我们可以从四川江油和尼泊尔的暴动中学到什么What Can We Learn from the Riots in Jiangyou, Si-chuan, and in Nepal

Timothy Huang

2025年8月，四川江油的市民因为一位少女遭霸凌以及对政府的相关处置的不满而上街抗议，旋即被镇压。两个月后，尼泊尔民众因为政府试图封禁多达26个世界主流社交媒体平台而暴动，最终迫使政府作出让步，军方接管政权。我们可以从中学到哪些经验教训？中国和尼泊尔又有哪些区别、导致相似的民众抗议活动产生了天壤之别的结果呢？

一、江油暴动中的天真派

在江油的抗争消息传出当天，便有很多天真的民主人士认为这是中共倒台的先声——如果说“先声”，恐怕中共的一言一行都是其倒台的先声。事实上，很多人东欧剧变的故事看多了，觉得共产党倒台就是一晚上的事，群众上街，军警不开枪，革命就成功了。这种理想化甚至戏剧化的民主化想象实际上是非常幼稚的。他们所幻想的一觉醒来换了人间的关键一步，就是军警倒戈，或者至少是默许、不开枪——而我们首先试图来代入一个普通军警的视角，看看把枪口抬高一寸有多么困难。

我们假设你是1989年6月3号晚上进京的38军一位普通士兵，你们军长已经因为抗命而被控制在医院了。面对广场上的学生，你打算不开枪，觉得人民军队的冲锋枪不能向人民发射子弹——我们可以合理地推测，当时你的好多战友都有和你一样的想法。可是，为什么你最终开枪了呢？为什么你成了“首都卫士”而被你扫射的学生和群众成了“暴乱分子”了呢？其实，只要有最基本的共情能力，将心比心，就知道让军警抗命默许抗议者的活动有多么困难。

第一，你只是一个普通战士，你不是徐军长。这意味着，一方面，你作为普通士兵违抗指挥官的命令，和徐勤先作为军长违抗中央军委的命令，后果和代价是不同的。我们知道，六四之后，徐勤先因为拒绝执行中央军委或者说是邓小平的调兵命令，被开除党籍，还被军事法院判了五年徒刑。结果他出狱后，待遇由正军级下调到副军级，甚至因为在保定旧部过多，被挪到石家庄，但仍然可以正常进京。2011年他还接受苹果日报采访表示，抗命这件事，“做了就做了，绝不后悔”。可是，你想想，你一个普通战士你拿什么去抗命，你抗命完没被当场枪毙就不错了；你可不像军长，抗命完了又可以千古留名，又可以有副军级待遇。另一方面，你作为一个普通士兵，没有办法、没有途径、没有理论和实践基础，去判断命令的合规性。徐勤先拒绝执行命令的理由是：军委第一副主席赵紫阳没有签字，军令不全、不合法，不能执行。可是你一个普通战士，班长让你开枪，你拿什么去搪塞呢？你作为普通战士你有什么能力和渠道知道中央军委到底下了什么命令、广场上的学生到底是在追求民主还是在煽动反革命暴乱？你不可能知道。

第二，你心里知道对群众开枪大概率不对，你心里也知道，有好多战友和你一个想法；但问题在于，你不可能确信——并且你也清楚这事实上不可能——你们一整个基层部队单位都和你一个想法。这就意味着，你把枪口抬高一寸，在功利主义意义上、在结果上、并不能对你对面的抗争者起到任何的保护作用。现代化的自动武器不同于古代的刀枪剑戟，只要有一个人全力镇压，其他所有人枪口抬高都没用，你的抗命事实上不可能取得任何收益。并且，四路开进北京的军队，既是包围圈，也是相互督战，你不开枪，不但没有任何作用，而与此同时，如果你和几个战友不开枪，其他人开枪，你们就是被激怒的群众的突破口——六四时被挂在桥上的士兵，大概率是一整列士兵里心慈手软的那个。

第三，人都是有私心的，人从来不是像罗尔斯所设想的那样，在“无知之幕”之下搞隆中对。你作为一个普通士兵，大概率是家里无权无势、无钱无地，但是又在同一阶层里迈上了体制内的一点门槛；家里有个当差的，虽然不算既得利益者，但至少乡亲邻里也不会轻易欺负。这是你除了执行军令以外，去捍卫这个现有体制的私心，而这也是比长官的命令更坚定的镇压理由。你现在是一个只会向平民百姓开枪的懦夫，那如果以后社会进步了，不需要你这种懦夫了，你干嘛去？

所以说，王侯将相的历史读多了，很多人就会有一种误解，觉得面对抗争的平民百姓，一线官兵和军队领导层的想法与心境是一致的。其实他们完全是不一致的，普通军警完全不存在像历史小说家设想出来的那样王侯将相的心理基础。这个论述会让很多人不舒服，但是不舒服完，请平心静气想一想，看是不是这个道理，看你在现场是不是能做的更好，看你是不是能做那个改写历史的平民英雄。

二、财政崩溃、“无力收买军警宪特”，就可以抗争成功吗？

很多人对上述问题的解决方案是：如果极权主义政府没有能力收买军警宪特了，他们就会出于自利的心态去抗命、去默许甚至加入群众的抗争。然而，这也是一种非常幼稚的想法。

首先，大家都知道，经济形势不好，就要考公务员，去央企、国企，说白了就是要进体制，因为体制内人员是享有优先分赃的权利的，最后一口饭是留给体制内人员吃的。等习近平无力收买军警宪特了，那体制外的工人、农民、私营企业员工等等，早已不知道饿了多久了，而此时一个普通战士凭什么觉得自己工资停了两个月、普通百姓工资停了一年，他就要出于自利的目的默许抗争者推翻体制呢？这根本就不合逻辑，这里面根本就没有任何“自利”的因素。

其次，“无力收买”是一个非常空洞的表述，仿佛在描述一种一觉起来突然军队警察就发不出工资了的情形。可是这种情况是不现实的。收买军警宪特的资源如果出现不足，是会一点一点停止的。政府可以温水煮青蛙，收通胀税，并且始终会保持体制内人员相比于体制外的优势地位，而不会出现军警跟抗争者面对面，双方一合计，发现都被欠薪了的情况。

最后，金钱或经济利益，也不是独裁者用来收买军警宪特的忠诚的唯一途径。在前述情况下，军警宪特的工资缩水，而体制外压根发不起工资，这时任何一个脑子正常的统治者，都会允许军警宪特自行“开辟财路”，说白了就是欺压乡里、鱼肉百姓，警匪一家，或者做兵痞子。这是亡国之兆，但这并不是体制被抗争者直接推翻之兆，更不是中国三千年的专制主义传统的终结之兆。

也正因如此，“枪口抬高一寸”才成了一种道德成就，一种值得被铭记的人性光辉，而不仅仅是一句轻而易举的“你可以”、“你本可以”。一看见什么地方出现大规模群众抗争事件，就指望着这次会不会军警默许抗争，成为推翻中共的导火索，这种心态跟买彩票没什么区别。

很多人会疑问，为什么东欧国家的军警宪特就能放下武器，和抗争者一起推翻暴政呢？一方面，中共独特的统治社会的“双锁死机制”，也就是党的组织和政府、军队、企事业单位、民间团体锁死，党的利益和党员的利益锁死，这是苏共以及他的东欧狗腿子们做不到的。前面我们所设想的情景里，“你”这个普通战士的很多决定，现在回过头，都和这个双锁死机制有关。另一方面，东欧剧变过程中，出现了很多军队中高级指挥官、甚至是防长级别的领导人直接拒绝镇压民众的情况，或者说，除了罗马尼亚，其他国家的军队中高层甚至防长都明确拒绝镇压，东德、波兰、捷克斯洛伐克、等等，都是如此，这相当于他们自己的“六四”时有无数个“徐勤先”，甚至有无数个“赵紫阳”，甚至“邓小平”都明确表示不开枪，这确实令人羡慕。而这种情况，中国过去不会有，现在没有，以后也不可能有。并且，当说到东欧，就引出了另一个话题，也就是从群体性抗争的成功到整个国家的民主化，这中间还差了十万八千里。而列宁主义与东欧社会的结合的产物，与列宁主义与中国传统社会结合的产物，是两种完全不一样的社会形态。东欧国家具有“靠近文明、贴近方便”的先天优势。很多国家即使不像东德那样有大哥直接带进文明社会，也能逐步有样学样，慢慢的把苏联的遗毒清理干净，甚至出现了波兰这样在整个欧洲都后生可畏的优秀模范。基本上，尽管东欧各国在东欧剧变后，没有哪个国家的民主转型是一路顺利的。街头抗争胜利只是第一步，真正的挑战来自制度重建、经济自由化、社会公正与对抗旧势力的回潮。但是，在街头抗议成功、共产主义政党下台后，他们就走上了文明和自由的康庄大道，这种便利性跟他们面临的地缘政治环境、文化历史传统、政治和经贸链接都是分不开的。而这些都是中国目前所没有的，也是永远不可能拥有的。

三、尼泊尔和中国的区别在哪里？

很多人好奇，为何中国的邻国尼泊尔就可以如此轻易的取得民众抗议的阶段性进展呢？难道前面讲的人性弱点，中尼两国是不互通的吗？对此，我们必须关注中国和尼泊尔两国截然不同的现实情况。

尼泊尔与中国的根本差异，在于单核心小国与多核心大帝国的差异。简单说，在尼泊尔，控制加德满都就可以控制全国，而在中国，控制北京西城区的人，都不一定能控制北京东城区。我们具体来讲，尼泊尔全国人口接近三千万，加德满都附近地区就有500万，超过1/6，按国内生产总值的话，则加德满都地区占尼泊尔全国30%以上，这类似于伦敦之于英国、巴黎之于法国的集中程度。而北京常住人口2500万，还不到全国人口的3%，GDP占中国的4%，属于极度分散的状态。而一次暴动所能组织起来的参与者人数是有限的，在尼泊尔有数万人参与的抗议，搬到中国，类似的情况，是不会按照人口比例对应倍增的，不可能有50倍的参与者——那可是100万到250万，比淮海战役共军人数都多，这是不可能的。

我们看历史，俄罗斯也是一个帝国形态，但是它从古至今就是圣彼得堡和莫斯科两个核心区域，俄国共产主义革命之所以能成功，就是因为布尔什维克党牢牢控制着圣彼得堡和莫斯科这两个俄国的核心工业城市，他们的工业在沙俄占比超过六七成；因此，广袤的沙俄其他地区有再多的资本主义和保皇党支持者都没用，圣彼得堡和莫斯科就是俄罗斯，其他地方都叫乡下。而同样的经验几年后在中国就行不通，中心工业城市的暴动根本无法成功。原因就在于，参与人数有上限，而多中心大帝国的“陪都”数量则是无限的。中国自古以来，长安和洛阳就以孪生都城的形态进行着多核心帝国的统治，用来“天子守国门”的长安抵御北方游牧民族的入侵，而洛阳则承担其他职责，就像习近平理想中的雄安一样；被传统叙事视为蛮族的辽国，有五个京城，而几次衣冠南渡后，南京杭州都发挥着类似的作用，这也是中国历史上的各个南朝通常可以迅速重建政权的原因。中共继承的这个多核心大帝国形态和历史上是一样的。尽管中共将政治权力高度集中，但是人口的分布、工业产业的分布、自然条件的限制等等，不是毛泽东或者习近平一句话就可以克服的，甚至毛泽东为了战争考量还要搞三线建设，这更加助长了中华帝国的多核心特征。习近平在中央层面的权力集中度远远高过中国地区中央和地方之间的权力集中度。因此，三五十万北京市民暴动，和一两万加德满都市民暴动，尽管从人数上是等比例的，但是对于全国局势的影响和掌控度，是不能等量齐观的，在尼泊尔这样的单核心小国发动一场暴动，从根子上就是比在中国这样的多核心大帝国更容易，这个从根底上就是无法解决的。

尼泊尔相比于中国民众暴动更容易成功的第二个原因是军警管理体制的差别。尼泊尔的军队是国家化的军队，尼泊尔的警察武装是按照国际惯例隶属于各级行政机关的，和军队互不管辖。而众所周知，中国人民解放军是“党卫军”，警察部门则是上下一体化管理，最后集权于党中央。这是尼泊尔暴动能成功而中国无法成功的直接原因。我们并不是要尬吹尼泊尔，但是正因为尼泊尔有这么一个军队国家化、警察职业化的框架在，本次抗议中，总理辞职后军队宣布宵禁，但没有全面镇压示威者。这显示出其更倾向维持秩序而非死保现任政府，显示出军队即使不是效忠于国家和宪法，至少也是有自己独立的利益的。这就是人为制造的分权，或者最差也是军头、军阀，这些虽然都是不好的东西，但是这种独立的利益，至少能够确保军队在一场民众反抗政府的斗争中不去无脑镇压，不去和领导人穿一条裤子；哪怕最后军队要“下场摘桃子”，但是由于军政府天然的统治合法性的欠缺，这个“桃子”迟早要还回去，要还政于民，这就是一个至少名义上国家化的军队对于民众抗议成功的巨大保障。而类似情况发生在中国，军队会如何做，就不需赘述了吧？

我们还要关注警察。毕竟，没有任何国家或者独裁者，一上来就是用军队去镇压抗议者，一线的国家机器永远是警察而不是军队。而在警察的管理体制上，尼泊尔相比于中国也是有巨大的优势。一方面，尼泊尔的警察管理体制和世界绝大多数国家一样，是归各级地方政府的内政部门管理，而中国的警察目前已经是垂直管理。这就决定了，在一场发生在尼泊尔的针对中央政府的抗议中，警察和军队类似，都有了自己独立的利益和地位，也就大大减小了他们坚定支持中央政府、镇压抗议者的可能性和决心。只不过警察代表了各地方政府的利益，而军队代表了军方利益，虽然二者都不如代表人民利益更好，但是都远远好过代表中央政府利益、甚至是代表万年执政党的利益。另一方面，尼泊尔的警察也和世界绝大多数国家一样，是普通公务人员，他们不像中国警察这样，如果镇压了起义、保护了体制，他们自己是有额外的作为体制内既得利益者的收益的。如果一定和中国对比公职人员的地位的话，这些警察通常类似于中国的公立教师、医生的地位，他们只是名义上吃皇粮，而实际上与本地社区的联系比与警长和上级警察部门领导更深刻、更牢固，在一场暴动中，他们更支持谁，完全没有定数，并且很可能不支持政府。而反过来，谁当总统，谁当皇帝，他们都像在中国当老师当医生一样，永不失业，没什么忠诚问题，不会“一朝天子一朝臣”，他们不是臣子，而是标准的事务官僚。而不像在中国当警察，别人上街闹事，就是砸他的饭碗，那当然镇压起来有动力。所以说，尼泊尔和中国在军队和警察的管理体制的差异，是二者民众暴动成功率差别的直接原因。

尼泊尔比中国强的第三点在于它有一个基本的宪政民主框架。这个事情的重要性在于，他可以最大限度地提供一个暴动后政治面貌的合理预期，而不会像中国这样，注定要把一切打倒，然后各个“战斗队”先内讧起来，各个“委员会”先吵个不可开交。这对于在反抗初期最大程度的集中力量、团结更多参与者、避免内讧，是极其重要的。尽管，我们观察尼泊尔各党派的席位比例，一个马列主义极左党派、一个毛泽东主义极左党派和一个中左党派搞三国杀，有些人会悲哀地高呼：这个国家没救了！但是，他们和中国相比，那就不知道高到哪里去了。贿选也是选，苦果亦是果，有一个框架总比没有好，有一个框架我们就可以放心的把房子拆了，而不用担心拆着拆着自己先从三楼掉下去，这对于民间反抗者的心态是一种非常大的鼓舞和安定。用一个不恰当的比喻，像尼泊尔这样不完善的宪政体制，尽管通常被用来论证自由宪政是一种传统而不是一种制度，尽管经常被用来嘲笑一些人坐在象牙塔里把民主当作神明去崇拜的姿态；但是，在缺乏自由和宪政传统的国家强行建立一个民主框架，他类似于一种“生米煮成熟饭”的操作，他当然不好，他甚至会适得其反，但是有这个框架在，便可前人栽树后人乘凉。我们再说回中国，很多人天真的以为，六四时，如果全国人大常委会严格按照中国宪法规定的职权去做，让万里出来控制局势，就说不定能成功。可是人家万里又不是傻子，全国人大究竟有几分权力在手上先不说，他们首先可都是党的一员，如果说尼泊尔的宪政体制是个空架子，中国的宪法就是个花架子，万里知道自己没权力，所以干脆躺平，但凡中国的全国人大有一丁点西方议会的作用，处于权力面前的万里都不可能不心动。说到底，空架子是架子，是框架，花架子他是花，二者还是有本质区别，而这也体现在民间抗议活动的成败之别上。

尼泊尔在民间抗议成功率上对比中国的领先优势，还体现在自由的社交媒体和民间自组织上。别忘了，这次暴动的直接原因就是尼泊尔要学中国禁用西方社交媒体，管控言论。反过来，这也意味着，参加反抗的这些民众，他们目前，是可以自由接触互联网和西方社交媒体的，他们在组织性、隐蔽性、行动效率上都是比只能用微信的中国人强的多的。尽管几年前白纸运动的时候，很多中国人就在用电报群相互联系，但是我们回过头看，当一场社会运动的参与者首先需要有安全的互联网信道这个技术前提的时候，本就相比较而言人数不足的中国抗议者，人数上的劣势就更是雪上加霜了。白纸运动参与者有多少人？上海不过两千，北京不过一千，这还是只要求解封、唱着国歌含泪说要法治的扭扭捏捏的状态，这点人扔到加德满都看都看不见，你还指望在北京上海掀起风浪吗？当然，尼泊尔人对于政府封禁西方社交媒体反抗强烈，并不是像中国人想的那样，是在单纯争取民主权利，而是在争取自己把时间金钱和精力花费在自由选择的社交媒体平台的权利，他不仅是一种建构出来的政治权利，更重要的是一种财产权，一种对于自我的支配权，这种自我意识是中国人所没有的，也导致了中国人在观察这件事情上有些以小人之心 度君子之腹的感觉，仿佛尼泊尔人就非得和中华民族一样，就非得“到了最危险的时候”，才能“被迫发出最后的吼声”，用吴京老师的话说，你贱不贱呐？

综上所述，尼泊尔的民众抗议能够顺利进行，是有着众多的现实基础的，这当中的很多方面都是中国学不来的，反而是中国共产党早已经意识到并且防患于未然的。尼泊尔和中国有着完全不同的国家形态、军警管理体制、宪政框架、媒体自由度和民众心态，他们的民众抗议成功绝不是偶然，而那些叫嚣着“中国人也可以”的群体，如果你身在墙内，要领导下一场暴动，那也就罢了，如果身在墙外却鼓吹中国人上街送死甚至丢人现眼，那才是“肚子里的坏水进了脑子，南水北调”了。

In August 2025, citizens of Jiangyou, Sichuan, took to the streets in protest over the bullying of a teenage girl and dissatisfaction with the government’s handling of the aftermath, only to be swiftly suppressed. Two months later, Nepalese citizens rioted after the government attempted to ban as many as twenty-six of the world’s major social media platforms, ultimately forcing the government to make concessions, with the military taking over power. What lessons can we learn from these events? What differences between China and Nepal led to such similar popular protests producing starkly different outcomes?

I. The Naïve Camp in the Jiangyou Riot

On the very day the news of the Jiangyou protests broke, many naïve democrats proclaimed that this was a harbinger of the CCP’s collapse—if we call it a “harbinger”, then surely every word and deed of the CCP is a harbinger of its collapse. In fact, many have read too many stories about the Eastern European upheavals and imagine that the fall of a communist regime happens overnight: the masses pour into the streets, the army and police do not open fire, and the revolution succeeds. This idealised, even melodramatic vision of democratisation is extremely childish. The key step in their fantasy of waking up to a changed world is the defection of the army and police—or at least their acquiescence, their refusal to shoot. Let us first try to enter the perspective of an ordinary soldier or policeman and see how difficult it is to “raise the muzzle an inch”.

        Suppose you are an ordinary soldier of the 38th Army who entered Beijing on the night of 3 June 1989; your army commander has already been confined to a hospital for disobeying orders. Facing the students in the square, you intend not to fire; you feel that the submachine guns of the People’s Army must not be turned on the people—reasonably, many of your comrades likely shared your thoughts. Yet why did you ultimately fire? Why did you become a “Guardian of the Capital”, while the students and citizens you mowed down were labelled “rioters”? In truth, anyone with the most basic capacity for empathy will understand how difficult it is to expect soldiers and police to disobey orders and tacitly allow protesters to act.

        First, you are just an ordinary soldier; you are not Commander Xu. This means, on the one hand, that disobeying your immediate superior’s orders as a rank-and-file soldier is not the same, in consequences and costs, as Xu Qinxian disobeying the Central Military Commission. We know that after 4 June, Xu Qinxian, for refusing to carry out the orders of the CMC—or of Deng Xiaoping—was expelled from the Party and sentenced by a military court to five years’ imprisonment. After his release, his treatment was downgraded from full army level to deputy army level; because he had too many former subordinates in Baoding, he was moved to Shijiazhuang, yet he could still enter Beijing as normal. In 2011 he even told Apple Daily that he had no regrets about refusing orders. But think: as an ordinary soldier, with what do you defy orders? You would be lucky not to be summarily shot. You are not a commander who can earn eternal renown and still keep deputy-army-level treatment. On the other hand, as an ordinary soldier, you have neither the means nor the training, in theory or practice, to judge the legality of an order. Xu Qinxian’s reason for refusing was that the CMC’s first vice-chairman Zhao Ziyang had not signed it; the order was incomplete and unlawful, and could not be executed. But you, an ordinary soldier: when your squad leader orders you to fire, with what pretext can you refuse? By what ability or channel could you possibly know what orders the CMC actually issued, or whether the students in the square truly sought democracy or were “inciting counter-revolutionary riots”? You can never know.

        Second, you know in your heart that shooting at the people is very likely wrong; you also know many comrades think as you do. But the problem is that you cannot be certain—indeed you know it is practically impossible—that your entire unit at the grassroots level thinks as you do. This means that “raising the muzzle an inch”, in utilitarian terms and in effect, cannot protect the protesters opposite you. Modern automatic weapons are unlike the blades and spears of old: so long as one man suppresses with full force, everyone else raising their muzzles is useless. Your disobedience cannot produce any real benefit. Moreover, the troops advancing on Beijing from four directions formed both an encirclement and a system of mutual supervision: if you do not fire, you achieve nothing, and if you and a few comrades do not fire while others do, you become the breach point for enraged crowds—the soldiers hung from bridges on 4 June were very likely the kind-hearted ones in the line.

        Third, people are selfish. People do not, as Rawls imagined, deliberate behind a veil of ignorance. As an ordinary soldier, you are likely from a family with no power or wealth, yet you have stepped one small rung into the system; having “a lad in service” does not make you a vested interest, but at least the villagers will not bully your family easily. Beyond obeying orders, this is your private motive to defend the existing order—stronger than your superior’s command. You might think: you are now a coward who only shoots at civilians; if society advances in future and no longer needs such cowards, where will you go?

        Thus, reading too much history of princes and generals breeds a misunderstanding: that front-line troops and the top brass share the same mindset when facing protesting civilians. They do not. Ordinary soldiers and police do not possess the psychological foundations that historical novelists attribute to princes and grandees. This argument may discomfort many, but after the discomfort, calm down and consider whether it is true—whether you, on the spot, could have done better; whether you could be that ordinary hero who rewrites history.

II. If the Finances Collapse and There Is “No Money to Buy Off the Military and Police”, Can Protests Succeed?

Many propose the following solution: if a totalitarian government can no longer “buy off” the military, police, and state-security apparatus, they will, out of self-interest, disobey orders, acquiesce, or even join the protests. This too is very childish.

        First, when people know the economy is bad, they sit civil-service exams or seek jobs in central and state-owned enterprises—in plain terms, they enter the system—because those inside the system enjoy priority in the division of spoils; the last bowl of rice is reserved for them. By the time Xi Jinping “cannot buy off” the security apparatus, workers, peasants, and private employees outside the system will have been hungry for who knows how long. Why, then, would an ordinary soldier whose pay has been delayed for two months, seeing that ordinary people have gone unpaid for a year, decide out of self-interest to acquiesce in overthrowing the system? It is illogical; there is no “self-interest” here.

        Second, “no longer able to buy off” is a vague expression, as if one morning salaries for the army and police suddenly cannot be paid. That is unrealistic. If resources for buying loyalty become insufficient, they will be cut gradually. The government can boil the frog, levy an inflation tax, and always maintain an advantage for insiders over outsiders; there will not be a scene where soldiers and protesters meet face to face, and both discover they are in arrears.

Lastly, money—economic interest—is not the only means by which a dictator buys loyalty. In the scenario above, salaries for the security forces shrink while those outside the system cannot be paid at all. Any ruler with a functioning head would allow the security apparatus to “open up their own revenue streams”: in plain terms, to oppress the locals, fleece the people, collude with criminals, or become military thugs. This is a harbinger of national ruin, but it is not a sign that protesters will directly overthrow the regime, still less the end of China’s three-thousand-year tradition of despotism.

        Precisely for this reason, “raising the muzzle an inch” becomes a moral achievement, a remembered gleam of humanity, rather than a glib “you could have” or “you should have”. To look to every mass protest as a lottery ticket—hoping the army and police will acquiesce and light the fuse of the CCP’s downfall—is no different from buying a lottery ticket.

        Many ask: why could the security forces in Eastern Europe lay down their weapons and join the people in toppling tyranny? On the one hand, the CCP has a unique “dual lock-in mechanism” for controlling society: the Party is locked into the state, army, enterprises and institutions, and civic groups; Party interests are locked to Party members’ interests. The Soviet Party and its Eastern European satellites could not match this. In the scenario imagined above, many of “your” decisions as an ordinary soldier relate to this dual lock-in. On the other hand, during the Eastern European upheavals, many mid- and high-ranking commanders—even defence ministers—refused to suppress the people. Except in Romania, the military leadership in other countries explicitly refused to shoot; East Germany, Poland, Czechoslovakia, and others were thus—effectively countless “Xu Qinxians”, even countless “Zhao Ziyangs”, and even “Deng Xiaopings” who explicitly said not to shoot. That is enviable. Such a situation did not exist in China in the past, does not exist now, and will not exist in future.

        Moreover, raising Eastern Europe brings another point: the yawning distance between the success of mass protests and the democratisation of the entire country. Leninism grafted onto Eastern European societies produced something entirely different from Leninism fused with China’s traditional society. Eastern Europe enjoyed an innate advantage of “proximity to civilisation and convenience”. Even without a “big brother” like West Germany to bring them directly into the civilised world, many countries could proceed by imitation, gradually clearing away the Soviet poison; Poland, for example, later became admirable across Europe. Broadly speaking, no Eastern European country’s democratic transition after the upheavals was smooth. Street victory is only the first step; the true challenge is institutional reconstruction, economic liberalisation, social justice, and resisting the resurgence of the old forces. Nevertheless, once protests succeeded and communist parties fell, they set out on a broad road to civilisation and freedom. This convenience was inseparable from their geopolitical environment, cultural and historical traditions, and political and economic links. China lacks all of these—and never will possess them.

III. Where Do Nepal and China Differ?

Many are curious: why could China’s neighbour Nepal achieve such easy, staged progress through popular protest? Are the human frailties discussed above somehow inapplicable to China and Nepal alike? We must attend to the starkly different realities of the two countries.

        The fundamental difference lies between a small, single-core state and a large, multi-core empire. Put simply: in Nepal, controlling Kathmandu is controlling the country; in China, controlling Beijing’s Xicheng District does not even guarantee control of Dongcheng District. Concretely, Nepal has a population approaching thirty million; the greater Kathmandu area has about five million—over one-sixth—and accounts for more than 30% of GDP, akin to London in the UK or Paris in France. Beijing’s resident population is twenty-five million—less than 3% of China’s population—and about 4% of GDP, an extremely dispersed pattern. The number of participants that any riot can mobilise is limited. A protest in Nepal with tens of thousands cannot, when “transposed” to China, expand fiftyfold in proportion to the population. One to two and a half million protesters—more than the PLA in the Huaihai Campaign—is impossible.

        History offers parallels. Russia is also imperial in shape, but from of old it has had two cores: St Petersburg and Moscow. The Bolsheviks succeeded because they tightly controlled these two core industrial cities, whose industries accounted for over sixty to seventy percent in the Tsarist economy; thus the rest of the vast empire, however many capitalists or monarchists it housed, was irrelevant—St Petersburg and Moscow were Russia; everything else was the countryside. A few years later, a similar tactic did not work in China. Uprisings in core industrial cities could not succeed. The reason is that participant numbers have an upper bound, while the number of “auxiliary capitals” in a multi-core empire is effectively unlimited. Since antiquity, Chang’an and Luoyang ruled as twin capitals—the former “guarding the realm’s gate” against northern nomads, the latter bearing other duties, like Xi Jinping’s idealised Xiong’an. The Khitan Liao, dubbed “barbarian” by traditional historiography, had five capitals. After successive southward flights of the court, Nanjing and Hangzhou played similar roles. This is why various Southern Dynasties could quickly rebuild regimes. The CCP inherited the same multi-core imperial form. Though it centralised political power, the distribution of population, industry, and natural constraints cannot be overcome by edict; Mao even pursued “Third Front” construction for war, further entrenching the multi-core character. Xi’s central concentration of power far exceeds any concentration between central and local levels. Therefore, 300–500 thousand Beijing citizens rioting and 10–20 thousand in Kathmandu—though proportionally the same—have utterly different impacts on national control. Launching a riot in a single-core small state like Nepal is inherently easier than in a multi-core great empire like China—an unalterable structural fact.

        The second reason protests succeed more easily in Nepal is the difference in the military–police management system. Nepal’s army is a national army; its armed police are, per international convention, subordinate to governments at their respective administrative levels and separate from the army. In China, by contrast, the PLA is a “Party Guard”, while the police are vertically integrated and ultimately centralised under the Party’s leadership. This is the direct reason why riots can succeed in Nepal but not in China. We are not whitewashing Nepal; but precisely because Nepal has a framework of a nationalised army and professionalised police, in this protest the army, after the prime minister resigned, declared a curfew but did not comprehensively suppress demonstrators. This shows a preference for maintaining order rather than clinging to the incumbent government—a sign that even if the army does not truly swear loyalty to the nation and constitution, it at least has its own independent interests. This is an artificially engineered separation of powers—or, at worst, the independent interests of generals and warlords. These are not good things, but such independence at least ensures the army will not mindlessly crush a popular uprising or fuse itself to the leader’s fate; even if the army “steps in to pick the fruit”, the inherent illegitimacy of military rule means the “fruit” will, sooner or later, have to be returned—power restored to civilians. This is a strong guarantee for protest success that comes from a nominally nationalised army. Were something similar to occur in China, the army’s behaviour needs no elaboration.

        We must also look at the police. No country or dictator resorts to the army at the outset; the front-line instrument of the state is always the police. Nepal enjoys huge advantages over China here too. On the one hand, like the vast majority of countries, Nepal’s police are managed by internal affairs departments of governments at each level, whereas China’s police are now under vertical central management. Thus, in protests directed at Nepal’s central government, the police—like the army—possess independent interests and positions, which greatly reduces the likelihood and resolve with which they will firmly back the centre and suppress protesters. The police represent local government interests; the army represents military interests. Neither is as good as representing the people’s interests, but both are far better than representing the central government’s or a perpetual ruling party’s interests.

        On the other hand, as in most countries, Nepal’s police are ordinary civil servants. Unlike in China, suppressing uprisings and defending the system does not grant them extra perquisites as vested insiders. If we must compare public-sector status, these police are more akin to public-school teachers or doctors in China: nominally paid by the state, but in fact more deeply tied to their local communities than to chiefs or higher police authorities. In a riot, whom they support is far from settled, and quite possibly not the government. Conversely, whoever is president or emperor, they, like Chinese teachers or doctors, will never be unemployed; there is no acute “loyalty” issue—no “with each new sovereign a new court”. They are not courtiers; they are standard administrative bureaucrats. Chinese police, by contrast, see unrest as an assault on their rice bowls—naturally they have incentives to suppress. Thus the differences in military and police management systems are a direct reason for the disparity in protest success rates.

        A third advantage Nepal holds is a basic constitutional–democratic framework. Its importance lies in offering the maximum possible reasonable expectation of the post-riot political landscape, rather than China’s inevitable “smash everything” followed by factional brawls among “combat teams” and endless squabbling among “committees”. This is crucial for concentrating strength at the outset, uniting more participants, and avoiding infighting. Though a glance at Nepal’s party ratios—a far-left Marxist party, a far-left Maoist party, and a centre-left party in a three-way contest—may prompt some to lament that the country is hopeless, compared with China they are far, far ahead. Buying votes is still voting; bitter fruit is still fruit. A framework, however flawed, is better than none: with it, we can demolish the old house without fearing we will tumble from the third floor midway. For grassroots resisters, this is a powerful source of encouragement and reassurance.

        To use an imperfect analogy: an imperfect constitutional order like Nepal’s is often cited to argue that liberal constitutionalism is a tradition rather than an “institution”, or to mock those who worship democracy in the ivory tower. Yet forcibly erecting a democratic frame in a country lacking traditions of liberty and constitutionalism is akin to “cooking the raw rice”: indeed, it may be poor or counter-productive; but with the frame in place, later generations may enjoy the shade. Returning to China: many naively believe that during 1989, if the NPC Standing Committee had strictly exercised its constitutional powers and Wan Li had stepped in to control the situation, success might have been possible. But Wan Li was no fool. Leaving aside how much power the NPC actually holds, they are first of all Party members. If Nepal’s constitutional system is an empty frame, China’s constitution is a decorative trellis. Wan Li knew he had no power and simply lay flat; had China’s NPC possessed even a sliver of a Western parliament’s function, how could he not have been tempted? In short, an empty frame is still a frame; a floral trellis is just decoration. The difference is essential—and it shows in the success or failure of popular protests.

        Nepal’s lead over China in protest success also shows in freer social media and grassroots organisations. Do not forget: the immediate cause of the riot was the government’s attempt to emulate China by banning Western social media and controlling speech. Conversely, this means the protesters could, at present, freely access the internet and Western platforms; in terms of organisation, secrecy, and operational efficiency, they are far ahead of Chinese citizens restricted to WeChat. Though during the White Paper Movement years ago many Chinese used Telegram groups to connect, looking back we see that when participants in a social movement must first secure safe internet channels, China’s protesters—already few by comparison—suffer an even greater numerical disadvantage. How many took part in the White Paper Movement? In Shanghai about two thousand; in Beijing about one thousand—this while only asking for reopening and timidly singing the national anthem and calling for the rule of law. Throw those numbers into Kathmandu and they would be invisible; how could they stir waves in Beijing or Shanghai?

        Of course, the Nepalese’ fierce resistance to banning Western platforms is not, as some Chinese imagine, a purely abstract struggle for democratic rights. It is a fight for the right to spend their time, money, and effort on the social media platforms of their own choosing. This is not only a constructed political right; more importantly, it is a property right and a right of self-ownership—something Chinese citizens largely lack. This leads some Chinese observers to judge with petty-minded suspicion, as if Nepalese must resemble the Chinese nation, only “at the most perilous moment” being “forced to emit the final roar”. To borrow from Mr Wu Jing: how cringeworthy is that?

        In sum, Nepal’s protests proceeded smoothly because of many concrete foundations—many of which China cannot emulate, and which the CCP has long since recognised and forestalled. China and Nepal possess entirely different state forms, military–police systems, constitutional frameworks, media freedoms, and public mindsets. Nepal’s protest success was no accident. Those who shout “Chinese people can do it too”—if you are inside the Great Firewall and will lead the next uprising, so be it. But if you are abroad while egging on Chinese citizens to take to the streets to die—or make a spectacle of themselves—then, as the saying goes, “the bile in your belly has flooded your brain; south-to-north water diversion indeed.”