Yang Bin, November 12, 2026
Looking back, the decade or so around the beginning of the 21st century could be considered something of an “enlightened” period. It was an era when Xu Zhiyong (许志永) and his friends enjoyed a tiny bit of space for their voices and activities, the era that most Chinese people recall as the closest this country ever came to a “civil society,” and even an era within the dictatorial government system where “certain topics could be discussed internally.”
At the time, I was working as a prosecutor in Guangzhou, but it was also around then that I began forging a different path in life, hoping to bid farewell to the red epaulets, peaked caps, and uniforms — reminiscent of those worn by military or police officers — of that profession.
“Judicial reform” was a hot topic within the system; on internal forums, people even openly discussed how to establish a true constitutional state. Most probably, it was on the procuratorate’s internal QQ network and forums back then that I first heard of “Xu Zhiyong,” as he had occasionally become a topic of discussion there.
I didn’t know much about him at the time. What left a deep impression on me was a business trip to Beijing, where I gathered with several colleagues from Beijing’s procuratorial system to chat about social events and the various absurd and preposterous cases we had each handled. A colleague from the Beijing Municipal People’s Procuratorate said, “Hey, speaking of ‘absurd,’ Xu Zhiyong’s case is the real…” Though he left the sentence unfinished, the expression on his face was enough to convey his point: “Still, we are quite proud that we managed to withstand the pressure!”
What he meant was that anyone with half a brain knew Xu Zhiyong’s actions did not constitute a crime at all, but because it was a political case handed down to them from above, they had no choice but to handle it in line with political requirements. Yet, in defining the nature of the offense and determining the recommended sentence, they had at least stood their ground and refrained from applying the maximum penalty as the higher-ups desired.
That was 2014 — the year Xu Zhiyong was sentenced by the Beijing No. 1 Intermediate People’s Court to four years in prison for “gathering a crowd to disturb public order.” What the authorities sought to crack down on was the New Citizens’ Movement launched by Xu. The alleged “gathering a crowd to disturb public order” was simply parents who lacked Beijing household registration (hukou) — but who worked and paid taxes in Beijing — petitioning outside the Ministry of Education and the Beijing Municipal Education Commission. They hoped their children could study normally and sit for the Gaokao (China’s national college entrance exam) in Beijing, rather than being forced back to their hometowns they had long since left behind.
Understanding this makes it clear why Xu Zhiyong, who holds a Ph.D. in law, and his lawyer chose to remain silent and offer no defense in court. In his courtroom statement, he declared: “Today’s trial has completely destroyed the very last shred of dignity of China’s rule of law.” This was because even the prosecutor indicting him and the judge declaring him guilty knew deep down in their hearts that he was innocent.
Out of curiosity, I once asked a friend working in National Security: “How do you view people like Xu Zhiyong?”
At the time, I still wore the halo of a “star prosecutor,” while my friend was a “model figure” within his own department. We had met while attending a certain official “gala.” Though we both made our living inside the establishment, we relied on our knowledge and technical skills, and we hit it off during our conversation.
He smiled and said, “For those who drive social progress, deep inside, we hold great respect for them as well.”
My first meeting with Xu Zhiyong was entirely by chance. It was around the end of 2018 when I went to Beijing for a legal seminar. By then, I had already resigned from my public post at the procuratorate and become a practicing lawyer. In the evening, at the invitation of a friend, I attended a New Year’s reception. Amid the noisy clamor of voices, someone introduced me to Xu Zhiyong. He was clearly familiar with my name. With almost no small talk, he said: “Let us do something for China together.”
I said, “Okay.”
The crowd was too thick, and we were soon separated. All my memories of that reception are hazy, but that single sentence kept echoing in my mind:
“Let us do something for China together.”
My friend mentioned that although Xu had been released from prison in mid-2017, he did not even have the most basic freedom of movement. Attending this reception had required immense effort to shake off the plainclothes police tasked to tail him everywhere he went.
Not long after returning from Beijing, I rented a small farmhouse courtyard on Haiou Island (Seagull Island 海鸥岛) in the suburbs of Guangzhou to anchor my pastoral dreams. Though not far from the metropolis, it retained a rare simplicity and tranquility, gradually becoming a favorite spot for friends to gather.
Therefore, when Xu Zhiyong arrived at Haiou Island carrying a backpack in early 2020 and told me he hoped to stay for a while to focus on writing, I wasn’t surprised at all.
Although the COVID-19 pandemic was just beginning, it did not seem to affect the lives of the islanders on Haiou. Compared to the panic and tension elsewhere, the small island felt like a paradise.
Those were peaceful and quiet days. During the day, except for coming downstairs to eat, Xu Zhiyong spent almost all his time in his third-floor room, immersed in thought or writing. In the evening, he would walk along the path in front of the house all the way to the Pearl River. Occasionally, I would stroll along with him.
During our chats, he gradually revealed to me that he had gathered with a group of friends in Xiamen (厦门) at the end of the year (2019), and recently, the friends who attended that gathering were being arrested one after another. This naturally made me fear for his safety. Of course, I did not believe a social gathering constituted a crime, but to a regime paranoid about its own citizens, he and his cohorts were clearly among the most unstable elements. Locking up every element they deemed unstable in prison was their simplest and most effective solution. As for the charges? Nothing could be easier — they could just invent one.
Yet Xu Zhiyong seemed unconcerned. He knew the day was bound to come sooner or later when they would find him, but he seemed to have calmly accepted this fate: to advance social progress, someone must pay a price, and I am willing to be that price.
I asked him if he had ever considered leaving China. He shook his head. “What could I do somewhere else? If you want to change this land, you have to stay here.”
Instead, he was a bit worried about me and asked if I was afraid. I said I wasn’t. I told him: “You are a free man now, you are my friend, and a friend is visiting and staying with me. What could possibly be wrong with that?”
I figured that if they arrested me too, the longest they could detain me was 24 hours. Of course, if they insisted on pinning a charge like “harboring a criminal” on me, it would not have been beyond them, but still I was unafraid.
Weeks passed. Eventually that day came. One afternoon after lunch, while my family and I were resting on the second floor, a commotion suddenly erupted downstairs. I leaned out over the balcony to look down: the ground was filled with people. A woman was shouting at the top of her lungs, saying they were from the village committee conducting checks due to the pandemic to see if any outsiders were staying there.
I realized something was amiss, so I hurriedly went up to the third floor to tell Zhiyong that this was very likely targeted at him. He was calm, without a hint of panic. During his more than ten years in the rights-defense movement, he must have faced countless situations like this.
The door opened, and a throng of people surged in. In addition to the village committee staff, there were officers from the Shilou Township Police Station, as well as personnel of the Guobao — domestic security police — from Guangzhou and Beijing.
I followed them up to the third floor. The first thing Zhiyong said upon seeing the Beijing domestic security officer was, “So it’s you!” I figured they must be “old friends.”
When Zhiyong was taken away, my family was detained on the second floor. About 10 minutes later, we were also escorted to the Shilou Police Station. Upon arrival, I was immediately taken away alone into another police car. I asked where we were going. The answer was municipal headquarters.
It was pouring rain all the way that day. The car finally stopped in front of the Guangzhou No. 1 Detention Center. The police officer sitting on my right got out of the car, grabbed the backpack placed on the passenger seat — which I recognized as Xu Zhiyong’s — and handed it to a Beijing police officer waiting at the detention center entrance. He then returned to his seat. Without turning off the engine, the car executed a U-turn right there and, to my surprise, drove me back to the Shilou Town Police Station.
Just as I had anticipated, I was detained for 24 hours. A police officer from Beijing interrogating me said triumphantly: “A Ph.D. in law (referring to Xu Zhiyong), a Master of Laws (referring to me), and a Bachelor of Law (referring to my son, a freshman law student who had just returned home for winter break) — we’ve bagged you all in one haul!”
Meanwhile, the Guangzhou domestic security officers repeatedly asked one question: Why did you harbor him?
I countered: Why couldn’t I host him? Was it written on his forehead that he was a fugitive? Or did you issue a wanted poster announcing to the world that he was a fugitive? Isn’t he a free man who can freely visit a friend? I told them: I respect him. I respect his efforts to change China for the better.
Early the next morning, I overheard the guarding police officers chatting: Xu Zhiyong had already been escorted back to Beijing by the capital’s police via high-speed rail on the very night of his arrest.
I thought to myself: perhaps they had originally planned to put me on that same train. What kind of adventure would that have turned out to be?
Later, I left China. In April 2023, Xu Zhiyong and his friend and colleague Ding Jiaxi were sentenced to 14 years and 12 years in prison, respectively, on charges of “subversion of state power.”
Yes, for attending a gathering. And the indictment and the court judgment that followed the show trials were beyond absurdity. But they didn’t care; they just wanted to lock people up.
Yang Bin is a former prosecutor in Guangzhou and a human rights lawyer. She now lives in the United States.
Related:
A Beautiful China – Two – A Life in Pursuit of One Dream, Xu Zhiyong’s autobiographic essay updated shortly before his arrest in February, 2020.
Dear Chairman Xi, It’s Time for You to Go, An Essay by Xu Zhiyong, Translated and Annotated by Geremie R. Barmé, February 26, 2020.
Whither China? — Xu Zhiyong’s Letter of Appeal, China Change, November 30, 2023.
Full Text of Xu Zhiyong’s Court Judgment, China Change, January 29, 2026.
Book:
A Beautiful China, by Xu Zhiyong, published by Bouden House, August, 2026.
A Beautiful China is a book of essays, many of them composed under unusual circumstances. These essays give us a sense of Xu’s life story, his many contributions to human rights and civic participation in China, and his vision for future China.
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