One year, also in June. I was working for one of the three major American media companies. It was a tumultuous spring. It started with the death of the former Chinese Communist Party leader, followed by the visit of former Soviet leader Gorbachev to China... Until one night in early June, the eventful spring was marked with a huge exclamation mark and an even bigger question mark.

At that time, I was still a Chinese citizen. The next morning, I hurriedly went to find my boss: I couldn't stay in that troubled place any longer, I wanted to resign and make a quick exit.

To my surprise, my boss was also looking for me. He said that there was an Australian cameraman from our company and his British sound recording assistant at the Beijing Hotel who had just captured some important footage. My boss told me to personally retrieve it instead of sending the 20 or so interns from the broadcasting school who were working under me. This put me in a dilemma. I had come to resign, and now I was being assigned a task, and evidently an important one. Until that day, I had never had an experience where I had to go somewhere to pick up something myself.

I was young at that time, and my head was easily heated. This company had been very generous to me. In 80s China, I was being paid $200 a day, in cash. After giving it some thought, I felt it wouldn't be right to let them down at this moment, so I agreed. However, immediately after agreeing, I regretted it. Because my boss said, "It is said to be relatively safe outside." But from his tone, I could tell that his statement was far from reassuring. Clearly, it was not safe outside.

I walked from the Wangfu Hotel where our office was located to the Beijing Hotel. It was a little past 10 o'clock in the morning, but there were very few pedestrians on the streets. Occasionally, I could hear crisp firecracker-like sounds coming from various places. At the corner of a long street, I saw some residents pounding their chests and stamping their feet, cursing under their breath. An elderly man, supported by several young people on both sides, hurriedly headed towards the Peking Union Medical College Hospital. It was said that a bullet had entered his mouth from one side and exited from the other. The old man kept his head down, leaning forward, clearly in great pain.

When I reached the entrance of the Beijing Hotel, I saw a row of many glass doors closed, leaving only one in the middle slightly ajar, enough for one person to squeeze through. On the side of the door, both inside and outside, there were at least a dozen plainclothes agents.

With a heavy heart, I walked towards them.

In my backpack, there was an unsealed, brand-new videocassette, to be exchanged for the one I was supposed to retrieve. As I faced these individuals, I tried to reassure myself that I had nothing on me, and there was nothing on that cassette.

Thinking this, I had already passed by them and entered the lobby. I could only feel many eyes on my back. But it wasn't until I stepped into the elevator, watching the doors close, that no one shouted for me to stop.

On the 14th floor, I found our camera crew's room and knocked on the door. I heard some fumbling inside before the door finally opened. It turned out the two foreigners thought they were being captured, so they removed the camera from the balcony and hid it under the bed. Then they changed into pajamas, looking like a gay couple. When they saw it was me, they recognized me and breathed a sigh of relief. They immediately put the camera back on the balcony, while the cameraman inserted the videocassette I brought into the machine, and the sound recording assistant handed me the videocassette I had come to retrieve.

I took the elevator downstairs and walked to the lobby. This time, in my bag, there was a videocassette with content. As I walked towards the entrance, against the backlight, I felt the presence of figures both inside and outside the door, but they remained motionless, clearly watching me as I approached them. Those tens of steps were the heaviest and longest strides I had taken in my life.

When I reached the doorway, I could finally see their faces. I just felt a silent pressure, a... rage. But they still didn't stop me, and I walked out.

I left the Beijing Hotel and quickly walked back to the Wangfu Hotel. As soon as I arrived, the editors made a copy of the videocassette I brought back. While they were copying it, I deliberately kept my distance, not wanting to know what was on it. That way, if there were any questions, I could genuinely claim ignorance. Of course, this was just my own subjective wishful thinking, or self-deception.

I was thinking about telling my boss about my resignation when suddenly, he asked me to take the copy of the videocassette to the Capital Airport and "release the pigeon." I had no choice but to go to the airport. My only consolation was that I had no idea what was on the videocassette's content.

"Releasing the pigeon" was a professional term used in American television, meaning to hand the material to any reliable-looking traveler at the airport or other locations, giving them some compensation to carry it to the destination of their flight. It was an ancient practice before satellite transmission became widespread. However, satellite transmission in Beijing had already been cut off at that time, so this was the only option left.

The Capital Airport was crowded with people, all foreign nationals anxious to leave Beijing. Aside from the large number of people, there was something chilling about it: in the vast airport hall, countless people stood in lines or squeezed around, searching for their places, but most of them remained silent, with anxious and solemn expressions. Compared to the usual noisy atmosphere, there was an almost chilling silence in the air. Occasionally, someone would speak in a low voice, also inexplicably cautious, as if they didn't want the other person to hear.

In the queue for the flight to Hong Kong, I found a businessman-looking American who was less than 40 years old. I took the videocassette out of my shoulder bag and handed it to him along with a $100 bill, explaining that I was from a certain American television company and requested him to be our "pigeon." I asked for his name so that I could fax it to our team in Hong Kong, and they would be able to meet him at the airport when he arrived... There were still several years left until 1997, and Hong Kong's satellite transmission system was still intact.

The American man looked at me, then looked at the videocassette in his hand. Then he nodded, almost expressionless. I noted down his name—Robert. Robert said a few words to me that I will never forget. However, please allow me to delay sharing them for now.

When I left the airport, perhaps out of paranoia, I felt like someone was following me. My only consolation was that I had no idea what was on the videocassette's content.

After returning to the office in the city, I didn't dare to delay any longer. I immediately found my boss and told him that I had completed the final task but, I'm sorry, I was a deserter, and now I had to resign. It seemed that only at this moment did my boss realize that I was different from him, that I held a Chinese passport. He thought for a moment, showed understanding, paid me my wages, and let me go.

Many years have passed. This incident had also gradually been forgotten. Until one day, I saw a scene, a scene that was considered the epitome of human fearlessness in the 20th century.

My memory was activated.

It was 10 o'clock in the morning on June 5, 1989. A Chinese young man wearing a white shirt stood defiantly in front of a rumbling column of tanks, ready to face death. Including us and a few other foreign news companies, we captured his image from the balcony of the Beijing Hotel, located next to the street where he blocked the tanks.

Here, I must specifically mention that I was not without help and support. When I recall the scene today, I want to express my special gratitude to those plainclothes agents standing at the entrance of the Beijing Hotel. Given their positions, the information they possessed, and the technology available to them, it is absolutely impossible for them not to know that our camera crew was filming on the 14th floor. It is even more impossible for them not to know that I took the elevator up to the 14th floor and retrieved the videocassette. But as I mentioned before, when they looked at me, their eyes were filled with rage. As someone who was solely focused on desertion, I assumed their anger was directed at me. However, I overlooked one thing. These people were also ordinary residents of Beijing after work. Bullets would certainly not spare their loved ones, friends, and neighbors because of the work they did during the day.

Today, I can only offer one explanation as to why they let me enter that door that only allowed one person to pass through and watched me walk out from within. It was because they made a personal or collective decision that undoubtedly carried risks. They wanted the world to see the image of that righteous compatriot and the halo of bravery above his head.

Finally, let me tell you what Robert, the American man at the Capital Airport, said to me.

"I feel immensely guilty and ashamed that when the Chinese people needed me the most, I could do nothing but choose to escape, and I had the privilege to do so. I can't take this money. Although I don't know what's on this videocassette, please rest assured that I will do my best to protect it and deliver it to where it needs to go. It's my small contribution as an individual for the Chinese people."

As I recall these events today, my only regret is that one of us, Robert or I, will probably never know what we unintentionally or intentionally did for the world while we were on our escape.