When the artist Ai Weiwei was ‘disappeared’ by the Chinese government in 2011, in a fit of rage I printed hundreds of black-and-white photographs of him with the message ‘Free Ai Weiwei’ and, with my then five-year-old daughter, scattered them over his sunflower-seed installation in London’s Tate Modern, so that the Turbine Hall was covered with his face. Three years ago, my daughter and I met him in person at his exhibition in London’s Royal Academy. When my British publisher asked me for ideas about the cover for this book, I immediately thought of the monumental forest of dead trees that stood at the entrance to the exhibition. They reminded me of the gnarled willow under which Ma Daode’s parents lie buried. The bare, jagged branches seemed to convey at once the totalitarian mission to suppress the past and the individual’s stubborn quest to remember. When I met up again with Ai Weiwei in Berlin where I have been based for the last year, I asked if we could use a photograph of the trees, but he volunteered instead to design the whole cover. The work of art that he has produced is beyond anything that I could have hoped for. In the shattered branches, I see the brutality of autocracy, the splintering of the self and the human soul’s yearning for freedom. It encapsulates everything I wanted China Dream to say. I am immensely honoured and grateful that he has given the book such a beautiful and powerful image.