By Li Bai’an
Dear colleagues,
I know you are watching all of this.
Some of you work at People’s Daily or Xinhua. Others are in local television stations or news websites. You fall silent in meetings. You hesitate when deleting stories. And in your dreams, you still remember why you became journalists in the first place.
It is not that you do not understand the value of truth. You are simply forced to pretend that you do not.
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Today, I write this letter as a journalist in exile.
I am not here to condemn you. On the contrary, I want to tell you this: I believe you still have a conscience. It has simply been buried for too long under the fear of the Xi Jinping era.
Zhang Zhan and the price of speaking
You all know Zhang Zhan’s story. She was just an ordinary citizen when the COVID-19 outbreak erupted in Wuhan. With nothing more than a mobile phone, she documented what she saw on the streets.
She once said: Of course we must seek truth, no matter the cost. Truth is the most precious thing in the world. It is our life.
That pursuit of truth cost her four years in prison and nearly destroyed her health. After a brief release, she was detained again. She could have chosen silence. She did not.
Because she spoke the truth, history gained another possible record. And the price she paid reminds us of something fundamental: journalism is not a profession—it is a belief. Truth is not just words—it is life itself.
I believe there is a Zhang Zhan in every newsroom in China. You simply cannot speak yet.
The Urumqi fire: a night when truth burned
I will never forget that night.
In the winter of 2022, a high-rise apartment building in Urumqi caught fire. Doors were sealed. Stairwells were locked. Firefighters were blocked. More than a dozen lives were lost.
And yet, coverage of the tragedy was almost entirely suppressed. Some reporters wanted to write, but were stopped. Some editors wanted to publish, but were told to “wait for unified messaging.”
That night, China’s internet was swallowed by silence—until people took to the streets holding blank sheets of paper.
Those sheets carried no words, yet they were louder than any headline. In an era when speech is forbidden, silence itself becomes a cry.
You saw that moment. You knew it was not “foreign forces.” They were your fellow citizens. Your families. I believe your hearts trembled then.
Between conscience and fear
I have been away from China for years. I now continue reporting on China in London, as a former Voice of America journalist.
I want to be honest with you: I am not completely free. I have been followed and photographed by strangers on the streets of Britain. Late at night, I still think of the lights of my hometown, of the street I can no longer return to.
But whenever I feel myself retreating, I think of you—those still inside the system, doing what you can to preserve fragments of truth.
I also think of the young people I have met abroad: Chinese students awakened during the White Paper protests, forced into exile. Many were barely in their early twenties when they first held up blank sheets. Some came from Tsinghua, Fudan, Peking University. Some were studying overseas, wearing masks as they shouted, “No more PCR tests—We want freedom.”
They told me: We don’t know if we can ever go back. But at least we don’t want to stay silent anymore.
In their eyes, I saw hope. I also saw myself at the moment when my own journalistic ideals were first kindled.
I want you to know this: we overseas have not forgotten you. We are all persevering in the darkness—just in different corners.
When you protect fragments of truth, we work to make the world hear them. We are one. We are resisting forgetting together.
Journalists in exile
Abroad, I have met many journalists living in exile. They once published powerful investigations at Caixin, Southern Weekly, and Economic Observer. Now they live in London, New York, or Taipei, surviving on modest donations while continuing to speak out.
I know one journalist, Su Yutong. She was placed under long-term surveillance for reporting on human rights in China and later fled to Europe. Even in Berlin, she has faced transnational harassment—her address leaked, false police reports filed in her name, malicious advertisements targeting her.
She told me: They think they can scare me. But I will only write more.
Her courage taught me this: authoritarian power can cross borders—but so can truth. Yes, we are living in exile. But we are still writing.
Every article we publish reminds the world that truth still exists in China, and that the Chinese people have not stopped resisting.
Non-violent resistance
I understand that you cannot speak publicly. But there is still one thing you can do: preserve.
Preserve the footage that was never aired. Preserve the paragraphs that were deleted. Preserve the facts you know.
One day, these materials may become evidence for rebuilding China’s history.
Non-violence is not weakness. It is a deeper form of resistance—using memory against erasure. The moment you save the truth, you are already resisting.
Democracy is not punishment—it is redemption
The system tells you that democracy would plunge China into chaos. But you know the truth. Real chaos is the chaos of lies.
In a democratic system, journalists no longer fear writing the truth. There are no “forbidden zones,” no “red lines”—only facts.
A country with press freedom does not collapse because of criticism. It grows stronger through transparency. A country without press freedom, no matter how high its GDP, will eventually rot.
Democracy is not meant to destroy journalists. It is meant to let journalists truly be journalists.
A final word for the future
Dear colleagues, I know you cannot publicly respond to this letter. You cannot share it, like it, or comment on it.
But I hope you remember this in your hearts: you are not alone. Your conscience has not disappeared. Your silence is not surrender.
In every deleted article, every killed story, every late-night sigh, there is a belief hidden away—that one day, the truth will be known.
That day may not be far off.
When the iron curtain falls, when archives are unsealed, when truth sees daylight again, every document you preserved, every image you saved, every message you kept will become a cornerstone of a democratic China.
And then, we will once again write as journalists in the sunlight:
“Every word here is free.”
Please protect yourselves. And protect the truth.
We will meet again in the light.
May truth be with you.
May you stay safe.
Li Bai’an
Oct. 9, 2025
This letter won the Grand Prize in the 2025 “Letters to Society” Open Letter Writing Campaign.
The views expressed are solely those of the author.
