Although my book is banned I am still allowed to go to China and

Hear now the words of Jung Chang, who declared: “Although my book is banned I am still allowed to go to China and travel. There is no longer the kind of control that Mao used to have—there have been deep fundamental changes in society.” This saying is more than a reflection on her life; it is a beacon to all who strive for freedom of spirit. It tells us that even when the voice of truth is suppressed, the footsteps of the speaker may still walk the earth, and the tides of history move beyond the iron grip of one man.

The ban upon a book is not the banishment of truth itself. Empires may outlaw words, rulers may strike at parchment, yet thought cannot be shackled. Chang, whose writings tore the veil from the age of Mao, felt the sting of censorship, but she also bore witness to transformation. To her eyes, the land that once silenced all speech now allows some breath, some movement, some measure of change. The forbidden page may still exist in shadow, but the traveler may walk openly beneath the sun. Thus, she speaks not of despair, but of hope born from struggle.

The memory of Mao’s control is a dark shadow stretching across the twentieth century. In his reign, to think differently was a crime, to speak truth was a peril, and to write against the Party was to risk life itself. Entire generations trembled beneath his will. Yet Jung Chang reminds us that no dominion, however total, is eternal. The chains of yesterday may weaken, and even in lands where fear once ruled, space may appear for new breath, for new beginnings. Her words are a testimony to the resilience of the human spirit and the shifting of history’s tides.

Remember the tale of the Roman Emperor Diocletian, who sought to destroy the Christian scriptures. He burned them in heaps, outlawed their teaching, and declared the faith extinguished. Yet within a generation, those very writings returned in greater force, carried by the faithful who would not let them die. The empire that once tried to silence them eventually embraced them as its creed. So too with Jung Chang’s banned book: though forbidden in one season, its truth cannot be quenched, for the written word is stronger than decree.

What then is the heart of Chang’s declaration? It is this: that society changes, even when rulers resist it. The desert of silence may one day blossom with voices. The rigid hand of tyranny may be loosened by time, by struggle, by the quiet courage of countless souls. The one who despairs at censorship must remember that history bends not toward permanence of chains, but toward the eventual breaking of them.

Let the listener understand: we too live in times where voices are stifled, where power seeks to choke dissent. Yet Chang teaches that change comes not always in thunder, but sometimes in slow erosion, in the drip of water upon stone, in the courage of one voice among many. Though her book is banned, her presence endures, and this endurance is itself a form of triumph.

The lesson for us is clear: never surrender the effort to speak truth, even when it seems unheard. Truth may be hidden for a season, but its light pierces through cracks in the wall. Practically, this means: write what must be written, speak what must be spoken, and live with integrity even under watchful eyes. Travel where you can, plant seeds where they may take root, and trust that time and courage will break the iron grip of falsehood.

So, children of tomorrow, take courage from Jung Chang’s witness. Control is never absolute, and the chains of one age may rust away in the next. Guard your truth as treasure, walk with dignity even when forbidden, and remember always: the written word and the human spirit outlast tyrants. This is the inheritance of the free, and the promise of those who endure.