呐喊：他们先是人

呐喊：他们先是人

写给五十年代那批回国的中国知识分子

他们后来，被称为“海归先驱”，

“科学报国的典范”，

“新中国的奠基者”。
听上去庄严、干净、正确。
但这些词，有一个共同的功能：

遮住了他们作为“人”的结局。

五十年代那批回国的中国知识分子，

并不是死于饥荒，

也不是死于战争。
他们死于一种更隐蔽、也更残忍的东西——
理性在极权社会中的系统性误判。

他们相信语言。
这是他们的第一重悲剧。

在西方受训，习惯于一个世界：
词语意味着约束，

承诺意味着责任，

制度意味着可预期的边界。
在那个世界，

“科学”“人民”“进步”“解放”这些词，

至少要为现实负责。

但他们没有意识到，

在中国政治传统中，

语言并不承担约束功能。
它的作用恰恰相反——

语言是用来解除一切约束的。

当权力说“为了人民”，

意思是：人民不再有权反对；

当权力说“为了科学”，

意思是：科学必须服从；

当权力说“为了历史”，

意思是：任何个人都可以被抹掉。

听见了这些词，却没意识到：

在这里，

语言不是通向秩序的工具，

而是暴力的许可证。

他们相信理性。
这是他们的第二重悲剧。

他们以为，

独裁是一种落后的政治形态，
以为革命意味着对旧专制的否定，
以为暴力只是过渡阶段，
以为极端不会成为常态。

这是一个致命的误判。

没有看清中国历史中，

真正稳定的东西是什么。
不是制度，

不是法律，

不是伦理，
而是一种反复出现的结构：
权力对知识的仇恨，

对独立人格的恐惧，

对理性的敌意。

在这片土地上，

专制并不是偶然失败的选择，
而是被反复验证、反复继承、反复升级的统治模式。

没意识到，共产党并不是一个“尚待完善的政权”，

而是一种在动员、清洗、告密、羞辱、去人格化方面，
比传统皇权更高效、更系统、更冷酷的机器。

它不满足于让你沉默，
它要求你表态；
不满足于让你服从，
它要求你自我否定；
不满足于消灭反对者，
它要你参与羞辱与你相似的人。

这是他们无法预知、也不敢深想的未来。

于是，理性被精确地分割和驯化。
他们可以计算导弹轨道，

却不能推导政治后果；
可以设计反应堆，

却不能质疑路线；
可以为国家“立功”，

却必须先承认自己“有罪”。

他们的人生，

被迫服从一个荒谬的公式：
只有承认自己不配做人，

才有资格被允许继续活着。

最残酷的，

不是迫害本身。
而是当一切结束后，
历史只允许他们以“奉献者”的姿态被记住。

不允许他们后悔，
不允许他们愤怒，
不允许他们说一句：
“我被欺骗了。”

痛苦被重新包装，
屈辱被升格为精神，
人生被解释成“必要的代价”。

而他们自己，往往也沉默了。
并非原谅，
而是一旦承认错误，

意味着承认这一生被彻底浪费。

这篇文字不是为他们洗白。
恰恰相反——
这是一次迟来的、但必要的叫喊：

你们不是英雄。
你们不是符号。
你们不是“时代的选择”。

你们是被一个残暴而低劣的权力体系愚弄、吞噬、羞辱的人。

你们最大的悲哀，

不是回国本身，

而是相信：
理性在这里会被尊重，
语言在这里会有重量，
历史在这里会向前。

而事实证明，
在这片土地上，
理性从来不是被使用的对象，

而是被利用的资源。

如果这篇文字有什么意义，
那只是替你们说一句，
你们当年不敢说、

也不被允许说的话：

这不是奉献，这是牺牲。
不是高尚，而是被欺骗。
不是命运，而是一场系统性的骗局。

你们，先是人。
而这个事实，本不该需要任何辩护。

A Call: They Were Human First

Written for the Chinese intellectuals who returned home in the 1950s

Later, they were called

“pioneers of overseas return,”
“models of scientific patriotism,”
“founders of the new China.”

The words sound solemn,
clean,
correct.

But they all share one function:

they conceal how these people ended—

as human beings.

The Chinese intellectuals who returned in the 1950s
did not die of famine,
nor did they die in war.

They died from something far more concealed,
and far more cruel—
the systemic miscalculation of reason under totalitarian rule.

They believed in language.
This was their first tragedy.

They were trained in the West,
accustomed to a world where
words impose constraints,
promises carry responsibility,
institutions create predictable boundaries.

In that world,
words like “science,” “the people,” “progress,” “liberation”
were still required
to answer to reality.

They did not realize that
within China’s political tradition,
language serves no constraining function.

Its purpose is precisely the opposite:

language exists to dissolve all limits.

When power says “for the people,”
it means the people no longer have the right to object.

When power says “for science,”
it means science must submit.

When power says “for history,”
it means any individual may be erased.

They heard these words
without realizing that here,

language is not a path toward order,
but a license for violence.

They believed in reason.
This was their second tragedy.

They believed dictatorship was an outdated political form.
They believed revolution negated old tyranny.
They believed violence was temporary.
They believed extremism could not become normal.

This was a fatal misjudgment.

They failed to see what had truly endured
throughout Chinese history.

Not institutions.
Not law.
Not ethics.

But a recurring structure:
power’s hatred of knowledge,
its fear of independent individuals,

its hostility toward reason itself.

On this land,
authoritarianism is not an accidental failure.

It is a governing system
repeatedly tested,
repeatedly inherited,
repeatedly intensified.

They did not realize that
the Communist Party was not a regime “awaiting maturity,”
but a machine—
more efficient, more systematic, more ruthless than imperial rule—
at mobilization, purges, denunciation, humiliation,
and the systematic removal of personhood.

It is not satisfied with your silence;
it demands your declaration.

Not satisfied with obedience;
it demands self-denial.

Not satisfied with eliminating opponents;
it demands your participation
in humiliating those who resemble yourself.

This was a future
they could neither foresee
nor dare to fully imagine.

Thus, reason was precisely segmented and domesticated.

They could calculate missile trajectories
but not political consequences.

They could design reactors
but not question the line.

They could “render merit to the state”
only after confessing themselves “guilty.”

Their lives were forced to obey
an absurd formula:

only by admitting you are unworthy of being human
are you permitted to continue living.

The cruelest part
was not the persecution itself.

It was that after everything ended,
history allowed them to be remembered
only as “contributors.”

They were not allowed to regret.
Not allowed anger.
Not allowed to say even once:

“I was deceived.”

Pain was repackaged.
Humiliation elevated into virtue.
A life explained away
as a “necessary cost.”

And so they fell silent.

Not out of forgiveness,
but because admitting error
would mean admitting that an entire life
had been utterly wasted.

This text is not written to absolve them.

On the contrary—
it is a belated but necessary cry:

You were not heroes.
You were not symbols.
You were not “the choice of history.”

You were human beings
deceived, consumed, and humiliated
by a brutal and inferior system of power.

Your greatest tragedy
was not returning home.

It was believing
that reason would be respected here,
that language would carry weight here,
that history would move forward here.

The truth is:

on this land,
reason has never been something to be used—

only something to be exploited.

If this text has any meaning at all,
it is only to speak one sentence for you—
the sentence you dared not say,
and were never allowed to say:

This was not dedication.
It was a sacrifice.
Not nobility, but deception.
Not destiny, but a systemic fraud.

You were human beings first.

And that fact
should never have required
any defense at all.