Winding roads gradually ascend the river.
(November 16, 1957)
People often miscalculate. I have made this very mistake myself—sometimes overestimating, sometimes underestimating. Marx and Engels frequently asserted that a revolution in Europe was imminent; yet it never came to pass. It was not until twenty-two years after Engels’ death that the October Revolution erupted. Lenin, too, tended to be overly optimistic, believing that a world revolution was just around the corner. However, the revolutions in Hungary and Germany both collapsed, and the Polish uprising likewise failed. Later, a debate arose over whether socialism could be built in a single country. Trotsky lacked confidence in this possibility, placing his main hopes on a global revolution, whereas Stalin and his allies maintained that socialism could indeed be achieved within one nation. Consequently, the entire Party engaged in a vigorous discussion on this issue. Ultimately, the Party as a whole acknowledged that socialism could be constructed domestically, which instilled a sense of assurance. In the Communist Manifesto, Marx and Engels had argued that a revolution would require simultaneous uprisings across multiple nations, with the first victories occurring in the most advanced, civilized capitalist countries.
[1] This passage is part of Mao Zedong’s remarks during his meeting with an Indian Communist Party delegation in Moscow.
[2] Trotsky, after the victory of the October Revolution in Russia, served as Chairman of the Revolutionary Military Council of Soviet Russia, among other positions.

However, reality unfolded differently. The more developed, “civilized” nations of the West have yet to experience revolutionary success; instead, the initial triumphs were won by relatively backward countries such as Russia, and even more so by China.
China and India share two key characteristics: extreme poverty and widespread illiteracy. These aspects must be analyzed dialectically, viewed from both positive and negative perspectives. On the one hand, backwardness and poverty are undeniably undesirable. Western powers have long treated us with arrogance, dismissing our low standard of living as evidence of poverty and ignorance. We acknowledge these criticisms—they are valid. Can the living standards and cultural levels of our workers and peasants possibly rival those of their counterparts in the West? Moreover, Western commentators often criticize the bourgeoisie in Asia and Africa, arguing that their wealth and education fall far short of those in the West. From this standpoint, such societies are indeed backward and underdeveloped. Yet there is another side to the picture, one that the West tends to overlook: it is precisely the impoverished and uneducated who drive revolutionary change. Who drove British imperialism out of India? The Indian people. And who expelled Japanese imperialism from China? The Chinese people.
Chiang Kai-shek and the four major families had amassed China’s greatest wealth and possessed a relatively high level of education (though their intellectual framework was purely idealist). Chiang controlled a formidable military force—four million troops, along with a small air force and some tanks. When they launched their offensive against us in 1946, we fielded only nine hundred thousand soldiers, with no air power or armor whatsoever. They enjoyed robust support from U.S. imperialism, while we received none. At that time, we were confined to little more than a dozen fragmented base areas, with a population of merely ninety million, compared to their over four hundred million. We had no major cities, only small towns like Yan’an, which housed just seven thousand residents. We fought them for three years. In the first year, they captured Yan’an and most of our county seats. We executed a deliberate retreat, scattering their forces across the countryside. A year later, we began our counteroffensive, employing a strategic principle of concentrating our strength to strike at one of their weak points. Our troop numbers remained intact throughout the retreat. As we struck back, focusing our forces on one enemy sector at a time, each blow dealt a severe blow to their cohesion. By the time we had neutralized several of their strongholds, Chiang realized he had but nine fingers left. We continued to chip away at their position, reducing them to eight, then seven, and finally to just four. Even in this weakened state, however, they still retained considerable combat effectiveness. During the winter of 1948 and the spring of 1949, in the three major campaigns, most of their forces were annihilated, leaving them with only a single pocket of resistance. They then proposed peace negotiations, suggesting that the Communists were warlike. In truth, the Communists also sought peace and invited their representatives to Beijing for talks. After a month or two of discussions, an agreement was reached, endorsed by all members of their delegation. However, they insisted on seeking approval from Nanjing before signing. The terms stipulated the arrest of war criminals, with Chiang Kai-shek designated as the principal culprit; the reorganization of his army; and the transfer of power. Upon learning that he could not secure ratification, Chiang abruptly renounced any pretense of peace. That very night, our forces crossed the Yangtze River. As the Chinese people observed, it was not the Communists who rejected peace, but rather Chiang Kai-shek himself, whose true bellicosity had been exposed.
Turning now to the Taiwan question: Is peaceful liberation preferable to military action? There are two possible approaches—peaceful reunification and armed reunification. While we have never ruled out the latter, we consistently broadcast messages urging reconciliation: “We are all Chinese; we were once friends. Your subjugation by the United States is unjust.” Despite these efforts, no progress has been made. They persist in threatening war, while we continue to advocate for dialogue. Neither approach has yielded results. They keep brandishing the threat of conflict, yet dare not deploy a single soldier ashore. Their rhetoric serves primarily to solicit financial aid from the United States. For our part, we cannot launch an amphibious operation because of the sea barrier; our military is trained for land warfare, not naval operations. Furthermore, Taiwan is backed not only by the United States but also by remnants of Chiang Kai-shek’s regime. Still, we remain committed to diplomacy. Fearing that we might “take a risk” and act unilaterally, the U.S. has proposed negotiations. Very well—let us negotiate! The talks are being held in Geneva, with the U.S. ambassador to Czechoslovakia representing the Taiwanese side and myself, as China’s ambassador to Poland, representing ours. The two ambassadors have been meeting regularly for over two years. They travel to Geneva together and return separately to their respective posts. One might say these talks could go on for another century!
Following Japan’s surrender, Chiang Kai-shek completely lost the support of the Chinese people. Although he sought to wage war against us, the vast majority of the populace opposed conflict. I personally visited Chongqing to hold talks with the Kuomintang, alongside Zhou Enlai, and later continued negotiations in Nanjing. Over the course of a year, we ultimately reached a peace accord aimed at establishing a new China. These diplomatic efforts were guided by strategic considerations: given the public’s desire for peace and their aversion to Chiang Kai-shek—yet lingering illusions about him and a general lack of understanding of the Communists—we adopted a peace-oriented platform to clearly demonstrate who genuinely sought peace and who violated peace agreements, bearing responsibility for plunging the nation into war. Through this campaign, the people awakened and united in opposition to Chiang Kai-shek. Even his own troops were reluctant to fight; otherwise, where would our weapons have come from?
Our manifesto addresses the choice between a peaceful transition and a revolutionary one. A lengthy section emphasizes the pursuit of a peaceful transition. Why did we choose this approach? Because the broad masses desired peace and opposed war. If we Communists had incessantly advocated armed struggle and violent overthrow of the government, we would have become isolated from the people. Therefore, we championed peace as a means of gradually raising the consciousness of the masses—a crucial step in our strategy. Each person possesses two hands: one hand represents the call for peace, while the other articulates the necessity of self-defense should the bourgeoisie resort to violence. In that event, the proletariat would be compelled to respond in kind. This defensive stance underscores the principle: “You strike first, and I shall retaliate.” Should the bourgeoisie voluntarily relinquish power without resorting to violence, that would be cause for gratitude. Nevertheless, regardless of the country, whenever the bourgeoisie resorts to force, we must stand ready to defend ourselves. We must always maintain our preparedness; you attack me first, and I will strike back. Under such circumstances, who could still claim that Communists are warmongers or inhumane? Moreover, by remaining mentally vigilant and refusing to disarm, we Marxist revolutionaries firmly reject the notion that the bourgeoisie will willingly step down from the political stage. Once we demand accountability, they will inevitably yield! What does “demanding accountability” entail? It involves dismantling their relations of production and superstructure. The former refers to capitalist property relations, while the latter primarily comprises the state apparatus.
Many of our comrades harbored deep animosity toward Chiang Kai-shek, believing it would be futile to engage ordinary Kuomintang members unless we first neutralized him. It was only on the eve of the Anti-Japanese War that we came to understand: how could we effectively influence rank-and-file Kuomintang members if we failed to address Chiang Kai-shek directly? After all, these ordinary party members continued to heed his directives. Thus, we concluded an anti-Japanese pact with Chiang Kai-shek, explicitly declaring our cooperation under his leadership. We affirmed our adherence to the Three Principles of the People, emphasizing that they constituted an essential component of the current revolutionary phase, and pledged to strive for their full realization. At the same time, we clarified that the Communists did not abandon our ultimate goal—communism—but recognized that communism remained a future aspiration. This reassurance alleviated their concerns. Subsequently, our Workers’ and Peasants’ Red Army was reorganized into the National Revolutionary Army, with corresponding changes to uniforms and insignia, notably replacing the five-pointed red star emblem with the blue sky and white sun emblem. Many comrades vehemently opposed this change, even weeping openly. We explained to them that without rejecting counterrevolutionary influences, revolution could not succeed. Refusing to adopt the new insignia, therefore, amounted to safeguarding the revolution—an admirable stance deserving our respect. Nonetheless, the uniform change was imperative. By persuading our soldiers to lay aside the Red Army cap and embrace the new National Revolutionary Army headgear—embodying support for Chiang Kai-shek’s leadership, commitment to the Three Principles of the People, and reorganization into a national revolutionary force—we advanced our strategic objectives. [11] Comrade Chiang refers to Chiang Kai-shek.
Through this strategic realignment, our forces were significantly strengthened. Following the erroneous Wang Ming line, our ranks had dwindled from three hundred thousand to just two hundred thousand. By implementing the strategies outlined above, we expanded our numbers to nine hundred thousand, thereby laying the groundwork for seizing power. When Chiang Kai-shek launched his offensive against us in 1946, we promptly abolished the blue sky and white sun emblem, reorganizing the Eighth Route Army and the New Fourth Army into the People’s Liberation Army, a designation that remains in use today. This experience offers valuable lessons for revolutionary movements elsewhere. While your context may lack both a Workers’ and Peasants’ Red Army and the specific issue of changing military insignia, the strategic principles derived from the Chinese Revolution can nonetheless serve as a useful reference.
Revolution should not be conceived as a straight line; rather, it is best understood as the dialectical unity of curves and straight lines. For example, a circle is not a straight line but a curved arc. Yet, if we were to slice it into segments, each piece would appear linear. Between any two points, there exists only one straight line—the fundamental principle of Euclidean geometry. This principle applies to flat surfaces, not spherical ones. On a sphere, multiple lines can simultaneously be considered “straight,” as evidenced by the fact that all meridians of the Earth are equidistant. To truly grasp the nature of revolution, we must comprehend both planar and spherical geometries, and the interplay between them.