This year’s 36th anniversary commemorations of the June 4 crackdown were marked by intense, AI-aided censorship on the Chinese internet, muted memorials and arrests in Hong Kong, and a wide variety of online and offline memorials across the world. Noteworthy coverage of the anniversary includes a statement from the Tiananmen Mothers, an interview with exiled Uyghur activist Örkesh Dölet, an interview with Ian Johnson about the online Chinese Folk Archives, a panel discussion on diversifying Tiananmen Square narratives, and more.

This year, CDT Chinese editors have added even more content to our extensive archive on the subject of the Tiananmen protests and their violent suppression. There is a reprint of Wainao’s broad-ranging 35th anniversary feature on how various generations remember, recognize, and commemorate June 4. An excellent compilation piece features a collection of iconic photographs, personal recollections, interviews, poems, songs, and other artwork from the online June 4th Memory and Human Rights Museum. There are excerpts from the “June 4th Poetry Collection,” a selection of 315 works from 215 authors, edited by poet and former student leader Jiang Pinchao. Taiwanese journalist Yang Du, who covered the protests in 1989, spoke of his 2021 work “Unburned Books,” an account of his experiences in Beijing before, during, and after the massacre. The compilation ends with a section on the protest songs that grew out of June 4, 1989, and includes lyrics and video links.

CDT has also reprinted a recent interview between Deutsche Welle’s Ye Jiajun and Chang Ping—journalist, curator of the online June 4th Memory and Human Rights Museum, and Executive Editor of CDT Chinese. In the interview, titled “If I Could Go Back to June 4, 1989,” Chang Ping discussed the legacy of June 4 as it relates to himself, to China, and to the world in general. A portion of the interview is translated below:

Deutsche Welle (DW): At the time, were you scared?

Chang Ping (CP): The dominant emotion at the time wasn’t fear, but humiliation, outrage, pain, and survivor’s guilt. Those feelings continue to this day.

[…] DW: Did that "humiliation" you mentioned, or the experience and memory of June 4th, influence you to pursue a career in news media?

CP: June 4 had a major impact on my entire life and on my later career choices. I would like to first explain what I mean by “humiliation.” This sense of humiliation that has followed me all my life arose from a massacre that took place in plain sight, and for which there was never any justice or accountability. The entire international community watched the atrocities unfold. Those atrocities continue to reverberate even today, and they enabled the commission of further atrocities.

[…] One of the consequences of the June 4 crackdown is that many Chinese no longer believe in justice. (Many protesters) died alone in prison, or have spent their intervening years in exile, living abroad without the company of their loved ones. Was the price they paid worth it? Some claim that China and the Chinese people are capable of enduring a single-party dictatorship for a very long time to come. Is such a country worth sacrificing one’s life for?

There are times when I’ve also questioned the meaning of my life, and the wisdom of my choices. Years ago, when I was working at Southern Weekend, we sincerely believed that every word we wrote, every interview we conducted, exerted a kind of power. Even if that power was exceedingly weak, we still felt like it could slowly but surely help move China in the right direction. But today’s China, and even today’s world, seems to be sliding backward, and historical progress is being erased. More often than not, we find ourselves resigned to waging what feels like a hopeless fight. We fight back not because we’re certain of victory, but because we believe that the struggle itself is meaningful, even if we are defeated. This is the credo that I live by, that was shaped by June 4th.

[…] DW: Will you talk about June 4th with your family, and share your experiences with the next generation?

CP: My daughter could be considered part of the “June 4 second generation" because she grew up in Germany. […] One day I heard her say, while chatting with someone, "You know, we’re in exile." I was both surprised and saddened to hear her say that.

She didn’t say her dad was in exile, or her mom was in exile, but that "we" are in exile. She included herself in that. And what she said was entirely accurate, because she can’t return to China either. More importantly, she was affirming her political identity and status.

DW: If you could go back to that day—to June 4, 1989—and speak to that passionate twenty-something young man you were at the time, what would you say to him?

CP: That’s a good question, thank you for asking it. It’s a scene I’ve often envisioned. I’d even go so far as to say that the purpose of my life over the past few decades, and of all of the things I’ve been fighting for, are so that I might be able to face that young man and tell him that I haven’t given up, not completely. Even when it seems humiliating and hopeless, I’ve kept fighting and trying to do whatever I can. I hope that he would approve. [Chinese]

An article from Diyin explored the nuances of how China’s Gen Z views June 4 and the annual remembrances, given that they were not born at the time, and grew up in an environment of heavy censorship of the topic. In an essay published by Matters, “What We Commemorate When We Commemorate June 4,” an author born in the late 1990s discusses the enduring importance of remembering, commemorating, and remaining committed to building a better world. A portion of the essay is translated below:

For our generation, "June 4" is an incomplete sentence.

Growing up in China, learning to forget is part of one’s education. From childhood onward, the body of knowledge we are exposed to simply skips over certain years, certain keywords. In history textbooks, 1989 is a complete blank; internet searches for "the Tiananmen incident" direct the reader to the events of 1976; and the photo of "Tank Man" never even makes a peripheral appearance in teaching materials. Memory comes to resemble a jigsaw puzzle missing several critical pieces—pieces related to the truth, to death, to the people of our nation.

[…] Memory, by its very nature, should be free. But under a totalitarian system, it becomes something that needs to be “managed."

In our current political environment, memory does not flow freely and spontaneously, but is managed and censored. What can be remembered and what must be forgotten, what can be mourned and what must be celebrated—all of these have been pre-arranged. Memory is no longer a personal choice, but a political outcome.

This form of “memory management” is not always crude or obvious; it is often quite subtle and low-key. For example, you can remember China’s “War of Resistance Against Japanese Aggression” [WWII], but you’re not allowed to remember the mourning that took place during the Qingming Festival in 1976. [The two days of spontaneous demonstrations of mourning in Tiananmen Square, following the death of Premier Zhou Enlai earlier that year, were later labeled as “counter-revolutionary.”] You can remember the “volunteer spirit” following the [2008] Wenchuan earthquake, but you’re not allowed to remember the documentary that Ai Weiwei made about the quake. You can even remember The Square, but you’re not supposed to remember that it was once occupied, or that blood was shed there. Thus is memory parceled up layer by layer, like dossiers labeled and archived by the government.

[…] Memory is not a burden, but an honor. It tells us of the things that happened, even if there is no monument to them. It speaks to us of the people who stood up, even if their names will never be recited aloud. It reminds us of the dreams that still exist, despite the constant hardships.

In this present age, memory serves yet another purpose: combatting division. We live in a state of unspeakable exhaustion and distrust. So many people are fleeing—fleeing their homeland, fleeing reality, fleeing from one another. We are no longer inclined to trust what others say, even if they share beliefs similar to ours. We are suspicious of other people’s motives; we fear being betrayed or exploited. Time and again, we eschew dialogue and raise our defenses, keeping others at bay with our barbed words.

But this state of mutual distrust is not our fault. It is the result of years of totalitarianism. When a regime turns words into weapons, sincerity into a liability, and solidarity into a crime, people learn to protect themselves and become accustomed to isolation.

[…] When we commemorate June 4, what we are actually saying is this: We are not one another’s enemies. Our mutual enemy is the system that enforces silence, manufactures fear, and encourages betrayal; a system that warps truth-telling into “rumor-mongering” and perverts justice into "picking quarrels and provoking trouble." For our enemies have never been those around us, those who like us are also learning how to live and how to remember.

What we do every June is not just about mourning the dead, but also about affording each other a bit more space—space in which to speak, to trust, and to regain that sense of closeness we once had. [Chinese]

June 4.

I came from a place that once lit candles.

Now, even public remembrance is banned in Hong Kong.

Those in power want to silence history.
We cannot let them.

If we still have the freedom to remember, then we must.

— Heiky Kwan (@HeikyKwan) June 4, 2025