In Donald Trump’s high-powered business delegation to Beijing, Tim Cook looked like yesterday’s news. Already a lame-duck CEO and a frequent, somewhat sterile flier to China, Cook’s lack of raw charisma meant his presence barely registered as a blip on the radar for the Chinese tycoons gathered at the state banquet.

The spotlight belonged exclusively to Jensen Huang and Elon Musk—the two brightest rockstars in the tech pantheon.

Both are frequent visitors to China and living emblems of “Sino-US cooperation.” But where Huang retains the measured dignity of a traditional tech visionary, Musk operates as a weaponized influencer. Chinese tech bosses, who spend their daily lives playing the part of infallible corporate godfathers, instantly dissolved into giddy fanboys the moment Musk walked in. Even Lei Jun—the billionaire founder of a massive conglomerate—seemed to shrink into a knockoff factory owner on the spot, utterly paralyzed by what anime fans would call Musk’s sheer, overpowering Haki. Critics slammed Lei Jun for tapping Musk on the shoulder to beg for a photo, calling it a breach of etiquette. What I saw was something else: the raw, trembling anxiety of a starstruck admirer.

Word has it that Musk, still scarred by a youthful rejection from his own idol Steve Jobs, rarely turns down a fan. He obliges with a rotating gallery of goofy, expressive grimaces, guaranteed to feed the social media meat grinder. Personally, I am no fan of Musk, and I find his politics abhorrent. Yet, denying his gravitational charisma is impossible.

Jensen Huang, on the other hand, doesn’t need to perform. Boarding a flight to China midway through Alaska while rocking his signature leather jacket was enough to stop the global internet in its tracks and ignite a cascade of memes. A founder’s aura doesn’t require megaphone diplomacy; the product usually does the talking. Steve Jobs was the gold standard of this philosophy. He lacked Musk’s loud theatricality. In fact, if Jobs were running Apple today, I highly doubt he would have swallowed his pride to squeeze onto Trump’s crowded Air Force One. Huang is cut from that same Jobsian cloth, even if one favored leather jackets and the other preferred black turtlenecks. When Huang initially claimed he wasn’t invited to the Beijing trip, I suspected he simply didn’t want to go. In the end, he compromised.

This picture-perfect display of Sino-US corporate harmony is exactly the optics Beijing wants to broadcast to the world. But I wonder if they realize it exposes a harsher truth: the staggering chasm between American and Chinese enterprises.

You don’t even need to look at market caps. The sheer power dynamics of these interactions tell the whole story. American tech moguls are idols to their Chinese counterparts not just because they have bigger personalities, but because they possess the raw muscle to back it up. If these men were all style and no substance, Chinese executives wouldn’t be groveling for a snapshot. For a Chinese tech boss, snapping a photo with Musk isn’t just an act of submissive worship; it’s a calculated play for viral traffic.

Flip the script. Is there a single Chinese entrepreneur today who commands that level of reverence from American peers? To the average Chinese consumer, Lei Jun is a towering celebrity to be worshipped from afar. But strip away the domestic context and drop him onto the global stage, and he reverts to looking like a provincial tech hustler. The video he posted on X (formerly Twitter) showcasing his test drive of Xiaomi’s new EV felt like a cheap, second-rate imitation. Of course, anyone with an internet memory knows this isn’t new. To many, he will always be the man behind that painfully awkward English speech—a deafening, unforgettable “Are you OK?” that still echoes across the web.

Now, if we consider the Chinese Communist Party a corporation and Xi Jinping its CEO, then technically, the answer to that question is yes—there is a Chinese figure with a fanatical American corporate following. Except his biggest admirer didn’t make the flight to Beijing this time. This particular US tech mogul has spent years aggressively courting the Chinese government, even conspicuously placing Xi’s published works on his office desk. Yet, that desperate flattery failed to buy him a ticket into the Chinese market. Just recently, Beijing ruthlessly blocked his acquisition of a Chinese AI startup. Mark’s virtual playground isn’t like Elon’s physical machines; China doesn’t just find the former redundant—it fears its uncontrollable influence. Elon, conversely, brings the tangible manufacturing ecosystems Beijing actually needs.

Setting Xi aside, Jack Ma was the closest thing China ever had to a charismatic tech icon (a reality Lei Jun likely disputes, given how hard he tries to play the part). But Ma’s current forced retirement is the direct result of that very charisma becoming too loud for comfort. The political and economic soil of China simply cannot tolerate, let alone cultivate, such figures. Ma might not have been an idol to American CEOs, but he was at least a peer they took seriously. Eloquent and sharp, he could hold his own with international heavyweights and was a darling of the Western press.

At the end of the day, the fundamental missions driving these two groups—even when stripped down to pure marketing spin—exist on entirely different planes. China’s top-tier entrepreneurs are content with perfecting the art of the affordable commodity (a direction Cook ironically seems to be dragging Apple toward). Consequently, they carry very little psychological or legal baggage when it comes to copying and imitating. Even Jack Ma, at the peak of his hubris, merely aspired to ship these cheap goods globally under the noble banner of “helping small businesses.” American founders, for all their flaws, build toward grander, almost mythic horizons. Musk wants to colonize Mars—and his staggering investments in SpaceX prove he isn’t just blowing smoke.

The traditional Chinese ethos preaches “high-profile execution, low-profile living.” Yet, looking at the industry’s deceptive marketing stunts and hearing the endless, shrill chants of being “generations ahead,” I can’t help but think Chinese tech companies should try executing quietly for once. True stature isn’t built on loud bluster and consumer deception.

Lately, the internet has been flooded with satirical memes imagining American tech billionaires letting loose in a gaudy, traditional Chinese karaoke lounge. The brilliance of these memes lies in how brutally they caricature the distinct business cultures and leadership styles of both nations. Lei Jun might not frequent those specific neon-lit dens of vice, but within the cultural imagination, he belongs to that tacky corporate ecosystem. Musk should probably pull Lei Jun aside and give it to him straight: “Take a hit of this joint, drop the counterfeit factory vibe, and build something that actually touches the soul. You know, like Steve and me.”

Chinese version：中美企業家的差距——抑或中美企業的差距

The simplest, most cliché questions are often the most “controversial.” This is a global internet trend—regardless of the language, people love to rehash these topics because the barrier to entry is low and they are excellent at generating traffic. However, I’ve always felt this kind of hype is most prevalent in Simplified Chinese internet circles. These old topics that resurface periodically as “new controversies” are what we call “menstrual posts” (recurring cycle posts).

Examples include: “Why is Hong Kong so backward in electronic payments?” or “Why hasn’t Markdown gone mainstream?”

The answer is actually quite simple: Markdown isn’t that good to use. Its “usability” is strictly limited to the tech circle—a group of people who deal with code all year round.

Arrogant “Usability” and the Real Barrier

As a writer, I first heard about Markdown’s “superiority” nearly a decade ago. I started learning it, tried it out, and even bought a Markdown-supported writing app on Mac. It cost me a few dozen dollars—not expensive for a Mac app—but after using it for a while, I gave up and crawled back to the embrace of Google Docs.

Markdown sounds simple, but it has a learning cost. Memorizing the syntax is only the first step; you also need a supporting app to render that syntax. There are countless such apps, but quantity doesn’t equal quality. For the average person, this abundance actually creates a “paradox of choice.”

What the public needs most is WYSIWYG (What You See Is What You Get). This has been the primary direction of computer interface evolution for the past few decades. Users just want to click a button for formatting; they don’t care if the backend is complex or if the system is “bloated.” Are Word and Google Docs not good enough? (Word costs money, but Google Docs is free). Why should I learn a whole new method and find new software just for some ethereal sense of “minimalism”?

People who ask “Why hasn’t Markdown gone mainstream?” are either genuinely dense—unable to distinguish between what’s truly user-friendly and what isn’t—or they know exactly how difficult it is for the average person but choose to ignore it. It’s a form of arrogance, a belief that “ordinary people just don’t understand its beauty.” It’s like a classical music snob looking down on pop fans with a misplaced sense of superiority.

Of course, there’s a reason Markdown is being discussed again. It lacks complex formatting, offers high information density, is AI-friendly, and probably saves on tokens. But humans and AI are fundamentally different. Writing and reading Markdown is a built-in capability for AI; it doesn’t need to “learn” it, and unlike humans, it doesn’t require visual aesthetics. For AI, readability means structured data. Those exquisite layouts designed for human eyes are, to an AI, nothing but interference.

When Humans Start “Accommodating” Machines

AI was supposed to do the “grunt work” for us. The greatest progress in the recent AI explosion is that its understanding and processing of natural language have approached human levels. Humans no longer need to learn “machine language” to give commands; even someone who doesn’t know a lick of coding can generate code. Yet, some people are now doing the exact opposite. Seeing that a certain format is “AI-friendly,” they feel that we humans should adapt and adopt the machine’s preferred format.

A similar controversy appeared between TUI (Terminal User Interface) and GUI (Graphical User Interface) after AI coding became popular. Developers might find TUIs more efficient, and that’s fine, but GUIs will always be more accessible to the general public. This is why tools like Claude Code and Codex, despite having TUI versions, still develop GUI versions—they are a necessity for expanding their user base.

Let’s be honest: do you really find those Markdown documents spat out by AI comfortable to read? If so, then your visual system and brain might have already evolved, transcending the “low-level” human needs for perception and aesthetics.

If this type of person becomes the mainstream, they might look at the text layouts from the late 20th to early 21st century and exclaim: “So this is how ancient people used to read!”

What a “bright” future! But I can’t help but wonder: is this truly the direction of human evolution? Humans originally ate just to stay full. Why, then, did we start caring about taste and presentation? After satisfying our hunger, why did we start worrying about nutrition? And once we had nutrition, why did we demand a “balanced diet”?

Writing tools are, at their core, tools. But behind every tool, there is more than just utility. If you reduce it to a mere tool and judge its value solely through the logic of efficiency, you lose your humanity. We risk becoming humans alienated by our own technology. If a Cyborg is a carbon-based lifeform gaining a stronger physical body by integrating tools, then this “tool-first” mindset—which discards humanity for efficiency—is a way of re-engineering the human mind into a machine.

This is perhaps the common ailment of our era: in order to make our tools more efficient, we are making ourselves more like tools.

Chinese version：AI時代的文字工具

If the hero who stood before the tanks in 1989 were to perform that same act in the United States in 2026, what do you think would happen? There is little doubt that many right-wing Chinese, who brandish anti-communist slogans, would shout: “Run him over!” 

Following the shooting of Minnesota resident Renée Good by a U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agent, a segment of right-wing Chinese commentators argued that if one obstructs law enforcement or fails to follow orders, they should expect to be shot. One particularly bizarre individual even claimed that if his own wife were killed for stepping on the gas and “scaring” a police officer or ICE agent, he would neither protest nor shed a tear, asserting she would have deserved it. 

One must wonder if such a person even has a wife—and who would willingly be his family? Why does he not consider the possibility that he himself might one day face the “MAGA iron fist” and be harmed or killed by the excessive force of federal agents, rather than projecting this scenario onto a perhaps non-existent spouse? 

The Shield of Immunity and the Erosion of Rights

While U.S. law enforcement power is indeed extensive—protected by “Qualified Immunity” against civil claims—this does not grant agents the right to use unlimited force against citizens. If the logic of these commentators were true, such a country would be even more oppressive than the one they claim to oppose. These individuals are “naive supporters who inadvertently damage the cause”; they clearly love Trump more than they love the U.S. Constitution or civil liberties. 

More tragic still is that many among this group are Hong Kongers who personally experienced the consequences of excessive police power in 2019. They are not merely defending the agent who fired the shot, Jonathan Ross; they are defending Trump’s policy of mass deportation. To execute this “population clearing policy,” ICE has been granted excessive authority to act with impunity in communities. How are these agents any different from the “Big Whites” (pandemic workers) who ran rampant across China? It is ironic that “anti-communist” Trump supporters view them as a “force of justice,” exhibiting a servant-like obedience to a power that could easily infringe upon their own rights. 

Was the Use of Deadly Force Justified?

U.S. law enforcement agencies, including the Department of Homeland Security (DHS), have clear use-of-force guidelines. DHS Policy 044-05 states that deadly force may not be used solely to prevent a suspect’s escape and prohibits firing at drivers of moving vehicles unless there is a reasonable belief of an immediate threat to life. Furthermore, agents are cautioned against unreasonably placing themselves in situations where deadly force becomes the only option. 

The government, aware of the poor optics of agents shooting citizens, initially labeled Renée Good a “domestic terrorist” and attempted to “weaponize” her vehicle—a controversial legal tactic often used by the Trump administration to justify killings. Since last July, immigration agents have fired into vehicles at least six times, resulting in two deaths. 

As more video footage has surfaced, the official narrative has shifted toward “self-defense.” Under the 1989 Graham v. Connor precedent, force is evaluated from the perspective of a “reasonable officer” on the scene, providing significant leeway for agents to claim they felt threatened. 

However, the footage shows Renée Good was simply trying to drive away. While one agent reached into the car, Jonathan Ross—the agent who fired—was at a distance from the front left of the vehicle. Crucially, Ross was filming with a phone in one hand while shooting with the other. This highlights another controversy: agents were giving Good contradictory orders—was she supposed to “leave” or “get out of the car”? 

The Reality of the “Threat”

White House supporters refuse to acknowledge that even if Good had obstructed enforcement, her actions—turning the wheel to the right to leave—did not pose a danger to the agents. Under Tennessee v. Garner (1985), police may not use deadly force against a fleeing suspect unless they pose an immediate threat of death or serious injury. 

The video recorded by Ross himself confirms he was not in life-threatening danger. Good is seen calmly telling him, “I’m not mad at you.” A person fearing for their life does not walk around a “weaponized” vehicle while filming on a smartphone, even as they pull the trigger. Logic dictates that shooting a driver and causing a car to go out of control poses a far greater risk to the public. John P. Gross, a professor at the University of Wisconsin Law School, noted that if an officer truly perceived a threat, they would not be casually filming with one hand. 

When the “threat” narrative faltered, the White House suggested Ross was suffering from PTSD due to a similar incident six months prior. If true, an agent with PTSD belongs at home, not at a high-conflict scene. While it is a relief that no bystanders were hit by the uncontrolled vehicle, a citizen still paid with her life. 

The Uphill Battle for Legal Redress

The Fourth Amendment protects citizens against “unreasonable searches and seizures.” In legal terms, shooting or arresting a person is a “seizure.” In the George Floyd case, the prolonged kneeling on his neck was ruled an “unreasonable seizure,” leading to a $27 million settlement and a 22-year sentence for officer Derek Chauvin. 

However, Section 1983, which allowed for the Floyd settlement, only applies to state and local officials, not federal agents. By involving the FBI and excluding the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension (BCA), the federal government has made it difficult for the state to prosecute Ross. The Justice Department now holds all the power, acting essentially as Ross’s defense counsel. 

For the Good family, seeking justice is nearly impossible. The “Bivens Principle,” which once allowed citizens to sue federal agents for constitutional violations, is virtually defunct. Courts often dismiss such cases if they involve “national security” or “border management” (as seen in Egbert v. Boule, 2022). 

The only remaining path is the Federal Tort Claims Act (FTCA), which allows victims to sue the government for damages. ⁴⁵While this may result in a payout—as seen in the Sutherland Springs ($144 million) or Whitey Bulger ($20 million) cases—it allows the individual agent to escape personal accountability. For families seeking justice rather than just money, this is a bitter outcome. 

While taxpayer-funded settlements can sometimes pressure a system toward reform, the Trump administration may remain indifferent. As for the commentator who wouldn’t cry for his wife: if he understood the law, he might actually smile—her death could provide him with a settlement large enough to last a lifetime. 

Chinese version：不聽話就該死？從Renée Good被槍殺看美國執法權

Youtube

There is an iron rule in the world of collecting: no matter how priceless or unique your collection is, you must be able to endure loneliness, especially if your collection might be of dubious origin. If you genuinely love the item, it is best to hide it deep, appreciating it privately with only yourself and trusted friends in the circle; if you only value its “worth” and hope to sell it for money to live lavishly, then you must conceal your identity and dispose of it discreetly, ensuring the buyer is also someone who can keep a secret. Otherwise, if they suffer, you will be implicated.

However, the Chinese cultural relic collecting community has a bad habit: they particularly love to show off. Once they acquire a “good item,” they are always impatient to tell others, invite people home to admire it, or even loudly announce it to the world, afraid that others won’t know their taste and capability.

Unfortunately, Lu Ting (陸挺), the original owner of Jiangnan Spring (《江南春》), was not a low-key person during his lifetime. He had long declared publicly that he held Jiangnan Spring and had invited people to view it. The medal in his hand finally turned into a bomb.

In 2010, Lu Ting’s “Yilanzhai Art Museum” (藝蘭齋美術館) in preparation for its upcoming inauguration, specifically displayed Jiangnan Spring among its collection to a reporter. In the article, “A Secret Exploration of Yilanzhai’s Treasures” (《藝蘭齋珍寶探秘》), the reporter also wrote a passage introducing how Jiangnan Spring was passed down to Lu Ting’s “Yilanzhai”:

“The person in charge of Yilanzhai produced a photocopied letter from the Shanghai Museum. The letterhead was stamped with ‘Social and Cultural Affairs Bureau of the Ministry of Culture of the Central People’s Government'(中央人民政府文化部社會文化事業管理局) . This was a letter written in 1953 by Zheng Zhenduo (鄭振鐸), then director of the State Administration of Cultural Heritage, to his old friend Xu Senyu (徐森玉), head of the Shanghai Cultural Relics Management Committee (上海文管會), stating that the Palace Museum (故宮博物院) was short of paintings and calligraphy from the Ming and Qing dynasties and asking him to solicit paintings. Among those listed as ‘absolutely necessary’ by Zheng Zhenduo was Qiu Ying’s (仇英) painting Jiangnan Spring, collected by the famous collector Pang Laichen (龐萊臣).”

This passage was as good as unwritten. Even though the letter produced by the person in charge of Yilanzhai had the impressive signature of the “Social and Cultural Affairs Bureau of the Ministry of Culture of the Central People’s Government,” the letter only stated that the Chinese Ministry of Culture at the time wanted Jiangnan Spring, but did not explain how Jiangnan Spring ended up in Yilanzhai’s hands. What is even more suspicious is: how did a cultural relic desired by the state end up in Lu Ting’s possession?

Even more ridiculous is that in 2015, when Pang’s descendants sued the Nanjing Museum, the curator Pang Ou (龐歐), who was the defendant, used this report as evidence to prove that Lu Ting and his wife from Yilanzhai had purchased Jiangnan Spring as early as the 1990s. This report buried a nuclear bomb for today’s exposure of the matter. The report described the box containing Jiangnan Spring in great detail. Pang’s descendants stated that the box was the original one from Pang Laichen’s collection, and this matching box was also clearly recorded in the donation list provided by the Nanjing Museum (南京博物院) that year.

A collector in Shanghai, in an interview with The Paper (澎湃新聞), claimed that he had seen Jiangnan Spring at Lu Ting’s home in 1999 when he went to demand repayment of a debt from Lu Ting. At the time, Lu Ting might have been unable to suppress his desire to show off, or perhaps he wanted to indicate to the person demanding payment that he was not without money to repay. In any case, he voluntarily showed this sensational collection to the visitor and said that the painting was sold to him by a descendant of Pang Laichen, who was studying at Nanjing University and sought him out after hearing his reputation. Lu Ting’s wife, Ding Weiwen (丁蔚文), also stated in her academic paper, “Textual Research on Qiu Ying’s ‘Jiangnan Spring’ Scroll” (《仇英“江南春“卷考辯》), published in the Journal of Nanjing Arts Institute （《南京藝術學院學報》） in 2007, that her husband’s collection of Jiangnan Spring was purchased from Pang Laichen’s descendants.

The Yilanzhai Art Museum has yet to open, and Jiangnan Spring remains a legend. The cultural relics circle is small, and people might not have taken it seriously, thinking Lu Ting was just bragging. However, after Lu Ting’s death in May 2025, the successor, Zhu Guang （朱光）, immediately put Jiangnan Spring up for auction, as if he couldn’t survive one more second without getting his hands on the 80 million yuan. Is there a possibility that they had an agreement during their transaction that Lu Ting could not publicly sell it while alive?

According to The Paper, Lu Ting had mortgaged Jiangnan Spring and other collections to a company due to a loan. Later, unable to repay the debt, the mortgaged painting was resold by the company to the current holder, Zhu Guang. Zhu Guang is not a well-known figure in the collecting world. He only switched to buying and selling paintings and calligraphy a few years ago and has lived abroad for a long time, possibly unaware of some of the unwritten rules in China’s domestic collecting circle.

The explosion of the Jiangnan Spring incident finally uncovered an embezzlement that spanned over 20 years, all thanks to this collector who was eager to exchange the painting for cash. Lu Ting is dead, free from all worries. Pitiful is Xu Huping （徐湖平）; people forgot that he is still alive. An 80-year-old man who served a few years in the military in his youth, his body is probably still robust. In his later years, he had been so low-key that he only won a Forbes-rated Outstanding Cultural Figure award last year, occasionally appearing on Douyin (TikTok) where people would film his home filled with rich collections of paintings and calligraphy. But how can he withstand having his reputation tarnished in his late years?

Chinese version：錦衣需夜行，「收藏」要耐得住寂寞

蔡瀾先生是個雜學家，見識廣，懂的東西多。說他是才子，另外三個「四大才子」身為他的朋友，自然不會有意見（蔡瀾也自稱算不上是才子）；但在我們這些外人看來，當年發明「香江四大才子」的人加他名字上去，就好像為了湊數似的。

蔡老先生確實寫了很多書，是很多人一輩子也寫不出來的篇幅，但他的文字多是散文隨筆，創作難度不大，也很難說出什麼名篇佳作。以前太多香港作家靠專欄文字謀生，誰沒點散文隨筆結集出版呢？我認識一些文藝青年，覺得純粹寫這種散文隨筆甚至連「作家」也算不上。我覺得這又未免過於嚴格了。

身為美食家，蔡瀾將自己做成了一個招牌，開食店的都想獲得他青睞，成為「蔡瀾推薦」。如今foodie泛濫成災，誰能到達蔡瀾的高度？曾經有個餐廳老闆在微博上問蔡瀾，為他的餐廳寫一篇食評要多少錢。老先生回覆說，他不白吃白喝，必定自己掏錢去吃，如果菜品做得好，也免費宣傳。最後又不客氣補充一句：「聽你這種口氣，不是一個用心做菜的老闆，餐廳遲早關門。」

但老先生有這麼愛惜自己的招牌嗎？你看大街上到處都是「蔡瀾推薦」，就知道是怎麼一回事。有多少是他自掏腰包去吃然後真心推薦的，有多少是別人花錢買的？他要不是年紀大了，可能還要開個YouTube，成為網紅foodie的一員——說不定，圍繞在他身邊的那些人可能早就有這麼建議過（經網民提醒，他其實有自己的Youtube，四個月前還拍了條片賣「蔡瀾點心」）。據他所說，他有一百個「護法」幫他篩選寄到他電郵的讀者來信。

他不在了，有多少人會因此沒有飯吃？上個月傳聞蔡瀾病逝，他的助理就在微博發表了一條措辭嚴厲的聲明，說網絡不是法外之地、造謠者要負刑事責任。江澤民多次被人誤報死訊，也沒有這麼惡吧？其實蔡瀾本人可能沒有那麼介意被人誤報死訊，畢竟近年目睹好友一一辭別，早已看透生死，奈何身邊有些人要靠他吃飯。有人說蔡瀾死了，蔡瀾聽了可能只是笑笑，但對於那些靠他吃飯的人，就是砸他的飯碗。

蔡瀾當然不缺錢花，頂著「香江四大才子」的名銜，收穫的名利也已經夠多。但老人家對於俗世並沒有看得那麼闊達，在微博上就有一個經典事件，史稱「蔡瀾為39元出賣林夕」。事源有人向蔡瀾提出一條付費問答的問題，怎麼看林夕（包括他的性向）。蔡瀾便領下39元，講了林夕當面向他們承認自己是gay的往事。

有天在佐敦看到一家賣糕點的小攤檔，也掛著「蔡瀾推薦」的招牌，下面用簡體字寫著一行「蔡瀾知己會」。後來在網上一查，「蔡瀾知己會」是蔡瀾於2008年設立的網站，現在已經無法訪問。從蔡瀾知己會還有編號這件事來看，大概是一個需要繳會費的網站。

蔡瀾雖然雜學，但他的認知不一定對。就以他最拿手的美食來說，他有次寫客家釀豆腐的標準做法是用鯪魚肉餡。我是客家人，我吃的釀豆腐從來都是豬肉餡的。

中國一些年輕人，有時候你分不清他們到底是真心惡毒，還是歷史虛無、道德虛無，視一切皆為可拿來開玩笑的素材，而他們稱之為「解構」，還有個詞叫「搞抽象」。

在我看來，後者比前者更令人討厭。小粉紅可能是無知，可能是被洗了腦，而去攻擊他們不認可的人，但這群「解構主義者」卻不是無知，而是對一切都無所謂——世界沒有是非黑白，別人的苦難在他們眼中也只是玩笑。可恥也可悲。

最近Steam上有中國人為《Mount & Blade: Warband》製作了一個模組，扭曲南韓歷史上的光州事件《光州 Running Man》。據查，在另一個遊戲《Left 4 Dead 2》的workshop裡，也有中國人發表了與「光州 Running Man」相關的內容。

「光州 Running Man」這個所謂的「梗」，最初應該是來自於bilibili去年10月發布的一條影片。影片稱光州事件為「光州第一屆無限格鬥大賽」，用這樣的名稱去定義一場大量平民死傷的事件，不管那是不是一場民主運動，都非常賤格。我相信，只要不會帶來任何後果，南京大屠殺也可以被他們「解構」為「劈砍競技大賽」。

知乎上有人發問，如何看待bilibili網民上將光州事件解構為「光州Running Man」？

你以為知乎是中國相對沒有那麼「抽象」而比較講究理性的網站嗎？早就不是了。那條提問下有1000多條回答，排在前面的幾條幾乎都一個比一個「抽象」。

倒是也有一個直來直去不玩抽象的網民，卻也並不覺開光州事件玩笑得有問題，反問：為什麼不提bilibili還拿北韓三個太陽來開玩笑，為何北韓可以玩，而南韓不可以玩？他們就是如此是非不分地認為，開光州事件玩笑和開北韓金氏一家，是同等性質的事，如果光州事件不可以開玩笑，那麼一個國家的最高權力也不可以被拿來開玩笑。

我們會認為，對一個高高在上、大權在握的人開玩笑，還真的就是在解構他的權力，尤其金家還是殘忍的獨裁者。那麼我想問，拿光州事件來開玩笑，是要解構什麼？

俄羅斯入侵烏克蘭已經三年，如今戰況如何？在眾多以俄烏戰爭為題材的電影裏，2025年香港國際電影節火鳥大獎紀錄片競賽單元的《塵埃不見基輔田》（Songs of Slow Burning Earth），給了我們不一樣的視角。整部電影，你不會看到任何戰鬥的畫面，不會看到任何一具人類的屍體。電影一直以數字來表示距離前線的距離，從一開始愈來愈接近前線，到後面慢慢遠離，鏡頭卻未曾捕捉前線的畫面。我們看到更多的是，烏克蘭人如何努力在戰爭中像尋常日子一樣維持生活。

戰爭已經成為了烏克蘭日常生活的一部分。麵包廠依然每天生產麵包，送到市民手上，人們領取了麵包後繼續在附近抽煙、閒聊，孩子們也依然在上學，在老師的帶領下暢想自己的夢想……如果不是那些不時傳來的砲聲、槍聲、空襲警報，你會以為烏克蘭已經結束了戰爭。

其中一個長鏡頭實實在在頭喚起了我2019年的記憶，那些似乎已遠去的往事。

飄著雨的寒冬，一輛汽車行駛於烏克蘭鄉間道路，鏡頭的視角是從駕駛室透過前面的擋風玻璃往外拍，而觀眾一開始並不知曉這到底是一輛什麼車，只會好奇，為何每次迎面而來的車輛見到這輛車時，都必然靠邊停下。車上的人有時還會下來，單膝跪地。車子駛過人們聚居的村莊時，道路兩旁已經跪著很多的人，有些身板不太好的老人，仍然試圖彎下自己的腰。

直到這輛車即將到達目的地時，鏡頭一轉。我們擁有了更廣闊的視野，看到這是一輛運送烈士遺體的車。天地間白雪皚皚。

紀錄片拍攝於2022年俄烏戰爭爆發至2024年，由烏克蘭導演Olha Zhurba執導。導演似乎刻意不標明拍攝每一個鏡頭、事件的時間，反而代之以每次拍攝地點離前線的距離，而通過距離，我們能大概了解戰爭的推進一一戰爭初期，前線愈來愈近，你感覺到不是導演為了拍攝戰爭而在追著戰爭跑，而是戰爭不斷逼近；及後，戰況逆轉，前線離拍攝地越來越遠。有人覺得本片散亂，我卻以為結構其實非常清晰。

從俄羅斯軍隊中解放的村莊，幾個小孩在經歷過家園被佔領、親友被屠殺後，拿著假槍玩戰爭遊戲，好似重獲兒童遊戲的快樂，卻其實已經找不回戰爭未爆發前的童稚。

本片中後段相當多篇幅其實是拍攝烏克蘭在恢復，儘管戰火至今仍在延燒。鏡頭帶我們去看後勤清點遺體、親屬領回烈士的遺物，而在戰爭中失去腿腳的士兵裝上義肢、穿上新鞋，重新站立了起來，正練習行走。

電影落在兩組場景的對比而結束：一邊是烏克蘭學生在課室裡探討烏克蘭的未來，另一邊是俄羅斯中部一家中學的學生正在步操。大概所有人都會好奇，導演身為烏克蘭人，到底是怎麼到俄羅斯拍攝這些鏡頭的。她在映後回答了很多人心中的疑問，她說俄羅斯學生步操並不是什麼秘密，事實上他們學校就會將這些實況錄像放到網上。

哈佛中國女生蔣雨融的畢業演講火爆半個地球，演講中談到與習大大「人類命運共同體」不謀而合的價值觀，說別人的貧窮也是她的貧窮、「敵人也是人」等等，她大概以為祖國同胞也會為她喝采。結果家人們並不領情，甚至挖出她背景很深，上哈佛也主要靠父幹。不只如此，放眼望去，華人無論什麼立場，幾乎無人不對她的演講反感。能讓當代華人的反應如此一致，也是近年世間罕有。

為什麼？不是她說的東西不對，而是她的東西和她身上所表現出來的精神氣質太不相符，簡單來說，就是矯揉造作，內容看似高尚卻空洞無物。連畢業袍都穿成慈禧太后模樣的人，嘴裏略帶哭腔地說著「別人的貧窮也是我的貧窮」，有什麼說服力？她在微博被家人們罵，她撰文反擊，炫耀自己在哈佛多受歡迎，連保安都找她合影，大有一種你們鄉下人沒水平欣賞我的感覺，不禁令人想起走進酒館的孔乙己。她的回擊，不正更證明了她的虛偽嗎？沒有她這麼好運生在官宦之家的人，就不是人嗎？

她不是真正為那些與自己不同的人發聲——事實上，放在美國當今語境下，她才是那個「不同的人」——白人為她鼓掌，大概也是在這樣一種語境之下：為一個「不同的人」發出聲音而鼓掌。白人當她是「少數族裔」、「弱者」，卻不知道她在中國其實是一個背景深厚的特權階層。

她也不具備真正的大愛和同理心，以目前的她來說，她不可能明白為何連中國人自己都不喜歡她。她的眼裡似乎只有自己，「我這次演出太棒了」的洋洋得意幾乎洋溢而出。不過，正好，習大大其實也並不真正相信「人類命運共同體」。她和他已經成為一個共同體了。