Looking back now, perhaps what finally made me decide to leave was not simply the strength of my spirit of resistance.

It was something I never imagined at the time would change my life: at twenty-eight, I learned to fish with artificial lures.

At first, I just wanted another hobby: to stand by the river in my spare time, fish for a while, and escape the small burdens of everyday life.

I never expected those days to become part of how I understood life, fear, and why I had to leave.

By the Yangtze River in Wuhan, I saw people jump from the bridge with my own eyes, again and again.

I did not know their names, where they came from, or what they had been through before that moment.

All I knew was that this was not a story in the news, but a real person who had once lived their own life, just like us.

I called the police. Sometimes the line was busy and I could not get through, no matter how often I tried. Later, I also saw moments when nobody around me called anymore, including myself.

I posted on Douyin, asking why the police emergency line could not be reached at such a moment. The video reached a million views, but its reach was restricted and comments were deleted.

What frightened me was not just what happened before my eyes, but that feeling of helplessness: knowing someone needed help, yet not knowing what else I could possibly do.

I still keep two videos I filmed myself. I have no way to verify whether those people were later recorded or included in any relevant statistics.

But I do not want the last trace of them to be a video someone simply scrolls past.

Someone who has lived in this world should not be reduced to a single sentence: “Someone jumped off the bridge.”

From the age of eighteen or nineteen, I began working with technology that bypasses internet censorship. I made free tools and later took part in a great deal of related technical support and maintenance.

I wanted people to have access to different sources of information. I also hoped to work safely in a field I loved and earn enough to give my family a good life.

I do not want to portray myself as someone who was never afraid and always stood firm.

I have convictions of my own, and many things I cannot bear to lose.

I still remember the neighbor who suddenly fell ill during lockdown and urgently needed to leave home for medical care.

To let him get treatment, I rammed through the lockdown barriers with my car at the entrance to our residential complex. I was summoned several times afterward because of it.

At the time, I was not thinking about doing anything extraordinary. I simply felt that someone was ill and had to see a doctor first. Everything else was a lower priority.

The people who jumped from the Yangtze River Bridge, the neighbor who needed medical care, and what later happened to me slowly became connected in my memory. They made me care more and more about a simple question: when an ordinary person faces a hardship they cannot overcome, whom can they turn to, and will anyone respond?

In August 2024, I too was taken away by the police. Before that, I had stood by the river feeling fear and grief for strangers. Later, I began to fear for my own future and my family’s.

That fear needs no grand explanation. It is very concrete: I did not know whether I would lose my freedom again, whether I would be able to return home the next time, or how many more times my wife and daughter would have to worry about me.

In December 2024, I received another summons, requiring me to go to Xiajin in Shandong on December 16. My earlier experience made me afraid that I would be detained again and perhaps separated from my daughter for a long time. That was the immediate reason I decided to leave at once.

The details of a case can be written into documents, dates can be arranged in tables, and notices can be scanned and archived. But when a father imagines being unable to watch his daughter grow up, that fear is hard to fit into written words.

I want to watch my daughter grow up, take her to school, and listen to the little everyday stories of her life.

I want to be somewhere she can see me when, one day, she turns around looking for her dad.

I am afraid of losing my freedom again, of my family having to bear more, and of the days I once took for granted suddenly becoming impossible to return to.

When I say I am afraid, I do not mean I know for certain what the future holds. I mean I am increasingly unwilling to lose the possibility of living together with my family.

I did not leave because I was unafraid. It was precisely because I was afraid, because I still had people I cared about, and because I still wanted to live happily that I decided to go.

Written down, these things take only a few lines.

But for me, they divide two lives: on one side are the familiar language, streets, and hometown; on the other, a place where I have to find my footing anew.

If we could live in peace, who would readily leave everything familiar behind?

Now it is 2026, and every day I hear that the economy is bad and people complain they can no longer make money. I do not know every family’s circumstances today, nor can I explain the lives of those who have died on their behalf.

I simply cannot help worrying: are the people who were already struggling two or three years ago finding life even harder now?

For an ordinary family, whether life is good ultimately comes down to concrete things: whether they can keep their jobs, whether next month’s rent is covered, whether they dare to see a doctor when a family member falls ill, and whether they can buy what their children need.

All I hope for is that after a busy day, a person can eat a meal in peace; that parents do not always have to hide their troubles from their children; and that someone in difficulty can hear a useful response when they ask for help.

I have left, but leaving has not stopped me from caring about the people there.

Nor do I hope my hometown becomes a harder place to live just to prove why I left in the first place.

On the contrary, I hope that one day there will be fewer of the things that once frightened me, and more reasons for people to want to stay.

I want ordinary people there to live stable lives. I want to hear relatives and friends say things are getting better. I want to know that when someone encounters hardship, they receive help in time.

Because I still have people I care about there. Because the people I know and those I do not know all have families of their own, and lives they cannot bear to leave behind.

Speaking of all this now is already looking back on what happened.

I have no grand closing statement, only a very ordinary and heartfelt wish.

May those who need help not be disappointed time and again.

May those struggling to live gradually find a turning point in their lives.

Above all, may my compatriots have less suffering in the days ahead, more stability, and more tomorrows worth looking forward to.

May “living well” no longer be a wish that takes every ounce of a person’s strength to fulfill.