One Woman's Quest for Truth In the Authoritarian Maze
By Philip P. Pan
Washington Post Foreign ServiceSaturday, December 18, 2004; Page A01
Liu Di, known as the Stainless Steel Rat in cyberspace, still does not know the true identity of the man who presented himself as a fan and friend but who she now suspects was a police spy.
BEIJING -- On the Web, she called herself the Stainless Steel Rat, after the swashbuckling hero of a series of American science fiction novels. But climbing the dimly lit stairs of a decaying apartment block on this city's run-down south side, Liu Di seemed more like a nervous mouse.
"I think this is it," the small woman with oval glasses whispered, stopping before an iron door with the number 407 on it. "I think this is it, but I can't be sure."
Liu Di, known as the Stainless Steel Rat in cyberspace, still does not know the true identity of the man who presented himself as a fan and friend but who she now suspects was a police spy. (Philip P. Pan -- The Washington Post)
It had been two years since police arrested Liu, 24, on charges of subversion, and a year since international appeals and an outpouring of support from China's Internet users prompted the government to release her. At the time, Liu was a college senior, and her many fans believed she had been jailed for writing essays that poked fun at the ruling Communist Party and posting them on the Web.
But Liu wasn't so sure. Two questions gnawed at her: Could one of her friends have been an informer for the government? Had he set her up?
For months, she investigated the circumstances of her arrest, proceeding slowly, afraid what the authorities might do if she dug too deep. At times, she worried she was being paranoid. Other times, she was convinced she had been deceived. But hard evidence was elusive, and the friend seemed to have disappeared.
Now she was outside his apartment. The corridor was dark and quiet, and dusk cast flitting shadows on the concrete walls. Liu rapped lightly on the door. No one answered.
"What else can I do?" she asked during the slow drive home through the city's evening traffic. She was running out of leads, nearing the end of a long search in the shadows of the government's sophisticated security apparatus, but no closer to the truth than when she started.
More than a quarter-century after the death of Mao Zedong, the Chinese Communist Party has built one of the most successful authoritarian governments in the world, delivering rapid economic growth while maintaining its monopoly on power. At times, it operates with brutal simplicity: A dissident crosses a clear line and ends up in prison.
But just as often, an encounter with the Chinese state can be arbitrary, irrational and as surreally incomprehensible as something out of "The Twilight Zone." This is especially true now, as the party struggles to adapt its old methods of social control to the challenge of maintaining authority over a society seeking and winning greater freedoms.
For individuals like Liu -- caught in the grip of this system in flux -- trying to make sense of what has happened to them can be like navigating a huge and terrible labyrinth, with suspicion and fear around every corner. This is the story of one young woman's brush with authoritarianism and her attempt to confront the mysteries it left behind.
A Shy Bookworm Finds Liberation Through the Net
Liu first logged on to the Internet as a sophomore in college, and it immediately drew her in. She was a bookworm and sci-fi geek, short and somewhat dowdy, with a hunched posture that reinforced her shy demeanor. Growing up in Beijing, she often felt like a misfit. But in cyberspace, she felt liberated.
Searching for a name to use online, she recalled a series of novels she had read in middle school about a con man recruited to save the universe, the Stainless Steel Rat. The rebel in her liked one line in particular: "We are the rats in the wainscoting of society -- we operate outside of their barriers and outside of their rules."
Exploring the Internet, Liu was drawn to sites with material outside the party's rules. She had always been interested in politics, perhaps because her grandmother was a reporter for the People's Daily, the party's flagship newspaper. Her favorite novels, "1984" and "A Clockwork Orange," explored the perversities of totalitarianism. But it was on the Web that Liu threw herself into the writings of liberal critics of China's own political system.
Before long, she was immersed in Internet discussions about political reform and other subjects the party considers taboo. At first, she read only what others wrote, but then she started posting her own writing and quickly developed a reputation for funny satires about the absurdities of life under Communist rule.
In one essay, she spoke out on behalf of a webmaster jailed because of the political messages posted on his site, and suggested that Internet users turn themselves in to the police en masse. To ensure a "splendid triumph" for the authorities, she added, "those who have not yet posted subversive writings on the Internet should be persuaded to post them."
Liu said she was nervous about being punished for her writing but was also encouraged by the warm reception it received online. She spent hours in the campus computer lab, talking to fans and making new friends in Internet chat rooms. She hung out with her Web friends in the real world, too.
In April 2002, during her junior year at Beijing Normal University, where she studied psychology, Liu received a message from an Internet user who called himself Spring Snow. He said he knew one of her Web friends, a heating company employee in the northeast whose name was Jiang Lijun, and Liu recalled that Jiang had mentioned him once."Relatively speaking, I had more friends from the Internet" than college, she said. "Of course, I also knew people from school, but there weren't many I could have deep conversations with."
Over the following weeks, Liu chatted regularly with Spring Snow, who told her his name was Li Yibing and claimed to work for an investment firm in Beijing. He said he admired Liu's essays, and they discussed politics and traded jokes. Several times, he said he wanted to meet Liu in person. Eventually, she agreed.
An Oddly Insistent Friend With Some Dangerous Ideas
They met outside Liu's university on a cool morning in May. He arrived first, carrying a newspaper as they had agreed online, and she spotted him right away: a tall, skinny fellow in his late twenties or early thirties, with relatively long hair and a face marked with acne.
"I thought with a name like Spring Snow, he should have been a handsome guy," Liu recalled. "But actually, he wasn't anything special. He was like a bamboo pole."
They talked over Coke and fries at a KFC, then had lunch at a Chinese restaurant. Li mentioned that he enjoyed hiking and brought up his friendship with Jiang again. But Liu said she did most of the talking because he was so quiet.
Li did say he wanted to meet some of her other Internet friends. He seemed nice enough, Liu recalled, so she introduced him to several of them in the following weeks. Over time, she came to consider him a friend, too.
He seemed to share her views about the need for political change in China; if anything, he presented himself as more of a radical, she said. Once, he suggested trying to blow something up. Another time he spoke of starting an underground political party.
Liu said she considered his ideas dangerous, and told him so, but didn't take him too seriously. He seemed like someone who talked big but could never get anything done. "He came across as a person with wild ambitions but without any abilities," she recalled. "He may have been serious, but I thought it was stupid and laughable, and I told him several times."
When he showed her a party platform he had drafted, she dismissed it as poorly written. But then Li began pestering her to help him edit it. Liu was reluctant, but he kept asking and she felt it would be impolite to continue refusing a friend. Twice that summer, she recalled, she visited Li in his office on the weekend and helped edit the document on his computer.
Then one rainy night in September, Li took Liu and another of her Internet friends, Wu Yiran, to his apartment. He talked about starting an underground political party again, Liu recalled, mentioning that their mutual friend Jiang supported the idea. He also proposed issuing a prank bomb threat during an upcoming meeting of the Communist leadership. Liu said she and Wu laughed about it, but warned Li not to do it.
She had nearly forgotten about the conversation when two months later an official at her school summoned her to the campus security office. About a dozen plainclothes agents were waiting for her.
Questions and Arrests And a Cyberspace Petition
The men did not identify themselves, but Liu surmised they were from the secretive Ministry of State Security. For three hours, they asked politely about her essays and her Internet friends. She was nervous, and tried to buy time with long, rambling answers.
But as the questioning continued, Liu realized they were mainly interested in Li. They didn't seem to know much about him. They asked her to take them to him, but she couldn't remember his address. Then they thanked her and let her go.
Relieved, Liu returned to her dorm. But the nightmare was just beginning. The next morning, the college summoned her to the security office again. This time, uniformed Beijing police officers were waiting. They told her only that she was suspected of a crime and took her to Qincheng Prison, a notorious facility for political prisoners.
Liu was terrified -- and confused. Why had the State Security agents released her the night before? Why were their rivals in the police department now involved? The mystery deepened when the police began interrogating her. Unlike the agents, they seemed to know all about Li. They knew about his plan to start a party, the platform she had edited for him and even the conversation about the bomb threat, Liu recalled. But to her surprise, they attributed all of Li's ideas to Jiang, the heating company employee.
The officers interrogated Liu seven or eight times over the first several weeks, and they implied that Li, Wu and Jiang had been arrested, too.
At one point during the questioning, Liu had to explain that an essay she wrote about "the Persimmon Oil Party" was only satire and that no such organization existed. But the officers didn't spend much time on her writings, and one investigator even told her there was nothing wrong with them, she recalled.
Instead, they pressed her to incriminate Jiang. Liu had met him in person only once. But frightened and under pressure, she agreed with the officers as they described him as an extremist willing to use violence to overthrow the government. "The police wrote it down, and I signed," Liu said, her voice trailing off. "I didn't dare not to."
As the months passed, sitting in a small cell with three other women, one of them a convicted murderer, Liu struggled to make sense of her situation. Her family was not allowed to visit, and a lawyer told her she faced a 10-year sentence if convicted of subversion. College and the Internet seemed far away.
But outside prison, news of her arrest was spreading. Her friends in cyberspace launched a petition drive, which attracted thousands of signatures. Some Internet users began adding "Stainless Steel" to their online names in a gesture of defiance. Human rights groups and foreign governments lobbied for her release.
On Nov. 28, 2003, days before a visit to the United States by Premier Wen Jiabao and more than a year after they were detained, the government released Liu and Wu. The same day, a court convicted Jiang, 38, of subversion and sentenced him to four years in prison.
Announcing the news, a human rights group in Hong Kong said a friend of Li's had contacted them and told them he had been freed, too. But Liu heard something different from the prosecutor handling her case. He told her Li was still in prison and couldn't possibly be released given the charges against him.
Looking for a Ghost In a Shadowy World
Liu was bewildered by the conflicting information. Over a quiet dinner one night, her father proposed a theory: Li might have been an informer for the police.
He pointed out that prosecutors described Wu and Jiang as her co-defendants in court papers but had chosen to handle Li in a separate, unidentified case. He also noted that the families of each of the defendants had come forward and pressed for their release from prison -- except Li's.
Liu calmly accepted the suggestion that her friend might have been a police spy. But her mind raced through the possibilities: Was that why he wanted her to introduce him to others on the Internet? Was that why he kept asking her to edit the party platform? Did he set Jiang up, too?
Liu studied a copy of the judge's opinion convicting Jiang, who had pleaded innocent, and noticed something strange.
The inventory of physical evidence listed a photograph of her and Li inside his office, and another one of her, Wu and Li inside his apartment. But, she said, they hadn't taken any photos. Someone must have been watching them and taking pictures with a hidden camera. Did Li know?
And so the Stainless Steel Rat started digging. She left messages for Li on the Internet, but he never answered. Then she voiced her suspicions online and asked for help.It was a chilling discovery, and Liu worried what the authorities might do if she kept asking questions. But she was also furious. "If all this was manufactured by him, then he had framed us all," she said. She also felt guilty about cooperating with police and helping them convict Jiang. "I let him down," she said. "The least I can do is find Li and figure out what this was all about."
At times, it felt like looking for a ghost. A friend in the police department ran a search of the city's records but found no one with Li's name among Beijing's registered residents. Others combed Li's old Web postings for clues, but discovered that he had always forwarded other people's essays and never written any himself.
There was one tantalizing lead. An Internet user named xifenggudao -- a phrase from classical Chinese poetry -- had posted two essays urging the government to release Li. He had also later sent a letter to a magazine in Hong Kong reporting that Li had been released in late November, and that he had seen him.
The writer described himself as a friend of Li's, and Liu's father had exchanged e-mail with him while she was in prison. Now Liu tried to reach him. When he didn't reply, she wondered whether xifenggudao might be Li himself.
Then, one evening in early May, Liu's cell phone rang. It was Li. Stunned, she asked him what had happened to him. He replied that he had been released in January and now was looking for a job in Beijing. He also said he had been implicated in two cases and planned to post an explanatory note on the Web.
He suggested they meet in person to discuss it, Liu recalled. She agreed, and he told her to send a text message to his cell phone later.
But he disappeared as abruptly as he had appeared. Liu's messages went unanswered. She tried his cell phone repeatedly, but the line seemed to have been disconnected. Li never posted the promised explanation, either.
Liu tried going to Li's office, only to find the building had been demolished. She tracked down the company listed on Li's business card. The manager denied that Li had been an employee and said he had just rented an office from the firm.
Finally, Liu mustered the courage to return to Li's apartment. She found the address in a court document. It was in a building that housed employees of the city's prison system.
When no one answered his door, she tried asking his neighbors for help. None of them recognized Li's name or her description of him.
But Liu left a note, and a few days later the owner of the apartment called. He didn't recognize Li's name, either. Told that the address was listed on a court document, he said there must be a mistake. His family had moved into the apartment in 2001. They began renting it out in May 2003, but never to anyone who matched Li's description, he said. In any case, Liu had visited Li in September 2002.
Jiang's lawyer, Mo Shaoping, expressed surprise that Li had been released, noting police had described him in one document as "one of the prime culprits in a criminal gang involved in a violent terrorist activity case."
"If he was released, it's very strange," Mo said. "If he was released, Jiang should be released, too."
Liu said she has not given up on finding Li. But she is resigned to living with the mystery a long time. "Sooner or later, there will be a day when the government's files are opened," she said. "Maybe only then will we know the truth."
一篇检查
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我于2002年11月7日被北京市公安局刑事拘留，又在被关押1年另21天后被取保候审，至今已经过去将近3个月了。其间于2003年12月25日被北京市检察院第二分院以“犯罪情节轻微”为由不起诉，解除取保候审。在这段时间里我仔细考虑了我的行为，现在做出交代和检查。
我们的案件总共有四个人，我，ID叫不 锈 钢 老 鼠，另有三个同案，分别是姜力钧，吴一然和李毅兵。我以前一直觉得李毅兵这个人不太聪明。我们是在互联网上认识的，我们常常在聊天室里，在QQ上聊天，聊些政治，聊些国家大事。我们喜欢在网上对拥护党和政府的人士冷嘲热讽，甚至于对爱国者施以语言暴力：猛拍板砖，一时间视野之内血肉横飞。我在网上还发了很多火药味十足的文章，我号召网友们集体投诚，向党和政府示威；我恶毒地讽刺过国家的安全机关；我还建议过大家用贪污腐败的办法来把党搞垮。我们也谈到过如何采取措施预防“网警”，如交换些设置代理服务器的方法之类。有时我们也走到网下，到麦当劳一类的地方去坐坐聊天，也谈过一些政治、历史、哲学等话题。我从小很喜欢读书，也读过很多书，如索尔仁尼琴的《古拉格群岛》，但我更喜欢的还是小说：乔治．奥威尔的《1984》和安东尼．伯吉斯的《发条橙》。读《发条橙》的时候我曾经感触颇多：“上帝要的是善呢？还是要向善的选择？”“心理学能够用来作为控制人类，剥夺人类自由意志的工具么？”为此我还写了《有自由，才有美德》一文贴在网上。我自认为是个自由主义者，当时我认为，自由，包括宪法里写的言论、结社自由，是当真的。
李毅兵和我说过，他认为关于中国的自由民主等问题，一切能说的都已经说尽了，剩下的就是要行动了。我没当真，认为他是头脑发热。有一天，他说有个东西要给我看。神秘兮兮地拿出来后，我看到的是一份“自由民主党”的“党纲”。大致看了一下，说实话，写得不怎么样，尤其是文中有“暴力推翻政府”。我反对，我说。于是他要我帮他改改。我开始拒绝，但是禁不住他反复要求，我勉为其难地答应了。我把“暴力”的提法删除，还对其他几处文字做了修改。但是我心里依然不同意他的想法，现在想起来，这件事除了把人往监狱里送以外，没有任何意义。所以后来我后悔了，我极力劝阻他不要当真成立什么政党，还多次要求收回我修改过的“党纲”。因此所谓“自由民主党”，自始至终都只是个停留在纸面上的东西，也就是说除了这一纸“党纲”以外，一无所有。
2002年9月的时候，系里的乔老师找我谈过一次话，意思是有关部门点我的名了，让我注意点自己的言行。我答应了，从那以后我几乎没有在网上发帖子。但是我也没有老实交代李毅兵和“自由民主党”的“党纲”。部分是因为我觉得他已经听从我的劝告，这时再把他交代出去，不太厚道，也不太够哥们。
同年11月6日晚，一些可能是警察的人（因为他们穿的是便衣）来找我了解情况。他们主要想了解李毅兵的情况，我也出于同样的原因没有说。后来他们要我带他们去找据说是李的一处住宅，或者要我打电话把他约出来，我都没有答应。当时我认为，我那么做是对得起朋友的。
第二天，也就是2002年11月7日，北京市公安局以“涉嫌违反国家法律”为由对我刑事拘留。随后我被押上一辆汽车，夹在两个警察中间，送到北京市看守所。我听车里的警察说，同时被抓的还有两个人，我认为应该是李毅兵和吴一然。
他们把我带到看守所后，一两个小时后便开始审问我。在随后的一年多时间里，公安局共提审过我十几次。有一点我应该说明的是，在这一年多时间里，无论是公安局还是看守所的警察，都从来没有打过我或者虐待过我。这一点与我以前读到的和想象的不同。当公安局的预审员问我，李毅兵和我做了什么的时候，我一开始还是说不知道。但是当他们说到李毅兵的说法和我不一样时，我的心往下一沉，我认为李“出卖”了我，于是我就把我所知道的情况都向预审员交代了。随后我说自己是年轻幼稚被人利用，请求政府再给我一次机会，对我从宽处理。
在看守所里，公安局和看守所的警察对我都还是不错的。也许是看我年轻又是大学生，所以他们常常找我谈话，尽力教育挽救我。为了让我好好学习，公安局的警官后来还让我家人给我拿了一些法律书籍和课本、小说、杂志等送去。在看守所里读到了自己心爱的书，我焦虑的心情舒畅了不少。在这一年多里，我不仅学习了很多法律知识，而且更加深入地了解了中国社会的状况，这些都是我的宝贵收获。
在看守所里我也听到过外边声援、呼吁的声音。说实话我很感激他们。在看守所里的时候知道大家还没有忘记你，心里确实是热乎乎的。但是我也很惶恐，因为本质上我是个害羞的人，绝对不是一个能够做领袖，能够在众人面前发表演讲或者高呼口号的人。老鼠总是喜欢躲在暗处的。我想大家恐怕把我抬得太高，使我今后很难做我自己，或者过自己喜欢的生活了。我也绝对不是大家想象中的英雄，在看守所里，很多时候，我只是一个无助的，给吓坏了的孩子。
预审员告诉我这些的时候说，以前的事是有人在利用我，现在还是有些别有用心的人想利用我。然后他们要我写悔过书，我写了。是的，没有人强迫我，我是自愿的；我是有自由意志，有自由选择的权利的！但是我摆脱不了那种成为发条橙的感觉。小亚历克斯接受路氏技术的治疗，被剥夺了自由选择的权利，只能做为一架行善的小机器被释放后，所有的人都打他，虐待他；所有的政客，内务部长和反对党领袖都企图利用他作为政治工具。我不知道自己为什么想到这个，也许是因为那种无时无刻不存在的无助感。我感觉自己无能为力，不由自主。我觉得我不具有那种强大的人格力量，很多时候我甚至控制不了自己的情绪，也摆脱不了那种斯德哥尔摩综合症似的感觉。我觉得我已经变了个人似的，但是我的理智为此感到悲哀。这件事让我深刻认识到了自己内心的软弱和渺小。
我被释放以后，回到了温馨舒适的家里，家人都非常高兴，都对我很好。当然朋友们也都很高兴，走到哪里大家都热烈欢迎我，我并未受到像小亚历克斯那样的对待。后来我听说姜力钧被判刑四年，而关于李毅兵的消息却有点变化：一开始我们听说他与我和吴一然一同被释放，但是却没有他的消息；最近又听说是发生了错误，他并未获释，而是因为另有案情，被另案处理，但是这件事我以前也一点都不知道。
我似乎又回到了原来的生活中：又开始与以前的朋友，还有些新朋友见面；又开始上网、读书，希望能够返回学校继续上学；不同的是现在有些记者来采访我。我似乎又抛弃掉了那个在看守所里软弱无力的我，变成一只大出风头的老鼠了。可是我又遇上发生在小亚历克斯身上的事了：在美国版中被删掉的《发条橙》的最后一章里，小亚历克斯遇上了当年帮派里的伙伴彼得，彼得已经结婚了。小亚历克斯忽然认识到暴力只是属于青春的，而青春必须逝去。小亚历克斯长大了，想要结婚生子，过正常人的平静生活，并且认识到自己只是上帝手中的一枚发条橙。是呀，我也遇到了这样的事：出来以后，我发现好几位老朋友要么是已经结婚了，要么是正在准备结婚；也有几个朋友，包括我又见到的，我的同案吴一然，现在准备出国或者移民。我也想起似乎是一个人格测验中的一个判断题：“一个人年轻的时候有些反叛的想法是正常的，但是当他们长大以后就应该把这些想法丢掉并且安定下来。”这个说法是对的吗？我不知道，也许是因为我还没有长大，但是我也有些想法：也许小MM老鼠该去找一个GG鼠了。
现在我也有时间反思一下自己过去的所作所为，以及我自己在这件事中应该吸取什么样的教训。我认为在整个事件中，我所犯的最大的错误，和人类所能够犯的最大的错误一样，都是愚蠢。我是相信个人主义的价值观，相信“动机与目的统一”，也就是相信“自私”的。人总要为个人利益最大化而努力。当然个人利益不一定指钱，也可以包括思想的利益等等。但是我却为了一个自己并不同意的“党纲”被关了一年，这有违我自己的原则。我无法解释自己当初究竟为什么要这么做，只能用愚蠢来形容自己。为了一件不值得的事，为了一个不值得的人，我只能说自己愚蠢。这一年我究竟得到了些什么？网络上的“名声”吗？真正让我苦恼的是，大家心目中的老鼠，并不是真正的老鼠，如今“不锈钢老鼠”已经很大程度上变成了一个符号，而不再属于我了。按照拉康的观点，任何一种语言符号本身就是对潜意识的压迫和伤害。如今“不锈钢老鼠”这个符号已经对真正的“老鼠”--我的无法用语言来形容的内心构成了伤害。现在我觉得自己已经不是以前那只充满主体性，在宇宙中到处抢银行的“不锈钢老鼠”，而成为了完全丧失主体性的“发条橙”。这些都不是我真正想要的，我可以说是被迫接受这些的，虽然我得承认，接受采访不像我当初想的那么可怕。“不要被别人利用”这句话说起来容易，做起来难，因为也许人和人之间的关系，就是互相利用，各得所需。可我真正想要的是什么，我自己也说不清楚。以前写过一个“我的价值观”，理想和亲友是我最先抛弃的，生命是短暂的，而自由也只不过是个幻影，剩下的只有创造力，我真正希望过的生活就是有创造力的生活。我希望在创造中，还能找回原来的老鼠，但是这并不容易。因此也许我应该在知识中去寻找我的未来了。顺便说一句：经过了这件事，亲人和朋友，在我心中占据了不可替代的位置。
请相信，这篇检查中，我说的每一句话都是真心的。请原谅我在文中使用了一些也许让人难以接受的修辞和文学手法。请理解：这件事对我的伤害，我至今还不能完全面对。这些文学手法也许是为了避免对我自己更大的伤害而采取的一些防御措施。我需要时间去消化这些痛苦，好让我有一天能够真正鼓起勇气来面对这一切。
《我没有敌人 我的最后陈述》
在我已过半百的人生道路上，1989年6月是我生命的重大转折时刻。那之前，我是文革后恢复高考的第一届大学生（七七级），从学士到硕士再到博士，我的读书生涯是一帆风顺，毕业后留在北京师范大学任教。在讲台上，我是一名颇受学生欢迎的教师。同时，我又是一名公共知识分子，在上世纪80年代发表过引起轰动的文章与著作，经常受邀去各地演讲，还应欧美国家之邀出国做访问学者。我给自己提出的要求是：无论做人还是为文，都要活得诚实、负责、有尊严。那之后，因从美国回来参加八九运动，我被以“反革命宣传煽动罪”投入监狱，也失去了我酷爱的讲台，再也不能在国内发表文章和演讲。仅仅因为发表不同政见和参加和平民主运动，一名教师就失去了讲台，一个作家就失去了发表的权利，一位公共知识人就失去公开演讲的机会，这，无论之于我个人还是之于改革开放已经30年的中国，都是一种悲哀。
想起来，六四后我最富有戏剧性的经历，居然都与法庭相关；我两次面对公众讲话的机会都是北京市中级法院的开庭提供的，一次是1991年1月，一次是现在。虽然两次被指控的罪名不同，但其实质基本相同，皆是因言获罪。
20年过去了，六四冤魂还未瞑目，被六四情结引向持不同政见者之路的我，在1991年走出秦城监狱之后，就失去了在自己的祖国公开发言的权利，而只能通过境外媒体发言，并因此而被长年监控，被监视居住（1995年5月-1996年1月），被劳动教养（1996年10月-1999年10月），现在又再次被政权的敌人意识推上了被告席，但我仍然要对这个剥夺我自由的政权说，我监守着20年前我在《六•二绝食宣言》中所表达的信念—我没有敌人，也没有仇恨。所有监控过我、捉捕过我、审讯过我的警察，起诉过我的检察官，判决过我的法官，都不是我的敌人。虽然我无法接受你们的监控、逮捕、起诉和判决，但我尊重你的职业与人格，包括现在代表控方起诉我的张荣革和潘雪晴两位检察官。在12月3日两位对我的询问中，我能感到你们的尊重和诚意。
因为，仇恨会腐蚀一个人的智慧和良知，敌人意识将毒化一个民族的精神，煽动起你死我活的残酷斗争，毁掉一个社会的宽容和人性，阻碍一个国家走向自由民主的进程。所以，我希望自己能够超越个人的遭遇来看待国家的发展和社会的变化，以最大的善意对待政权的敌意，以爱化解恨。
众所周知，是改革开放带来了国家的发展和社会的变化。在我看来，改革开放始于放弃毛时代的“以阶级斗争为纲”的执政方针。转而致力于经济发展和社会和谐。放弃“斗争哲学”的过程也是逐步淡化敌人意识、消除仇恨心理的过程，是一个挤掉浸入人性之中的“狼奶”的过程。正是这一进程，为改革开放提供了一个宽松的国内外环境，为恢复人与人之间的互爱，为不同利益不同价值的和平共处提供了柔软的人性土壤，从而为国人的创造力之迸发和爱心之恢复提供了符合人性的激励。
可以说，对外放弃“反帝反修”，对内放弃“阶级斗争”，是中国的改革开放得以持续至今的基本前提。经济走向市场，文化趋于多元，秩序逐渐法治，皆受益于“敌人意识”的淡化。即使在进步最为缓慢的政治领域，敌人意识的淡化也让政权对社会的多元化有了日益扩大的包容性，对不同政见者的迫害之力度也大幅度下降，对八九运动的定性也由“暴乱”改为“政治风波”。敌人意识的淡化让政权逐步接受了人权的普世性，1998年，中国政府向世界做出签署联合国的两大国际人权公约的承诺，标志着中国对普世人权标准的承认；2004年，全国人大修宪首次把“国家尊重和保障人权”写进了宪法，标志着人权已经成为中国法治的根本原则之一。与此同时，现政权又提出“以人为本”、“创建和谐社会”，标志着中共执政理念的进步。
这些宏观方面的进步，也能从我被捕以来的亲身经历中感受到。
尽管我坚持认为自己无罪，对我的指控是违宪的，但在我失去自由的一年多时间里，先后经历了两个关押地点、四位预审警官、三位检察官、二位法官，他们的办案，没有不尊重，没有超时，没有逼供。他们的态度平和、理性，且时时流露出善意。6月23日，我被从监视居住处转到北京市公安局第一看守所，简称“北看”。在北看的半年时间里，我看到了监管上的进步。
1996年，我曾在老北看（半步桥）呆过，与十几年前半步桥时的北看相比，现在的北看，在硬件设施和软件管理上都有了极大的改善。特别是北看首创的人性化管理，在尊重在押人员的权利和人格的基础上，将柔性化的管理落实到管教们的一言一行中，体现在“温馨广播”、“悔悟”杂志、饭前音乐、起床睡觉的音乐中，这种管理，让在押人员感到了尊严与温暖，激发了他们维持监室秩序和反对牢头狱霸的自觉性，不但为在押人员提供了人性化的生活环境，也极大地改善了在押人员的诉讼环境和心态，我与主管我所在监室的刘峥管教有着近距离的接触，他对在押人员的尊重和关心，体现在管理的每个细节中，渗透到他的一言一行中，让人感到温暖。结识这位真诚、正直、负责、善心的刘管教，也可以算作我在北看的幸运吧。
政治基于这样的信念和亲历，我坚信中国的政治进步不会停止，我对未来自由中国的降临充满乐观的期待，因为任何力量也无法阻拦心向自由的人性欲求，中国终将变成人权至上的法治国。我也期待这样的进步能体现在此案的审理中，期待合议庭的公正裁决—经得起历史检验的裁决。
如果让我说出这二十年来最幸运的经历，那就是得到了我的妻子刘霞的无私的爱。今天，我妻子无法到庭旁听，但我还是要对你说，亲爱的，我坚信你对我的爱将一如既往。这么多年来，在我的无自由的生活中，我们的爱饱含外在环境所强加的苦涩，但回味起来依然无穷。
我在有形的监狱中服刑，你在无形的心狱中等待，你的爱，就是超越高墙、穿透铁窗的阳光，抚摸我的每寸皮肤，温暖我的每个细胞，让我始终保有内心的平和、坦荡与明亮，让狱中的每分钟都充满意义。而我对你的爱，充满了负疚和歉意，有时沉重得让我脚步蹒跚。我是荒野中的顽石，任由狂风暴雨的抽打，冷得让人不敢触碰。但我的爱是坚硬的、锋利的，可以穿透任何阻碍。即使我被碾成粉末，我也会用灰烬拥抱你。
亲爱的，有你的爱，我就会坦然面对即将到来的审判，无悔于自己的选择，乐观地期待明天。
我期待我的国家是一片可以自由表达的土地，在这里，每一位国民的发言都会得到同等的善待；在这里，不同的价值、思想、信仰、政见……既相互竞争又和平共处；在这里，多数的意见和少数的意见都会得到平等的保障，特别是那些不同于当权者的政见将得到充份的尊重和保护；在这里，所有的政见都将摊在阳光下接受民众的选择，每个国民都能毫无恐惧地发表政见，决不会因发表不同政见而遭受政治迫害；我期待，我将是中国绵绵不绝的文字狱的最后一个受害者，从此之后不再有人因言获罪。
表达自由，人权之基，人性之本，真理之母。封杀言论自由，践踏人权，窒息人性，压抑真理。
为践行宪法赋予的言论自由之权利，当尽到一个中国公民的社会责任，我的所作所为无罪，即便为此被指控，也无怨言。
谢谢各位！
刘晓波 于二零零九年十二月二十三日 星期三
在我已过半百的人生道路上，1989年6月是我生命的重大转折时刻。那之前，我是文革后恢复高考的第一届大学生（七七级），从学士到硕士再到博士，我的读书生涯是一帆风顺，毕业后留在北京师范大学任教。在讲台上，我是一名颇受学生欢迎的教师。同时，我又是一名公共知识分子，在上世纪80年代发表过引起轰动的文章与著作，经常受邀去各地演讲，还应欧美国家之邀出国做访问学者。我给自己提出的要求是：无论做人还是为文，都要活得诚实、负责、有尊严。那之后，因从美国回来参加八九运动，我被以“反革命宣传煽动罪”投入监狱，也失去了我酷爱的讲台，再也不能在国内发表文章和演讲。仅仅因为发表不同政见和参加和平民主运动，一名教师就失去了讲台，一个作家就失去了发表的权利，一位公共知识人就失去公开演讲的机会，这，无论之于我个人还是之于改革开放已经30年的中国，都是一种悲哀。
想起来，六四后我最富有戏剧性的经历，居然都与法庭相关；我两次面对公众讲话的机会都是北京市中级法院的开庭提供的，一次是1991年1月，一次是现在。虽然两次被指控的罪名不同，但其实质基本相同，皆是因言获罪。
20年过去了，六四冤魂还未瞑目，被六四情结引向持不同政见者之路的我，在1991年走出秦城监狱之后，就失去了在自己的祖国公开发言的权利，而只能通过境外媒体发言，并因此而被长年监控，被监视居住（1995年5月-1996年1月），被劳动教养（1996年10月-1999年10月），现在又再次被政权的敌人意识推上了被告席，但我仍然要对这个剥夺我自由的政权说，我监守着20年前我在《六•二绝食宣言》中所表达的信念—我没有敌人，也没有仇恨。所有监控过我、捉捕过我、审讯过我的警察，起诉过我的检察官，判决过我的法官，都不是我的敌人。虽然我无法接受你们的监控、逮捕、起诉和判决，但我尊重你的职业与人格，包括现在代表控方起诉我的张荣革和潘雪晴两位检察官。在12月3日两位对我的询问中，我能感到你们的尊重和诚意。
因为，仇恨会腐蚀一个人的智慧和良知，敌人意识将毒化一个民族的精神，煽动起你死我活的残酷斗争，毁掉一个社会的宽容和人性，阻碍一个国家走向自由民主的进程。所以，我希望自己能够超越个人的遭遇来看待国家的发展和社会的变化，以最大的善意对待政权的敌意，以爱化解恨。
众所周知，是改革开放带来了国家的发展和社会的变化。在我看来，改革开放始于放弃毛时代的“以阶级斗争为纲”的执政方针。转而致力于经济发展和社会和谐。放弃“斗争哲学”的过程也是逐步淡化敌人意识、消除仇恨心理的过程，是一个挤掉浸入人性之中的“狼奶”的过程。正是这一进程，为改革开放提供了一个宽松的国内外环境，为恢复人与人之间的互爱，为不同利益不同价值的和平共处提供了柔软的人性土壤，从而为国人的创造力之迸发和爱心之恢复提供了符合人性的激励。
可以说，对外放弃“反帝反修”，对内放弃“阶级斗争”，是中国的改革开放得以持续至今的基本前提。经济走向市场，文化趋于多元，秩序逐渐法治，皆受益于“敌人意识”的淡化。即使在进步最为缓慢的政治领域，敌人意识的淡化也让政权对社会的多元化有了日益扩大的包容性，对不同政见者的迫害之力度也大幅度下降，对八九运动的定性也由“暴乱”改为“政治风波”。敌人意识的淡化让政权逐步接受了人权的普世性，1998年，中国政府向世界做出签署联合国的两大国际人权公约的承诺，标志着中国对普世人权标准的承认；2004年，全国人大修宪首次把“国家尊重和保障人权”写进了宪法，标志着人权已经成为中国法治的根本原则之一。与此同时，现政权又提出“以人为本”、“创建和谐社会”，标志着中共执政理念的进步。
这些宏观方面的进步，也能从我被捕以来的亲身经历中感受到。
尽管我坚持认为自己无罪，对我的指控是违宪的，但在我失去自由的一年多时间里，先后经历了两个关押地点、四位预审警官、三位检察官、二位法官，他们的办案，没有不尊重，没有超时，没有逼供。他们的态度平和、理性，且时时流露出善意。6月23日，我被从监视居住处转到北京市公安局第一看守所，简称“北看”。在北看的半年时间里，我看到了监管上的进步。
1996年，我曾在老北看（半步桥）呆过，与十几年前半步桥时的北看相比，现在的北看，在硬件设施和软件管理上都有了极大的改善。特别是北看首创的人性化管理，在尊重在押人员的权利和人格的基础上，将柔性化的管理落实到管教们的一言一行中，体现在“温馨广播”、“悔悟”杂志、饭前音乐、起床睡觉的音乐中，这种管理，让在押人员感到了尊严与温暖，激发了他们维持监室秩序和反对牢头狱霸的自觉性，不但为在押人员提供了人性化的生活环境，也极大地改善了在押人员的诉讼环境和心态，我与主管我所在监室的刘峥管教有着近距离的接触，他对在押人员的尊重和关心，体现在管理的每个细节中，渗透到他的一言一行中，让人感到温暖。结识这位真诚、正直、负责、善心的刘管教，也可以算作我在北看的幸运吧。
政治基于这样的信念和亲历，我坚信中国的政治进步不会停止，我对未来自由中国的降临充满乐观的期待，因为任何力量也无法阻拦心向自由的人性欲求，中国终将变成人权至上的法治国。我也期待这样的进步能体现在此案的审理中，期待合议庭的公正裁决—经得起历史检验的裁决。
如果让我说出这二十年来最幸运的经历，那就是得到了我的妻子刘霞的无私的爱。今天，我妻子无法到庭旁听，但我还是要对你说，亲爱的，我坚信你对我的爱将一如既往。这么多年来，在我的无自由的生活中，我们的爱饱含外在环境所强加的苦涩，但回味起来依然无穷。
我在有形的监狱中服刑，你在无形的心狱中等待，你的爱，就是超越高墙、穿透铁窗的阳光，抚摸我的每寸皮肤，温暖我的每个细胞，让我始终保有内心的平和、坦荡与明亮，让狱中的每分钟都充满意义。而我对你的爱，充满了负疚和歉意，有时沉重得让我脚步蹒跚。我是荒野中的顽石，任由狂风暴雨的抽打，冷得让人不敢触碰。但我的爱是坚硬的、锋利的，可以穿透任何阻碍。即使我被碾成粉末，我也会用灰烬拥抱你。
亲爱的，有你的爱，我就会坦然面对即将到来的审判，无悔于自己的选择，乐观地期待明天。
我期待我的国家是一片可以自由表达的土地，在这里，每一位国民的发言都会得到同等的善待；在这里，不同的价值、思想、信仰、政见……既相互竞争又和平共处；在这里，多数的意见和少数的意见都会得到平等的保障，特别是那些不同于当权者的政见将得到充份的尊重和保护；在这里，所有的政见都将摊在阳光下接受民众的选择，每个国民都能毫无恐惧地发表政见，决不会因发表不同政见而遭受政治迫害；我期待，我将是中国绵绵不绝的文字狱的最后一个受害者，从此之后不再有人因言获罪。
表达自由，人权之基，人性之本，真理之母。封杀言论自由，践踏人权，窒息人性，压抑真理。
为践行宪法赋予的言论自由之权利，当尽到一个中国公民的社会责任，我的所作所为无罪，即便为此被指控，也无怨言。
谢谢各位！
刘晓波 于二零零九年十二月二十三日 星期三
