Tiananmen Papers, Charter 08 and Liu Xiaobo: My Activism Through Translation — with Perry Link

Prof. Perry Link talks about bringing the works of Chinese pro-democracy activists to a global audience.

Jun 05, 2025

Perry Link sitting in his garden in Riverside, taken by Liu He on Mar 18, 2024

It is that day again: June 4th. Every year, I ask myself: what new things could I possibly still say about June 4th, given all that has been published? One would expect ideas to dry up. Yet, they don’t. Each year, China brings a new set of happenings under the same themes: civic spirit, economic turmoil, state repression, the dissolution of hope, the possibility of new beginnings. 36 years on, June 4th remains an occasion of immense moral power, an automatically scheduled prompt (yes, like an AI prompt) into our consciousness that forces reflection, reckoning, resilience, and resolution.

This year, I found myself wondering about the journey of the democracy movement post-June 4th, so I dug into my oral history conversations and found another piece from Prof. Perry Link. He is a repeat guest of this channel. A refresher: Perry Link is Professor Emeritus of East Asian Studies at Princeton University, and Distinguished Professor of Comparative Literature at the University of California, Riverside. His research has spanned across areas of modern Chinese literature and language, but he is perhaps most well-known for his support for China’s democracy and human rights movement. In the aftermath of Tiananmen, he helped Fang Lizhi, a prominent astrophysicist and elder leader of the pro-democracy movement in the ‘80s, into the U.S. Embassy in Beijing. Perry has also been involved in overseas human rights organizations, such as Human Rights Watch, Human Rights in China, and Chinese Human Rights Defenders, and regularly translates articles by Chinese overseas intellectuals.

Today’s excerpt — which has been translated from Chinese, as well as edited for brevity and clarity — focuses on Perry’s experience as the translator-in-chief of the overseas democracy and human rights movement. He translated the The Tiananmen Papers in 2001, Fang Lizhi’s autobiography The Most Wanted Man in China in 2013, and helped many Chinese dissident writers publish in major English media outlets. In 2008, he became acquainted with Liu Xiaobo and became the English translator of Charter 08. Last year, he co-wrote Liu Xiaobo’s biography I Have No Enemies. On this occasion of June 4th, we visit Perry’s experience supporting the democracy movement through his literary and translational work since 1989.

Enjoy!

Leo

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Becoming the translator-in-chief of Chinese dissident movement

You’re most well-known for your role in helping dissident Fang Lizhi take refuge in the American embassy in the aftermath of the Tiananmen protests, but you’ve paid attention to the issue of democracy in China for longer than that. How did that start?

My early interest in so-called dissident culture was mainly through literary works. Liu Binyan’s Between Human and Demon and other reportage literature influenced me greatly. At that time, living in China, I already felt that daily life was not the ideal socialism. Reading these literary works reinforced that feeling.

Then in the 1980s, I noticed through literature that people had begun to criticize the Communist Party’s methods. Liu Binyan was probably the earliest person I had gotten to know who people called a dissident.

You’ve long played the role of writer and translator for the Chinese democracy movement and human rights organizations. You translated Fang Lizhi’s memoir, The Most Wanted Man in China, and wrote Liu Xiaobo’s biography, I Have No Enemies.

And two collections of Liu Binyan’s writings.

And you translated for Wang Lixiong, another famous dissident writer. What are your methods and criteria for translation?

I definitely make choices. It mainly depends on whether the person’s writing reflects ideals I share, whether it expresses a vision I agree with. I have turned people down, who I’d rather not name. Some of them are quite well-known. I coordinated with them, but there were things — stories about their behavior — that I wasn’t comfortable with. I’m not saying I oppose them. There was someone very well known who asked me to translate their autobiography. Money wasn’t an issue, and the publisher was already lined up. But there were gaps in the story — crucial gaps, in my view. He didn’t want to fill them in, and I myself knew a bit about that past, which he wasn’t willing to disclose. So he was self-censoring for the sake of his own image. I can’t really blame him.

I wasn’t that close with Wang Lixiong but immediately felt a sense of friendship. I liked him. His essay was sharp, really well written.

Another case also involved a fairly famous person, who was critical of Liu Xiaobo. At that time, I was very interested in Liu Xiaobo, and had started writing his biography. I disagreed strongly with this person’s criticism of Liu Xiaobo, and for that reason, I also declined.

When Wang Lixiong approached you for translation work, how did that come about?

I first met Wang Lixiong at a seminar arranged by Xiao Qiang in the late 1990s. I liked Wang Lixiong a lot. I’d also read his wife Tsering Woeser’s poetry, and admired her independent spirit immensely. He had written an essay about his and Tsering Woeser’s return to Tibet. It was a story about being investigated.

My West China, Your East Turkestan, his most famous book.

Right, although this was a short essay he wanted to publish in an American newspaper. I translated it, and The Wall Street Journal published it. I wasn’t that close with Wang Lixiong but immediately felt a sense of friendship. I liked him. His essay was sharp, really well written. It was short, but precisely tackled a key issue. That’s the kind of article I like to translate.

I’ve also translated for Hu Ping. In fact, the last op-ed I translated was his (editor’s note: this was March, 2024). He sent me a very long article, asking me to share it with Matt Pottinger. The topic was how the Chinese government and Taiwan’s government, despite not having formal diplomatic relations, still conduct extensive interactions. The PRC has created legally civilian bodies that in reality handle government-to-government business. He listed many examples. His point was: Look, over the years, the CCP has treated the Taiwanese government as a real government in practice, even though it refuses to recognize it formally.

He gave many examples. I thought the point was excellent, very interesting. Hu Ping’s argument was: if you strip away the formalities, the CCP has no real obstacle to recognizing Taiwan’s government. They’re already working together. But the piece was too long. I like Hu Ping very much, but I told him it was imprecise and wordy. So I cut it down a lot and made it concise.

The Wall Street Journal ended up publishing it. Sometimes I do editorial work, not just translation. For example, I edited the 2013 English collection of Liu Xiaobo’s essays, published by Harvard. Some essays were repetitive, so I shortened and improved them.

So you’re not only a translator but an editor too.

Yes, I definitely have editorial standards. If something doesn’t meet those standards, I’ll help improve it. Ai Weiwei once sent me an article — The New York Times had already accepted it in principle. It lacked structure. If you translated it straight, The New York Times wouldn’t have accepted it. So I reorganized and rethought it, sent it back to him — and it went through.

Encountering Liu Xiaobo through Charter 08

You were also involved in Charter 08, a manifesto, organized by Liu Xiaobo, that criticized the rule of the Communist Party.

I did the English translation, but that was at the very last moment.

Liu Xiaobo was actually not in favor of it at first. The initiative was started by Zhang Zuhua and Wen Kejian, a pseudonym. There were about a dozen people in Beijing who came up with this plan. They divided it into sections on politics, economics, environment, education — a comprehensive blueprint for China’s future. Over thirty people contributed.

After the massacre, those leaders who might have cooperated disappeared. So change from the top down wasn’t possible anymore. When Charter 08 came up, Liu thought it was a return to a method that had already failed, so he didn’t join initially.

Liu Xiaobo wasn’t supportive because he had already decided on a bottom-up approach. Back in the 1980s, from when Wei Jingsheng wrote “The Fifth Modernization” echoing Deng Xiaoping’s ideas, to the student movement, people were calling for dialogue, hoping reform-minded leaders like Hu Yaobang, Zhao Ziyang, Tian Jiyun, and others could bring change from the top down.

Xiaobo greatly admired Ding Zilin. Ever since her son was killed, she had organized the Tiananmen Mothers. You could say he almost revered her. She told him, “There are a few problems with Charter 08 that you could help fix” — two main ones. First, it had many contributors and felt disjointed in tone and style — she asked him to edit and unify it.

Second, Ding told him, “You have connections in different sectors of society. Your civic activism has brought you into contact with farmers, workers, all kinds of people. Use your network to spread Charter 08 and collect signatures. We don’t just want the usual intellectuals — we want signatories from all walks of life. You can help with that.”

After thinking it over, he agreed. Although he didn’t draft it, he did a lot of editing and worked hard on getting signatures.

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That very night, the police came to Xiaobo’s home and took him away. He never returned.

Once it was edited and finalized, Li Xiaorong, the director of China Rights Forum, sent me the draft. She asked, “What do you think of this? We hope you’ll translate it.” I had just arrived at University of California Riverside, loaded it onto my computer but didn’t pay much attention — I was busy settling in, starting classes and teaching. Then Xiaorong emailed again, asking if I’d take it on or not — otherwise, they’d find someone else.

So I started reading, and I immediately realized this was something very significant. I knew I had to translate it seriously. I translated chapter by chapter and sent it back to them. But then an issue came up. Xiaobo collected signatures from over 300 people across many sectors. But then revisions started coming in — some he did himself, some were suggested by the signers.

Everyone had their own opinion.

Yes, and changes were made. From my perspective, that was dangerous. Over 300 people had already signed. Now you’re making edits without consulting them. So I made a few small edits. That was one of the few times I spoke with him by phone. We coordinated: “Add here,” “Cut there.” But when it became too much, I raised my concern: “Do people know you’re changing things?”

Eventually I said, “Alright, I won’t make any more changes.” The English version was ready, and the Chinese one had a path forward. If you compare the English and Chinese now, you’ll see some differences, mainly because later edits to the Chinese weren’t reflected in the English.

The plan was to publish it on December 10, International Human Rights Day. But in early December, Zhang Zuhua, Wen Kejian, and Liu Junning had gone to Germany and were flying back. After deciding what to do on the plane, they landed and announced the plan. Xiaobo objected as he was not consulted.

While he was in detention, his lawyers could occasionally visit him. During one visit, Xiaobo said, “If the authorities want to pursue accountability, just say I did it.” He had already been arrested, so he said, “I’ll take the blame,” hoping others would face lighter consequences.

Around then, the authorities had caught wind that Charter 08 was coming. On December 6 and 7, there was a heavy police presence outside the homes of Zhang Zuhua and Liu Xiaobo — plainclothes officers, uniformed ones, 24/7. There was a sense of a gathering storm, a looming crackdown. The fear was they might say: “You can’t release this.”

If they banned it before the 10th, and we still published, it would clearly be defiance. So they decided to release it early, on December 8, before any hard orders came down. My English version was published in the New York Review of Books at the same time. But that very night, the police came to Xiaobo’s home and took him away. He never returned.

They thought if they cut off the head, the rest would be easier to deal with. Everyone who signed Charter 08 got “invited to tea” by the authorities in December and January.

Zhang Zuhua was detained but released after about three days. Some speculated it was because Zhang had connections — he and Hu Jintao were classmates or friends, maybe that gave him some protection.

Some of Xiaobo’s friends, including Cui Weiping — whom I know best — felt it was unjust. Xiaobo got eleven years, while Zhang Zuhua only got three days. Personally, I’ve met Zhang, know him somewhat. I don’t think he deliberately shifted blame to protect himself. But from the authorities’ perspective, Liu Xiaobo was the main figure.

Liu Xiaobo was just too well-known.

Far too well-known. They thought if they cut off the head, the rest would be easier to deal with. Everyone who signed Charter 08 got “invited to tea” by the authorities in December and January.

That was the first wave of signatories. There were over a thousand in total.

Yes, eventually there were over ten thousand. The initial public release had 303, to be exact. Then it went online and spread. It became hard to tell who signed — were they inside China or overseas? Were some names fake? But the number of people who sympathized with Charter 08 was definitely far more than the 303.

Turning smuggled documents into Tiananmen Papers

Other than Charter 08, one of the most famous works you’ve translated — perhaps the most famous — is The Tiananmen Papers. Could you tell us about its background and aftermath?

The Tiananmen Papers came about because my friend Andy Nathan called me. He said someone from inside China had arrived with a large batch of documents related to the handling of the Tiananmen protests, from the central authorities all the way down to the provincial level.

They planned a Chinese edition. Andy’s idea was for me to work with him to compile it into an English collection. I agreed. I’d known Andy Nathan since our time as students, and on issues like democracy in China we saw eye to eye. So in New York, I also met Zhang Liang, the Chinese official who brought out the documents.

That’s a pseudonym, right?

Yes, a pseudonym.

Has his real identity still not been made public?

It hasn’t. I know who he is but promised not to reveal it. In fact, our publishing contract included a clause saying we couldn’t disclose his real name.

I liked him. He was meticulous with the documents. Some people doubted whether they were fabricated. But I never believed that. Zhang Liang wasn’t nervous at all. He could jump from one document to another, answer questions fluidly, never gave off the vibe of someone hiding something.

I believe these documents were, or at least mostly were, authentic.

Walter Scott once said, “Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.” Very smart words. The point is, when you start lying, you have to remember all the lies you told before and keep them consistent. I never got that feeling from Zhang Liang. Never.

I believe these documents were, or at least mostly were, authentic. I say “mostly” because a few of them — conversations between Yang Shangkun and someone else — took place in cars or over the phone and were reconstructed from notes or memories. So, it’s hard to say whether those are word-for-word accurate. A few documents fall into that category. But for the most part, I don’t doubt their authenticity.

Andy and I collaborated. We didn’t do all the translation work ourselves. We hired several people to translate different parts. My job was to review translations, edit, correct errors, and smooth out the tone so the style didn’t vary too much from one piece to the next. That was my main work — line editing.

Andy’s critical contribution was this: the original documents were just a pile, narrators would come in and out, then a document, then a narrator again, all without clear boundaries. Andy spent a lot of time very carefully going over things with Zhang Liang, asking: “Where does this document start? Where does it end? This part is the narrator, this part is the document.” The original Chinese text didn’t have these distinctions, but Andy clarified it.

Before each section, he wrote a short editor’s note, “The following is a record of a meeting held at such-and-such place with the following participants.” Andy also wrote the introduction to the book that explained the context.

When you first read the The Tiananmen Papers, what was your personal reaction?

I found it detailed. There was a lot in it that could be used to analyze the event and Chinese society. I was disappointed by the foreign response. The main question everyone kept asking was: Are the documents authentic? Even if a few parts aren’t entirely authentic, the bulk of it is. And it can be used as research material to derive meaningful analysis.

For example, when the army was ordered to clear the square, they were given machine guns. And at the same time, Deng Xiaoping said, “Don’t shed blood.”

He was willing to crack down, I believe, because he wanted to send a warning to other parts of China and to future generations: Don’t do this.

That contradiction I’ve seen in literary controls as well. In ‘79, they told writers: Free your minds. Don’t be afraid. But at the same time: Don’t forget the Four Cardinal Principles: Marxism, Party leadership, the dictatorship of the proletariat, and Maoism. As a Chinese writer, which instruction do I follow? It’s contradictory.

there was deep disillusionment with the Communist Party. In the 1980s, there had been hope that gradual reforms would bring China closer to the West and more aligned with democratic norms. But the massacre shattered those hopes. And that disillusionment deepened through the 1990s.

It was the same for Deng’s soldiers. They had to navigate contradictory orders. That’s dangerous too. These contradictions, these patterns — in such a rich record, you can find many clues for studying Chinese society. That’s the value I see in it.

How do you understand this phenomenon in Chinese politics — on the one hand, “reform and opening,” and on the other, “uphold the Four Cardinal Principles”; on one hand, clear the square, and on the other, “don’t shed blood.” These impossible, contradictory demands, how do you understand that?

It’s about shifting responsibility onto others. If you’re Deng Xiaoping telling soldiers what to do, or telling writers what to do, when mistakes are made, the fault is yours, not mine. Deng did the same with Hu Yaobang and Zhao Ziyang, his two key assistants in the ’80s. He wanted reform, openness. But that carried risks. If he took the wrong step, his own position wouldn’t be secure. Rivals could attack him. So, he pushed Hu and Zhao out in front to take the lead. He stayed in the background. “Go ahead, you lead.” If they hit a wall, they paid the price, not him. I think this mindset was quite common. The Communist Party — especially Deng — was very good at this.

Once The Tiananmen Papers was published, it had a huge impact. It caused a big stir. What was that like at the time?

Back then, the major newspapers all ran stories — the Washington Post, The New York Times, and others. I was invited to speak at Princeton about The Tiananmen Papers, and the room was too small. They had to move it to a much larger hall, which filled with hundreds of people. The public reaction was very enthusiastic. As for within the U.S. government or other Western governments — it’s harder to say.

Why is that? Do you think government officials didn’t really pay attention?

I think they did — there’s no doubt they paid attention. But whether the book made any difference in policy or changed their approach, that’s hard to know.

Why do you think the book caused such a stir at the time? So many people paid attention, all the major newspapers covered it.

This was ten or eleven years after the Tiananmen protests. The memory of the massacre was still vivid in the minds of many Westerners. And of course, there was deep disillusionment with the Communist Party. In the 1980s, there had been hope that gradual reforms would bring China closer to the West and more aligned with democratic norms. But the massacre shattered those hopes. And that disillusionment deepened through the 1990s. By the time the book came out, people were still asking: How did it happen? They were very interested.

In your view, now looking back, how would you explain why June Fourth happened?

Why the massacre? My view is: Deng Xiaoping was surrounded by elders whose opinions differed. Some elders wanted to reconcile with the students. Others wanted to crack down — people like Wang Zhen. Deng made the final decision, there’s no question about that. And he was willing to crack down, I believe, because he wanted to send a warning to other parts of China and to future generations: Don’t do this.

The massacre instilled national fear, and it worked. The 1990s were subdued. Even now, Chinese politics is deadened, and I think that traces back to the massacre. It had an impact across time and place.

I often say Deng wanted to crack down. He had cracked down in Tiananmen in April 1976 as well. Back then, they used wooden sticks, beat some people. Maybe a few were killed, maybe not, but there was no massacre. And they still managed to clear the square. This time, they used machine guns and tanks — not just sticks or water cannons.

I believe Deng could have cleared the square without a massacre. But he decided the massacre was worth it. I think he calculated that it would send a chilling message. That’s my judgment. I can’t prove it. I don’t have insider access to Deng’s thinking. But from the outside, I think that’s most likely what he had in mind.

About us

The Peking Hotel podcast and newsletter are digital publications in which Liu He interviews China specialists about their first-hand experiences and observations from decades past. The project grew out of Liu’s research at Hoover Institution collecting oral history of China experts living in the U.S. Their stories are a reminder of what China used to be and what it is capable of becoming.

We also have a Chinese-language Substack. We hope to publish more conversations like this one, so stay tuned!

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