Becoming a Troublemaker Journalist, My Record of Resistance During the Pandemic

Luna Tian

Sometimes I wonder—oh, in this society, doing something completely normal is enough to make you an outlier.
I didn’t do anything big. I just cut through a few locks. I only wanted to step out of the building, to breathe some fresh air.
But in some people’s eyes, that alone made me a “problem.”
Oh—so this society really has retreated to a point where there’s no further ground left to lose.

In a time of systemic dysfunction, doing the right thing often comes at an unimaginable cost.
This was meant to be an old post, but my previous blog was taken down before I had the chance to publish it. Today, I’m sharing it at last.

I. A Silent Autumn

In September 2022, I returned to a university in Hohhot for the new semester.
It was a semester that, from the beginning, would never unfold normally.

The campus gates were locked shortly after classes began—no one was allowed in or out. Then came harsher restrictions: we weren’t allowed to leave our dormitory building, showers were inaccessible, food supplies were scarce, and classes moved online. We were suspended in time, as if forgotten.

In late October, after the Inner Mongolia Party Secretary visited the campus, the school suddenly launched a “relocation” plan, gradually sending students back to their hometowns.
It marked an ending—but also the start of a new kind of uncertainty.

On October 30, I returned to Hebei and entered a seven-day quarantine.
On November 6, I finally made it home.
But the lockdown in my residential complex was even more suffocating than it had been at school.

Within a few days, I realized: I hadn’t truly come home.

II. The “Dog Hole” That Brought Us Air

Our compound was in complete silence. The lockdown was extended indefinitely. Everyone was forced to stay indoors. COVID tests were carried out two or three times a day, with lines starting as early as 4 a.m.
The grocery delivery system was a joke. Most residents had to survive on government rations: carrots, cabbage, and potatoes. Meat disappeared from our diets altogether.

Our community WeChat group overflowed with complaints. People kept asking, “How much longer will this go on?”
The property management never responded.
Though the authorities repeatedly warned against excessive enforcement, our community acted like a world of its own—treating those orders as irrelevant.

People were pushed to the edge.
This wasn’t just about freedom. It was about survival—and dignity.
Many of my neighbors were day laborers. If they couldn’t leave the house, they had no way to make a living.

In this atmosphere, I quietly discussed a plan with a neighbor from the group chat.
Behind our building, pressed against a corner of the wall, was a stretch of chain-link fence. If we could open it, it might offer a much-needed exit for some.

We weren’t radicals. We just thought someone needed to come up with a way out.

So at 2 a.m. on a dark, windy night, I took a pair of bolt cutters and wire snips and snuck out the back path behind the building.
A neighbor messaged me on WeChat: “That fence isn’t monitored. What if we just cut a hole?”
I replied after a moment: “Funny, I was thinking the same thing.”

By then, I was used to living in this kind of limbo.
Strangely, I even felt a thrill—like I was about to do something wrong.
My fingers were numb from the cold, but I could still hear the sound of metal meeting metal.

It wasn’t a strong fence. Within minutes, I had carved out an opening just wide enough for someone to squeeze through sideways.
I didn’t think I was doing anything big.
I just thought—we needed a way out.
Even if it was just to go buy a bottle of water. Even just to breathe.

The next day, someone went through the hole. The day after that, more people quietly slipped out.

I knew it would be discovered. But I also knew it was the right thing to do.

Soon, people in the group chat started asking who had opened the “dog hole.”
They said it finally gave them a breath of fresh air.
Reading those messages, I smiled.

A few days later, the property managers noticed.
They didn’t say a word.
They just silently locked the stairwell gate.

This time it wasn’t a flimsy tape seal.
They used a real lock—a bike chain lock—to secure the iron gate.
The gap between the two layers of metal doors was sealed shut.

There were elderly people in our building. Children. Diabetics.
I began to worry: What if there was a fire? There’d be no way out.

I went downstairs to check the lock.
Then I looked up at the position of the surveillance camera and had a rough idea of what I needed to do.

I went back upstairs and posted in the WeChat group:
“This won’t do. What if there’s a fire? If none of you dare to cut it, I will.”

No one replied. No one stopped me.

That night, I took my tools, went downstairs, and cut the lock.
The door clanged open.
I didn’t run. I didn’t hide.
I just put the wire cutters back in my backpack and walked upstairs.

It wasn’t the first lock I’d cut.
Back in April that year, I’d cut one before—and the property manager just summoned me for a “chat.”
I thought this time would be the same.

But clearly, I had made a serious miscalculation.

III. That’s It—I Got Taken Away

The story of the cut lock spread quickly.
The property management checked the surveillance footage and began knocking on doors.
Some people quietly left the group chat. Others went uncharacteristically silent.

At first, I thought no one would turn me in.
After all, the hole in the fence wasn’t just for me—it was for everyone.

But I soon realized that in a system like this, silence is never protection.

Not long after, I got a call from the local Public Security Bureau.
The officer spoke in a flat tone. He said they wanted to “clarify a few things” and asked if I’d been involved in the lock-cutting.

I didn’t deny it.
I said, “Yes, I cut it. I don’t want anyone else to get blamed.”

There was a pause. Then he said:
“Come to the station.”

But I never made it there.

The next day, I got another call—this time from the community health authorities.
They told me I’d tested positive for COVID and had to be transferred to quarantine immediately.

I couldn’t tell whether the test result was real, or part of a strategy.
I had no symptoms. I hadn’t been in contact with anyone who was positive.

But I knew this wasn’t something I could argue about.

That afternoon, I packed a change of clothes and a toothbrush.
I was taken away in a white van.
The driver wore full protective gear and didn’t say a word.

I sat in the last row, watching the empty streets pass by outside.
The city looked like a silent stage.

The quarantine site was a hotel that had been temporarily requisitioned by the authorities. The room was small, but clean.
The first day passed quietly. No one came to bother me.
The food was simple but sufficient.
For a moment, I even thought this might just be a short “technical quarantine.”

Until the morning of the third day.

A staff member in uniform knocked on my door.
He handed me a sheet of paper and said I had to surrender my phone.
There was no malice in his tone, but I understood: once I handed it over, I would be completely cut off from the outside world.

I asked, “Why?”

He said, “Higher-ups’ orders. Please cooperate with the investigation.”

I handed over my phone.
It felt like surrendering a weapon of self-defense.

From that day on, the phone calls began.
Every day.
Sometimes the voices were calm, other times aggressive.
I figured they must have plenty of free time.
The economy was tanking, chaos was everywhere, yet here they were, spending resources on this—on me.
Listening to their voices, I sometimes found myself drifting into daydreams.

They asked if I had incited residents to escape.
If I had posted anti-government comments online.
They brought up my criticisms on Weibo about Hohhot’s pandemic measures—the prolonged transfers in sealed buses, students forced to wear hazmat suits and ride for hours.
One of them said, “This isn’t your first time, is it?”

I knew they had dug through my old accounts, my blogs—even posts I had deleted.
They said I had a “record.”
That this was just “a convenient cleanup.”
A little reminder to keep me in line.

So I said yes.
I told them their people had spoken to me before, had invited me for “a cup of tea.”
And I said I cooperated back then, too.

They asked if I knew what I’d done wrong.
I said, “I damaged public property. Sorry about that. I guess that lock was pretty expensive.”

On the other end of the line, someone muttered a few things—
That I was like an iron ball in a pot of stew:
Impervious to oil or salt.

I hadn’t had meat in days, and hearing that made me feel oddly hungry.

After that, they stopped bringing me meals for two days.

I asked about it.
They just said, “All delivered.”

I didn’t argue.
I just drank tap water.
Slept.

I learned to conserve energy.
I also learned how not to think.

Every couple of days, someone came by for a “conversation.”
Because there was no other human interaction, I almost looked forward to these visits.

They always said the same thing:
“People like you—if you don’t repent, you know what the consequences will be.”

One time, they brought up an old colleague of mine—another independent journalist—who had been sentenced for “inciting subversion” after criticizing the government.

They said, “Keep this up, and you’ll be next.”

IV. The Change Came Without a Sound

On the morning of December 26, I was still in my room when I heard a knock at the door just as the sky began to brighten.
Two people in hazmat suits stood outside—but this time, they weren’t wearing hoods, only masks and clear face shields.

They said, “You can leave now. The pandemic policy has changed.”

I didn’t react right away.
Then they added, “Your quarantine is over. But the investigation is just beginning.”

I was taken to the local police station for a final round of “questioning.”
Like before, there were no handcuffs, no insults.
(I don’t know if others being questioned received the same treatment—I hope they did. 🙏)

But it was incredibly long.

They had me recount every detail of my return home from Inner Mongolia.
They asked me to sign documents, give a recorded statement—twenty pages in total.

They powered on my phone, used a special device to back up my photos, reviewed chat logs, and noted down my social media accounts.
I sat there like a piece of evidence waiting to be catalogued.

Finally, they asked me:
“Are you loyal to the Chinese Communist Party?”

I said, “Yes.”

At that moment, I just wanted to get out of there.

V. Troublemaker

Eventually, I was released.
No written punishment. No public announcement.
But later, when I went to the neighborhood committee to pay my property fees, I accidentally saw an open Excel file on their screen.

In the far-right comment column, next to my name, in bold red characters, it read: “Troublemaker.”

In that instant, I didn’t feel angry.
Just an almost absurd sense of relief.

I thought: finally—they’ve given me a definition.

When friends found out, they sometimes joked:
“Oh, I won’t argue with you—you’re a troublemaker. Come on, tell me—are you a citizen journalist or a troublemaker journalist?”

Most of the time I’d just laugh and say nothing.

I guess I’ve seen enough of the bad in this world that I’ve become weirdly optimistic.

Sometimes I think they’re childish.
Sometimes I think they’re ridiculous.
But sometimes—I feel afraid.

Later, I was diagnosed with PTSD.

Sometimes I still think—oh, in this society, doing something completely normal is enough to make you an outlier.
I didn’t do anything big. I just cut a few locks.
I just wanted to leave that building, to feel some fresh air.
But in some people’s eyes, that alone made me a “problem.”

So this is how far our society has regressed—backed into a corner, with nowhere left to retreat.

Eventually, I left China.
I came to a place that is, at least for now, relatively safe.
But even so, those days still cling to me like a taut string, always humming under my skin.

I know I’m safe now.
But I don’t know how long this safety will last.

Because they’ve already taught me one thing:
Back there, you could be labeled at any time.
Whenever they needed someone, you could become raw material.
That’s how I became material—for wanting a breath of air.