The day my father returned home after six months of unjust imprisonment was a mix of happiness and sadness. As he recounted the afflicting details of his arrest, I fully grasped the notion of political freedom as the torch of democracy passed from one generation to the next. 

His story took us back decades to a time when civil unrest and tumultuous wars condemned Kuomintang values and strengthened communist ideologies. My family had deep ties to the KMT and its nationalist government that date back to the Civil War in the 1940s, as my great-grandfather was a high-ranking commander of an artillery brigade, and thus my forebearers refused to become CCP members after the KMT's defeat, escaping to Taiwan to establish rule and assert power. My valiant father was the only one remaining on the mainland to continue working on his hedge fund. 

Two years ago, after some loud banging on the front door, security forces from Shanghai’s police station barged into the house with their boots thundering on the hardwood floor. In the midst of my father’s muffled protests, the sound of the scuffle made his face drain of color as the stern-faced men in uniform wrenched his arms behind his back. “This is an outrage. I did nothing wrong!” he cried out. To stop any form of resistance, they then struck him down to the ground with such force that his glasses clattered to the floor. Those ruthless officers, carrying out their duties for the state, dragged him out of the room and into a waiting police car. Pressing his face against the window, he was taken to the CCP’s questioning room. 

Handcuffed to a metal chair, interrogators grilled him under blazing lights about his financial transfers and transactions that hindered the operation of Xi’s Belt and Road Initiative. Little did he know that they would shout at him with threats to his investment funds and dearest family members. No matter how forceful these words were, he maintained that he had done nothing illegal, arguing that he merely exercised free speech in doing these business dealings.

In the early hours of the next morning, they transferred my father to the detention center, pushing him into a cold, dimly lit cell. As the heavy metal door clanged shut, he had no idea when—or if—he would see freedom again. The cell was small and cramped, with a hard bed and a thin blanket. The air was damp and smelled of mildew. Days went by as he was given little food and water. Guards checked on him sporadically, ensuring he didn't cause any trouble. Despite the isolation and fear, my father remained resilient. He thought about our family and drew strength from the hope that justice would prevail.

It wasn’t until he got bailed out and escaped to the US that he realized what it meant to break the chains of authoritarianism and become as free as a bird. 

Fast forward to the present day, and as he heard banging on the door and opened up for the electricians, he felt only peace and gratitude for democracy.