More than five years after the Wuhan lockdown and the death of COVID whistleblower Dr. Li Wenliang, many Chinese citizens continue to remember the events of the pandemic and to pay tribute to Dr. Li and other individuals who risked their lives and freedom to help keep their colleagues, neighbors, and the general public safe. Several recent posts from CDT Chinese illustrate this continuing resistance to “officially induced amnesia” about the pandemic.
“Return to Wuhan: The Unfinished Story From Five Years Ago,” a now-deleted longform article from WeChat public account “Aquarius Era” (水瓶纪元, shuǐpíng jìyuán) includes interviews with journalists, doctors, artists, activists, and others about the early days of the COVID pandemic and the lockdown of Wuhan. (Although the article has been censored on WeChat, it remains available through the Substack account @aquariuseras.) The article also chronicles more recent attempts to combat official “amnesia” with online and offline commemorations of the whistleblowers, citizen journalists, and victims of the pandemic. The translated excerpt below describes some of the restrictions on remembrances of Dr. Li Wenliang, and the daunting challenges of keeping his memory alive:
Li Wenliang was buried in the Wuhan’s Jiufengshan Cemetery of Revolutionary Martyrs, along with Peng Yinhua, Liu Fan, and others who were recognized as “martyrs” because they sacrificed their lives in the fight against COVID-19. Many local residents who went there to mourn discovered that to enter area two, the section of the cemetery where Dr. Li is buried, they were required to hand in their mobile phones; sign a register with their names, household registration, health codes, and other information; and be escorted by cemetery staff to visit Dr. Li’s grave. Sometimes staff members would say kindly, “If everyone were as cooperative as you, our jobs wouldn’t be so hard.” Other times, staffers would scold coldly, “Make sure to write your ID number clearly, because we have to check it!” Five years on, we no longer have the right to freely visit someone’s grave.
[...As far back as] June 2020, not long after the pandemic in Wuhan had abated, the artist known as “Brother Nut” found that his personal Shimo account [Shimo, which translates as “Graphite,” is a Chinese cloud-storage and document-sharing service similar to Google Docs] was blocked because he included the name “Li Wenliang” in a document title, and he was unable to export any of content from the stored document. When he attempted to defend his rights by filing a complaint, the response from platform customer service was: “You published a document advocating large-scale collective rights protection,” and “Your content is politically sensitive.”“The impact of the pandemic period seems much like the virus itself: invisible, intangible, and traceless,” said [journalist] Wang Shengnan. [Chinese]
Another longform article noting the fifth anniversary of the Wuhan lockdown was published in early March by RFA-affiliated media outlet Wainao. The now-defunct Chinese-language organization, also known as WHYNOT, was forced to close in mid-March due to steep U.S. funding cuts to the U.S. Agency for Global Media (USAGM). Titled “Five Years After the Wuhan Lockdown: The Traces of Pain That Remain, and the Ordinary People Resisting ‘Amnesia’ in Their Daily Lives,” the article explores the phenomenon of collective amnesia while noting some exceptions—such as the many commemorations still being posted to “Li Wenliang’s Wailing Wall,” the popular comment section under Dr. Li’s final Weibo post.
In Wuhan, to this day, “76” remains a number of special significance. From the beginning of the lockdown on January 23, 2020, until its lifting on April 8, Wuhan residents experienced exactly 76 days of being confined at home and almost completely deprived of their freedom.
Despite all the difficulties that Wuhan residents endured, nowhere in the city is there any acknowledgement of what the people of Wuhan went through during that period—no memorial, no exhibition hall, no genuine commemoration of their suffering.
[...] Wuhan Central Hospital, where Dr. Li Wenliang once worked, was one of the hospitals hardest hit by COVID infections among doctors, nurses, and other medical personnel.The hospital is located on Nanjing Road, opposite the historic cultural district Xian’an Fang, famed for its narrow alleyways and red-brick exteriors. Nowadays, apart from some chain restaurants, the area is mainly home to an array of distinctive boutiques. Memories of the pandemic occasionally resurface here.
[...] In 2021, as reported in the media, a nearby café menu once featured a coffee item named “Whistleblower Coffee—100% Controversial.” Today, this café no longer exists. In a stylishly decorated bar [near Wuhan Central Hospital], there is a feminist-themed book display where customers can leave books and post book recommendations. The bookshelf display contains many comments about death and even a book about ophthalmology, but there is no trace of Dr. Li Wenliang. It seems that there is a tacit understanding not to publicly mention Dr. Li.Dr. Li Wenliang, who worked as an ophthalmologist at Wuhan Central Hospital, later became known as “the whistleblower of the COVID-19 pandemic.” As one of the first to sound the alarm about the emerging coronavirus—in an online alumni group chat—he was admonished by authorities and labeled a “rumormonger.” In the early hours of the morning on February 7, 2020, Wuhan Central Hospital announced that 34-year-old Li Wenliang had died of COVID-19, setting off shock waves on the internet.
At Exit F of Wuhan’s Xunlimen subway station, only an eight-minute bike ride from the hospital where Li Wenliang once worked, there is a large shopping mall featuring shops similar to those found in many other Chinese cities: bubble tea shops, beauty salons, and a food court. Across from the mall, there is a small kiosk that specializes in replacing phone screen protectors. “Who is Li Wenliang?” asks the kiosk’s owner [in response to our question], as he wipes a mobile phone screen with an alcohol swab. “I don’t know him!”
Upon further questioning, it turns out that the kiosk owner is not a local, but had come from Hunan to work in Wuhan three years ago. Most Wuhan locals have heard of Li Wenliang. Nowadays, when his name is mentioned, they are likely to respond: “Oh, that doctor who died.”
At the hospital where he once worked, the name of the late Dr. Li Wenliang is absent from a wall displaying the names and photos of hospital specialists. Staffers at the hospital information desk answered our questions cautiously: “He used to work here, but we didn’t know him, and don’t know much about it.” The owner of a newsstand at the hospital entrance said, “He died, and the pandemic is over. I don’t know much about it. It’s not something we should be blabbing about. Go look it up online if you want to know more.”
In February 2025, a patient walks past the “specialist wall” inside Wuhan Central Hospital. (source: Wainao/photographer Zu Weina)
On the internet, DeepSeek AI—which Chinese people proudly herald as a rival to ChatGPT—is incapable of answering the question “Who is Li Wenliang?” Instead, DeepSeek offers this line of text: “Hello, I am unable to answer this question at the moment. How about we change the topic and chat about something else?”
But there are other places in which Li Wenliang has not been forgotten. On Sina Weibo, Dr. Li’s last public post, dated February 1, 2020, remains frozen in time: “Today, [my] nucleic acid test results came back positive. The dust has settled, there is finally a diagnosis.”
Ever since, there have been daily updates to the comments under that post, with over one million comments posted. [That number is likely higher, but the counter under the post is capped at “one million plus.”] On Valentine’s Day 2025, one commenter confided chattily to Dr. Li: “We split up right around the Lantern Festival and Valentine’s Day. I know it’s the right decision, but who’s ever happy about breaking up, right? And I’m going to take my driving test soon. Hope I pass on the first try.” Another expressed their longing thus: “Doc Li, the flowers in Beijing are about to bloom.”
While in Wuhan, there is nary a tribute to Dr. Li, countless Chinese people continue to remember him fondly. [Chinese]
The comments section under Li Wenliang’s final Weibo post, mentioned in the article above, has become known as China’s “Wailing Wall,” a place netizens come to mourn and to celebrate, to mark personal milestones or comment on current events, and to wish Dr. Li well and assure him that his sacrifice will not be forgotten. (CDT editors continue to regularly archive and publish updates on recent Wailing Wall content.) The most recent update includes comments left during the April 4 Qingming festival, also known as “Tomb-Sweeping Day,” when many Chinese remember or visit the gravesites of deceased family members. The following Wailing Wall comments were compiled between April 1-April 5:
四灵妖王: Doctor Li, we haven’t forgotten you.
溜溜溜只洋芋: The cherry blossoms are in bloom, Dr. Li.
不想熬夜的夜猫子666: It’s another Qingming Festival, and I miss you. 🕯️ I hope you are doing well in the other world. 🕯️
momomokoo: Dr. Li, I’m afraid of blind dates, and even more afraid of being rejected.
GEVEYteam: “At Qingming, in the drizzling rain / the bereft wander through the lanes.” It rained today. [The quoted lines are from the well-known poem “Qingming” by Tang Dynasty poet Du Mu.]
想翻身的孩子: Dr. Li, nothing has changed here, or if anything, it’s worse. I hope you are safe and well, and that things are better now.
不被团结的nevermore: Good evening, Dr. Li. You’ve had a hard day, too, so turn in early and get some rest.
积极创想曲: When I’m feeling lost, I like to visit this Weibo’s comment section and read about people from all walks of life.
我想我喜欢你1997: Dr. Li, I’m confused about my future, what should I do?
晓阳205011: Hi Dr. Li, I’m back. The unbearable month of March is finally over. I hope you’ll bless me with a bit of better luck in April. Because life’s been rough, too rough.
潮汐夕阳杨桃-: I’ve been daydreaming about a lot of things, but it’s these daydreams that keep me going. [Chinese]
CDT’s Wailing Wall archive is compiled by Tony Hu.
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