Editor's Note: This article has been deleted from the public account.
I never dreamed that my first article would be written on a personal account because of the demise of Tencent's "Dajia" (a media platform).
I registered this public account a long time ago, but I didn't have any motivation to write. In fact, I haven't had the motivation to write a single word for "myself" for a long time. Years of media writing have made me too accustomed to providing accurate content for every editor's needs.
The words I write are what others want, but what I keep for myself is scarce.
The demise of "Dajia" made me suddenly realize that I should leave some records for myself about things that are truly important. After all, after this epidemic, many people will find that they have fewer and fewer things in their hands.
After a round of mourning and commemoration last night, I received a message that made my head ache: "I feel like a part of life has died." Holding my phone, I didn't know how to react because I understood that feeling too well. A month ago, I couldn't have imagined that this pneumonia would completely erase the most important memories of public writing in the past seven years.
And of course, it's not just because of the pneumonia. The final straw is just a good excuse.
I know that many friends around me (including myself) haven't been reading "Dajia" for the past two years. They feel that it has compromised and avoided discussing the real sharp issues, and can only revolve around parenting, elderly care, and some irrelevant anxieties.
But even so, it still ended in such a tragic way.
Just like how Li Wenliang only reminded some doctors in a WeChat group. He didn't have any earth-shattering courage, he just fulfilled that tiny personal responsibility and was punished for it.
As a section of the media, "Dajia" became a vast emptiness just because of that tiny bit of responsibility for "media value". The public account was closed, the website was deleted, and all the nights authors endured, the words they wrote, the thoughts they put in, and the love they invested, were all uprooted and disappeared.
As if it never happened.
I can't help but feel sad because "Dajia" witnessed the fragments of my life from my twenties to my early thirties, from Hong Kong to Taiwan, and introduced me to like-minded people. I was fortunate enough to have many memories and emotions of my own.
I wrote about Sham Shui Po, the last refuge for the poor in the 18 districts of Hong Kong.
I wrote about the earthquake-like impact of encountering Sunflower Movement during my first trip around Taiwan.
I wrote about the inspiration brought by Japan and Taiwan's anti-nuclear experiences, the local values of Hong Kong extended from "Overheard 3", the strange scene of "Imperial Bar Expedition", Taiwan's general election, the change of leadership in the Kuomintang...
Of course, there is also the writing team "Borderless Public Society" during the era of "Open Editing Department". I just want to thank "Dajia" for giving me the opportunity to continue my aspirations from my previous job on a platform with a large reader base, inviting like-minded authors to break various stereotypes together.
However, all of this has ultimately become moonlight in the palm of my hand.
What makes me sad is not just that these memories have been erased, but that from now on, the public writing space within the wall will fall into eternal darkness.
The arrival of the worst result means that there is no longer any space for ambiguity or crossing the line. In the past, we felt that "Dajia" compromised and retreated too much, and in the later stages, it seemed even more insignificant. We lamented silently and accepted, even unknowingly, that this was a kind of "self-preservation" out of helplessness.
In the past, I still had fantasies and could use words as a bridge to allow people on both sides to understand each other's difficulties a little more. Those who write inside and outside the wall understand what I'm talking about. Everyone understands the pain of grasping the so-called "boundary".
But now, even that little space is gone.
Even "Dajia", which was already cautious and discreet, is no longer there. The collapse of the bridge has completely wiped out the largest comment matrix in Simplified Chinese.
The end of "Dajia" and the death of Li Wenliang are essentially the same. This wake-up call should make everyone extremely clear: there is no more illusion, no more word games and hidden meanings, and no more vague space that you thought still existed. Ordinary people have nothing left in their hands.
Don't expect any comments or articles within the wall to have any integrity.
We have paid the price for our weakness over the years. And the worst era has just begun.
Having this kind of awareness is good.