Deep inside a residential tower in Beijing, where surveillance cameras and plainclothes officers are part of the everyday architecture, You Weijie lives under constant watch. She is the spokesperson of the Mothers of Tiananmen, a small but enduring group of relatives of victims of the 1989 military crackdown in Tiananmen Square. Her testimony, recorded in a carefully controlled meeting during the summer of 2025 and later published by EL PAÍS, reveals a reality where mourning itself has become a political act.
The visit to her home is described almost like an exercise in evasion. Foreign journalists must move quickly through the building lobby, aware of the police presence nearby, and enter without attracting attention. Even after reaching her apartment on the 14th floor, the sense of surveillance does not disappear. You Weijie, now in her seventies, opens the door with calm urgency, as if accustomed to interruptions, scrutiny, and the possibility that her words may have consequences beyond her living room.
Her personal story is inseparable from the violence of June 1989. She is not, as she often clarifies, a mother of a victim but a widow. Her husband, Yang Minghu, went to Tiananmen Square after hearing gunfire during the night of the crackdown. He was shot nearby and died two days later in hospital at the age of 42. She was 36 at the time. Today, more than 37 years later, she still describes that moment as an unresolved rupture that has shaped every part of her life.
The Mothers of Tiananmen, a group formed by families of those killed or disappeared during the crackdown, continue to demand answers from the Chinese authorities. Their requests are consistent and unchanged: truth about what happened, official compensation, and accountability for those who ordered the military intervention. According to You Weijie, these are not political demands in the conventional sense, but basic obligations owed to citizens who lost relatives in a state operation that has never been publicly accounted for in full.
Her account also describes how remembrance itself has been systematically constrained. Each year, she and a small number of other relatives travel to cemeteries such as Wanan to honor the dead. These visits, however, are closely monitored. Police escorts accompany them, not as protection but as supervision. Even moments of private mourning are managed by authorities who ensure that no public expression of commemoration develops beyond controlled limits.
Over time, she explains, the pattern of surveillance has intensified. In the early years after the crackdown, the families were able to organize more freely, occasionally in coordination with journalists from Hong Kong. But by the early 2000s, authorities began tightening restrictions, gradually transforming remembrance into an activity conducted under supervision. Today, she says, every sensitive date—especially the anniversary of June 4—brings increased monitoring, movement restrictions, and the risk of forced relocation or isolation.
The broader context remains one of enforced silence around the events of 1989 in Beijing. The official narrative within China avoids detailed public acknowledgment of the number of victims, which remains disputed internationally, with estimates ranging from hundreds to several thousand. The absence of transparent investigation has left families like You’s in a prolonged state of uncertainty, where even basic facts remain contested or undisclosed.
In the interview, she repeatedly returns to what she calls “the three demands.” These are truth, compensation, and responsibility. She argues that without a formal acknowledgment of what occurred, reconciliation is impossible. The state’s refusal to identify those responsible for issuing the order to open fire, she suggests, perpetuates not only personal suffering but also institutional impunity.
Her reflections also extend to younger generations. While acknowledging strict censorship, she believes that Chinese youth are not entirely unaware of the past. According to her, information still circulates through private networks and digital tools, including virtual private networks that allow access to blocked content. Even if public discussion is limited, she insists, memory persists in fragmented and indirect ways.
The psychological toll of this long struggle is evident in her description of daily life. Much of the year is quiet, she says, filled with routine activities such as exercise, music practice, and caring for family. But as June approaches, pressure intensifies, and state attention increases. She describes a life divided between relative normality and periods of heightened surveillance, when even simple actions such as visiting a cemetery become politically sensitive.
Her testimony also reflects on the broader historical interpretation of the 1980s in China. She recalls a period of relative openness following the Cultural Revolution, when intellectual debate and reformist ideas were more visible. In her view, the protests of 1989 were not initially aimed at overthrowing the state but at pursuing reform, transparency, and anti-corruption measures. The violent suppression of those demands, she argues, fundamentally altered the trajectory of modern Chinese political life.
Despite the risks, she continues to speak. She acknowledges that the number of active families in the Mothers of Tiananmen has diminished over time, with many aging or withdrawing due to pressure. Officially, she says, around 202 families are still associated with the group, but not all can participate openly. Some fear repercussions, while others have simply withdrawn from public visibility after decades of surveillance.
One of the most striking elements of her account is the sense that even memory itself is under administrative control. She describes how annual commemorations have been restricted, and how even long-standing rituals can be abruptly banned or altered. In recent years, even gatherings that had previously been tolerated faced new prohibitions, signaling an increasingly restrictive environment.
The interview, conducted almost a year before publication, was carefully preserved due to the sensitivity of the subject. It reflects both the persistence of personal grief and the continued political sensitivity surrounding Tiananmen Square. For EL PAÍS, the testimony forms part of a broader effort to document voices that remain difficult to access within China.
As the conversation closes, You Weijie returns to a simple but powerful assertion: that history cannot be permanently erased. Even if official acknowledgment remains absent, she believes the events of 1989 will eventually demand resolution. Whether through political change or generational memory, she suggests, the past remains unresolved—and therefore still present.
In the meantime, she continues to live under observation, balancing daily life with the quiet burden of remembrance, in a city where speaking about the past remains one of the most closely watched acts of all.
