China’s former premier, Li Keqiang, passed away suddenly last Friday at only 68 years of age — the shortest-lived premier in the history of the People’s Republic of China. 

According to the CCP official announcement, he died of a heart attack while swimming. This is shocking — and unbelievable. Due to the advancement in medicine, potential heart problems can be detected early, preventative measures can be implemented, and rescue can be successfully performed if done in a timely manner. Given his status in the hierarchy of the CCP, such a cause of death is even more bizarre. Health care for CCP officials is highly hierarchical and has five classes: state-level, provincial-level, city-level, sub-district-level, and commoner-level. Li belonged to the highest level, the state level; he had access to a dedicated medical team, bodyguards, and secretaries, all of whom were virtually 24 hours on call and monitored his health and security. Wherever he went, his entourage would follow, and there would be local supporting teams assigned as well. Of course, to treat heart attacks, time is vital. If treatment of a heart attack is delayed, the patient will die. So, was there foul play in his death? Many in China think so. The following background will help us understand why.

In 2013, Xi Jinping assumed the general secretary of the CCP and president of the Chinese state positions, and Li Keqiang became premier of the Chinese state under Xi. Xi is poorly educated, coarse, and ruthless. He is a hardliner and aggressive and emphasizes Communist ideology. Li was the opposite of Xi in every aspect: highly educated, fluent in English, sophisticated, and mild-mannered. He was more open and focused on economic development. Xi felt inferior and threatened by Li’s superior education and sophistication, so he systematically belittled Li whenever possible during Li’s tenure as premier and finally forced Li to retire last March. But the masses in China loved Li, even though Li did not do much to improve their lives. Compared to the mafia-like image of Xi, Li was kind and even showed concern for the common and poor people.

When faced with Xi’s bullying, Li did not fight back but chose to submit to Xi, retiring quietly. But for Xi, Li remained the biggest threat, as, at the time of his retirement, Li was the most popular CCP leader. So, if the political climate were right, Li could have replaced Xi. It can be said that as long as Li was alive, Xi could not sleep soundly.

But Xi, as head of the CCP, controls literally everything, including Li’s entourage — all personnel on Li’s team had to be approved by and loyal to Xi. Li, who was rumored to struggle with depression, knew very well that he could not trust his bodyguards, drivers, secretaries, or doctors. Xi is the de facto emperor of China, and being hated by an emperor who obeys no laws will cast a tremendous shadow over anyone in China, including Li Keqiang, the former second-in-command — for, under a despot, everyone is equal.

Li Keqiang, My College Friend

While I am certainly shocked by Li’s premature death, I am especially saddened because he and I used to be good friends.

Li Keqiang and I entered Peking University in 1978, part of the first cohort of college students admitted through a highly competitive national college entrance exam after Mao Zedong’s death in 1976. Our class is famously known as “Class of 1977” (the year we took the entrance exam). 

He studied law while I was in the economics department. We worked together in the Peking University Student Union under the CCP. He joined the union as an ambitious student leader blessed by the CCP; I joined because I was an artist.

A major function of the union was to promote CCP policies through cultural events and art, and to achieve that goal, artists were needed. I was thrilled to hear of the union’s search for artists and immediately signed up. I had a passion for painting when I was young, and I learned art from several renowned masters. During the Cultural Revolution, I was assigned to paint Mao’s portrait. 

During the union’s enrollment, each person had to paint a portrait on the spot, and I painted a portrait of another applicant that impressed everyone. I was then elected head of the art group, responsible for organizing activities for art enthusiasts and creating promotional materials for the Student Union. 

Mao’s death left a power vacuum and a poverty-stricken China in which we all searched for new directions, making the late 1970s the most free era in contemporary China. Li and I immediately became good friends as we eagerly searched for China’s future. What struck me the most was his quick thinking, thirst for knowledge, and drive to work hard.

Li and I were both part-time officers in the Student Union. A full-time cadre of the union was Hei Liangjie, to whom we gave the endearment “Lao Hei” (Old Hei). Mr. Hei had a room all by himself in the building where the Union was located. Having a room of one’s own was considered a luxury at the time. Old Hei often allowed us to hang out in his room, and Li Keqiang and I frequently engaged in lively conversations there. Keqiang discovered (or rediscovered) the liberalism of John Locke and would often passionately discuss Locke’s ideas with me. Due to my background in art, I would always observe the physical characteristics of the people I talked to, thinking about how to depict them with a paintbrush. Keqiang was handsome, with well-proportioned features and distinct lines; although his complexion seemed somewhat dark and not very healthy, that was common among our generation due to poor nutrition. We were just poor students, smoking cheap cigarettes and talking big. 

One day, I visited Keqiang and noticed a big stereo radio cassette player on his bed. I was surprised, as he came from an ordinary family in Anhui (a poor inland province), and it seemed unlikely that he could afford such an expensive item. He smiled and said, “I borrowed it.” I saw that he was listening to Beethoven’s symphonies, and I was astonished because such a taste was rare then, especially from someone from a periphery place like Anhui. I asked him how he came to like the symphonies, and he replied: “Well, I had never heard it before. But as soon as I listened to it, I became enchanted, and I felt as though it was written for me!”

Back then, our professors’ knowledge was inundated with Marxism, and classes were boring. So, Keqiang, I, and four other like-minded students formed our own study group. We were free to discuss virtually any topic, and our leaning clearly tended toward more freedom and democracy. This was the best time of our college days: free, ambitious, full of expectations about our future. We graduated in 1982, and I went to the United States for further studies, but stayed in touch with Keqiang. In early 1985, when I returned to China for a visit, we met up. At the time, Li Keqiang was working at the Communist Youth League Central Committee. The committee building was adjacent to that in which my family lived, to the east of Qianmen in the center of Beijing. As soon as we met, he said, “Your dad is really something, causing a scene at the Propaganda Department.”

At the time, a story was circulating in Beijing’s intellectual community about my father, Li Honglin, confronting the hardline leader Deng Liqun, one that was known as the “Li Honglin blasting the Propaganda Department” tale. My father was appointed deputy director of the Theoretical Bureau of the Propaganda Department by reformist leader Hu Yaobang in 1979. However, when Deng Liqun became minister, he began to purge my father. My father told me, “It wasn’t that I caused a scene, but they went too far and pushed me to the edge.” (READ MORE from Shaomin Li: Robert Bartley Saved Two Generations of My Family From the CCP)

Keqiang and I continued chatting as we walked from Qianmen to the Peking duck restaurant near Chongwenmen. I had some money on me when I returned from the United States, so we headed straight to the restaurant. An old waiter at the entrance opened the door, speaking in a thick Beijing accent: “Twenty yuan per person, will you eat?” I replied, “Yes.” At the time, the monthly salary for university graduates such as Li was about 50 to 60 yuan (about $17–$21), so we indulged ourselves in the meal. That would be the last time I saw him.

After that, unlike what we hoped for — a free China — the country under the CCP took a turn for the worse, as reflected in the fate of our study group members. One of them was Zhang Wei, also an economics major. Like Li, he was designated by the CCP as on fast track to be a CCP leader. Zhang Wei had a successful career in politics after graduation, holding important positions in the Tianjin municipal government. He resigned in 1989, however, due to his opposition to the party’s crackdown on the pro-democracy movement in Tiananmen Square. He later escaped the CCP’s house arrest and fled to the U.S. He then completed his M.A. and Ph.D. studies at Harvard and Oxford, respectively, taught at the University of Cambridge, and became a successful CEO of a major Hong Kong company. Zhang Wei and I co-authored an essay in The American Spectator on the CCP. The CCP has been denying Zhang’s right to visit his parents in China to this day. (READ THE PIECE: What You Need to Know About the Chinese Communist Party)

Another member was Wang Juntao, a nuclear physics major. Before entering Peking University, Wang was a political prisoner in 1976 for protesting against Mao’s regime. After graduating from Peking University, he became one of the leading figures advocating free press in the 1980s. He was arrested again after the 1989 Tiananmen Massacre and was exiled to the United States. He earned a Ph.D. from Columbia University and is now a leader in the Chinese democracy movement. The CCP has also barred him from visiting China.

“The Day of Infamy: Remembering the Tiananmen Square Massacre,” editorial cartoon by Shaomin Li for The American Spectator, May 31, 2023.

In 2002, I was arrested in China during a trip and detained for five months for my political views and support of Taiwan. In sum, one of our study group members became the premier of China, while the other three ended up in jail or exile. What we held in common was a desire to have an impact on China’s development. But we parted in our beliefs and goals: Li Keqiang wanted to be an official in the CCP, and, for that, he was willing to give up democracy and the rule of law; Zhang, Wang, and I stubbornly stuck to to fighting for a free and democratic China, for which we paid dearly.

The Chinese Mourn Democracy, Not Li Keqiang

Li Keqiang’s political fallout and premature death are reminiscent of 1989, when reformist General Secretary Hu Yaobang resigned due to pressure from CCP hardliners. Hu’s death was deeply mourned by the public, and thousands of Chinese citizens spontaneously gathered in Tiananmen Square to pay their respects. 

Like Hu Yaobang, Li Keqiang was nicer and more humane than his hardline colleagues in the CCP — but Hu and Li were not true democrats; they were, first and foremost, communists. People in China mourn these liberal leaders not because they made China more free or prosperous but to protest the country’s hardline communists and the CCP regime. 

The Chinese people’s mass mourning for Hu eventually turned into the 1989 democracy movement, which was brutally crushed by the Chinese Communist Party’s troops and tanks, resulting in the June 4 massacre. 

Today, although people seize the opportunity to express their discontent toward Xi by mourning Li, the Chinese Communist Party has significantly tightened its control over the public, more so than in 1989. Spontaneous gatherings in Tiananmen Square to mourn Li Keqiang have become entirely impossible. Under the high-tech surveillance and strict control of the Chinese Communist Party, China has become a large-scale prison where people dare not speak or act freely.

In this sense, Li Keqiang is finally free.

Shaomin Li is a professor of international business at Old Dominion University.