the market economy, and intellectual pluralism—as well as the tide of democracy that has spread throughout contemporary human society. New modes of action include the lawful rights defense, non-violent non-cooperation, and peaceful democratic movements that citizens are carrying out under the influence of new principles and discourses. The new liberal order is one built upon democracy, rule of law, republicanism, and constitutional government. The social background, modes of action, and goals of this movement are all new, which is why we call it the New Citizen Movement. The New Citizen Movement advocates a “new citizen spirit” that will provide the direction and soul necessary to achieve major social change in China.

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The New Citizen Movement is a political movement. Chinese politics must be transformed in order to build a free nation based on healthy democracy and rule of law. The New Citizen Movement is a social movement, because resolving problems like monopoly power, rampant corruption, the wealth gap, violent demolitions, and educational imbalances is not simply a matter of establishing democracy. It will also require carrying out repeated social reform movements. Chinese people must break with a society made up of subjects and structured by personal connections and establish in its place a civil society based on equality, justice, freedom, and prosperity. The New Citizen Movement is thus also a cultural movement, one aimed at totally transforming the decadent and decaying authoritarian culture of wretchedness and hostility and creating a new national ethos of “freedom, justice, and love.” We must end authoritarianism, but the New Citizen Movement is much more than simply a democratic revolution. We speak in terms of constructing a new order, not overthrowing the old one. The movement is not about one ruling class replacing another, but rather about letting justice reign in China. We are all about universal love, not hostility and hatred. The New Citizen Movement seeks truth and justice, but it has never stopped hoping and working for reconciliation. In the process of social reform, a new spirit will be required to unite the entire nation, starting first with the transformation of each individual citizen. This “new citizen spirit” can be summed up in three words: “Freedom, Justice, and Love.” “Freedom” means the independence to pursue one’s beliefs and ideas, to express oneself fully, and to live a life of autonomy and ease while staying true to oneself. Human freedom is the ultimate goal of society, the state, and the law. “Justice” is the ideal state of both state and society, one in which there is equal opportunity, checks on those with power, and protection for those who are weak. Justice also means the ability of individuals to develop their potentials, maximize their capabilities, perform their duties, and find their proper place. The institutional foundation of justice is democracy and rule of law, and it entails individual responsibility, both the defense and pursuit of rights, concern for the public interest, and respect for other people’s rights and boundaries. “Love” is the source of human happiness and the highest state of the New Citizen Spirit. Spiritually, the people of a nation must have love, eliminating all hatred and hostility as they work to create a civil society based on freedom and prosperity. The New Citizen Movement encompasses a campaign for citizens’ rights, a campaign of citizen non-cooperation, and a democracy campaign—all of which are part of China’s magnificent peaceful transition

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under the guidance of the New Citizen Spirit. The citizens’ rights campaign is the soil within which the campaign for democracy will grow. This can include rights defense in individual cases or other social movements that fight for the rights and interests of various groups, such as those facing forced demolition and relocation, demobilized soldiers, those who fight for the environment or religious freedom, and those who face segregation and discrimination based on their place of household registration. Though this movement for citizen’s rights focuses on rights claims made by individuals or certain groups, many of China’s major social problems—such as the monopoly of power, rampant corruption, the wealth gap, and the social security black hole—are issues that require political solutions. Thus, the citizens’ rights movement will continue to develop to a certain point where it inevitably flows into the political movement for democracy. The movement of citizen non-cooperation permeates the entirety of the movements for rights and democracy, including passive forms of resisting dictatorship and active methods of protecting freedoms and rights. By actively building civil society, the New Citizen Movement will help to resolve the problem of dictatorship and is therefore more constructive in its emphases than the campaign of citizen noncooperation. Through this movement, we will not only bring dictatorship to an end but also help to build a new political culture and a civil society for the future. In an even broader sense, our New Citizen Movement also encompasses the new citizen movements demanding justice in democratic countries. Under the influence of the fourth wave of democratization and the ways that new technologies are changing the structure of human society, China’s New Citizen Movement combines the civil rights movements and democratic revolutions of earlier democratic eras as well as the social revolutions of democratic countries. There is a social basis for China’s New Citizen Movement. Thirty years of reform and opening have established an economic foundation of private property and markets and brought about an increasingly diverse society. Having gone from a totalitarian regime to an authoritarian regime to an oligarchy, the ruling party’s tyranny is already much weakened and there is considerable space for a citizen movement. The Internet and other new communications technologies have sped the pace of society’s enlightenment and the formation of citizen social networks. The tide of international democratization is changing and checking despotic violence and allowing political movements in newly emerging democracies to become part of a new spirit of global citizenship and peaceful reason.

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There can be no civil society or constitutional government in China without new citizens. The New Citizen Movement emphasizes the importance of creating new citizens, a process that begins with each individual and with small things like practicing citizen responsibility, refusing to play by the hidden rules of the authoritarian system, refusing to allow privilege and corruption. Being a new citizen means embracing democracy and rule of law, pursuing freedom and fairness, and engaging in citizen action to build constitutional government in China. The New Citizen Movement encompasses all sorts of social and political campaigns that are currently underway: the “Grass Mud Horse” campaign, the campaign against forced demolition, the campaign opposing segregation by residence status, the campaign to commemorate June Fourth, the movement to promote religious freedom, the selfmedia movement, the environmental movement, the food safety movement, the independent candidate movement, the anti–child trafficking campaign on Weibo, the antimonopoly movement, and the anticorruption movement. We are uniting these social and political movements with New Citizen Spirit. The New Citizen Movement calls on citizens from all walks of life to put into practice the New Citizen Spirit and demonstrate their social responsibility. New Citizen judges, for example, ought to be fair, honest, and faithful to both law and conscience, and they should refuse to pervert the law for their own power and profit. New Citizen police should enforce the law fairly, keep the peace and eliminate wrongdoing, and refrain from extracting confessions through torture or colluding with the forces of evil. New Citizen prosecutors should be faithful to state law and refuse to tolerate corruption or indulge criminality. New Citizen people’s congress delegates ought to carry out their duties boldly in accordance with the law in pursuit of the public interest and refuse to vote “robotically” or act like a “rubber stamp.” New Citizen teachers should care for their students and refrain from teaching lies. New Citizen doctors should care for their patients and refuse to accept “red envelopes,” prescribe unnecessary drugs, or discriminate against the sick. New Citizen lawyers should be faithful to the law, represent their clients’ rights and interests in accordance with the law, and refuse to bribe judges. New Citizen accountants should be faithful to the rules of accounting and refuse to falsify account books. New Citizen editors and reporters should pursue the facts and refrain from reporting lies. New Citizen university students should study hard, show concern for society, and refuse to cheat on tests or plagiarize. New Citizen scholars ought to adopt a spirit of professionalism in seeking the truth and refuse to engage in flattery or plagiarism. New

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Citizen artists should express what is true, good, and beautiful and refuse to play by society’s “hidden rules.” New Citizen sports referees should officiate in an independent and impartial manner and refuse to fix matches. New Citizen athletes should compete fairly and refrain from gambling or throwing matches. New Citizen entrepreneurs should be market-oriented and conduct business in good faith without cozying up to elites. New Citizen industrial workers ought to ensure the quality of the products they manufacture and avoid cutting corners or producing items that are counterfeit or of shoddy quality. New Citizen food producers shouldn’t adulterate their products with poisonous or harmful materials. To promote the New Citizen Movement, citizens can spread the New Citizen Spirit. Use the Internet, street posters, or T-shirts to spread the word and explain the importance of “Freedom, Justice, and Love.” Let the New Citizen Spirit appear online and on our bustling streets so that it may become more firmly rooted deep in our minds. Another way to help promote the New Citizen Movement is to carry out a pledge to practice New Citizen responsibility. Remain committed to the rules of New Citizen behavior by refusing to engage in corruption or use power to seek personal gain. Remain faithful to one’s conscience and refrain from intentionally doing bad things. Actively serve society and help monitor each other’s success in fulfilling this pledge. The New Citizen Spirit is about commitment, about sacrificing one’s own interests to act as a model of citizenship, and about remaining true to one’s conscience and sense of justice until justice is finally realized throughout China. You can also make use of the “Citizen” logo and other forms of self-identification. Citizens have come up with their own “Citizen” logo and wear it as an emblem to strengthen their self-identification as citizens in daily life. Promoting the New Citizen Movement is also about taking part in civic life through regular collective meals, and discussions of current affairs. Show concern for people’s livelihood and that you care about public service and public policy. Help the disadvantaged, serve society, and promote justice. There are groups of modern citizens throughout China, and everyone must find ways to get to know each other first so that we can then join together to push for social progress. Finally, unite and divide up the labor. Promoting the New Citizen Movement can be done through a wide variety of activities. Repost things online, bring lawsuits, take photos with your mobile phones, or wear T-shirts with New Citizen slogans on them. Go to observe, inves-

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tigate, and show concern. Take part in elections or refuse to take part in elections, depending on the situation. Copy articles by hand. Hold a rally, march, or demonstration. Engage in performance art. Any of these actions can be taken on behalf of promoting asset disclosure or information transparency; to fight corruption or discrimination; or to demand religious freedom, freedom of expression, or election rights. As you take part in these campaigns for citizen rights or demonstrations of citizen non-cooperation, practice the New Citizen Spirit so that the strength of China’s citizens will continue to grow.

20 I Am a Free Citizen June 10, 2012

On the morning of June 7, I went downstairs a bit after 10 o’clock to find seven men outside the entrance to my building. Two of them were from the Cultural Institution Protection Unit of the Beijing Public Security Bureau, but I didn’t recognize the others. Captain Cao came up to say they wanted to have a talk with me and that I should go with them to find a place to take my statement. We set off toward northern Changping. A few minutes later, they pulled out a piece of black cloth and used it to cover up my eyes on the pretense that I should “rest for a while.” I knew many friends had gone through this before, so I didn’t resist because I knew it would be futile. We left the highway and traveled on some bumpy roads for a while before arriving just over 30 minutes later. I as I got out of the car, I started to raise my hands to take off the blindfold. Someone barked at me: “Don’t take it off!” I was immediately flanked by two men who gripped my arms tightly. Once indoors, I was pressed down on the corner of what felt like a sofa. They stripped me of my belt and shoelaces and searched me for any other objects. People came and went. I heard a voice say, “Think real hard first about what you’ve been up to lately. We’ll start questioning this afternoon!” I kept perfectly still and remained absolutely silent. Many friends like Tang Jitian, Teng Biao, Li Xiongbing, Li Fangping, and Jiang Tianyong had already gone through this before. I waited for the humiliation or beating that could come at any moment. I waited. I had once thought that if I were ever to face that kind of violence or torture, I would lift my head to the sky and start laughing, that fullthroated kind of laughter that can pierce the heavens, bore through his219

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tory, and collapse the kingdom of the demons of hell. But at that particular moment, I already knew that I wouldn’t do such a thing. I had no business laughing so arrogantly before heaven. Instead, I would look with pity upon my assailants and let them beat and humiliate me. My eyes even began brimming with tears as I thought of the glory it would bring me in this world. Our people have lived under the haze of authoritarianism for far too long. Many who’ve gone before us have paid with their lives for their beliefs, their ideas, their speech, or their ideals. Even today, people are subjected to the most inhumane torments. The beatings I’d experienced in recent years—defending Chen Guangcheng, hanging around outside the State Petition Office, or rescuing people from black jails—were all so superficial by comparison. At that moment, I even had a desire to be tortured. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be qualified to harbor such beautiful dreams for our nation’s people. About an hour later, someone came by to ask me if I had thought things over yet. I kept silent. Someone came to remove the blindfold, at which point I realized I was in the room of a guesthouse, sitting on the edge of a bed. Captain Cao came over and said he just wanted to talk with me about the activities of the citizen organization and take a statement. I told him there was no need to use such measures to have a conversation and that I would be protesting the blindfold and illegal detention by refusing to answer any questions. I asked him to please understand. What followed was mostly silence, punctuated by occasional simple conversations. Two of these conversations left a strong impression. There was a guy in his thirties surnamed Wen (I gather he also guarded Teng Biao) who insisted on keeping the door open when I went to use the toilet. As I came out, I told him, “You don’t need to be so gung ho about doing your job.” He said, “I’m not being gung ho. We have to take strict precautions in dealing with people like you.” I said, “People like me? Do you even know what you’re doing here?” He replied, “What I’m doing here is of no concern to me.” There was another man in his fifties surnamed Zhao. He had a much more forthright personality. He kept harping on about how people like me thought China was so terrible and foreign countries were so great. He was certain that we never watched the nightly news broadcast. I told him that I often watched it, actually.

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He continued, “If things are so great in foreign countries, why don’t you emigrate?” I immediately raised my voice in reply: “This is my country! My homeland! Of course I want to stay here! I have a responsibility to make her better! At least I can’t let my homeland be wantonly violated by some Western ideology!” He asked me what I meant and I asked, “Doesn’t your communism come from the West?” In the evening, they brought some food and urged me to eat. I said, “Sorry, but I won’t eat while I’m being illegally detained.” This was a decision I’d made about a year earlier. If they took away my freedom to promote social progress, I would go on a hunger strike as a way of protesting my illegal detention and continuing the effort on behalf of change. I recalled how the previous June I went on a two-day hunger strike when they took me to a hot springs guesthouse after a large petitioning activity on behalf of educational equality. They said, “We brought you here so that you could have a bit of fun and relax for a bit. How can we have fun if you won’t even eat?” They said many times, “Why don’t you accept reality and move on? Let’s all go out and have a good time! Where would you like to go?” As far as I was concerned, though, that was no “holiday.” I told them: “We can go have fun together once you’ve quit your jobs. But illegal detention is illegal detention. As a free citizen, I ought to refuse to cooperate.” Since many friends were paying close attention, I knew I would be treated humanely during my illegal detention. But there are so many other silent, unknown victims in China. One day in March 2009, a 16year-old middle school student from Henan got a concussion from the beatings received at the black jail at the Youth Hotel near Taoranting Park. On Mid-Autumn Festival that year, a Shandong petitioner named Li Shulian died in a basement black jail in Longkou City, and her relatives were arrested for trying to seek an explanation for her death. During the annual meeting of the NPC in March 2012, an elderly person fell ill while held in a black jail run by the Beijing representative office of Xiangfan, Hubei, and died more than 10 days later after being denied hospital treatment. Her relatives sought compensation and were also illegally detained. These are just the cases I personally witnessed. Many religious believers even live in a kind of permanent illegal detention, some of them being tortured to death. Over these several decades, how many people in China have died in black jails of every sort or under torture? What I was going through paled in comparison.

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I didn’t sleep well that night. The men guarding me in shifts engaged in senseless chit-chat, and then some of them eventually began to snore. At 8 a.m., Captain Cao came by to wake me up and said that an official would come by to speak with me. I now understood the reason for the blindfold the day before—it was all part of the ritual of having the official come speak with me. First they treat you rough, then the official comes and seems moderate by comparison. Everyone knows about the psychological phenomenon known as Stockholm syndrome: when one person is cruel and another is gentle, this makes you confused enough to think that the gentle person is a good person so you say more to him. Police often use this trick; so do authoritarian rulers. A few minutes later, Commander Hao came in. I’d seen him once before, two years earlier. He said he’d come this time to have a good talk with me. I said talking was okay, but the use of such methods like the blindfold and all was quite unnecessary. In fact, I said, it was really ridiculous. There, in front of his three subordinates, he began the “conversation.” He said our citizens were getting too organized and the situation was getting serious. He said the authorities could begin charging us with subversion at any time and that it wouldn’t be like last time with the tax evasion. I said: “All of our efforts are aimed at protecting the freedom and human rights of every Chinese person, including each of you seated here. I hope we can each understand and respect the position and role of the other and realize that no one can turn the tide of history. No matter what, none of us should go too far or act too zealously. Wang Lijun was quite zealous . . .” He stopped me before I could finish. “You just wait and see,” he said, and then he rose and left. I felt I’d made a mistake. When I was a delegate to the Haidian District People’s Congress, an elder once advised me to pay more attention to the way I expressed criticism and give more consideration to the other person’s “face” when I spoke. I told Captain Cao, “I may have said some things I shouldn’t have just now. I’d like to speak with Commander Hao again.” About a half-hour later, Commander Hao returned. He said he wasn’t angry, and I said that I was relieved to hear that. We went out to the courtyard to chat beside the river. We talked about educational equality, corruption, and the like. The main theme was to let me know

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that I was in danger and needed to show some restraint and cooperate more with them in the future. I thanked him for the advice and apologized, saying that I wasn’t trying to make things difficult for them. But I said: “This country needs to change, and I’m willing to bear the consequences to make our people freer. Maybe you don’t believe it, but for me, life is very simple: I’m here to use the intelligence God gave me to do everything I can to promote social progress.” The New Citizen Movement that we were promoting called on each citizen to start with themselves as individuals and spread the ideas of democracy and rule of law, obey the rules of citizen conduct, and refuse privilege and corruption. We advocated a new civic spirit, based on freedom, justice, and love. Our mission would be to completely transform the dynastic cycle in which political power emanated from the barrel of a gun and enable each and every Chinese person to be free. That was the reason I’d lost my own freedom. Captain Cao came to take my statement, but I apologized and said that this time they’d gone too far. I said I had a responsibility to resist the black blindfold and the illegal detention, so I wouldn’t be answering their questions or signing any documents. I would have nothing to do with any statement. He asked me about the manufacture of the citizen emblems. I said, “Don’t bother asking any further questions.” He wrote down a few sentences and then left. Another bunch of people came in. The whole time I was detained, I saw a total of twelve people. I was very familiar with the new guys. One of them was in poor health. “It’s really unnecessary to bring so many people,” I said. “And it’s a waste of taxpayers’ money.” We then argued about educational equality. After 3 p.m., they began to gather their things. Finally, they returned my belt, shoelaces, and other items. Before getting in the car, Captain Cao asked me whether I had anything else planned that afternoon. I said I did. When he asked me what, I told him I was a free citizen with the freedom to act on my own. He made a phone call, after which the situation appeared to improve. They returned me to my home, but they didn’t leave. I know that I may have less and less freedom over the coming few years, but the free China of my dreams will definitely continue to draw nearer and nearer. More and more New Citizens are rising up, using their actions to wish the Chinese people a better future. Thank you for your efforts!

21 Hearts Filled with Justice July 6, 2012

On the afternoon of June 18, our volunteer, Mr. Yuan, brought a man named Yu Haobo to Gongmeng to seek our assistance. Mr. Yu said that his father had been beaten to death by local government officials after he had tried to gain entry to the US embassy. He told us that the previous morning his father’s corpse had been flung into the courtyard of their family home back in Cangzhou, Hebei. His head had been covered with wounds, each several inches long. As he told us that local authorities had threatened his father’s life, Mr. Yu suddenly knelt down and begged us to help redress the injustice that had been done to his father. I detest black jails and their brazen illegality, and beating a 76-yearold man to death was simply going too far, regardless of what his reason may have been for petitioning. The next day, I received some photographs showing clear wounds to the old man’s head. Possessed by grief and indignation, I posted the photos to my Weibo microblog account, along with this message: This 76-year-old man from Cangzhou, Hebei, was named Yu Rufa. For twelve years, he petitioned an unjust court decision. Last Thursday, he tried to gain entry to the US embassy for the second time and was taken away to the police station in Sanlitun. Afterwards, police said he was picked up by government officials from Cangzhou. On Sunday, his dead body was found at the entrance to the courtyard of his family home with wounds on his head. Yesterday, his son came out of hiding in Beijing to seek our assistance. I told him, first of all, to preserve the body, but his relatives have received threats and may be forced to hand it over for cremation. What can we do? My item was reposted nearly a thousand times on different microblog services later that day, with many people expressing the same 225

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kind of outrage I was feeling. I was thinking about what I could do next to help this family when I received a telephone call from Mr. Yuan, who said that the true situation was not exactly as I had reported online. That night, he and Yu Haobo went to Cangzhou and listened as Yu Rufa’s relatives and neighbors said that the old man had been delivered back to the village alive and that he had walked back home on his own with no wounds on his head. They said he had died later that night, and it was possible that the wounds were the result of falling down on the brick-covered ground as he tried to go out to relieve himself in the middle of the night. Of course, they said, it was also possible that someone had beaten him to death as well. I was shocked, as this was no ordinary discrepancy. How could I have been so hasty as to publish a false account of what happened? I immediately issued an apology on my microblog and Twitter accounts under the caption “Heartfelt Apologies”: The other day, I posted an item about the death of 76-year-old Yu Rufa from Cangzhou, Hebei. As we were preparing to provide his family with legal assistance, our volunteer went to Cangzhou to investigate and confirm details and discovered that Yu had not been injured at the time he was sent home from Beijing. His relatives found his fallen body outside their home early the following morning. An autopsy is currently underway. I listened only to his relative’s account and posted information about the case after receiving photographs of his body. I may have misled everyone, and for this I am very sorry! After issuing that apology, I received a lot of criticism for being reckless with information. Some also criticized me for being insincere. They said I clearly misled people, so how could I say that I “may have misled”? But I never expected that my apology would also lead to another kind of criticism from people who charged me with telling blatant lies. As evidence, they pointed to an online interview with Yu Haobo, who swore on his father’s soul that none of our volunteers had gone to carry out any investigation. Later, I learned that this was probably the result of a misunderstanding, since he didn’t realize that Mr. Yuan was one of our volunteers. But at the time, all I knew was that I was being criticized for lying even though I had actually told the truth. People even said my lies were the result of my having buckled under pressure from domestic security police. I was really disgusted by these allegations, but I decided not to respond as long as the attacks were limited to a small circle of people.

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Two days later, however, artist Ai Weiwei, journalist Liu Jianfeng, and others also began to raise questions. My “simple lie” led people to draw connections between this incident and the investigative report into the death of Qian Yunhui, escalating the matter into questions about my character. I now had to respond, because this was no longer simply a matter of an individual case—it was now a matter of ethics and my political bottom line.

1 I responded by saying, “I detest both the tyranny of gangsters and the unscrupulous behavior of gangster proletarians.” I apologize for the way I worded that, but I truly can’t stand unscrupulous behavior. This is not a mere issue of political viewpoint; it is an issue of one’s bottom line. Dictatorships typically act without principle. They systematically falsify history, saying, for example, that they were the mainstay in the War of Resistance against Japan, claiming Liu Wencai was a tyrannical landlord, or bragging about how great, glorious, and upright they are. This is what we ought to oppose. Unfortunately, however, we also find that many who oppose dictatorship also act unscrupulously, using the dictators’ methods to oppose dictatorship. I lament the many inaccuracies that appeared in the first edition of our investigative report into the death of Qian Yunhui and regret that we rushed to publish it. Even though it wasn’t the main reason we were in such a hurry to get the report out, I feel a deep sense of guilt about my self-satisfaction with uncovering the facts and the selfish urgency with which I tried to be the first to make them known. But at least we weren’t mistaken in our assessment of the facts. The more important thing was that we never violated our own bottom line. When we discovered that Qian’s death was the result of an ordinary traffic accident, we worked hard to make clear that the justice issue in the case was the serious difficulty facing local villagers who tried to defend their land rights. However, some didn’t care about what was in our report, about whether the villagers would gain anything in the end, or about the truth revealed in the thirteen videos that clearly documented the entire accident. They only cared about their own political viewpoint and even went so far as to claim that we were trying to defend the government, all the while angrily condemning us for sabotaging such a great revolutionary opportunity. Or consider the Yunnan “primary student prostitution case” back in 2009. In that case, the police made mistakes from the very beginning,

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wrongly detaining a primary school student, the younger sister of a young woman named Chen Yan (not her real name). After the young girl’s family sought to hold the police accountable, the authorities agreed to pay 17,000 yuan in compensation. It was at that point that some friends who didn’t fully understand the facts of the case decided to be chivalrous and tried to make the argument that “Chen Yan never engaged in prostitution” into the main justice issue. The pressure of public opinion forced the police to conduct further investigations, through which they found that Chen Yan had been detained for prostitution six months earlier. “Chen Yan” was the pseudonym she was using at the time of that detention, so they continued to pursue evidence and counterattack against the public pressure. The result was that Chen Yan was sent to custody and education for six months and her father was imprisoned for “sheltering prostitution.” After reading the whole case file and confirming many of the details, I wrote an essay entitled “Truth Is the Precondition for Justice.” I merely wanted to tell everyone the bitter lessons I’d learned from this case, but some people unfortunately chose to respond to my attempt to offer my rational opinions with personal attacks against me. I can understand why people stick to their preconceived notions. After all, not everyone can personally conduct on-the-scene investigations. What’s scary, though, is when those who attack me either have full knowledge of the true facts of the case or simply don’t care about the truth at all. Some say that there’s a problem with our politics and that we should adopt the position of critics. But our standpoint is justice—this has never changed. In an extremely unjust society, standing on the side of justice requires that one stand with the weak and disadvantaged. We worked hard to show how both villagers’ tireless efforts to defend their rights and the injustice of the political system lay behind the death of Qian Yunhui. We also tried to help the villagers obtain more compensation from the power plant, all the way up until the point when we were unfortunately forced to terminate our role as their legal counsel. After the conviction of Chen Yan’s father, I expressed my views in the “primary student prostitution case” because I felt a deep sense of sorrow at all their family had encountered. In the death of Yu Rufa, even though I felt I had been deceived, in my apology I never made public my speculation about the truth behind his death. When asked about it by people online, I would only say “the cause of death is still pending investigation.” If I hadn’t begun receiving attacks from wider and wider circles, I wouldn’t have responded at all, out of concern that it might bring harm to Yu’s family.

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Of course I wanted to denounce black jails! So many people have been illegally detained and beaten, including myself. For his efforts to rescue three elderly people from a black jail, my friend Song Ze remains missing until this very day. So, when I heard that a 76-year-old man had been beaten to death, I felt that an opportunity to attack black jails had arrived. I can admit that I am biased against dictatorship. But I’m sorry to have to inform you that this old man was not beaten to death in a black jail. When I discovered that I’d made a mistake and had misled others, I felt obligated to apologize and take responsibility for my words. There’s nothing else to say. There’s no shortage of evil and suffering in this country. Much of the time, we feel a deep sense of helplessness when people come to us looking for assistance. There’s no need to use lies to criticize dictatorship or deploy false facts as levers to achieve justice. For many years, we have continuously worked hard to help the disadvantaged. I’ll always stand on the side of the weak, but truth is a precondition for justice. We must never act without principle or bottom line. We cannot substitute lies for the truth or the truth for lies.

1 Too many people only consider a person’s political standpoint and don’t care about right and wrong. When confronted with the truth, they don’t undertake a serious reflection on their own judgment and instead toss around labels like “50-Cent Party” for those they consider to be apologists for the government and “Penny Party” for those they deem to be American stooges. They’re too willing to use lies, frame-ups, and trumped up charges—just as long as they can damage their opponent. They demonize and attack those who hold different viewpoints, even sometimes resorting to physical violence when the opportunity presents itself. There is such a lack of trust between people in this country, between left and right, officials and the people, rich and poor. Everywhere, you see personal attacks, insults, and invective, even to the point of a kind of bloodthirstiness. Dictators are accustomed to acting without scruples. By nature, those on the extreme left feel a strong sense of vigilance and hostility and are unscrupulous. But if liberals act just like them, what is our source of strength? What will we have to offer this country as an alternative? There are two basic forces in human society: love and fear. Dictators rely on fear. People are obedient because they are afraid. Stalin said that fear was more important than respect. Democracy, however, relies on love. Presidents are elected based on the affinity that the majority

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feels for a candidate. We have chosen democratic constitutionalism as our goal, and our only strength is love and justice. We must earn the respect of others, including our opponents. We must establish an oasis of trust and love in this desert of human nature where people feel such hostility toward each other. Our future democracy cannot have these mutual attacks with no bottom line. Democratic competition must be based on a basic constitutional consensus and an ethical bottom line. This, in turn, relies on having a group of model citizens who remain committed to justice and who possess great moral strength. To be honest, I’m not trying to ingratiate myself with anyone by remaining committed to truth-telling. Amid all of the surging violence of public opinion, I’m merely sticking to my convictions. Our generation must establish a foundation of political responsibility and ethics for a free China. We must at all times maintain hearts filled with justice. We should oppose dictatorship, but we must not be unscrupulous. We must pursue the truth, but we cannot distort the facts. We must stick to our own standpoints even to the point of bias, but no matter who is right and who is wrong, we cannot only consider a person’s political views and ignore right and wrong. I know that some of those who now criticize me so fiercely have in the past called for my release. We are all fighting against the injustice in this society. I can understand the pervasive anger and despair in society, but I still need to say to my friends that, as we pursue freedom and democracy, we must at all times maintain hearts filled with justice and not allow our eyes and spirits to be deceived by anger or use evil methods to pursue what is good and just. We are responsible for the future of this country, and, no matter how much evil we face, we must stick to our beautiful political ideals and remain committed to freedom, justice, and love.

22 Ngaba October 2012

After spending the night in Chogtse Laird’s Castle township, I took a cab in the early morning to Barkam, the capital of Ngaba, or Aba, the Tibetan Prefecture in Northern Sichuan. Along G317, the main thoroughfare across town, stood brand new buildings with Tibetan-themed windows. But that was about the only thing Tibetan about them: the interior and the speed with which they had been erected were the same as elsewhere in China. You could see such new towns in almost every Tibetan area, likely a new round of development after the March 14th unrest in 2008. In Barkam, I got on a bus to Zamthang. I was going there to look for the home of a young man named Nangdrol. Almost all of the passengers were Tibetans. Half of them wore ethnic clothes, others dressed just like me, and a girl in jeans told me she was a nurse in Barkam. A crowd of two dozen or so from Qinghai was on their way to worship Chenrezig, goddess of compassion. Ngaba, along with Golok in Qinghai and southern Gansu province, are traditionally the Amdo Tibetan region. I first visited the plateau twenty-one years ago with college friends from Lanzhou University. In Labrang Monastery in Xiahe, we met a young lama with a Chinese name Chen Lai. “Our tulku suffers great pain and humiliation,” he told us. Back then it at least looked peaceful, but now, sad news keeps arriving. The bus passed by large, roadside billboards for China Unicom. A robed, dark skinned young man smiled to me after talking on his cellphone. From his scruffy look, I could tell he came from a herding community. He reminded me of my stop in Ngaba in 1990s on an aborted journey to Tibet. Having crossed the Erlang Mountains, the great pas-

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tureland suddenly came into sight, a sea of flowers, colors and fragrances. Beyond, a rich brown, not green, extended all the way to the horizons. Fortunately for us, the bus broke down midway, and the enthralled passengers dashed to the meadow under the curious watch of fat moles on the roadside. That was the Ngaba I remembered, and for me, that was the eternal Ngaba. The young lama next to me was from a monastery in Hongyuan County. He had accompanied his mother to Barkam for treatment, and, taking the opportunity, he was visiting Chenrezig too. He invited me to visit his monastery. Passing by a checkpoint where a red banner read, “Stability Maintenance Calls for Fast Response to Emergencies,” the young lama said he hated the sight of armed soldiers as he struck a guntoting pose. Zamthang is a county in Ngaba prefecture with a population of over 30,000 Tibetans in 6,000 square kilometers of meadows and gorges. The county seat resembled a small township in interior China where the government building commanded the view and small eateries and shops lined the two streets. The biggest monastery, situated in Barma township, was about 50 kilometers to the east in a basin. Because of a road closure due to construction, I didn’t leave for Barma until seven o’clock in the evening in a brand new Chang’an economy car on which I had hitched a ride earlier. The driver, also the owner, a 24-year-old young man named Sonam, had just bought the car days ago in Chengdu. We had agreed on a charge of 100 yuan for my ride. I was Sonam’s third passenger, the other two being two young Tibetans going to Nanmuda township. Are you Buddhist followers? I asked them. They were. One of them took out a pendulum portrait of the Dalai Lama from his chest and asked if I knew who he was. He is our true Holiness, he said. Have you . . . heard about the . . . self-immolations? Like, burning oneself? I finally breached the topic. We know, they said. A mix of snow and rain had begun to fall. Hail beat against the windows. Pardon me, but do you hate the Hans? Do you? I asked them because Nangdrol used the word “Han devils” in his death note before he set himself on fire here in Barma. Do you happen to know Nangdrol? He’s a 18-year-old young man who self-immolated. I want to visit his parents. . . . I am so sorry.

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Surprised, my fellow travelers became friendly. They said they had been to the site as many Tibetans had. People set up white tents at the intersection where he had self-immolated. Many, many Tibetans, hundreds and thousands of them, came. He is our hero. Thank you for trusting me. Thank you. It was completely dark when we arrived in Barma township. At a lamppost, Sonam got off to ask a middle-aged man for directions. The latter waved his hand to signal no. So did the next few people Sonam asked. At an intersection, he asked two men on motorcycles, and the three seemed to break into an argument. A lama came to the window to examine me. “Sorry,” Sonam returned, “they scolded me for taking you here.” A minivan approached us. Two men jumped out of it and upbraided Sonam indignantly. Fear and hostility shrouded the place like night. In silence, we left Barma township. “We are Tibetans,” Sonam started all of a sudden. “We are Buddhists, but we can’t go to Lhasa.” I knew. These days Tibetans have to obtain permission to go to Lhasa. Years ago in Golmud, I had seen many of them on their prostrating pilgrimage to Lhasa, but not anymore. Since the self-immolation in Lhasa last year, they had not been able to go on pilgrimages. I spent the night in Nanmuda, in a small lodging called “Pengzhou Hotel” run by a Chinese. It rained again. I tossed to and fro and had a high-altitude headache. I regretted having sent Sonam for directions—I should have faced those angry Tibetans myself. The next day was a beautiful autumn day in the valley. The gilt roof of a magnificent temple pointed to a blue sky dappled with clouds, colorful sutra streamers fluttered above green meadows, and the air brought sutra chants from afar. I went back to Barma in a cab. In Zamthang Monastery, crimson cloaked lamas were having their morning session in the main hall. I waited outside until a young lama— he couldn’t have been more than 20 years old—passed by to fetch water. He took me to the adjoining hall where a middle-aged lama sat cross-legged in a corner. Do you have Nangdrol’s photo? Sorry I don’t have it with me. Then I can’t help you. A teen lama offered that there was a Nangdrol among the secondgrade Buddhism students, but asking several second-graders nearby, no one knew about any self-immolators.

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Asking passersby, they didn’t know or merely shook their heads. An old Tibetan woman took me to the construction site next to the monastery where another monastery was being built to no avail. In the elementary school near the monastery I asked an armed soldier guarding the gate where the secondary school was. Online reports said that Nangdrol was a student. The soldier suggested that I check out the nearby compound where a Chinese flag flew. Inside the school yard there were soldiers in fatigues. “There is no secondary school here,” people told me. The road back to Zamthang was open only for an hour from midday to one o’clock. I had to leave. Along a creek, a row of poplars basked in the golden sun, and a group of young lamas in crimson robes were holding a session. Reluctantly I climbed into a cab, trying to remember my last view of Barma. I had been to many places over the years but never felt so lost. A mile or so down the road, we passed by a village on a slope. I stopped the driver and begged him to wait for me—for half an hour at most. In the little roadside shop, the owner hesitated to answer my inquiry. “I don’t want to leave like this,” I pleaded. Finally he told me that Nangdrol’s home was right behind the old school near his shop. Up on the slope, an old couple pointed to a house not far away. Over there, the old woman said, he was a good boy. It was a small, mud-plastered house enclosed in mud-brick walls, similar to those found in the countryside of Gansu province. Near one side of the walls stood five tall sutra streamers, the tallest in the village. The iron gate was locked. I prayed, my head dropping low. Nangdrol, I love you. Perhaps his parents would emerge from behind the gate, and accept me on my knees. Perhaps they would drive me away angrily, like the old woman did by the celestial burial platform in Lhasa years ago. But I would not leave; I would take it and take everything. I would tell them I am sorry, and this is a place I have come many times. A middle-aged woman and a boy passed by. She said she knew Nangdrol and he was the most handsome young man in Barma. His parents live in a faraway cattle farm, he also grew up there, and sometimes you could see him on his motorcycle. That day, he wore new clothes, freshly bathed, new from top to bottom, with a fresh haircut too. He wore a pair of glasses that day, asking people, “Am I handsome? Am I?” Then he came to the intersection. Then he . . . I don’t hate Han Chinese, she said, we are a peace-loving people, and we would rather endure our pain.

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He raised his hands over his head, the boy said, with palms pressed together, kneeling down. He did this six times. He was only 18 years old. Around noon on February 19, 2012, Nangdrol set himself on fire at the intersection near the Zamthang Monastery. In a note left behind, he said, “Raise your unyielding head, for the dignity of Nangdrol. My loving parents, brothers and relatives, I am leaving this world. I am going to set myself on fire for the benefit [of] all Tibetans. . . . I pray the Tibetan people’s liberation from the Han Devils. Under the rule of the Han Devils there has been immense suffering, and it is unbearable. The Han Devils have invaded Tibet and seized Tibetans. It is impossible to live under their evil law, impossible to bear this torture that leaves no scars. The Han Devils, having no love and compassion, and they destroy Tibetan lives. I pray for the long life of (Gyalwa Tenzin Gyatso) his Holiness the Dalai Lama!” Over the last three years, more than seventy Tibetan monks and laypersons self-immolated, more than forty of them from Ngaba. Everywhere on this plateau, the scarless torture continues. I don’t know how else to express my sorrow. I gave 500 yuan to the woman and asked her to give it to Nangdrol’s parents, letting them know that a Chinese had been here. I am sorry, Nangdrol, we are mute as you and your fellow Tibetans are dying for freedom. I am sorry that we have too many inhibitions. The Hans are a cursed people, victims themselves, living in estrangement, infighting, hatred and destruction. Nangdrol, I love the cities and villages to the east as well as this beautiful plateau, your homeland. I hope that, when this land is free one day, your people will enjoy the cities, plains and coasts where I have lived. We share this land. It’s our shared home, our shared responsibility, and it will be our shared deliverance.

23 The New Citizen Movement in 2012 December 31, 2012

For us, 2012 began with street actions on behalf of education equality. On New Year’s Day, several hundred volunteers stood in the bitter cold outside subway exits, shopping malls, and many other locations throughout Beijing to collect signatures of support for education equality. On January 12, more than 100 volunteers submitted a proposal recommending that children of migrant workers be allowed to take the university entrance exam wherever they happen to reside. Then, residents from Beijing took turns sending letters each day to the Ministry of Education inviting Minister Yuan Guiren to a dialogue on February 23. On February 23, we held the twenty-first monthly petition presentation outside the Ministry of Education, where more than 300 volunteers gathered to sing the national anthem and recite a manifesto for educational equality. Our proposal to allow children of migrants to take the university entrance exam in their place of residence became a hot topic of discussion during the annual NPC and CPPCC meetings in March. Both the minister and deputy minister for education promised in front of the media that the ministry would put forward a plan in principle within ten months and that localities would issue rules for concrete implementation before the end of the year. On Tomb-Sweeping Festival in early April, several hundred volunteers and children took to the street throughout the city to distribute 100,000 copies of a flier calling for education equality in the name of “New Beijing Residents.” At the end of August, the State Council General Office published an opinion from the Ministry of Education and three other government departments announcing a plan for allowing the children of urban migrants to take the university entrance examination in their place of residence. In the 237

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second half of the year, Hebei, Heilongjiang, Liaoning, and Chongqing all issued implementation rules. At the end of 2012, I can see that the system of division by household registration has begun to crumble piece by piece. Within a decade, we have achieved two major results in helping new immigrants assimilate into urban society. In 2003, custody and repatriation was abolished, meaning that new immigrants no longer had to worry about being detained at any moment and sent back home. Now we’ve taken the second step by eliminating the separation of university entrance examination by place of household registration, which means that tens of millions of children will no longer be “left behind” to attend school in the countryside and can rejoin their parents. Three years have passed since that first citizen meeting in December 2009 when Mr. Wang Gongquan proposed that we promote education equality. Since then, as we presented dozens of petitions and went to the streets to gather signatures of support, our team of supporters swelled to 100,000 people. This was a civil rights movement with Chinese characteristics. Facing dual repression from the stability-maintenance system and a conservative bureaucracy, nearly each one of our major actions—even a simple seminar—would cause me to be put under house arrest. We originally planned to conclude the project in three years, but unfortunately Beijing has not yet issued a plan for its university entrance exams. I feel very ashamed for not having completed the task. Eliminating residence restrictions for the university entrance examinations is a goal we have been working for all along, but the Beijing parent volunteers who have worked the hardest so far will have to continue their efforts. China underwent changes in 2012. On February 6, former Chongqing police chief Wang Lijun fled to the American consulate in Chengdu. Suddenly, Chongqing’s campaign of “Singing Red Songs and Striking Hard Against Organized Crime” was brought to a halt in an extremely dramatic fashion and one of the biggest obstacles to democracy and constitutionalism was demolished. From that point forward, China could never again follow the evil path of the Cultural Revolution. For ten years, the international tide of democracy has been surging forward. Network communications technology has progressed by leaps and bounds, the market economy and civil society have grown steadily, and the Chinese tide of democracy and rule of law has become an unstoppable force. I spent much of May quietly reflecting upon how to summarize the path of citizen rights–protection we had followed over the past decade and what banner and direction we should choose for the coming surge

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of the movement for democracy and constitutional government. After repeated discussions, we came up with the “New Citizen Movement” and “New Citizen Spirit.” There is already a consensus that all citizens who support democracy must join together. The crux of the matter is how to achieve such an alliance. Recent years have seen citizens who support democracy and constitutional government form all sorts of different groups, but we still remain disunited. We must make the idea of “citizenship” our common rallying point and joint platform. Citizenship entails a complete set of modern, civilized principles much broader in scope than “democracy.” Its goals are democracy and rule of law (the ideas of “taxpayers,” power deriving from the ballot box, multi-party competition, direct elections, judicial independence, etc.), citizen rights, and civil society. Its actions are honest, forthright, moderate, and rational, and it rejects unprincipled action and violent brutality. “Citizenship” is our common identity, no matter whether we are inside or outside of the system, see ourselves as democracy activists or rights defenders, or support reform or revolution. As long as we all seek a civil society based on democracy, rule of law, equality, and justice, then I am a citizen, you are a citizen, and they are citizens, too. When we are joined together, we are all called citizens and, following the rules of democracy, we divide up our labor and cooperate in a common effort. What to call this organization in the end will be a decision made democratically. “Citizen” is our common mark; our citizen social-media avatars and T-shirts are ways for us to identify each other in this society of rulers and subjects so that we can join together and take action. We seek genuine democracy based on a pluralist politics. When citizens join together, they don’t join a ready-made organization. Each one of us is building a common platform together. Each person puts aside his or her ego, obeys the rules of democracy, and unites in cooperation to promote social progress. We advocate beginning from individual citizens, each one first becoming a truly free citizen by saying goodbye to dictatorship and privilege in idea and action and living in truth. We advocate that citizens everywhere go from being online to offline, discovering each other, gathering together regularly, and forming city-wide citizen groups that develop on their own and work autonomously. We advocate organizing around issues, not individuals. City-wide groups should share information and experiences with each other and provide mutual support and cooperation. Citizenship begins with individuals united in cooperation to push China to complete its political transition and construct a civil society

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based on equality, justice, freedom, and happiness. The process of this great transition is China’s New Citizen Movement. The core value that sustains this historic process is the “New Citizen Spirit” of freedom, justice, and love. Freedom is those universal rights set out in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and various countries’ constitutions, the eternal aim of both state and society. Justice is equality and fairness between people, morality and conscience, behind which is a state’s democracy and rule of law. Love is brotherly love, loving others as you love yourself, the source of happiness for all of human society. Individual freedom, social justice, and love between all people is the beautiful China of which we all dream. We take on huge pressures for these beautiful values. Plainclothes police have many times seized our “citizen” emblems and T-shirts. We have also been hooded and illegally detained. But we must remain firm and say goodbye to the authoritarian society of rulers and subjects that privilege and corruption has made so divided and hostile. We must build a society of citizens in which there is equality, freedom, justice, and love. Someone must pay the price for upholding the standard of our new era. We shall continue to provide legal assistance to people who need it most. The death sentence for Xia Junfeng, who killed two urban management officers in self-defense, is still being reviewed by the Supreme People’s Court. There are others who need to pursue appeals of their wrongful capital convictions, like Fang Chunping from Leping, Jiangxi, and Zhu Yanqiang, from Chengde, Hebei. Then there’s Xiao Yong, who was sent to re-education through labor for holding up a sign calling on officials to declare their assets. There’s also Liu Benqi and Chen Pingfu, each charged with speech-related crimes, or Chen Kegui, who was charged with intentional homicide for resisting illegal violent behavior by local government. We have a responsibility to lend a helping hand to these poor innocent individuals who have been treated unjustly and to those citizens who have paid a price for demanding freedom and justice. Winter is now here, and we must also continue to assist those petitioners whose poverty forces them to live out on the streets. This is all part of the work that we’ve been doing for many years. On November 15, a month after being put under illegal house arrest with no end in sight, I sent out an open letter. A few older friends are deeply concerned about my safety, but these are our beliefs and our country’s path for the future. China has a group of citizens who are working hard to make their beliefs a reality through moderation, rational action, and stubborn steadfastness. When we have our freedom, we go around helping people out of a sense of justice. When we find ourselves under illegal house arrest, we

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spend our time reading and thinking about a direction for the future. When we’ve completely lost our freedom and been thrown in jail, we go on hunger strike and pray. All of these actions are in pursuit of a distant dream: a beautiful China of freedom, justice, and love. Starting a decade ago with the effort to get custody and repatriation subjected to constitutional review, we have continued to follow a path toward modernity. No matter how difficult and bumpy that road has been, we have not changed direction. In these ten years, Chinese citizens have gone from protecting their rights in a passive and defensive manner as individuals to taking active initiatives and firmer steps. Whether it’s on behalf of education equality or asset declaration by government officials, from citizen emblems to the New Citizen Spirit, we are setting our own agenda and standing up together to move forward. In these ten years, the spark of Chinese civil society has spread to become a prairie fire. We are very lucky to be able to witness this era of progress. Thank you, Tao Lizhu, Yin Hui, Xu Yadong, Song Zhihong, Zhang Qing, Yang Huijun, Zhang Jiwei, Feng Jie, Guo Zhijiao, Liu Hongpeng, Wu Pengcheng, Pan Aihong, Wu Xuexin, Zhou Xuan, Su Jian, Xia Liyi, Lu Mingfu, Ye Wensi, and Xu Xuequan. Thank you for your trust and support. This list of people who have donated money is very, very long, and there are others who donated anonymously. Special thanks to Professor Mao Yushi, who donated 10,000 yuan and agreed to serve as a consultant to our “Justice Fund” for providing legal assistance. Thanks also to Jiang Ping, Zhang Qianfan, Xu Yinong, Zhang Yihe, Luqiu Luwei, Si Weijiang, Chen Youxi, Yu Jianrong, Zhan Jiang, Yan Lieshan and others on the long list of elders and friends from legal and intellectual circles who have shown their concern and support. Thanks to our many volunteers for their tireless efforts. I’m sorry that it’s not convenient to list all of their names. It’s a great honor to be counted as one among them. Special thanks to Song Ze, who is paying the price for rescuing elderly petitioners from black jails. I’m sorry that the list above includes only those names I can recall at this moment. There are too many people to thank after ten years. When I think of all that concern, support, and expectation, I feel that we’ve achieved far too little. We can only continue on with a humble heart and work even harder in the future. Thank you!

24 The Last Ten Years May 16, 2013

April 25, 2003, as SARS emptied out the streets in Beijing, I sat in front of my computer reading about the Sun Zhigang coverage, tears quietly welling up in my eyes. Over the second half of 2002, I had started to investigate the laws concerning custody and repatriation (of migrant populations), and knew what Sun had gone through. Following Sun’s tragedy, Yu Jiang, Teng Biao and I proposed a constitutional review of the case. We mailed our recommendation on May 14 because, on the 13th, the propaganda department of the government banned further “hype” about Sun’s case. Headlines like “Three PhDs Request Constitutional Review” gave the media new fodder, and our action was a part of the public opinion campaign. More than a month later, while I was interviewing a boy who had been given aid in a room in Tianjin’s Custody and Repatriation Center, I turned my head and saw CCTV’s Evening News announcing the abolition of the Custody and Repatriation system. For many, that was a moment of joy and hope, and it became a symbol of the “new politics” of Hu and Wen. That night, the three of us talked on the phone, thankful for the moment but also full of regret—we were afraid the constitutional review we had hoped for was not going to happen. And it didn’t. We moved on in 2003, registering a public interest organization. We represented Sun Dawu’s case, and we promoted the election of the People’s Congress. Starting from the Sun Zhigang case, we focused on individual cases that had wide significance for the defense of civil rights and the push for system building. Many people referred to 2003 as the start of what would be known as the Citizens’ Rights Movement. 243

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Ten years on, Sun Zhigang has become taboo for media coverage; Teng Biao and I have become dissidents of this country; Dingjia Xi, Zhao Changqing, Dong Yuan, and many other brave citizens have been locked up in prison. A media friend asked me the other day: How do you evaluate this past decade, have we progressed or regressed? Suddenly I feel that this is a rather complex question to answer, and it prompted me to think about the path we have come along.

1 In July 2003, the Southern Metropolis Daily was first, and then repeatedly, investigated by Guangzhou’s judiciary and law enforcement system as a result of its vigorous reporting on the Sun Zhigang case. By the end of the year, the investigation “found” that there had been procedural violations when the paper’s management distributed a bonus of RMB 580,000 a few years back, and its general manager Yu Huafeng was arrested on charges of graft and bribery. Our entire team got involved in the case, and I was one of the defense lawyers. It was also our first encounter with the stability maintenance. Our website was closed down, and the third meeting with netizens to spread the truth was “harmonized.” The day the “Sunshine Constitutionalism” website was shut down, I wrote We Are Still Sincere: Perhaps we will face more difficulties even after constitutionalism is realized. We know very well that, there is the shadow of 2000 years of autocracy on this land, and the road to constitutionalism is bound to be long and arduous. But the endeavor for justice must be made by someone, and that’s why we are making it. . . . We are a group of Chinese citizens who take up this responsibility. . . . We are not just critics; we are also builders. In the second half of 2004, I was in the United States to study its constitution and elections, experiencing firsthand how an ordinary voter participated in politics as a grassroots volunteer for a presidential candidate. In the meantime, Guo Yushan and Teng Biao hosted the people’s representative election forum in our office in Huaqing Jiayuan, a residential neighborhood in Beijing’s university district. In September, when Peking University’s “yitahutu” BBS was shut down, Teng Biao, Yu Jiang and I coauthored a letter of protest while the students staged a lawn assembly to demonstrate in Jing Yuan. Our action drew attention from “the relevant organ” and we were forced to suspend the use of the

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office. In March 2005, six private organizations for public service were shut down without being given any reasons, including the research center we had registered as well as Mr. Mao Yushi’s Unirule Institute of Economics. What I heard was that these NGOs caused someone to fear a “color revolution.” I asked the local director of Industry and Commerce why, and he said it was an order from his superiors. We gave up without bringing a lawsuit. In June, we registered Gongmeng, or the Open Constitution Initiative. 2005 was a year full of moving moments. In April, I lived in a petitioners’ village, and witnessed too much unwarranted suffering. At the hutong where the State Bureau of Letters and Calls was located, many petitioners were beaten, and my pants were covered with footprints after I passed through that alleyway packed with petitioners and those sent by local governments to intercept them. In May, we prayed for Christian Cai Zhuohua in a church in Poshang village, located next to the Party School of the Central Committee of the CCP, who had been arrested for printing Bibles. In July, Teng Biao and I visited a small town in Yulin, Shaanxi province, in an attempt to rescue lawyer Zhu Jiuhu who had been thrown in prison for his involvement in the case of a private oilfield development in northern Shaanxi. There we witnessed how greedy and domineering the regional government was and how utterly helpless the local private enterprises were. In October, lawyer Li Fangping and I were beaten by guards at Dongshigu village when we tried to visit Chen Guangcheng. That day, Chen Guangcheng broke through the line of guards, and, in the midst of over a hundred villagers and guards pushing one another, we hugged each other in a tight embrace. At the end of 2005, Asia Weekly in Hong Kong named China’s human rights lawyers as their people of the year, and it marked the emergence, for the first time, of a citizen group outside the existing structure that had the ability to take sustained actions. This group of rights lawyers was dealt a blow in the summer of 2006 as Chen Guangcheng and Gao Zhisheng were imprisoned. The rights movement dropped to its lowest point since 2003. For all these years, I had been feeling guilty for their imprisonment. I was Gao Zhisheng’s representative in his firm’s penalty hearing, and I was a member of the defense team as well as the coordinator of support actions in Chen Guangcheng’s case, but I was unable to help either of them. By September, circumstances improved, and it was again election time for the district/county-level People’s Congress. We sent letters to a few hundred Property Management Committee directors in residential

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neighborhoods, the NGOs, and to more than a thousand lawyers, to encourage them to become candidates. We organized teams of volunteers to help various candidates design and distribute their posters and organize election gatherings for them. Thanks to the support of faculties and students at Beijing University of Posts and Telecommunications, where I was employed, thanks to my election team led by Jin Huaiyu and Gu Xin, and also thanks to the University’s party secretary Zhang Shulin who openly supported the election, I was elected the people’s representative to Haidian District’s People’s Congress. In 2007, we provided legal assistance to victims of illegal brick kilns in Shanxi province in administrative compensation suits, but to no avail. (In fact, lots of the cases we have provided legal assistance to have gone nowhere, such as the robbery case of Chen Guoqing and three others in Chengde. The four innocent men have served nineteen years already, and in the nine years when we have been representing them, we have made countless petitions, each in vain.) What was most shocking to me, in my first trip to the black brick kilns, was that the brickyard didn’t have encircling walls and it was right next to a village, less than 100 meters away from the nearest house. Because of the fear from living under ruthless violence, because of the corrupt government that didn’t do its job, and because of the numbness commonly found in the Chinese countryside, all the Chen Xiaojuns were openly enslaved in a land that had lost its sense of right and wrong, good and evil. So big is this land of injustice that those who are underprivileged and powerless may never see an end to their suffering in their lifetimes. A lot of things happened in 2008. Apart from the Olympics, there were the March 14 Unrest in Tibet, Wenchuan Earthquake, the poisonous milk powder scandal, and more. In August, we sent an investigative team to Tibet to find out about the economic and social causes of the March 14 unrest. In September, we organized a team of lawyers to provide legal assistance to child victims of the melamine-tainted milk formula. In the first stage, it took us three months of work to push the government to announce a compensation plan, but for many victims, the compensation fell far short of the harm they had suffered. In some cases, parents had spent close to RMB 100,000 on surgery for their sickened children alone, but were only compensated with RMB 30,000. Peng Jian, Li Xiongbing, Li Fangping and over 100 other pro bono lawyers continued to bring cases to the Supreme Court as well as to a few hundred local courts, but all in all, they succeeded in getting only ten cases filed, and of the ten cases, only two were tried

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and none received a verdict. The lawyers did everything they could, all the way to suing the largest shareholder of SanLu Group in a Hong Kong court. By September 2011 when the project concluded, we had fought for, and secured, compensation for more than 200 child victims in addition to the government’s compensation plan. The biggest single compensation was RMB 350,000, thanks to a court in Zhejiang that forced Yili Group to make concessions by insisting on a trial. The largest compensation settlement from a single source was almost the result of “blackmailing” a company. We had discovered falsehood in the company’s advertisement, and we sued them as consumers. Haidian Court in Beijing accepted the filing, and we told the company’s CEO quite frankly, when he came to Beijing to negotiate with us, that all we wanted was for his company to compensate the fifty or so victims of its brand. The CEO was moved by our sincerity and decency. Right around the time when Gongmeng was raising money to pay for the government fine on a trumped-up charge meant to destroy the organization, Lin Zhengzheng in the south sent a reparation of RMB one million yuan to the victims. No matter how we upheld our conscience and our sense of justice, the regime was intuitively hostile to any entity that existed independently outside its grip. By 2009, our team had grown considerably, our office in Huajie Building became busier than ever, and we had provided legal services in the dog culling incident in Hanzhong, Shaanxi, the Green Dam uproar, and the Deng Yujiao case. In July, Gongmeng, the not-for-profit, public interest organization was fined for “tax evasion,” and Zhuang Lu (the accountant) and I were arrested. But thankfully, we live in a time when technology gives us room for expression, when NGOs for public interest mushroomed after the Wenchuan earthquake, and, more importantly, when people have elevated moral standards. The arrest upset many ordinary citizens, and in four days Gongmeng received more than RMB 400,000 in donations in a fundraising campaign to pay for the fine. Jiang Ping and Mao Yushi of the older generation made appeals in support of us. Hong Kong high school student Zheng Yongxin wrote an open letter to Wen Jiabao, and friends we had never known we had protested with T-shirts, pins, and postcards. Confronted by powerful waves of support, the authorities retreated. We moved forward. In a routine meeting at the end of 2009, Wang Gongquan, one of our members, proposed a new initiative: campaign to abolish the household registration, or hukou, requirement for children to take college entrance exams where they live. We had been pushing for hukou reform, and with

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this initiative we found a new focal point. We had the four parents, who had made the initial call for help, work as volunteers with our team to collect signatures. Two years later, we collected more than 100,000 signatures, and organized petitions in front of the Ministry of Education on the last Thursday of every month. We also mobilized several thousand people’s representatives to submit proposals; we organized panel discussions of experts; we researched and drafted a plan for children living with their parents without a local hukou to take college entrance exams where they live, not where their hukous were; and we organized the “new Beijingers” to plant trees in parks. Two-and-a-half years on, we made a breakthrough when the Ministry of Education adopted a policy allowing youth to take the national entrance exams where they currently live, not where their hukous are. By the end of the year, twenty-nine provinces and municipalities implemented, or promised to implement, the policy. However, the Ministry of Education’s policy was met with obstacles in Beijing and Shanghai where tens of thousands of parent volunteers had worked the hardest to push for the policy, but in the end were denied of its benefits. I am deeply sorry for them. They’ve strived for three years under the slogan “abolish hukou restrictions for the national college exams by 2012,” but as they themselves put it, they “succeeded in liberating all of China except for ourselves!” We need to continue the fight against the last two fortresses. From the abolition of the Custody and Repatriation System, triggered by the Sun Zhigang case, that allowed millions upon millions of new immigrants to move away from home without fear of being captured and repatriated, to the equal education movement that enabled millions of children to attend schools where their parents work and live, we have labored for ten years to break the hukou segregation and to fight for the freedom and equality of new immigrants.

1 After the trumped-up “tax evasion” case in 2009, we registered a new company, although Gongmeng was still a legal entity. Regardless, such a name ceased to mean much any longer, for it was far from enough to have a small group of brave citizens. The pursuit of democracy and constitutionalism requires broad participation by as many people as possible. We gave up on the name Gongmeng, and began to use a name that’s not a name—Citizen. “Citizen” is the common identity of all who are pro-democracy, and it serves as an open platform that

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belongs to every citizen who shares the same aspiration for democracy and constitutionalism. In May 2012, we began to promote the “New Citizen Movement” in which we became real citizens working and moving forward together. We have been holding same-city dinner gatherings across China to meet, and exchange views with, each other; we push for democracy and rule of law through legal assistance and civil actions such as demanding that officials disclose personal assets. Through these collective activities, we want to grow to be a healthy force outside the existing structure and to help eventually transition China peacefully toward a constitutional civilization. It is a movement for social change, but more importantly, it is a political movement for democratic constitutionalism. We don’t shun politics; in a jungle-like society where power is uninhibited and corruption rife, conscience is politics. We strive to lay out a new path for the Chinese nation, a path toward liberty, justice, and love. Fear and hatred are the foundation on which tyranny has thrived, but overthrowing tyranny doesn’t necessarily mean the disappearance of its foundation. Until we dispel the fear and hatred that cloud over the deepest recesses of our hearts, we will not have a free and democratic China. We have been the opposition throughout the last ten years. We oppose authoritarianism, we oppose autocratic culture, and we oppose lies, false accusations, and unscrupulousness whether they are on the part of the power holders or anyone else. We have been pious builders promoting social progress and building rule of law and civil society rationally. In the Investigation on the Mechanism of Letters and Calls in China that we issued, we pointed out that the authoritarian system was the root of the petition problem, and recommended judiciary independence and initiation of political reform through direct election on the county level. In our Report on the Investigation over the Truth about the Death of Qian Yunhui, we published our findings that Qian’s death was a traffic accident despite overwhelming public opinion that believed otherwise, and criticized the unfair land policies that were the underlying causes of the incident. In our Legal Opinions Concerning Compensation for Personal Injury in the High-Speed Train Accident on July 23rd, we criticized the government for offering too little compensation, of RMB 500,000, and recommended compensation of over RMB 900,000. Public opinion forced the government to quickly accept our recommendation. In the equal education movement that fought against hukou segregation, our Plan for Children Living with Parents without Local Hukou to Take the National College Entrance Exam Locally has been accepted by most

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provinces and cities. Just before the ten citizens were arrested in Beijing, we had been preparing to draft a law concerning publishing officials’ personal assets. We are a group of responsible citizens. We oppose for the sake of building. For ten years we have persevered to build the foundation, next to the decaying palace of the dictatorship, for a lasting democracy and constitutionalism. In our fight for freedom over the last ten years, it has become a commonplace for many of us to lose our own freedom fighting for freedom of strangers. We are proud to be living in this era. From the “citizens’ rights movement” to the “new citizens movement,” we have been walking on the same road, the road of conscience, the road toward liberty, justice, and love. The last ten years have been years of progress. With the fireworks of the Olympics, China continued to mix with the world; new immigrants have settled down; high-speed trains have compressed time and space; the remotest villages began to have rudimentary social security coverage; and internet and communication technologies connect different civilizations. Over the last ten years, the goodness in human nature has been reviving in China, the market economy has been deconstructing totalitarianism, and an independent spirit has been sprouting bit by bit. Public opinion condemns barbaric demolition; ten thousand people came out to lay flowers at the site of a fire disaster in Shanghai. The “Red Cross” might be dead, but the conscience is growing. Over these ten years, the new contended with the old, but the old does not just go away: the custody and repatriation policy was gone, but there have been black jails. The Criminal Procedure Law was amended, but the little bit of judiciary independence was taken away. The Electoral Law of the National People’s Congress and Local People’s Congresses was amended, but during the 2011 election, the media as a whole was forced to keep their mouths shut. The gap between the rich and the poor has continued to widen, graft and privilege are more rampant than ever, and the chasm between the government and the people is growing ever greater and deeper. Entering 2013, China bid goodbye to the ten years of “raising no havoc” (Hu Jintao’s watchword) and arrived at the threshold of change. At the moment, the ten citizens have been arrested for advocating disclosure of officials’ assets, and the Citizen’s community in general is being dealt a new round of persecution. But on the other hand, more and more docile subjects are stepping out to become real citizens. I firmly believe that, after 2000 years of suppression and over 100 years of suf-

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fering, this is the time when the Chinese nation will be reborn for liberty, justice, and love. We have chosen a beautiful road worthy to be the pursuit of a lifetime. We’ll not turn away from it no matter how trying it is ahead. It is a new road, long and arduous, but it’s the only road leading to a bright future.

25 China’s Path June 2013

This is an era of change. China will inevitably become a modern civilized nation with democracy, rule of law, and constitutional government, and no one can stand in the way of the tide of history. The problem is to determine exactly what path to take to achieve true democracy and rule of law and how great the costs will be for the people as they follow this path that will lead from authoritarianism to democracy. Many people feel anxious about China’s future and worry that a sudden revolution will bring chaos and turmoil. The dictators often try to frighten the public by saying things like: “All hell will break loose if the Communist Party falls.” China’s transformation won’t follow the model of a “peasant uprising.” After more than three decades of modernization and urbanization, China’s rural elites have mostly all gone to live in the cities. Those who are left behind mostly don’t concern themselves with public affairs. Instead of the Internet, most of their information comes from the television—especially the nightly news broadcast and historical costume dramas. And since 2004, tax reform, agricultural subsidies, and medical insurance reform have brought rural residents a number of material benefits and their level of satisfaction is relatively high. Rural stability is a good thing, but China’s transition to constitutional government won’t be based in the villages. It won’t involve large-scale warfare, either. A number of the conditions that led the 1911 Revolution to evolve into military conflict are not applicable to contemporary China. First of all, at the end of the Qing actual power resided in local society, which maintained its own armies and could defy orders from the central government. Most people still 253

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thought of politics in terms of “emperors taking turns on the throne,” and the international order was primarily about “survival of the fittest.” Today, China’s military has basically rid itself of regional divisions, and it would be difficult for an authoritarian strongman to emerge from a bureaucracy that emphasizes mediocrity. The international environment has undergone major changes as well. No longer can revolution in any country lead to lasting and widespread humanitarian disaster. Thanks to the advances of human civilization, there’s no way that a revolution in China would be as terrifying as the traditional change of dynasties. China’s revolution will be led by urban people. Mobilization in the Internet age costs practically nothing. A kind of emotional consensus spreads quickly in response to emerging events, producing spontaneous collective actions. Revolution will erupt in the blink of an eye and will be unpredictable and difficult to defend against. No matter how imposing the “stability maintenance” system might be, in a society with a huge gap between rich and poor, intensifying conflict between the people and the government, and a cruel and arrogant bureaucracy, the fuse of revolution can be lit at any moment. When revolution suddenly breaks out it will be a major event for all humanity, one the whole world will watch closely via the Internet and news media. This will be useful to those urban people who take part in the revolution, making them feel that the civilized world is standing together with them. A lofty sense of hope will motivate people to consciously reject violence and take peaceful action. In a nation without an ironhanded dictator like Gaddafi, the revolution ought to be peaceful. However, kindness is not part of China’s longstanding authoritarian genes, so one can’t rule out the emergence of opportunists of various sorts and it could be difficult to prevent all bloody conflict. Even if the dictatorship falls very quickly, the establishment of a new constitutional order may be a very complicated process. Will the economy decline? Will the political system slip into ultra-leftism or ultra-rightism? Will the various political forces be unable to reach consensus, leading to continuing social turmoil? Will there be a power struggle between the legislature and the president that leads to military conflict? A century ago, much of this madness was acted out on the Chinese stage. Twenty years ago, some of it occurred in Russia as well. Part of what makes China’s transition more complicated than many other countries is the separation question for Tibet and Xinjiang, where there are deep historical grievances. For several decades, every incident of bloodshed in these places has added to the accumulation of hatred. The state’s use of military force to maintain unity is not a long-term

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solution, but everyone knows that independence is not a rational choice for either side. But the political control weakens at the beginning of the transition to democracy, and what can prevent the impulse to declare independence once historical wounds are ripped open? We cannot expect the authoritarian system to transform itself and promote China’s peaceful transition to constitutional government, even though we have never given up the hope that it would do so. There is no more future for reform of the authoritarian system. If there are insightful people within the Communist Party who hope to use the party’s current organizational system and human resources to carry out China’s democratic transition, they need to promote direct and free elections at all levels of government, with competition between political parties and a free press. In this free and competitive election, they need to create a brand-new political party. Even the name must change. This kind of political party will be completely different from an authoritarian political party. This is not reform; it’s complete transformation of oneself. That’s because the Communist Party is a huge organization with vested interests that has talked about political reform for three decades without making any real progress. No matter how much we might hope that the party will reform, we don’t dare wait any longer lest we miss the opportunity that history has granted the Chinese people. We can only pin our hopes on ourselves and on the citizens of our Chinese nation who dare to shoulder this historic responsibility. In order to get democracy running well in the shortest amount of time possible, China must have a relatively mature constructive political opposition. If such a force exists, then China’s political transition will be a peaceful one no matter how the authoritarian system departs the stage of history. We must become this kind of political force. When the moment for political transition arrives, a myriad of political organizations may appear overnight and quickly begin to ally with each other. In a small country, the transition to democracy can be achieved through temporary factional consolidation. But in a country as large and complex as China, such temporary factional alliances might not have enough moral force to lead a political transition. Moreover, China will be faced with transformation of not only its political system but also its political culture. In order to change such a strong authoritarian political mindset, it will be necessary to have an extremely powerful new political culture. It takes time for such a force to develop, and there will need to be people willing to serve and undertake the responsibility. So, we need to begin building a constructive political opposition in China right now. We aren’t organizing a secret society like they did in

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the old days. There’s no place for such things in modern society. Even if it were to grow big and strong, it wouldn’t necessarily bring China constitutional government. We don’t need any of the formal trappings of a political organization, either, like a platform or even a name, because these might give the dictators a way to attack us. What we need is a genuine political opposition, one whose mission goes well beyond that of ordinary political parties in democratic countries. Its mission will be to achieve China’s transition to constitutional government. Our New Citizen Movement is just this kind of effort. We call on everyone to personally begin acting as a citizen and advocate that citizens everywhere start building upon this common identification and spontaneously develop citizen organizations in their own cities. “Citizens” are free individuals, but they also form an integrated body, a citizen organization united together on behalf of a better politics for China. This grouping of citizens must possess a powerful moral strength. The American democratic system is not perfect, but the basic reason that it runs so well is that the Founding Fathers established a valuable ethos for democracy. The idealistic and noble image of men like Washington, Jefferson, and Hamilton has meant that anyone who wants to take part in politics must think twice before engaging in any sort of unscrupulous scheming. It is because of this valuable cultural tradition that politicians like Nixon, who used the machinery of state power to eavesdrop on his campaign opponents, became reviled outcasts. If those participating in the Chinese revolution lack the spirit of public service and use all of their efforts to secure personal gains, then even the most well-designed democracy will become a complete mess. The Chinese people might have to pay the price for several decades before eventually establishing a new tradition of civilized politics. If you want the public both to believe in and obey the rules of politics, you must first have a new set of beliefs and cultural practices. These beliefs and cultural practices don’t come from the rules themselves but, rather, from the force of morality. For a constitutional system to operate effectively, you need an initial driving force, a group of outstanding citizens to serve as models. This group of citizens must possess the highest personal integrity, reject the barbaric political logic of “to the victor go the spoils,” and struggle on behalf of a sincere dream for a free China, rather than any personal desires for power. We are working hard to develop this very kind of moral force. We serve society, defend freedom and justice, and take practical action to help those most in need of aid. We shoulder these responsibilities without fear of imprisonment, isolation, or hardship. We hold fast to con-

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science and our sense of justice as we take up this historical responsibility. In doing so, we let go of our egos, forget our worldly desires, and put aside our narrow selves as we contribute our God-given wisdom to society. As we promote China’s transition to civilized politics, we must embark on a brand-new path and steer carefully around the torrents and dangerous shoals of history. Ours is a new kind of conviction, one that matches up with our political ideals and can lead 1.3 billion Chinese to freedom and happiness. This is a path that transcends traditional politics. It must go beyond the brutal “turf battles” that have characterized our history and allow politics to return to its original value—public service. At this moment of historic transition, we need a mighty force capable of overcoming dictatorship and violence and forge a new national ideology. This is not the ideology of any particular political party but, rather, the ideology of an entire citizenry committed to establishing a modern, civilized China on the basis of freedom, justice, and love. This is a path of tolerance and reconciliation. There are too many historical grievances locked deep in our national memory. We need truth and justice during this historical transition, but we need tolerance and reconciliation even more. We must prevent our beautiful dreams for the future from being overshadowed by the hatred and upheaval that might come from knowing the truth about the past. If we face our history with sincerity, the new era of constitutional government will enable people to forgive the difficulties of the past. We will neither avoid nor forget the truth, but we must have a sense of compassion as we look back at the depth of our past. As we look back at the 20th century and reflect on the sources of our nation’s great suffering, we discover a great tragedy in which there were no victors—every role was tragic. We must recount that history with a sense of love and compassion and face our past shame with humility and remorse. What history tells us must not be the cause of new hatred but instead become the source of new love and gratitude. This is a path of love. Only love can enable us to bridge this crisis together. When long-accumulated social conflicts finally erupt, when the economy faces serious crisis, when frustrations and difficulties begin to spread, this nation will need a force that can bind people’s hearts together. That force is love, a strong faith that will enable us to go forward together, hand in hand. When years of accumulated hatreds erupt in our border regions, we can no longer rely on military force. No academic reasoning, bureaucratic procedures, or crafty political schem-

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ing will be of any significance. Only a force that is strong enough to overcome military force and hatred can cause the most virulent opponent to put down his weapons in shame. That force is love. We must overcome the hostility and hatred lying deep within ourselves. Only once all of our citizens have emerged from the haze of dictatorship can the people of our Chinese nation truly enjoy a future of freedom and peace.

26 Love Along China’s Borders July 3, 2013

There’s trouble in Xinjiang again. Violent incidents have been occurring more and more frequently over the past few years. As the armored vehicles gather in the public squares of Urumchi and the whole region is on high alert, shouldn’t we Chinese be asking ourselves why our border regions have become so ungovernable and what can we do about it? I traveled to Xinjiang in the summer of 2006. In front of a township government building in Altay, a Uyghur township cadre told me that the per capita annual income of local residents was a bit over 1,000 yuan. I never imagined that Xinjiang had places where the poverty was worse than in the most backwards villages of Henan! A classmate who worked in the courts in Xinjiang told me that there were places even more impoverished in the southern part of the region. When he was handling a case in Hotan, he saw families who truly did not have enough to eat. A Han taxi driver became scornful and hostile at my mention of Uyghurs. One evening when I visited Urumchi’s Grand Bazaar, I saw a group of three paramilitary police armed with machine guns and live ammunition who patrolled the area intensively. At that moment I realized how serious the problem of control had become in Xinjiang. When violence erupts so regularly in a place, there must be deeper social reasons for it than what we’re told about a handful of separatist terrorists and the seeds of hatred must have been planted by both sides. The core of the “three forces” that the government is always talking about is religious extremism, but extremism is a seed that can be found in societies throughout the world. Whether that seed germinates and grows depends on the climate and soil of the surrounding society, whereas poverty, injustice, ignorance, and fear serve as fertilizer. 259

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We’re told that over the past three years in Xinjiang, “more than 96 percent of separatist and terrorist activity has been eliminated at the initial planning stages or prior to being carried out,” whereas the media has openly reported on at least 10 cases that have been carried out. In other words, over those three years there were at least 250 terrorist attacks carried out or planned in Xinjiang. Clearly, the seed of religious extremism has already germinated, showing that Xinjiang has some of the best climate and soil for this kind of thing anywhere in the world. Per capita GDP in resource-rich Xinjiang is below the national average. In the name of developing China’s western regions, monopolistic state enterprises have taken away a great deal of petroleum and minerals while the region’s original inhabitants feel that they’re being treated unfairly in areas like employment opportunities and means to achieve prosperity. Even though the government has employed many measures to increase opportunity and wealth among ethnic minorities, language difficulties, cultural differences, and personal relationships have put ethnic minorities at a disadvantage compared to Han when it comes to market competition. In nearly every country where there are great regional differences, it is common to see conflicts between original residents and new immigrants during periods of rapid economic development, and younger generations angry about unfairness can become a hotbed for extremism. The party-state’s top-down power structure is incapable of resolving injustices and even intensifies some of the anger and feelings of injustice. In this respect, Xinjiang’s problem is part of a larger national problem. Officials are appointed to power by those above them, and they use the excuse of “preserving stability” to cover up their privileges and corruption. Corrupt officials take some government aid for themselves, while another portion is used to fund projects designed to make them look good. The ordinary public gets too little of a share, and the gap between rich and poor is even greater than it is in the rest of China. These officials are often arrogant and awkward and have no desire to show genuine concern for the public. They suppress religious freedom and typically resolve problems in a simplistic and crude manner. They lack all personality and charisma and are unable to connect with the public or resolve conflicts. Since the July 5 Incident in 2009, there has been less and less interaction between ordinary Han and Uyghur families, and the bureaucracy treats conflicts over governance as ethnic conflicts, making Xinjiang seem further and further away from China. Tibet is facing similar problems. The seeds of enmity have already been sown, but because of Tibetans’ extremely kind-hearted religion,

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they don’t kill others but only set themselves on fire. Every monastery and almost every household secretly keeps a portrait of the Dalai Lama, who is publicly condemned by local officials as a “wolf in human form.” From the top down, a bunch of officials whose livelihood relies on “stability preservation” carry out beautiful vanity projects, and corruption and injustice far surpasses that in the rest of China. Even more serious than the lack of freedom and justice is the lack of love. From antiquity, an inheritance of imperialist ideas, control through military outposts, and the imperative for “stability preservation” has led people to see the border regions as being inhabited by foreign peoples. Those who try to prevent the violent crimes of extremists don’t feel any sense of sympathy or hope for salvation but rather hostility and hatred. Tens of trillions of yuan in economic aid is not provided out of concern for the poor but rather serves as an empty economic figure. When Uyghurs peddling fruitcake on the streets threaten and extort their customers, the police don’t impose a just punishment but instead let them be while their own hearts are filled with scorn and hostility. The affirmative action policies intended to look after ethnic minorities haven’t shown any true concern for the disadvantaged but instead create mutual dissatisfaction between Han and minorities. In order to reduce their headaches, police throughout China force guesthouses to refuse Uyghur and Tibetan travelers. During security inspections, officers repeatedly scrutinize people with IDs from Xinjiang or Tibet, and front-desk staff at guesthouses look askance at guests from those regions. If they aren’t being given the stick, they’re being offered carrots. With no love in people’s hearts, there’s no one to listen to their yearning for freedom and dignity. With China’s border regions remaining so tense after sixty years, isn’t this a clear sign that state policies of control have failed? Hatred is tearing this country apart. As a Chinese idealist, I’m not willing to see Tibet and Xinjiang part from China. We’ve not only lost the hearts and minds of the people living there; we’ve also allowed for deep resentments to develop. Now, more than ever, it is time for some serious reflection. As the tide of modernity washes over us, our traditional model of controlling the border regions through suppression is out of date. From ancient times until today, there have been two basic types of stability: one is absolute dictatorship that completely does away with protest and the other is based on freedom and democracy. The period of the greatest instability is the transitional period from dictatorship to freedom. You give people hope for freedom (technically speaking, autonomy) but in

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reality use repression. However, that repression is kept in check by the international community, rule of law, and human rights. China cannot go back to the model of absolute dictatorship. Whether you’re talking about controlling its border regions with an iron fist or through softer means, restricted dictatorship is a catalyst for separatism. We can only move toward the model of freedom and democracy and build a modern, unified country on the basis of full respect and protection of individual freedoms. Democracy and constitutional government are inevitable for China. Repeated conflicts in our border regions are, to some extent, a consequence of a decaying dictatorship. The period of transition to democracy is the time when the border areas are most likely to secede. If Xinjiang splits away and becomes independent because the state has lost control, things might get even more violent than in Chechnya. For the central government, the biggest danger is passivity. If they want to avoid the kind of division that occurred at the end of the Soviet Union, they must have a historical and strategic vision, clearly understand China’s direction, and take the initiative to carry out a change of the model of control. One idea would be to make Tibet and Xinjiang a testing ground for political reform in China and let the process of reform proceed more quickly there so that they become a special region something like Hong Kong. The problem of Tibet is easier to resolve, at least while the Dalai Lama is still alive. All it takes is to negotiate with His Holiness; establish a clear separation between state and religion; reserve the powers over national defense, foreign affairs, currency, judiciary, and administrative division for the central government; initiate local democratic self-rule; invite the Dalai Lama to return to Tibet and realize ethnic harmony; and hold democratic elections to determine the government and legislature at all levels in Tibet. In Xinjiang, we can promote democratization under controlled order. This would involve firmly opposing all violence and lifting restrictions on freedoms of speech, assembly, association, and demonstration. At the same time, we must prohibit speech that incites separatism or ethnic hatred, hold elections beginning at the township and county levels, reform the taxation system so that more revenue from economic and natural resources and trade remains available for local use, and provide state compensation to the victims of all of history’s violent incidents in order to promote ethnic harmony. But even more important than changing our model of control is changing our hearts.

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Those people who self-immolate for the sake of freedom and their beliefs act as brave warriors on behalf of their ethnic group. Those extremists who kill ordinary people must be stopped, but a healthy society should see them as ill and not enemies. After the shootings at Virginia Tech, people gathered to mourn all of the dead, including the killer. His mind had been clouded by ignorance and hatred. He needed the salvation of love. How can we possibly love terrorists who cruelly slaughter innocents? Chen Shuizong, who killed dozens of ordinary people on a Xiamen bus, ought to be considered a classic example of a terrorist, but many people actually came to feel sympathy once they saw the final words he left on Weibo and understood the social injustice he’d experienced. This is a kind of love. Similarly, if we understood the life experiences of those who carry out terrorist attacks and listen closely to the anger and despair felt by those young men in their twenties and thirties, then perhaps much of the hatred in our hearts would begin to melt away. There are no monsters among us in the world who act out of evil intentions. All individual actions proceed from some kind of belief in their appropriateness. For example, those who carry out terrorist attacks may believe that they are opposing oppression and fighting for national independence. We should oppose extremism, but we mustn’t demonize or harbor hatred. It is necessary to use force to prevent violent attacks, but the state should prevent crime, not engage in hatred or revenge. It should redeem souls. It’s not hypocrisy to try to prevent crime with a sympathetic and redemptive heart. This is standing on a higher point of civilization. This world will never be perfect. Even in countries with healthy rule of law and democracy, there will still be social problems that lie behind the most bigoted and extremist expression, like inequality or a lack of love. There will be some sympathy for the most bigoted extremists, and the more serious society’s problems are, the more sympathy there will be. No matter how much you try to isolate them through propaganda, you cannot totally separate extremists from their communities. As soon as the state treats them as enemies and declares war on them, it will turn their many sympathizers and supporters into enemies as well, resulting in more and more enemies. A truly strong authority has no enemies. To eradicate the soil that nurtures extremism, you must mobilize a force more powerful than violence or money: that force is love. Only love can dissolve hate. To love Xinjiang and Tibet is not simply about loving those vast and beautiful lands. Even more, it means

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loving the people there, listening seriously to their aspirations, and respecting their freedom and rights, their beliefs and traditions. I hope that those in power can get rid of their old thinking in terms of friends and enemies and their old strategies for controlling border regions and instead allow genuine love to dissolve the hatred that has accumulated over history. True national unity is a unity of people’s hearts. The only way to achieve harmony among ethnic groups and national unity is for those in power to eliminate all hatred from their hearts and start facing the most extreme terrorist attackers directly and listen seriously to their voices. I hope that as local officials introduce new industrialization, build highways, launch projects to promote peace and prosperity for the people, and promote construction of an ecological civilization, they ask themselves how much love is in these projects. Projects to improve the people’s livelihood are not about “preserving stability” or scoring points for achievements while in office. They’re about love, about helping those poor people in the remote deserts of Hotan who don’t have enough to eat, the farmers of the Korla oilfields who’ve lost their land, the wayward juvenile delinquents who wander the streets, the believers of “illegal” religious groups, and the killers whose souls have been clouded by hatred. It’s all about listening to their heartfelt words and making an effort to show them love. No matter how much economic assistance you offer or hard work you put in, people won’t necessarily be convinced by you. But if you give them love, you give them everything. Love is also the responsibility of each and every citizen. Love is a show of gratitude for Alim, the hero who funded the educations of hundreds of impoverished students. Love is appreciation for the beautiful songs and pure spirits originating in the plateaus. Love is respect for the devout faith of each person. Love is a greeting, a sincere smile to the Uyghurs and Tibetans around us. Love is concern, a delicious meal for the wayward juvenile delinquents and a sincere admonition to return to school. Love is pity and not demonization of the extremist killers filled with hate, because we understand that their illness is caused by poverty, injustice, ignorance, and narrow-mindedness. It’s difficult to ask some Han Chinese in Xinjiang to love everybody, especially those who have felt the threat of or been harmed by terrorism. But I will keep saying that we should love everyone. This country belongs to all of us, and all of us bear responsibility for hatred rooted in history and the current state of injustice. Xinjiang is your shared home, and the seeds of misunderstanding and hatred have been

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sown by both sides. Open up your hearts! Offer your neighbor a smile or two or even three. One day, you’ll eventually get a smile in return. In a land where resentments run deep and people have erected barriers between their souls, perhaps my call for love today sounds like a bunch of idealistic nonsense. But this is what everyone wishes for at the bottom of their hearts. China will change—I’m certain of it.

27 For Freedom, Justice, and Love: My Closing Statement to the Court January 22, 2014

You have accused me of disrupting public order for my efforts to push for rights to equal access to education, to allow children of migrant workers to sit for university entrance examinations where they reside, and for my calls that officials publicly declare their assets. While on the face of it, this appears to be an issue of the boundary between a citizen’s right to free speech and public order, what this is, in fact, is the issue of whether or not you recognize a citizen’s constitutional rights. On a still deeper level, this is actually an issue of fears you all carry within: fear of a public trial, fear of a citizen’s freedom to observe a trial, fear of my name appearing online, and fear of the free society nearly upon us. By trying to suppress the New Citizen Movement, you are obstructing China on its path to becoming a constitutional democracy through peaceful change. And while you have not mentioned the New Citizen Movement throughout this trial, many of the documents presented here relate to it, and in my view there is no need to avoid the issue; to be able to speak openly of this is pertinent to the betterment of Chinese society. What the New Citizen Movement advocates is for each and every Chinese national to act and behave as a citizen, to accept our roles as citizens and masters of our country—and not to act as feudal subjects, remain complacent, accept mob rule or a position as an underclass. To take seriously the rights which come with citizenship, those written into the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and China’s Constitution: to treat these sacred rights—to vote, to freedom of speech and religion— as more than an everlasting IOU. 267

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And also to take seriously the responsibilities that come with citizenship, starting with the knowledge that China belongs to each and every one one of us, and to accept that it is up to us to defend and define the boundaries of conscience and justice. What the New Citizens Movement calls for is civic spirit that consists of freedom, justice, and love: individual freedom, freedom without constraint that brings true happiness, will always be the goal of both state and society; justice, that which defines the limit of individual freedom, is also what ensures fairness and preserves moral conscience; and love, be it in the form of kindness, tolerance, compassion or dedication, is our most precious emotion and the source of our happiness. Freedom, justice, and love, these are our core values and what guides us in action. The New Citizen Movement advocates a citizenship that begins with the individual and the personal, through small acts making concrete changes to public policy and the encompassing system; through remaining reasonable and constructive, pushing the country along the path to democratic rule of law; by uniting the Chinese people through their common civic identity, pursuing democratic rule of law and justice; forming a community of citizens committed to freedom and democracy; growing into a civil society strengthened by healthy rationalism. Common to all those who identify themselves as citizens are the shared notions of constitutional democracy, of freedom, of equality and justice, of love, and faith. Because taken as a whole, civic groups are not the same as an organization as defined in the authoritarian sense, having neither leader nor hierarchy, orders or obedience, discipline or punishment, and in contrast are based fully on the volunteer coming together of free citizens. It’s through acts of pushing for system reforms that geographically dispersed groups of citizens are able to grow spontaneously into their own, and by acting to hold authorities accountable and pushing for political reforms, establishment of democratic rule of law, and advances in society, that civil groups are able to grow in a healthy way. Pushing for equal access to education, the right for children of migrant workers to sit for university entrance exams where they live, and calling on officials to disclose their assets, these are civic acts carried out in precisely this sense. The push for equal access to education rights particularly for children of migrant workers was a three-year-long action we initiated in late 2009. Prior to that, we had received a series of requests for help from parents, and it was then we realized the severity of this social issue. More than 200 million people across China had relocated to urban areas

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to live and work but found themselves unable to enjoy equality where they lived despite being taxpayers. Far more serious was learning that their children were unable to study or take university entrance examinations in their new places of residence, leaving no choice but to send them thousands of miles away back to their permanent registered addresses in order to receive an education, resulting in millions of Chinese children being left behind. While many feel concern for the fate of left-behind children, rarely do they realize the best help they can offer is to tear down the wall of household registration–based segregation, allowing the children to return to their parents. Our action consisted of three phases. The first took place over the first half of 2010, with petitions to education authorities in Haidian district and across Beijing, through deliberations to allow nonlocal students to continue their studies in Beijing as they entered high school. The second phase, which lasted from July 2010 to August 2012, consisted of petitions to the Ministry of Education to change policies to allow nonlocal children of migrant workers to take university entrance examinations locally. The third phase took place between September 2012 until the end of the year. It focused on pressing the Beijing Education Commission to implement new policies issued by the Ministry of Education. To that end, we gathered signatures and expanded our volunteer team of parents, and on the last Thursday of each month, we approached the Education authorities to petition. We submitted our recommendations and we consulted experts to research actionable changes to policies regarding educational paths for nonlocal children of migrant workers. We wrote thousands of letters to National People’s Congress delegates, making calls and arranging meetings, urging them to submit proposals during the two annual parliamentary sessions. During the Two Sessions in 2011, the Minister of Education said in one interview that policy changes for nonlocal children were then being drafted. During the Two Sessions in 2012, the Education minister promised publicly at a press conference that changes to university entrance examinations for nonlocal migrant children would be released sometime in the first half of the year, and provincial education authorities would be required to draft implementation plans over the second half of 2012. By June 28, 2012, a scheduled day for parent volunteers to continue petition work, the Ministry of Education had yet to issue any formal response. Parents decided then and there that they would return the fol-

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lowing Thursday if by the end of the month the Ministry of Education failed to issue the new policy as it had promised. This led to the July 5th petitioning. In August, the Ministry of Education finally released a new policy regarding university entrance examination eligibility for children of non-local migrant workers, along with an order for local education authorities to draft implementation strategies. By the end of 2012, twenty-nine provinces and cities across China released plans to implement the policy except for Beijing. One parent joked bitterly that after a three-year struggle they had managed to liberate all of China, just not themselves. I could see the tears behind the joke, because it meant that their own children would have to leave and take up studies in a strange place, in a possibly life-changing move. As idealists, we were able to win a policy allowing children of migrant workers to continue their studies and remain with their parents, and yet the main impetus behind this change, the parents who lived and worked in Beijing without Beijing hukou, had not been able to secure for their own children the chance of an equal education. I felt I let all of them down, and many of them grew disheartened. I was compelled to go out and, standing at subway station entrances, hand out fliers calling for one last petitioning effort on February 28, 2013. In the two petitioning events, one on July 5, 2012 and the other on February 28, 2013, we the citizens went to the education authority, or a government office, not a public place in a legal sense, to make an appeal. China’s Criminal Law is very clear on the definition of public spaces, and government buildings, locations of organizations, and public roads are not among them. Therefore our activities do not constitute disruption of order in a public place. Over the past three years, our activities have remained consistently moderate and reasonable. Certain parents did get emotional or agitated during the July 5th petition, and the reason was that the Ministry of Education failed to live up to its own publicly-issued promise, nor did it provide any explanation. Yet despite this, their so-called agitation was merely the shouting of a few slogans, demanding a dialog with the Minister of Education, rather understandable considering they had gathered 100,000 signatures, behind which stand the interests of 200 million new urban immigrants. And the response they got? Take a look at the photos of the scene. One parent who goes by the online alias “Dancing” was taken away by police pulling her hair. Was there no other way to escort her away? Was

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she exhibiting extreme behavior? Had she ever done anything provocative in the past three years? No, never! It hurts whenever I think of the event. We had pursued a very simple goal for three years, our approaches had been so reasonable, but we were assaulted with such viciousness. There were police officers who, with a prepared list of names in hand, sought them out and beat them. In spite of what happened, I told them, over and over again, that they must stay calm and that we can’t stoop to their level. This society needs a renewed sense of hope, and we can’t behave like them. The right to an equal education, the right to take a university examination where you live, these are concepts that the New Citizens Movement encompasses. Starting with changes to specific public policies and concrete system changes, in this case, for the freedom of movement, for justice, for love. When China established the household registration system, or hukou, in 1958, it created two separate worlds: one rural, one urban. In 1961, China established the system of custody and repatriation. From then on, anyone born in a rural area who wanted to find work and try a new life in the city could be arrested and forcibly returned home at any time. In Beijing in 2002 alone, 220,000 were detained and repatriated. In 2003, the custody and repatriation system was abolished, but it remained a long road for new urban arrivals to integrate with the city. In 2006, we discovered through our research in Beijing that there still existed as many as nineteen discriminatory policies against non-local permanent residents, the most inhumane of them being the very policy that prevented children from living with their parents and receiving an education. We worked tirelessly for three years to win children the right to take the university entrance examination locally while living with their migrated parents. During the three years, I witnessed equal education campaign volunteers brave bitter winters and scorching summers at subway entrances, on roadsides and in shopping malls to collect more than 100,000 signatures with contact information included. I witnessed several hundred parents standing in the courtyard outside the Letters and Petition Office of the Ministry of Education and reciting their Declaration of Equal Access to Education. I witnessed several hundred parents and children planting trees in Qinglong Lake Park on the Clear and Bright Day in 2012. Everyone wore caps bearing the same slogan: “Live in Beijing, love Beijing.” I also witnessed the taping of a program on Phoenix TV where a little girl sobbed because she could not bear to leave her mother and father

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in Beijing where she grew up to go back to a strange place where her hukou is to go to school. In a hutong in Di’anmen, I witnessed Zhang Xudong, a top eighth grader at Guozijian Secondary School, who was forced to go to a completely strange county high school in Zhangjiakou after graduating from middle school to continue his education just because he did not have Beijing hukou. A year later, ill-adjusted in language, environment and textbooks, he dropped out. He became withdrawn, not the happy boy he once was anymore. His parents have worked for nearly thirty years in Beijing but they are forever outsiders and second-class citizens in this city. When I think of the hundreds of millions of children whose fates were permanently decided by the hukou segregation, of generation after generation of Chinese people who have been hurt by this evil system, of the countless Chinese who died in the custody and repatriation system, today I stand here as a defendant, filled with no grudges but pride for having worked to eliminate the segregation system with Chinese characteristics and for having fought for millions of children to be able to live with their parents and go to school. The calls on officials to publicly declare their assets, these are our efforts to push the country to establish an anticorruption mechanism. More than 137 countries and territories around the world currently have systems in place for officials to declare assets, so why can’t China? What exactly is it these “public servants” fear so much? Excessive greed and undeserved wealth do not just bring luxuries, but also a deepseated fear and insecurity, as well as public anger and enmity. When we go online to collect signatures and distribute promotional materials, or unfurl banners on the street, all to call on officials to publicly declare their assets, we are at the same time exercising our civic rights to free speech provided for in the Constitution. Our actions did not violate the rights of any other person, nor did they bring harm to society. While the speech delivered in Xidan has a few strong words, as a speech about public policy, they did not exceed the limits of free speech provided for by the Constitution and the law. It is a normal occurrence in a modern, civilized society for citizens to express their political views by displaying banners, giving speeches and taking other actions in public venues. Law enforcement agencies can be present to monitor and take precautionary measures, but they should not abuse their power or interfere. In fact, when banners were displayed at the west gate of Tsinghua University, Zhongguancun Square, and other places where no police officers were present, they

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caused no disorder, nor did they hinder any other people’s rights. They left after displaying banners. This conforms to our idea of a “flash action.” It had taken consideration of China’s reality and Chinese society’s tolerance capacity. We took quick actions in small groups, instead of larger gatherings, to make these public expressions. Of course we hope that the sacred rights enshrined in the Constitution will be realized, but reform requires stability and social progress requires gradual advancement. As responsible citizens, we must adopt a gradualist approach when exercising our constitutionally guaranteed rights and when advancing the process towards democracy and rule of law. Over the last ten years, we consistently pushed for progress through peaceful means, and we tried to effect change in specific policies through involvement in public incidents. We did so for the sake of freedom, justice, love, and for the sake of our long-held dreams. In 2003, the custody and repatriation system was abolished but not without Sun Zhigang paying the price of his life for it. We, as legal professionals, made every effort in the process and we recommended, in our role as citizens, constitutional review on the custody and repatriation system. For the past decade we have continued to strive to win equal rights for new migrants in cities, resulting in the introduction in 2012 of a new policy allowing migrant children to take university entrance exams where they have relocated with their parents. We provided legal assistance to victims of grave injustices, such as the victims of melamine-tainted milk powder and the high-speed rail accident. In 2008 when the Sanlu milk powder scandal broke, we brought together a team of lawyers and calculated the number of victims based on media reports. We proposed fair compensation schemes in accordance with the law, while working with the victims to successfully push the issuance of a government-led settlement plan. However, the government compensation package was far from adequate for the damages suffered by many children. For instance, the cost of an operation for one child was nearly 100,000 yuan, and the compensation he received was only 30,000 yuan. So we continued to seek redress for the more than 400 children we had represented, bringing lawsuits all the way to the Supreme People’s Court, to more than a hundred courts across China, and to a court in Hong Kong. In July, 2009, when I was thrown in jail for the so-called “Gongmeng tax evasion” and when people from all

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walks of life made donations to help pay the fine imposed on Gongmeng, our volunteers in the south were sending a settlement of one million yuan to the home of a baby victim. I am forever proud of that moment, and we will not give up our promise to the disempowered even when we ourselves are in trouble. We have spent many winters out on the streets delivering coats, blankets, and steamed buns to the poor and homeless petitioners so that they would not die of hunger or cold silently in this bustling city. Petitioning is rights defense with Chinese characteristics. In a society like ours comprised of relationships that belie privilege, corruption and injustice, to step forward in defense of one’s rights and dignity is something only the most stubborn of us dare do. But this small minority, when gathered in the nation’s capital, number in the tens of thousands. They get driven out of Beijing, or illegally detained, or beaten. In Beijing alone, there are more than forty black jails—and we’ve verified the numbers—that have been used to illegally detain people. When we visited these black jails and reported the crime taking place, showing the specific laws it violated, we were humiliated and beaten by those guarding them. Time and time again, I feel proud for sharing a little bit of their suffering. Having chosen to stand alongside the powerless, we have witnessed far too much injustice, suffering, and misfortune over the past decade. However, we still embrace the light in our hearts and push for the country’s progress in rational and constructive ways. After proposing review on the unconstitutionality of the custody and repatriation system, we researched and drafted new measures to better manage beggars and the homeless. We pushed the educational equality campaign. We drafted a proposal for migrant workers’ children to take college entrance exams locally and our draft was adopted by most provinces and cities. For our call for disclosure of officials’ assets, we even drafted a “Sunlight Bill” in March 2013. Raising an issue is not enough; solutions must be found. To oppose is to construct, for we are citizens of a new era, we are citizens responsible to our country, and we love China. Unfortunately, you regard the existence and growth of these citizens as heresy and something to fear. You say we harbored political purposes. Well we do, and our political purpose is very clear, and it is a China with democracy, rule of law, freedom, justice, and love. What we want is not to fight to gain power, or barbaric politics by any means; but good politics, a good cause for public welfare, a cause for all citizens to govern the country together. Our mission is not to gain

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power but to restrict power. We aim to establish a modern and civilized system of democracy and rule of law and lay a foundation for a noble tradition of politics so that later generations can enjoy fairness, justice, freedom, and happiness. Good politics is a result of true democracy and rule of law. On every level, the government and the legislature must be elected by the people. The power to govern should not come from the barrel of a gun but through votes. Under true democracy and rule of law, politics should be carried out within the rule of law. Political parties should compete fairly and only those that win in free and fair elections are qualified to govern. Under true democracy and rule of law, state powers are scientifically separated and mutually subject to checks and balances; the judiciary is independent and judges abide by the law and conscience. Under true democracy and rule of law, the military and the police are state organs and should not become the private property of any political party or vested interest group. Under true democracy and rule of law, the media is a social organ and should not be monopolized to be the mouthpiece of any political party or vested interest group. Under true democracy and rule of law, the constitution stipulates and actualizes sacred civil rights, including the right to vote, freedom of speech and freedom of belief. The promise of people’s power should not be a lie. These modern democratic values and measurements are rooted in common humanity. They should not be Eastern or Western, socialist or capitalist, but universal to all human societies. Democracy is the knowledge to solve human problems. Our ancestors did not discover this knowledge. We should thus be humble and learn from others. Over the past thirty years, China introduced the system of market economy with free competition which brought economic prosperity. Similarly, China needs to introduce a democratic and constitutional system to solve the injustices of our current society. The social injustice is intensifying in China. The greatest social injustice concerns political rights, which lie at the heart of other forms of injustice. The root of many serious social problems can be traced to the monopoly of all political powers and economic lifelines by a privileged interest group, and China’s fundamental problem is the problem of democratic constitutionalism. Anticorruption campaigns are waged year after year, but corruption has become more and more rampant over the course of the last sixty

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some years. Without democratic elections, press freedom, and judicial independence, a clean government is not possible under a regime of absolute power. The people’s livelihood is emphasized year after year, yet hundreds of millions of people still live below the internationally defined poverty line. In remote and mountainous areas, corrupt officials even embezzle the subsistence allowances of only 100 yuan a month for the extremely poor. The wealth gap between the elites and the general public is everwidening. Hostility towards government officials and the wealthy is, in essence, hostility towards the power monopoly that perches high above. Tens of thousands of families toil and worry about their children’s basic education, looking for connections to pay bribes just for kindergarten enrollment. How has the society become so rotten? Humans are political animals, in need of more than a full stomach and warm clothes. Humans also need freedom, justice, and participation in governance of their own country. You say the National People’s Congress is China’s highest body of power, then again you say this highest body of power answers to the Party. If the country’s basic political system is such an open lie, how is it possible to build a society that values trust? You say the judiciary is just and that courts hold open trials, then you arrange for unrelated people to come occupy seats reserved for observers in the courtroom. If even the courts resort to such unscrupulousness, where can people expect to find justice? It should surprise no one that people wear frozen masks in their dealings with one another, and that whether to help a fallen elderly person can become a lasting debate. There is toxic baby formula, kilns using child slaves, and every sort of social ill imaginable, yet the perpetrators haven’t had the slightest bit of guilt or shame, and they think this is just how society is. China’s biggest problem is falsehood, and the biggest falsehood is the country’s political system and its political ideology. Are you able to even explain clearly what socialism entails? Is or is not the National People’s Congress the highest authority? Political lies know no bounds in this country, and 1.3 billion people suffer deeply from it as a result. Suspicion, disappointment, confusion, anger, helplessness, and resentment are norms of life. Truly, politics affects each and every one of us intimately. We cannot escape politics, we can only work to change it. Power must be caged by the system, and the authoritarian top-down politics must change. I sincerely hope that

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those in power will find a way to integrate with the trends of human civilization, and take an active role in pushing for political reforms and adopt the civilized politics of a constitutional democracy, therein realizing the hundred-year-old Chinese dream of empowering the people through peaceful reforms. More than a century ago, China missed an opportunity to turn into a constitutional democracy through peaceful transition, sending the Chinese nation into a protracted struggle marked by revolution, turmoil, and suffering. The Republic of China, with its hopes for a market economy and democratic system, didn’t last long before totalitarian politics were revived and reached extremes during the Cultural Revolution. Following the Cultural Revolution, China’s economic reforms led to a model of incremental reforms in which social controls were relaxed but the old system and its interests remained untouched, although new spaces created by the market slowly eroded the old system as reforms were laid out. Political reforms in China could rely on a similar model, one in which the old system and its interests stay in place as social controls are relaxed and democratic spaces outside the system are permitted to grow in a healthy direction. A model such as this would actually prove a valuable path for China to follow. We have built a community of citizens, and rationally, remaining responsible to the country, taken the first small step. You need not fear the New Citizens Movement. We are a new era of citizens, completely free of the earmarks of authoritarian ideology such as courting enemies, scheming for power, or harboring thoughts to overthrow or strike down. Our faith is in freedom, justice, and love, of pushing to advance society through peaceful reforms and healthy growth in the light of day—not acts of conspiracy, violence, or other barbaric models. The mission of civil groups is not to exist as an opposition party, although the creation of a constitutional democracy is inevitable for a future China built on civilized politics. Our mission is shared by all progressives in China, to work together to see China through the transition to civilized politics. The New Citizens Movement is a movement of political transformation leading to democratic rule of law, as well as a cultural movement for the renewal of political and cultural traditions. A constitutional democracy needs a fertile bed of civilized politics in order to function, and it’s our collective anticipation and faith which serves as such a soil bed.

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At the same time that our country’s citizens seek faith in healthy politics, unscrupulous and barbaric politics must also be forever cast out from the deep recesses of each and every soul. This calls for a group of upstanding citizens to bravely take on such a responsibility, sacrificing ego to become model citizens. Each and every Chinese person shares this responsibility. This is my responsibility. Having been born on this land, I need no reason to love this country; it’s because I love China that I want her to be better. I choose to be a peaceful reformer, carrying on with the century-old but unfinished mission of our forebears, advocating an unwavering commitment to nonviolence just as I advocate freedom, justice, and love, and advocate peaceful reform as the path toward constitutional democracy. Although I possess the means to live a superior life within this system, I feel ashamed of privilege in any form. I choose to stand with the weak and those deprived of their rights, sharing with them the bitter cold of a Beijing winter the way it feels from the street or an underground tunnel, shouldering together the barbaric violence of the black jail. God created both the poor and the wealthy, but keeps them apart not so we can reject or despise one another, but in order for mutual love to exist, and it was my honor to have the chance to walk alongside petitioners on their long road to justice. My decision comes at a time when my child has just been born, when my family needs me most, and when I yearn to be there by their side. After years now of witnessing the bitter struggles of the innocent and downtrodden, I remain unable to control my own sorrow—or, try as I might, to remain silent. I now finally accept judgment and purgatory as my fate, because for freedom, justice, and love, the happiness of people everywhere, for the glory of the Lord, all this pain, I am willing. This is our responsibility as a citizen group. In a servile society prone widely to submission, there will always need to be someone to be the first to stand up, to face the risks and pay the price for social progress. We are those Chinese people ready now to stand, with utmost concern for the future and destiny of the motherland, for democratic rule of law, justice, and for the dignity and well-being of the weak and marginalized. We are kind and pure of heart, loathe to conspire and deceive, and we yearn for freedom and a simpler, happier life. We strive to serve society, and help those most in need, pushing for better society.

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Bravely, we assume this responsibility, ready to forgo our privilege and secular interests—even at the cost of our freedom—to stay true to our ideals. Ready to put aside our egos with no thought of personal gain or loss, we respect the rights and boundaries of others, facing all beings with humility. Such is the responsibility now upon you judges and prosecutors. Your responsibility is fidelity to the law and your conscience, to uphold the baseline of social justice, to neither be reduced to a lowly cog in this bureaucratic system nor debase the sanctity of rule of law. Do not say you’re constrained by the bigger picture, because the bigger picture in China is not an order from above, but the letter of the law. Do not say you merely follow the logic of laws as you sentence me, and do not forget those sacred rights afforded all by law. Do not say this is just your job, or that you’re innocent, because each and every one of us is ultimately responsible for our own actions and we must at all times remain faithful to our own conscience. As a society with a history of rule by man that stretches back centuries, the law in China serves a very distinct purpose. Regardless of acting as a defendant, a juror, or a legal scholar, I have always remained true to the idea of justice and I behoove you to do the same. It has always been my hope China’s legal community will undergo an awakening of conscience, that you judges can gain the same amount of respect afforded your counterparts overseas, and it is my hope an awakening of conscience will begin with you. Those of you watching this trial from behind the scenes, or those awaiting for orders and reports back, this is also your responsibility. Don’t take pains to preserve the old system simply because you have vested interests in it; no one is safe under an unjust system. When you see politics as endless shadows and reflections of daggers and swords, as blood falling like rain with its smell in the wind, you have too much fear in your hearts. So I have to tell you the times have changed, that a new era of politics is afoot in which the greatest strength in society is not violence but love. Fear not democracy or loss of privilege, and fear not open competition nor the free society now taking shape. You may find my ideas too far-out, too unrealistic, but I believe in the power of faith, and in the power of the truth, compassion, and beauty that exists in the depths of the human soul, just as I believe human civilization is advancing mightily like a tide. This is the shared responsibility of us 1.3 billion Chinese. Dynasties, likes political parties, all pass with time, but China will always be

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China just as we are all Chinese. It’s our responsibility to build a bright future for the country. Our China is destined to become the greatest country in the world, possessing the most advanced technology, the most prosperous economy, the greatest ability to defend equality and justice throughout the world, and the most magnificent culture to spearhead human civilization. But that’s a China that cannot exist under authoritarian rule. Ours is a China that will only exist once constitutional democracy is realized, a China that is democratic, free and governed through rule of law. Allow us to think together what we can do for our country, because only then can we create a bright future. This country lacks freedom, but freedom requires each of us to fight for it; this society lacks justice, which requires each of us to defend it; this society lacks love, and it’s up to each and every one of us to light that fire with our truth. Allow us to take our citizenship seriously, to take our civil rights seriously, to take our responsibilities as citizens seriously, and to take our dreams of a civil society seriously; let us together defend the baseline of justice and our conscience, and refuse without exception all orders to do evil from above, and refuse to shove the person in front of you just because you were shoved from behind. The baseline lies beneath your feet just as it lies beneath all our feet. Together, let’s use love to reawaken our dormant conscience, break down those barriers between our hearts, and with our love establish a tradition for the Chinese people of noble and civilized politics. Here in absurd posttotalitarian China I stand trial, charged with three crimes: promoting equal education rights for children of migrant workers, calling on officials to publicly disclose their assets, and advocating that all people behave as citizens with pride and conscience. If the country’s rulers have any intention to take citizens’ constitutional rights seriously, then of course we are innocent. We had no intention to disrupt public order; our intention was to promote democracy and rule of law in China. We did nothing to disrupt public order, we were merely exercising our freedom of expression as provided for by the constitution. Public order was not disrupted as a result of our actions, which infringed on the legitimate rights of no one. I understand clearly that some people have to make sacrifices, and I for one am willing to pay any and all price for my belief in freedom, justice, love, and for a better future of China. If you insist on persecuting the conscience of a people, I openly accept that destiny and the glory that accompanies it. But do not for a second think you can terminate the New Citizens Movement

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by throwing me in jail. Ours is an era in which modern civilization prevails, and in which growing numbers of Chinese inevitably take their citizenship and civic responsibilities seriously. The day will come when the 1.3 billion Chinese will stand up from their submissive state and grow to be proud and responsible citizens. China will become a country that enjoys a civilized political system and a happy society in which freedom, justice, and love prevail. The disempowered will be redeemed, as will you, you who sit high above with fear and shadows in your hearts. China today still upholds the banner of reform, something I sincerely wish will be carried out smoothly allowing the beautiful dream of China to come true. But reform must have a clearly defined direction, and it is irresponsible to continue “feeling the stones to cross the river,” just as it’s irresponsible to treat the symptoms but not the roots of social ills, and irresponsible to sidestep the fundamental political system in designing the country. One hundred years on, where China wants to go is still the most crucial question the Chinese nation faces. As interest groups consolidate, the economy slows down, and accumulated social injustice leads to concentrated outbursts, China has once again arrived at a historical crossroad. Reforms will succeed if the goal remains to realize democracy and constitutionalism as in line with the course of history, and without question will fail if the aim is to maintain one-party rule in contravention of history. Absent a clear direction toward democracy and constitutionalism, even if reforms deepen as promised the most likely result will be to repeat the mistakes made during the late Qing Dynasty, picking and choosing Western practices but not fixing the system. To a large extent, what we see happening around us today is reenactment of the tragedy of the late Qing reforms, and for that reason I am deeply concerned about the future of the Chinese nation. When hopes of reform are dashed, people will rise up and seek revolution. The privileged and powerful have long transferred their children and wealth overseas; they couldn’t care less of the misfortune and suffering of the disempowered, nor do they care about China’s future. But we do. Someone has to care. Peaceful transition to democracy and constitutionalism is the only path the Chinese nation has to a beautiful future. We lost this opportunity a hundred years ago, and we can’t afford to miss it again today. We, the Chinese people, must decide the future direction for China. My fellow compatriots, at any time and regardless of what happens in China, I urge everyone to maintain their faith in freedom, justice, and

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love. Uphold freedom of religion, stay rooted in reality, and pursue those universal rights and freedoms which were pursued and fought for and paid for in blood this past century by those also with lofty ideals. Remain steadfast in your faith in justice, always stay true to your heart, and never compromise your principles in the pursuit of your goals. Pursue a rounded and just democratic society governed through rule of law, where all fulfill their duties and are provided for, where the strong are constrained and the weak are protected, a society built on the cornerstone of moral conscience. Adhere to faith in love, because this nation has too many dark, bitter, and poisoned souls in need of redemption, because there exists too much vigilance, fear, and hostility between people. These evil spirits, buried in the depths of the soul, must be cast out. It is not through hatred that we rid ourselves of them, but through salvation. We are the Redeemer. Freedom, justice, and love, these are the spirit of our New Citizen Movement and must become a core value for the Chinese people, for which it is up to our generation to fight, sacrifice, and assume responsibility. Our faith in the idea of building a better China, one of democracy, rule of law, freedom, justice, and love, is unwavering. As long as we continue to believe in love and the power of hope for a better future, in the desire for goodness deep inside every human soul, we will be able to make that in which we have faith a reality. Citizens, let us begin now. It does not matter where you are, what jobs you have, whether you are poor or rich; let us say in our hearts, in our everyday lives, on the internet, on every inch of Chinese land, say with conviction and pride that which already belongs to us: I am a citizen, we are citizens.

Index

Aba. See Ngaba Abolition, 44, 46–47, 273 Accounts, falsified, 157–158 ACLU. See American Civil Liberties Union Affidavits, 59–60 Agape, 149, 150–151 Ai Weiwei: disappearance of, 199; honesty and, 227 Altruism, 145–146 American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), 120–121 Ammunition, 57, 58 Anhui, 27, 28, 36, 92 Anticorruption mechanism, 272 “Appeal for Southern Metropolis Daily” (Zhan, Wang K., Zhao M., and Chen F.), 95 Appellate hearing, 98–99 Arrest, 83; asset declaration and, 250; of Chen Guangcheng, 122–123; of Cheng Yizhong, 94; education equality and, 203; Gongmeng tax case and, 159; of Ma Jiyun, 30; of Sun Dawu, 50–51; for tax evasion, 128; in 2013, xii; of Yu Huafeng, 89–90, 244; of Zhu Jiuhu, 122, 245; of Zhuang Lu, 128, 160, 247. See also Black jails; Custody and repatriation; Detainment; House arrest Article 90, Legislation Law, 37 Article 176, Criminal Law, 54, 66 Asia Weekly, 245 Assembly, 36

Asset declaration, 267, 275; as anticorruption mechanism, 272; arrests and, 250 Authority, 276 Autocracy, 211–212 Baitapu, Gaolin, 60–61 Ballots, 187–193 Bao Yujun, 57 Baoding Railway Station, 64 BBS. See Bulletin board system Beatings, 174; at black jails, 109–114; at Dongshigu Village, 123; family planning campaign and, 122; petitioners and, 245; at State Bureau of Letters and Visits, 104–108, 121; 2012 detainment and, 219–220; Wang Jinying and, 201. See also Violence Beijing, 14, 16, 34, 35; custody and repatriation in, 36, 41–42; education equality and, 271–272; education reform in, 248; homeless of, 165–167, 170–171; Qiu Qingfeng murder in, 19; revolution and, 169; slums in, 169. See also Petitioner villages Beijing Civil Affairs Bureau, 128 Beijing Dog Ownership Management Regulations, 124–125 Beijing Gongmeng Consulting Co., Ltd., 120 Beijing Lawyers Association, 125 Beijing Municipality People’s Congress, 78, 125 Beijing News, 89

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284

Index

Beijing Normal University, 62–64 Beijing Number One Detention Center: confession in, 161–162; detainment at, 153, 154, 163; honesty in, 163– 164; interrogation at, 154, 155–160, 163–164 Beijing Public Security Bureau, 153– 154, 219 Beijing South Railway Station, 170–171 Beijing Transparency and Constitutional Path Social Science Research Center, 115–116 Beijing University of Posts and Telecommunications (BUPT), 27; Gongmeng tax case and, 162; letter to, 187–193; People’s Congress Delegate campaign and, 74, 75–77, 79–80, 82 Beijing Zoo, 118–119 Beili, 61 Biao Yonggen, 34 Birth, 129, 278 Black jails, 101; beatings at, 109–114; Gongmeng and, 127, 129; petitioners and, 108–114, 195–196, 204, 275; police and, x, 111; Yu Rufa and, 229 Black kilns, 110, 246 The Blue Kite (film), 140 Bonuses: Cheng Yizhong and, 90; Southern Metropolis Daily and, 90– 91; Yu Huafeng and, 90, 98–99 Border regions, 259–260, 261–262, 263– 265. See also Tibet; Xinjiang Bribery: Li Minying and, 90–91, 93–94, 99; Yu Huafeng and, 89–91, 94, 99 Buddhists, 232–233. See also Dalai Lama Bulletin board system (BBS), 20, 49. See also Peking University bulletin board service; Peking University Weiming bulletin board service; “Yi Ta Hu Tu” bulletin board system BUPT. See Beijing University of Posts and Telecommunications Bureau of Letters and Visits. See Kaifeng Bureau of Letters and Visits; State Bureau of Letters and Visits Bus rides, 103 Bush, George W., 135, 136 Business license, 159

Cadre, 35; detainment of, as kidnapping, 29; as extralegal force, 10; Sun Dawu case and, 51, 61, 63–64; Unit 8 and, 23 Cai Yongmin, 14 Cai Zhuohua, 245; The Citizens’ Alliance and, 121; evidence collection for, 147–148; illegal business activity and, 147, 149–150 Campaigns, 215. See also People’s Congress Delegate campaign Cao (captain), 219, 220, 222, 223 CCTV. See China Central Television Center for Economic Research, 71 Champs-Élysées, 166 Changping campus protest, 19 Chen Feng, 33, 95 Chen Guangcheng, 245; arrest of, 122– 123; The Citizens’ Alliance and, 122–124 Chen Guoqing, 122, 143, 144, 246 Chen Junhao, 71–72 Chen Lai, 231 Chen Meng, 72 Chen Ping, 56–57 Chen Xiaojuns, 246 Chen Yan, 228 Cheng Yizhong, 89, 97; arrest of, 94; bonuses and, 90; embezzlement and, 96; release of, 99 Chenrezig, 231, 232 Childhood, 5. See also Education equality China: autocracy in, 211–212; movements and, 211–212; path of, 253–258; poverty in, 140–141; return to, 141–142; United States and, 121, 133–134 China Academy of Social Science, 62–64 China Against the Death Penalty, 183– 184 China Can Say No, 15 China Central Television (CCTV), 79 China Law Center, 135, 136 China Reform: rural edition of, 27–31, 198; student researchers and, 63 China Youth Daily, 39–40 Chinatown, 134–135 Chinese Communist Party Central Committee, 36 Chogtse Laird, 231

Index

Christianity, 147–148, 245 The Citizens’ Alliance: Beijing Dog Ownership Management Regulations and, 124–125; Beijing Zoo and, 118– 119; Cai Zhuohua and, 121; Chen Guangcheng and, 122–124; “Citizens Rights Defense Handbook” compiled by, 127; education equality and, 129– 131; “Inequality from Birth” by, 129; NGOs and, 119; petitioner villages and, 121; Southern Metropolis Daily and, 117; website for, 117; YTHT BBS closure and, 119–120, 244–245; Zhang Xingshui and, 115. See also Gongmeng; Open Constitutional Initiative “Citizens Rights Defense Handbook” (Gongmeng), 127 Citizens’ rights movement: beginning of, 243; Sun Zhigang and, 33 Citizenship, vii–viii, 1–3, 282; Gongmeng and, 248–249; in New Citizen Movement, 212, 215, 239– 240, 256. See also New Citizen Movement Clinton, Bill, 145 Communist Party, vii, 255. See also Chinese Communist Party Central Committee “Complete Mess” BBS. See “Yi Ta Hu Tu” bulletin board system Comrade. See Tongzhi Confession, 161–162 Confucius Plaza, 135 Cong Yuanyuan, 205 Connecticut, 167 Constitution of the People’s Republic of China: free speech and, 272; human rights and, 117; incrementalism and, 273 Constitutional review, 243; of custody and repatriation, 37–40; setback for, 47 Constructive political opposition, 2, 255– 256 Corruption, 188, 276–277; black kilns and, 246; in Jiangxi, 29–30; land dispute and, 22–23; Southern Metropolis Daily charge of, 90, 117; top-down power structure and, 260– 261. See also Anticorruption mechanism

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County party secretary, 12 Court statement: on education equality, 267; on New Citizen Movement, 267. See also Trial Criminal Law: Article 176 of, 54, 66; Gongmeng tax case and, 161; on public space, 270 Criminal Procedure Law, 57 Criticism, 77–78, 222 Cui Yingjie, 167 Cui Zisheng, 27–28 Cultural Institution Protection Unit, 219 “Cultural Misconceptions Regarding the Localization of the System of Economic Law” (Xu Z.), 14 Cultural Revolution, 277 Custody and repatriation, viii–ix, 29–31, 243; abolition of, 44, 46–47, 273; in Beijing, 36, 41–42; constitutional review of, 37–40; education equality and, 271; as emergency relief, 41, 42– 43; as kidnapping, 42; laogai and, 45; People’s Congress Delegate campaign and, 85; petitioners and, 177–178; public response to recommendations for, 44–45; rape, prostitution, human trafficking and, 35; recommendations for, 37–38, 40, 47; revision recommendations for, 41–44; in Shenyang, 34; Southern Metropolis Daily and, 89; Sun Zhigang death and, 33–34, 36–37, 39, 89, 111; Tianjin center for, 46; as urban social order, 41, 43; urbanization and, 42. See also Arrest; Black jails; Detainment Dalai Lama: Teng Biao and, 182, 183; Tibet and, 232, 235, 261, 262 Dawu Company, 51, 52–53, 66; depositor relationships to, 58–60; Kingdom Law Firm and, 65; student researchers and, 62–64. See also Sun Dawu Dawu Group, 50–51, 53 Death penalty, 183–184 Democratization, 229–230, 238–239, 253, 275–276; border regions and, 261–262; economic reform, incrementalism and, 277; New Citizen Movement and, 212–214;

286

Index

People’s Congress Delegate campaign, rule of law and, 84–85; and urbanization, 253; village elections and, 72; warfare and, 253– 254; Xinjiang and, 262 Demolition and removal system, 179 Demonstrations, 36 Deng Haiyan, 99 Deng Yujiao, 127 Detainment: of cadre as kidnapping, 29; Gongmeng tax case and, 153–154, 163; of Liu Ping, 199; of Sun Dawu, 50–51; in 2001, 23–24; in 2011, 199– 200; in 2012, 219–223; of Zhuang Lu, 156, 157. See also Arrest; Custody and repatriation Detention center. See Beijing Number One Detention Center; Black jails; Custody and repatriation Dictatorships, 227, 229 “Did Sun Dawu Commit Economic Crimes or Speech Crimes?,” 51 “Did We Win the Sun Dawu Case?” (Xu Z.), 68–69 Ding Village, 60 Dingzhuang, 51 Direct election, 72–73, 125 Disappearance, 186; of Ai Weiwei, 199; of Teng Biao, 182, 185 Diyunsuo, 22–23 Dog Ownership Management Regulations, 124–125 Dongba Experimental School, 198 “Dongshan District Court Responds to Questions from Media,” 96 Dongshan District People’s Court, 93– 94, 96 Dongshigu Village, 122–123 Dongzhuang, 102 Du Zhaoyong, 51 Duan Jun, 71 “Economic and Social Factors Contributing to the March 14 Incident in Tibetan Areas” (Gongmeng), 125 Economy, 13; incrementalism, democratization and reform of, 277; market, 11, 93, 276 Education equality, 197; arrest and, 203; Beijing and, 248, 271–272; The Citizens’ Alliance and, 129–131;

court statement on, 267; custody and repatriation and, 271; Gongmeng and, 205–208; household registration system and, 198, 204; immigrants and, 130–131; migrant workers and, 204–205, 206, 237–238; New Citizen Movement and, 268–269; NPC and, 130; petitioning for, 130, 199, 203, 248, 269–271; reform for, 247; residence permits and, 204–205; in Shanghai, 248; in 2012, 237–238 “Eight Great Mountains,” 49–50 Election: ballots for, 187–193; direct, 72–73, 125; to Haidian District People’s Congress, 246; 1988 grassroots, 80–81; for People’s Congress Delegate campaign, 80, 81– 82. See also “Why I’m Running for Election to the People’s Congress” Election law: nomination process in, 73; township mayors, People’s Congress Delegate campaign and, 72–73. See also “Guide to Nominating Independent Candidates for Election”; Law on Election of Delegates to the National People’s Congress and Local People’s Congresses Embezzlement: Cheng Yizhong and, 96; poverty and, 276; Yu Huafeng and, 87, 89–90, 91, 94, 99 Emergency relief, 41, 42–43 Evidence collection: for Cai Zhuohua, 147–148; in initial Sun Dawu case, 58–62; for Southern Metropolis Daily, 98; Sun Dawu, Kingdom Law Firm and, 65; Sun Dawu, student researchers and, 62–64 Evil intentions, 263 Expeditions, 13 Extralegal force, 121; cadre as, 10; Southern Metropolis Daily, publicity and, 92–93, 94–95 Extremism, 259–260, 263 Faith, 281–282 Falsified accounts, 157–158 Fame, 207 Family planning campaign, 122 Famine. See Great Famine Fan Yafeng, 121

Index

Fang Kun, 125 Fang Sanwen, 88 Feng Yongji, 178 Fengtai District, 129 50-Cent Party, 229 Fire. See Self-immolation Firearms, 57 “For the Sake of the Republic” (television series), 116 Founding Fathers, 256 France, 168 Free speech: Constitution of the People’s Republic of China and, 272. See also Freedom of expression Freedom, justice, and love, 230, 240, 251, 257–258; faith in, 281–282; lack of, 280; in New Citizen Movement, 213, 268, 271 Freedom for China (Xu Z.), 11 Freedom of expression, 87. See also Free speech Friedman, Edward, 138–139 Fu Jian, 64 Fushun, 34 Gewirtz (professor), 137, 139–141 Gao Zhisheng, 123–124 Gaolan, Mount, 11 Gaolin, 60–61 Gaolincun Town, 63–64 Gates, Bill, 145 GDP. See Gross domestic product Ge Yunsong, 136 Geng Xiuzhen, 35 Gongmeng, 127–128, 247; Beijing Lawyers Association, direct election and, 125; black jails and, 127, 129; citizenship and, 248–249; “Economic and Social Factors Contributing to the March 14 Incident in Tibetan Areas” by, 125; education equality and, 205– 208; fame and, 207; idealism of, 208–209; melamine milk powder scandal and, 125–126, 274–275; New Citizen Movement and, 131; stability preservation and, xii, 130–131, 238, 244; on “Three Public Expenditures,” 127–128; Tibet and, 125, 126–127. See also The Citizens’ Alliance Gongmeng Law Research Center, 120– 121

287

Gongmeng tax case, 128–129; arrest and, 159; BUPT and, 162; business license and, 159; confession and, 161–162; Criminal Law and, 161; detainment and, 153–154, 163; honesty and, 163– 164; interrogation and, 154, 155–160, 163–164; melamine milk powder scandal and, 274–275; Yale Law School and, 156; Zhou Ze and, 160. See also “Thoughts on Gongmeng’s Alleged Tax Evasion” Graduate education, 13–15 Great Famine, 6, 45 Great Leap Forward, 6 Gross domestic product (GDP), 260 Gu Xin, 74, 75, 76, 77–78, 81 Guangdong party secretaries, xi, 97–98 Guangxi Medical University Hospital, 34 Guangzhou, 33, 37, 88 Guangzhou Railway Station., 35 “Guide to Nominating Independent Candidates for Election,” 199 Guo Jianguang, 111 Guo Jun, 79–80 Guo Yushan, 122 Haidian District Office of Industry and Commerce, 120 Haidian District People’s Congress, 13, 124–125; duties of, 187–188; election to, 246. See also People’s Congress Hamden, Connecticut, 167 Han Xueping, 44 Hans, 232, 235, 260, 264–265 Hao (commander), 222–223 Hao Wenzhong, 173 Harbin. See Shenyang-Harbin Expressway Havoc, raising no, 250–251 He Weifang, 17–18, 44, 88–89 “Heaven’s Above” (Xu Z.), 155, 164 Hecht (professor), 137 Hefei, 44–45 Heilongjiang, 31 Henan, 5–6, 27 High school, 8–10 HIV. See Human immunodeficiency virus Homeless: of Beijing, 165–167, 170– 171; of Beijing South Railway

288

Index

Interceptors, 104–108, 174 Internet, 254 Internship, 14, 88–89 Interrogation: Gongmeng tax case and, 154, 155–160, 163–164 Investigation: of Dawu Group, 53; of Southern Metropolis Daily, 89–90, 244; Sun Dawu preliminary, 52 “Investigation into Petitioning in China” (Xu Z.), 121 “Investigation on the Mechanism of Letters and Calls in China,” 249

Station, 170–171; White House and, 166, 167 Honesty, 230, 276; Ai Weiwei and, 227; Gongment tax case and, 163–164; Yu Rufa and, 226–227, 229 Hotel, 35, 168 Hou Wenzhuo, 95 House arrest, vii, ix, 203, 240–241 House church, 147, 148 Household registration system, 35, 238, 271; education equality and, 198, 204. See also Hukou Household responsibility contracts: Southern Metropolis Daily and, 92; in Xiaogang Village, Anhui, 92 Hu Jintao, 250 Hu Rui, 207 Huang Zhongsheng, 34 Hubei, 27 Hukou, 247–248, 249–250, 270, 271, 272. See also Household registration system Human immunodeficiency virus (HIV), 27–28 Human rights, 117, 181–182 Human trafficking, 35 Hunger strike, 124, 220–221

Kaifeng Bureau of Letters and Visits, 105, 109–110. See also State Bureau of Letters and Visits Kidnapping: cadre detainment as, 29; custody and repatriation as, 42 Kilns, 110, 246 Kingdom Law Firm, 65

Idealism, 208–209 Illegal business activity, 147, 149–150 “The ‘Illegal’ Life of a Private Enterprise: Investigative Report on the Growth of the Dawu Group” (Xu Z.), 53 Immigrants, 248; education equality and, 130–131; France and, 168 Impact litigation strategy, ix–x “Improving Human Rights Protections in Our Constitution,” 117 “In the State’s Name: Investigation into the North Shaanxi Private Oil Well Case” (Xu Z.), 121–122 Incrementalism: Constitution of the People’s Republic of China and, 273; economic reform, democratization and, 277; progress and, 73, 78, 83 Independent candidates, 71–72, 199– 200 India, 168, 169 “Inequality from Birth” (The Citizens’ Alliance), 129

Labor, 216–217. See also Laogai Land dispute, 12; in Diyunsuo, 22–23; reservoir construction related, 28–29 Langwu Village, 60, 64 Lanzhou University, 87, 231; graduate education at, 13–15; undergraduate education at, 10–11 Laogai (“reform-through-labor”), 45 Law on Assembly, Marches, and Demonstrations, 36 Law on Election of Delegates to the National People’s Congress and Local People’s Congresses, 72. See also Election law Legal Daily, 39–40 “Legal Opinions Concerning Compensation for Personal Injury in the High-Speed Train Accident on July 23rd,” 249 Legal System Promotion Day, 176 Legislation Law, Article 90 of, 37 Lending, 55–56 Lhasa, 233

Jails. See Black jails Jiang Ping, 55–56 Jiang Tianyong, 182 Jiang Yiping, 88 Jiangxi, 29–30 Jinbao Hotel, 35

Index

Li Changping, 28 Li Fangping, 122–123, 245 Li Hui, 88 Li Jian, 96 Li Minying, 90–91, 93–94, 99 Li Shuguang, 56 Li Subin, 122 Li Xiongbing, 160 Li Zhiying, 53, 65 Liang Guilin, 22–24 Liang Qichao, viii Liaoning, 22–23 Lin Zhengzheng, 247 Linyi, Shandong, 122 Litigation strategy, impact, ix–x Liu (Deputy Director of the Kaifeng Bureau of Letters and Visits), 105, 109–110 Liu Binyan, 139 Liu Cuihua, 110 Liu Jianfeng, 227 Liu Ping, 59, 60, 61, 66, 67, 68; detainment of, 199; legal services requested by, 51–52; on Sun Dawu plea, 65 Liu Xiangbo, 27, 28 Liu Xiaobo, vii Local legal resources theory, 14 Love: petitioners and, 173–177, 180; Tibet and, 263–264; Xinjiang and, 263–264. See also Freedom, justice, and love Ma Jiyun, 30–31 Ma Village, 61 Ma Xirong, 110–111, 114 “Making a Personal Sacrifice for Ruleof-Law Progress” (Xu Z.), 30–31 Manifesto, 211–217 March 14 Incident, 125, 126–127, 158, 246 Marches, 36 Market economy, 11, 93, 276 Mausoleum, 16 McDonald’s, 135 “Measures for Custody and Repatriation of Urban Migrants and Beggars” (State Council), 36 Mediation, 12, 23 Melamine milk powder scandal, 246, 273; Gongmeng and, 125–126, 274–

289

275; Gongmeng tax case and, 274– 275 Miao Changshun, 35 Middle school, 7, 44, 110, 112, 129–130 Migrant workers: education equality and, 204–205, 206, 237–238; university entrance exam and, 237–238 Ministry of Education, 130, 197–198, 237, 248, 269–270 Ministry of Public Security, 36. See also Public Security Bureau Ministry of State Security, 24 Minquan County, 13 Minquan High School, 8–10 Monopolies, 56–57 Morality, 256–257 Motive, 143–146, 203. See also “Why I’m Running for Election to the People’s Congress”; “Why We Defend Sun Dawu” Movements, 211–212. See also Citizens’ rights movement; New Citizen Movement Mumbai, India, 168–169 Murder, 19 My Life in China (Yung), 138 Nangdrol, 231, 232–233, 234–235 Nanjie Village, 15 National Family Planning Commission, 122 National People’s Congress (NPC), 276; custody and repatriation recommendations for, 37–38, 40, 47; education equality and, 130; private enterprise and, 54 National People’s Congress Standing Committee, 137 Nationalism, 76 Neutrality, 23 The New Citizen, viii New Citizen Movement, vii–viii, 1–3, 249, 256; campaigns related to, 215; citizenship in, 212, 215; court statement on, 267; democratization and, 212–214; education equality and, 268–269; freedom, justice, and love in, 213, 268, 271; Gongmeng and, 131; labor in, 216–217; manifesto for, 211–217; New Citizen Spirit and, 213–214, 216; politics and, 213;

290

Index

recommendations for, 215–216; responsibility in, 216; in 2012, 237– 241; 2012 detainment and, 223. See also The Citizens’ Alliance; Gongmeng; New Citizens Movement New Citizen Spirit, 213–214, 216, 239 New Citizens Movement, xii, 277. See also New Citizen Movement New Haven, 135 New York City, 134 Ngaba, 231–232 NGO. See Nongovernmental organization Nie Hailiang, 75 1911 Revolution, 1, 253–254 1988 grassroots election, 80–81 “No Temporary Resident Permits Needed in Heaven” (website), 36 Nomination process: in election law, 73; for People’s Congress Delegate campaign, 74–77 Nongovernmental organization (NGO), 119 Nonviolence, 278 NPC. See National People’s Congress Number 62 Middle School, 110, 112 Number One Detention Center. See Beijing Number One Detention Center OCI. See Open Constitutional Initiative O’Connor, Sandra Day, 136–137 Office for Registration and Review of Regulations, 47 Office of Industry and Commerce, 120 “On the Need for a Market Economy in China” (Xu Z.), 11 “On the Transfer of Demobilized Military Officers to the Courts” (He), 88–89 “On World Government” (Xu Z.), 21–22 Open Constitutional Initiative (OCI): Yu Huafeng and, 95–96. See also The Citizens’ Alliance; Gongmeng “Opinion on Reform of Custody and Repatriation Work” (State Council), 36 “Our Common God” (Xu Z.), 21, 22 “Our Shared Commitment” (Duan), 71 Pan Xinyi, 76, 79

Paris, France, 168 Party secretary, xi, 12, 97–98 The Path, 149 Patriotism, 183 Peasant uprising, 253 Peking University (PKU), 25, 27, 34, 49– 50, 176; admission to, 17–18; Jingyuan Lawn incident at, 19; rejection from, 11; Rural China Student Association of, 63; Teng Biao and, 18, 19–20; Yu Jiang and, 18–20 Peking University bulletin board service (PKU BBS), 71 Peking University Weiming bulletin board service (PKU Weiming BBS), 20, 24, 72 Peng Ya’nan, 136 Penny Party, 229 People of the Year award, 245 People’s Congress, xi; term length for, 124. See also Beijing Municipality People’s Congress People’s Congress Delegate campaign: basis for running in, 74, 75, 82–85; BUPT and, 74, 75–77, 79–80, 82; custody and repatriation and, 85; election for, 80, 81–82; election laws regarding, 72, 73; independent candidates in, 71–72; nomination process for, 73–77; progress and, 84– 85; publicity for, 76–79; rule of law, democratization and, 84–85; Sun Dawu and, 82, 83–84; Sun Zhigang and, 83; of 2011, 187–193, 200; Yao Lifa and, 72, 82–83 Permits, 33, 34, 35, 36, 44, 204–205 Petitioner villages, 101–104, 121, 245 Petitioners, 101; beatings and, 245; black jails and, 108–114, 195–196, 204, 275; bus rides for, 103; custody and repatriation and, 177–178; interceptors and, 104–108; love and, 173–177, 180; police and, 103; progress and, 179; village taxation and, 178–179 Petitioning, 29–30, 33, 195–196; collective, 28; for education equality, 130, 199, 203, 248, 269–271 Petitioning Office, 102–103. See also State Petitions Office PKU. See Peking University

Index

PKU BBS. See Peking University bulletin board service PKU Weiming BBS. See Peking University Weiming bulletin board service “Plan for Children Living with Parents without Local Hukou to Take the National College Entrance Exam Locally,” 249–250 “Please Let Us Move Forward: Behind the Scenes of the Southern Metropolis Daily Case” (Xu Z.), 93 Police: black jails and, x, 111; petitioners and, 103 Political correctness, 167 Political factions, 255 Political opposition, constructive, 2, 255–256 Politics, 144–145; New Citizen Movement and, 213; prayer and, 151– 152 Poshang Village, 147–148 Poverty: in China, 140–141; embezzlement and, 276; in Xinjiang, 259 Prayer, 146, 147–148, 150, 151–152 Primary school, 227–228 Private enterprise: NPC and, 54; Sun Dawu case and, 49–50, 55; Supreme People’s Court and, 54 “A Private Entrepreneur’s Perspective on Rural Problems” (Sun Dawu), 49–50 Privilege, 178 Procuratorate indictment, 58–59, 61, 62 Progress, 250; incrementalism and, 73, 78, 83; People’s Congress Delegate campaign and, 84–85; petitioners and, 179; responsibility of, 278–280; rule of law and, 30–31, 77–78, 280 Prostitution, 35, 227–228 Protest: at Changping campus, 19. See also Hunger strike; Petitioning Public order, 267, 280 Public power, 21–22 Public Security Bureau: in Beijing, 153– 154, 219; in Shangqiu City, 12–13; in Xushui County, 61. See also Ministry of Public Security Public space, 270 Publicity: extralegal force and, 92–93, 94–95; for People’s Congress

291

Delegate campaign, 76–79; Qian Yunhui and, 227; Southern Metropolis Daily and, 92–93, 94–95, 96; for Sun Dawu case, 53–57, 60, 61; for Yu Rufa, 225–226 Qian Yunhui, 181, 196–197, 227, 249 Qin Bing, 31, 71 Qing Dynasty, 281 Qinglong Lake Park, 203 Qingshan Petrochemical Factory Middle School, 44 Qiu Jiansheng, 27, 28 Qiu Qingfeng, 19 Quilts, 165 Racial discrimination: political correctness and, 167 Railway. See Baoding Railway Station; Beijing South Railway Station; Guangzhou Railway Station.; Train accident Rape, 35, 114 “Recommendation for Improving Human Rights Provisions in China’s Constitution,” 117 Reform, 281; of Communist Party from within, 255; for education equality, 247. See also “Opinion on Reform of Custody and Repatriation Work” “Reform-through-labor.” See Laogai Release, 99 Removal system, demolition and, 179 Ren Zhongyi, 97–98 Repatriation system. See Custody and repatriation “Report on Prevention of Free Population Migration” (Ministry of Public Security), 36 “Report on the Investigation over the Truth about the Death of Qian Yunhui,” 249 Republican National Convention, 135 “Requests for Prayer,” 151–152 Reservoir construction, 28–29 Residence permits: education equality and, 204–205; temporary, 33, 36, 44 Resignation, 94 Responsibility: in New Citizen Movement, 216; of progress, 278– 280. See also Household

292

Index

responsibility contracts; “We Cannot Shirk our Responsibility: On the Southern Metropolis Daily Incident” Revolution, xiii; Beijing and, 169; Internet and, 254; of 1911, 1, 253– 254; political factions and, 255; stability preservation and, xii, 254; urbanization and, 254. See also Cultural Revolution Riots. See March 14 Incident Rizhao, Shandong, 46 “The Road Stretches Out Before Us: Letter to Voters of the Law School” (Chen M.), 72 Rule of law, 73, 275–276, 277; democratization and, 84–85; People’s Congress Delegate campaign and, 84–85; progress and, 30–31, 77–78, 280 “Rule of Law Personalities of the Year” (CCTV award ceremony), 79 Rural China Student Association, 63 Sa Beining, 79 SanLu Group, 247. See also Melamine milk powder scandal SARS epidemic, 34, 37, 39, 243; Southern Metropolis Daily on, 89; Sun Dawu case and, 63–64; YTHT BBS and, 119 School closures, 198 Secretary, 15–16; of county party, 12; of Guangdong party, xi, 97–98; of village party, 6–7 Self-immolation, 263; of Nangdrol, 232– 233, 234–235; of Tang Fuzhen, 179; Tibet and, 260 September 11, 2001 attacks, 20–21 Shanghai, 248 Shangqiu City Public Security Bureau, 12–13 Shen Hao, 88 Shen Haobo, 96 Sheng Hong, 54 Sheng Qifang, 31 Shennongjia mountains, 27, 28 Shenyang Custody and Repatriation Center, 34 Shenyang-Harbin Expressway, 22 Shenzhen, 37 Shi Xin, 46

Shu Kexin, 71 Shuangyashan, 30 Shushan Laogai Team, 45 Sichuan University, 14 Slums, 169 Social security, 169 Sociology, 15–16 Sonam, 232–233 Song Ze, 131 Southern Daily Group, 87, 88, 89; compromise by, 93; resignation and, 94. See also Southern Weekly Southern Metropolis Daily, 33, 99, 143; bonuses and, 90–91; The Citizens’ Alliance and, 117; corruption charge against, 90, 117; evidence collection for, 98; extralegal force and, 92–93, 94–95; Guangdong party secretaries and, xi, 97–98; household responsibility contracts and, 92; investigation of, 89–90, 244; publicity and, 92–93, 94–95, 96; on SARS, 89; Sun Zhigang, custody and repatriation and, 89 Southern Weekly, 14, 88–89 Soviet Union, 11 SPC. See Supreme People’s Court Spiritual Growth (Xu Z.), 160 Stability preservation: Gongmeng and, xii, 130–131, 238, 244; revolution and, xii, 254; Tibet and, 232, 260; in Xinjiang, 260 State Bureau of Letters and Visits: beatings at, 104–108, 121; Yongdingmen and, 101. See also Kaifeng Bureau of Letters and Visits State Council: custody and repatriation abolished by, 46–47; “Measures for Custody and Repatriation of Urban Migrants and Beggars” by, 36; “Opinion on Reform of Custody and Repatriation Work” by, 36 State Council Decree No. 247, 66 State Council Directive Number 247, 54 State Petitions Office, 104. See also Petitioning Office Stockholm syndrome, 222 Student researchers, 62–64 Studies, 244 Su, 35 Suicide, 20

Index

Sun Dawu, 69; cadres and, 51, 61, 63– 64; defense plan for, 53; detainment and arrest of, 50–51; firearms, ammunition and, 57, 58; initial evidence collection for, 58–62; Kingdom Law Firm, evidence collection and, 65; legal recommendations regarding, 54; People’s Congress Delegate campaign and, 82–83; plea of, 65–66, 67; preliminary investigation of, 52; private enterprise and, 49–50, 55; “A Private Entrepreneur’s Perspective on Rural Problems” lecture by, 49–50; procuratorate indictment and, 58–59, 61, 62; publicity for, 53–57, 60, 61; SARS epidemic and, 63–64; student researchers, evidence collection and, 62–64; trial of, 68; Zhu Jiuhu and, 52, 54, 57, 60, 61, 62. See also Dawu Company; Dawu Group; “Did We Win the Sun Dawu Case?” “The Sun Dawu Case and the Legal Environment for Private Enterprise Financing” (symposium), 54–57 Sun Dongdong, 176 Sun Erwu, 66 Sun Meng, 59, 60, 61, 64, 66, 67; on Sun Dawu plea, 65 Sun Sanwu, 66 Sun Yat-sen, viii Sun Yat-sen Mausoleum, 16 Sun Zhigang, 31, 44, 243–244; citizens’ rights movement and, 33; custody and repatriation center death of, 33–34, 36–37, 39, 89, 111; memorial for, 36– 37; People’s Congress Delegate campaign and, 83; Southern Metropolis Daily and, 89 Sun Zhihua, 66 “Sunshine Constitutionalism” (website), 244 Supreme Court, 246–247 Supreme People’s Court (SPC): Petitioning Office of, 102–103; private enterprise and, 54; Xiao Yang on, 137 Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, 168 Tan Tinghao, 88 Tang Fuzhen, 179

293

Tax: arrest for evasion of, 128; of village, 178–179. See also Gongmeng tax case Temporary residence permits, 33, 36, 44. See also Residence permits Teng Biao, 243, 244; China Against the Death Penalty and, 183–184; on custody and repatriation, 37–40, 47, 111, 245; Dalai Lama and, 182, 183; disappearance of, 182, 185; human rights and, 181–182; National Family Planning Commission and, 122; PKU and, 18, 19–20; “Rule of Law Personalities of the Year” and, 79 Teng Xingshan, 183–184 Term length, 124 Terrorism, 260 Thesis defense, 14–15 “Thoughts on Gongmeng’s Alleged Tax Evasion” (Xu Z.), 162 “Three Public Expenditures,” 127–128 Three Self church, 148 ”Three Swordsmen”, 19–20 Three-Man Campaign Office, 71 Tianjin, 46 Tibet, 231, 233–234, 254–255; Dalai Lama and, 232, 235, 261, 262; Gongmeng and, 125, 126–127; love and, 263–264; March 14 Incident and, 125, 126–127, 158, 246; selfimmolation and, 260; stability preservation and, 232, 262 Tieling, Liaoning, 22–23 Times Square, 134 “To the Terrorists’ Minions” (Xu Z.), 21 Tongzhi (comrade), 133 Top-down power structure, 260–261 Township mayors, 72–73 Train accident, 249 Transparency and Constitutionalism, 115–116 Tree planting, 203, 206, 248 Trial: of Sun Dawu, 68; of Yu Huafeng, 92. See also Court statement “Truth Is the Precondition for Justice” (Xu Z.), 228 Tsinghua, 62–64 Tsinghua University Law School, 72 Tu Ming, 28 “21 Days,” 15

294

Index

2001: detainment in, 23–24; September 11 attacks in, 20–21 “2003—An Era of Rule of Law Progress: Looking back at SARS, Sun Zhigang, and Sun Dawu” (Xu Z.), 77–78 2011, 195–198, 201; detainment in, 199– 200; People’s Congress Delegate campaign of, 187–193, 200 2012: education equality in, 237–238; New Citizen Movement in, 237–241 2012 detainment, 222; beatings and, 219–220; hunger strike in, 220–221; New Citizen Movement and, 223 Undergraduate education, 10–11 Unirule Institute of Economics, 54 Unit 8, 23 United States: China and, 121, 133–134; Founding Fathers of, 256; studies in, 244. See also American Civil Liberties Union University entrance exam, 237–238 “University Graduate Savagely Beaten to Death After Being Put in Custody for Failing to Carry Temporary Residence Permit” (Chen F.), 33 University researchers. See Student researchers Urban social order, 41, 43 Urbanization: custody and repatriation and, 42; democratization and, 253; revolution and, 254 Uyghurs, 260, 261 Verbal notification, 62 Village elections, 72 Village party branch secretary, 6–7 Village taxation, 178–179 Violence: in Xinjiang, 259. See also Beatings; Nonviolence; Selfimmolation Virginia Tech shootings, 263 Voting. See Ballots; Election Wang Bo, 92 Wang Dan, 64 Wang Gongquan, 129, 160, 238, 247 Wang Hai, 71 Wang Jiancheng, 136 Wang Jianxun, 16, 17 Wang Jinlan, 109–111 Wang Jinying, 200, 201

Wang Keqin, 95 Wang Lijun, 238 Wang Liming, 136 Wang Mingxuan, 200–201 Wang Ting, 136 Warfare, 253–254 “We Cannot Shirk our Responsibility: On the Southern Metropolis Daily Incident” (Xu Z.), 97 “We Remain True” (Xu Z.), 117–118 Wei Jingsheng, vii Weiming Lake, 20, 24 Weiming Memories (Xu Z.), 24 Welfare. See Emergency relief Wen (guard), 220 Wen Jiabao, 46 “What’s Your Motive?” (Xu Z.), 203 White House, 166, 167 “Why I’m Running for Election to the People’s Congress” (Xu Z.), 74, 82– 85 “Why We Defend Sun Dawu” (Xu Z.), 55 “Withdrawal Notice,” 151 World government, 21–22 Writing, 10–11 Wu Nansheng, 97–98 Wu Qing, 78 Xia Junfeng, 129 Xi’an Jiaotong University, 114 Xiang Li, 92, 94 Xiao Yang, 136, 137 Xiaogang Village, Anhui, 92 Xiaonanzhuang, 148 Xingfu Street, 102 “Xinhai” Revolution of 1911, 1, 253–254 Xinjiang, 254–255, 261; democratization and, 262; GDP in, 260; love and, 263–264; poverty and violence in, 259; stability preservation in, 260; terrorism in, 260; top-down power structure and, 260 Xishan County, Anhui, 28 Xizhimen, 31 Xu (retired gentleman from Hefei), 44– 45 Xu Zhiyong: “Cultural Misconceptions Regarding the Localization of the System of Economic Law” by, 14; “Did We Win the Sun Dawu Case?” by, 68–69; Freedom for China by, 11;

Index

“Heaven’s Above” by, 155, 164; “The ‘Illegal’ Life of a Private Enterprise: Investigative Report on the Growth of the Dawu Group” by, 53; “In the State’s Name: Investigation into the North Shaanxi Private Oil Well Case” by, 121–122; “Investigation into Petitioning in China” by, 121; “Making a Personal Sacrifice for Rule-of-Law Progress” by, 30–31; motive of, 143–146; “On the Need for a Market Economy in China” by, 11; “On World Government” by, 21–22; “Our Common God” by, 21, 22; “Please Let Us Move Forward: Behind the Scenes of the Southern Metropolis Daily Case” by, 93; Spiritual Growth by, 160; “Thoughts on Gongmeng’s Alleged Tax Evasion” by, 162; “To the Terrorists’ Minions” by, 21; “Truth Is the Precondition for Justice” by, 228; “2003—An Era of Rule of Law Progress: Looking back at SARS, Sun Zhigang, and Sun Dawu” by, 77–78; “We Cannot Shirk our Responsibility: On the Southern Metropolis Daily Incident” by, 97; “We Remain True” by, 117–118; Weiming Memories by, 24; “What’s Your Motive?” by, 203; “Why I’m Running for Election to the People’s Congress” by, 74, 82–85; “Why We Defend Sun Dawu” by, 55 Xushui, 64–66; Rural China Student Association and, 63; Sun Dawu counsel in, 57 Xushui County Public Security Bureau, 61 Yale Law School, 135–136, 137–138, 156 Yale University, 128 Yang Bin, 89, 90 Yang Jianxun, 46 Yao Jing, 127 Yao Lifa, 72, 82–83 Yellow River, 5, 8, 16 “Yi Ta Hu Tu” bulletin board system (YTHT BBS), 20, 34, 37, 50, 51; The Citizens’ Alliance and closure of,

295

119–120, 244–245; SARS epidemic and, 119 Yin Lichuan, 96 Yongdingmen, 101 YTHT BBS. See “Yi Ta Hu Tu” bulletin board system Yu Haobo, 225 Yu Huafeng, 97; appellate hearing of, 98–99; arrest of, 89–90, 244; bonuses and, 90, 98–99; bribery and, 89–91, 94, 99; embezzlement and, 87, 89–90, 91, 94, 99; freedom of expression and, 87; market economy and, 93; OCI and, 95–96; trial of, 92 Yu Jiang, 37–38, 47, 243; PKU and, 18– 20; “Rule of Law Personalities of the Year” and, 79 Yu Liuwen, 92 Yu Rufa, 228; black jails and, 229; honesty and, 226–227, 229; publicity for, 225–226 Yuan Guiren, 130 Yung Wing: My Life in China by, 138; Yale and, 137 Zamthang, 232, 233 Zengcheng, Guangdong, 35 Zhan Jiang, 95 Zhang (auntie), 149, 150 Zhang Dejiang, 97–98 Zhang Haofeng, 129 Zhang Jinzhu, 88 Zhang Xingshui, 51, 53, 57, 68, 121; The Citizens’ Alliance and, 115; on Sun Dawu plea, 65 Zhang Xudong, 205, 272 Zhanli Village, 61 Zhao (guard), 220–221 Zhao Mu, 95 Zhao Tianen, 150–151 Zhao Ziyang, vii Zhengzhou, 16 Zhou Hongyun, 66 Zhou Ze, 160 Zhu Jiuhu: arrest of, 122, 245; Sun Dawu case and, 52, 54, 57, 60, 61, 62 Zhu Suli, 14, 17–18 Zhuang Lu, 158, 162; arrest of, 128, 160, 247; detainment of, 156, 157 Zoo. See Beijing Zoo Zuo Fang, 89

About the Book

The story of China’s rights movement—a struggle for basic human rights and democracy that, despite harsh repression, has endured for more than a decade—unfolds in Xu Zhiyong’s compelling personal memoir. Xu Zhiyong was born in Minquan County, Henan, in 1973. After receiving an undergraduate law degree at Lanzhou University, he went on to earn a Ph.D. in Law from Peking University Law School in 2002 and became a lecturer in law at Beijing University of Posts and Telecommunications. In 2003, Xu, Teng Biao, and Yu Jiang became known as the “Three Peking University Ph.D.s” after they submitted a written proposal to the National People’s Congress Standing Committee calling for constitutional review of the detention system known as “custody and repatriation.” They went on to found the civil society organization Gongmeng. In recognition of his work as an activist and founder of the New Citizen Movement, Xu was named one of Asia Weekly’s People of the Year in 2005 and one of the Southern People’s Weekly’s Top Ten Young Leaders of China in 2006. His efforts have been considerably less well received, however, by the government of the PRC, and he has been arrested numerous times, beaten, stripped of his rights to teach, and prohibited from leaving the country. Xu has been serving a four-year prison sentence since 2013 for “gathering a crowd to disrupt order in a public place.” His moving statement at the end of his trial, hailed as the China Manifesto, is included in To Build a Free China.

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