The Ticket Collector's V Sign
In the spring of 1989, a ticket collector at Beijing Railway Station stopped a slender, bespectacled 23-year-old who had boarded a train in Nanjing without paying. The carriages had been so packed that students wedged themselves into luggage compartments and under seats, a human tide surging toward the capital to join pro-democracy protests sparked by the death of a reformist leader. The young man — Li Lu, a physics student turned economics major from Nanjing University — braced for arrest. Instead, the uniformed man flashed a V sign, smiled, and waved him through.
It is a tiny scene, barely a footnote in the convulsions that would follow: the hunger strikes, the million-strong occupation of Tiananmen Square, the tanks in the early hours of June 4, the bodies. But the ticket collector's gesture contains the whole parable of Li Lu's life — a stranger extending grace at a threshold, the narrow passage between one world and another, the way fortune and catastrophe can hinge on a single hand.
Within weeks, Li Lu would be vice-commander of the radical student faction defending the square. Within months, his face — shaggy black hair, oversized sunglasses — would be plastered across Chinese state media as one of 21 most-wanted student leaders. Within a year, he would be an asylum seeker in New York City, wearing Sting's secondhand clothes. Within three decades, he would manage $14 billion in assets, sit beside
Warren Buffett and
Bill Gates on the campus of his prized investment in Shenzhen, and be called by
Charlie Munger — the sharpest tongue in American capitalism — "the Chinese Warren Buffett." He would also be, by the judgment of some who once stood beside him in the square, a man who had traded his revolutionary soul for a Bloomberg terminal.
The question of what Li Lu traded, and what he gained, and whether the exchange was honorable, is not one that admits a clean answer. It requires holding two contradictory truths at once: that a person can be both survivor and opportunist, both principled and compromised, both 100 percent American and 100 percent Chinese — his own formulation — and that the arithmetic of those percentages somehow exceeds the available total. This is the mathematics of exile, where identities don't subtract but compound.
By the Numbers
Himalaya Capital
$14BAssets under management (as of September 2023)
~$88MCharlie Munger's initial family investment (2004)
~400%Return on Munger's capital over two decades
94.08%Portfolio concentration in top 5 positions (Q4 2024)
3Degrees earned simultaneously at Columbia (BA, JD, MBA)
$1.1BRaised for the Asian American Foundation (2021)
1997Year Himalaya Capital was founded
The Orphan's Education
Li Lu was born in April 1966, in the coastal industrial city of Tangshan, in the opening month of a decade that would devour its children. His father was a Soviet-educated engineer, his mother a botanist and the daughter of a wealthy landlord — credentials that, under Mao Zedong's Cultural Revolution, functioned as indictments. Both were denounced as class enemies and sent to labor camps. The infant was passed among caretakers like a parcel nobody had ordered.
One of his father's friends, an illiterate coal miner known as Da Pa, agreed to raise the boy. Da Pa died in a mine explosion when Li was seven or eight. His widow, Da Ma, was left to feed six children. Her eldest son, Lao Da, took his dead father's job underground at fifteen. These were the hands that shaped Li Lu before he had language for what was being shaped — a child learning, with animal quickness, to read the needs of whatever household absorbed him, to make himself indispensable to strangers, to survive by adaptation. "I tried to identify with any family that took me in and learnt to fit into whatever environment I found myself," he said years later. It is the statement of a chameleon, or a diplomat, or a spy — and some of his fellow students would eventually wonder which.
Li's biological parents were eventually "rehabilitated" and reclaimed their son, but the reunion was awkward, the parents half-strangers. Before the family could reconstitute itself into anything resembling normalcy, the earth intervened. On July 28, 1976, at 3:42 a.m., a magnitude 7.6 earthquake struck Tangshan. Official records list 240,000 dead. Li survived. His entire adoptive family — Da Ma, Lao Da, the household that had loved him when his blood relations could not — did not. He was ten years old.
A childhood like this does not merely inform a worldview. It is a worldview: the conviction that stability is a fantasy, that the ground itself cannot be trusted, that the only reliable asset is the self. When, decades later, Li Lu would describe his investment philosophy in terms of "permanent loss of capital" — insisting that the real risk is not volatility but the irrecoverable destruction of what you hold — he was not speaking in metaphor.
The Square and Its Factions
The Tiananmen protests were not monolithic. They were fractious, improvised, argumentative — a student government condensed into weeks, complete with elections, power blocs, and personality cults. Li Lu arrived in Beijing as an outsider, unaffiliated with the prestigious capital universities that constituted the movement's establishment. He carried no identification. He had no organizational ties. Wang Juntao, a veteran activist and protest organizer, noticed something when they shook hands: Li's grip had the rough calluses of a manual laborer, not a scholar. Other student leaders whispered that he might be a government spy.
Wang Juntao — then in his early thirties, already a veteran of earlier waves of Chinese dissent, a man who would later be sentenced to thirteen years for conspiring to subvert the government — shrugged off the suspicions. What he noticed instead was Li's method. The younger man did not try to win the room with rhetoric. He remained silent during meetings, absorbing differing views, then maneuvered behind the scenes. He befriended Wang Dan, the charismatic student leader from Peking University who topped the government's eventual most-wanted list. He impressed Chai Ling, the radical chief commander of the Defend Tiananmen Square Headquarters, who nominated Li as one of her vice-commanders.
Chai Ling — a graduate student at Beijing Normal University, fierce and theatrical, later nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize, later still a Harvard MBA and evangelical Christian — represented the movement's maximalist wing. Li did not merely join it; he sharpened its edge. Where most students hoped to negotiate with the government toward incremental reform, Li advocated the most aggressive methods. He orchestrated a six-day hunger strike in mid-May that electrified public sympathy and provoked the government's fury. When morale sagged, he announced a public wedding to his girlfriend on the square — a stunt staged in a scruffy tank top and boxy aviators, a revolutionary banner hanging skew-whiff around his neck, friends toasting with cheap liquor and a cappella songs. The gesture's overtones of joy and defiance re-energized the crowds.
By late May, one million people filled the square. Then came the early hours of June 4. Troops marched in. Soldiers opened fire. Tanks crushed tents with sleeping protesters inside and blocked exit routes. Officials claimed 200 civilians died. Student leaders estimated up to 3,400.
Li's face went up on television. He went underground, escaping through a smuggling route — the same network that ferried contraband Western goods from Hong Kong, then still a British colony — and made it out of mainland China. Wang Dan and Wang Juntao were not so lucky. Wang Dan spent most of the next nine years in prison. Wang Juntao got thirteen.
The [Free](/mental-models/free) Lunch That Wasn't
New York in late 1989 was difficult for a man who had never been outside Communist China, who spoke no English, who had no money and no family. Li depended on the kindness of human rights circles. Robert Bernstein — a towering figure in American publishing, the longtime CEO of Random House and a founding chairman of Human Rights Watch, a man who believed that the defense of authors and the defense of dissidents were expressions of the same principle — helped him get settled. Trudie Styler, the actress and activist, gave Li a bag of her husband's old clothes. Her husband was Sting. Li Lu, the revolutionary from Tangshan, walked the streets of Manhattan in a rock star's castoffs.
He learned English over a single summer. He enrolled at Columbia University, where he would become one of the first students in the institution's history to simultaneously earn three degrees: a bachelor's in economics, an MBA from the business school, and a JD from the law school, all completed by 1996. In class, professors noted his quiet authority, the probing questions that cut through deference. "You got the sense he was moving somewhere," one former teacher recalled.
The question, as always with Li Lu, was where. For a time, he straddled both worlds — the dissident and the student, the revolutionary and the striver. In 1991, he staged a fifteen-day hunger strike outside Congress to draw attention to Wang Juntao's imprisonment. But the spotlight on Tiananmen was already fading. More dissidents trickled into the West. The urgency dissipated. And at Columbia, Li was getting a crash course in a different kind of revolution.
A friend invited him to a lecture. Li, still struggling with English, misheard the speaker's name and assumed there would be free food. "I just remember thinking that there was a 'buffet' involved," he told the Columbia student newspaper years later. "I assumed that it was some kind of talk with a free lunch." There was no lunch. There was just a man named Buffett.
Warren Buffett's lecture hit Li like a concussion. "It was like a punch in my eyes," he said. "It was like I had just woken up and a light had switched on." The core message was deceptively simple: you could make money in the stock market not through cunning or connections or insider knowledge — the Shanghai of Cao Yu's play Sunrise, which Li had grown up imagining, "full of cunning deceits, luck and bloodshed" — but through the patient study of a company's underlying value. For a man who had grown up under communism, who had never encountered a functioning market economy, who was desperate and afraid and carrying enormous student debt, this was not an academic insight. It was a survival strategy.
Li started investing his student loan money. He made significant returns. By the time he graduated in 1996, his transformation was sufficiently remarkable to earn him a short profile in The New Yorker. Wall Street firms lined up to offer him jobs.
He turned them all down.
660 Madison Avenue
In January 1998, Li Lu rented two rooms on the fifteenth floor of 660 Madison Avenue, installed a phone, a computer, and a Bloomberg terminal, and opened a hedge fund called Himalaya Capital Partners. The minimum investment was $1 million. He was thirty-two years old. It was practically unheard of for a fresh graduate — technically, he had worked briefly at the investment bank Donaldson, Lufkin & Jenrette, then quit after a year because the salary was less than he was making in the market — to strike out alone. But most fresh graduates did not have Li Lu's life story, and the life story, in those first years, functioned as its own form of capital.
Jerome Kohlberg Jr. — co-founder of KKR, the leveraged-buyout firm that had remade American corporate finance in the 1980s, a man who had split acrimoniously from his own partners over matters of principle — invested. "It wasn't my usual cautionary thing, but my admiration prevailed," Kohlberg told the New York Observer. Stanley Shuman of Allen & Company invested. Jack Nash of Odyssey Partners invested. Robert Shaye of New Line Cinema invested. Robert Bernstein, the same man who had helped Li get on his feet, invested. Tom Bernstein, Robert's son, the president of Chelsea Piers Management, invested. And Sting invested — at least a million dollars of his own money.
You prove to them you're good, people trust you. They don't ask how many years I've managed a fund. The question is, Can you make me money? Show me the money! This is one area where, if you really believe you're smart and you're unique and you're different, this can be challenging — this is it. Because if you're right, you make a lot. If you're wrong, you lose a bundle.
The glittering client roster concealed an inauspicious start. Li had sought opportunities in Asia, but the 1997 financial crisis hammered the region. Himalaya lost 19 percent of its value in its first year. One of its largest investors withdrew. Li tried day trading and short selling — strategies that exposed him to unlimited downside risk and could kill a small fund if a target stock soared. He tired of it. Taking stakes in battered Japanese and Korean equities helped him recover, and by the mid-2000s he had roughly $100 million under management. His one-man shop started hiring.
The pivot from "freedom fighter to Manhattan yuppie," as one newspaper put it, raised eyebrows. In 1989, Li had chastised American officials who visited Beijing for their "cynical determination to do business with China." Now he was extolling the democratizing effects of the internet and talking openly about investing in China's growth. The contradiction was real, but it was also the contradiction of an entire era — the post-
Cold War faith that free markets would open closed societies, that trade would do what tanks and hunger strikes could not.
Thanksgiving, 2003
The meal that changed everything was unremarkable. A Thanksgiving lunch at the Santa Barbara home of a woman Li had met through human rights work. Her husband was a director at Berkshire Hathaway. Charlie Munger was there.
Munger — then seventy-nine, Berkshire's vice-chairman, Buffett's intellectual sparring partner for four decades, a man of ferocious intelligence and equally ferocious bluntness, a polymath who read voraciously across disciplines and dispensed wisdom in the form of aphorisms that sounded simple until you tried to live by them — struck up a conversation with Li about stocks. They were still talking hours later.
"He was a very intelligent, self-confident young man," Munger recalled decades later, at ninety-nine, still vice-chairman, still sharp. "He so liked being a principal instead of being an agent working for somebody else. That was immediately obvious to me and, of course, that's how I am. So, I naturally had considerable sympathy for him."
Munger tried to recruit Li to Berkshire. Li refused. "I was fighting against nature," Munger said.
What Munger did instead was more consequential. He told Li that the problems he was encountering — the pressure to demonstrate monthly returns, the short-termism of hedge fund investors, the structural incentives that rewarded volatility over patience — were not personal problems but the endemic disease of Wall Street. "Even though Berkshire Hathaway has been such a success, there isn't any company on Wall Street that truly imitates it," Munger said. The prescription was radical: abandon the hedge fund model entirely, restructure as a long-only investment partnership in the mold of the early Buffett and Munger vehicles, accept only investors who would commit for the long term, stop accepting new money.
Li did it. With Munger's help, he reorganized Himalaya Capital from the ground up. In 2004, Munger entrusted him with $88 million of family money — the only outside manager Munger had ever invested with, the only person besides Buffett to whom the old man would delegate capital. "We made unholy good returns for a long, long time," Munger said. "That $88 million has become four or five times that."
The word unholy is telling. It is not a word that belongs in a Berkshire Hathaway shareholder letter. It is a word that acknowledges the almost transgressive quality of the returns — the way compounding, given enough time and conviction, starts to feel less like finance and more like a violation of ordinary physics.
I'm not interested in revolution. I'm a capitalist. It was his capitalist aptitude that attracted me, not his revolutionary history.
Backing Up the Truck
In 2002, before the Thanksgiving dinner, before Munger's money, Li Lu invested in a little-known Chinese company called BYD — Build Your Dreams — that manufactured rechargeable batteries. He was still ostensibly forbidden from visiting the company's factory in Shenzhen. But he believed, with the conviction of someone who had grown up inside the system and then watched it from outside, that the future belonged to Chinese manufacturing and the purchasing power of 1.4 billion consumers.
He sold Munger on the vision. "I didn't like the auto business," Munger recalled. "It's difficult to make a fortune in the auto business." But BYD was not merely an auto company; it was a battery company that happened to make cars, and Li saw in its vertical integration and cost discipline something that the American auto industry — bloated, unionized, locked into combustion engines — could not replicate. In 2008, Berkshire Hathaway took a 10 percent stake in BYD for approximately $230 million. "It worked so well, the early investment in BYD was a minor miracle," Munger said.
By 2022, BYD had dethroned Tesla as the world's largest electric vehicle producer by sales. The Berkshire stake appreciated to well over $1 billion. Li's separate Himalaya position compounded at rates that entered the realm of legend — some estimates put the total BYD return in the neighborhood of 7,800 percent.
Li also bought Kweichow Moutai early — the distilled baijiu liquor that had been China's official national libation since shortly after the Communist revolution, the drink served to foreign dignitaries and slipped into the briefcases of ambitious bureaucrats. As a stock pick, it is legendary in Asian investment circles, the Chinese equivalent of buying Apple in the late 1990s. "It was real cheap, four to five times earnings," Munger said. "And Li Lu just backed up the truck, bought all he could and made a killing."
The phrase backed up the truck is Munger's, and it captures something essential about Li's method: the willingness, when conviction is high, to concentrate ferociously. As of the fourth quarter of 2024, Himalaya's top five positions — Bank of America, Berkshire Hathaway Class B, Alphabet (both share classes), and East West Bancorp — comprised 94.08 percent of the disclosed U.S. portfolio. This is not diversification. This is a man who has decided that the greatest risk is not concentration but ignorance, and that the cure for ignorance is not spreading your bets but deepening your knowledge until a single bet becomes, in his phrase, a matter of "accurate and complete information."
Complete sometimes meant extraordinary measures. In the early years, researching a target company's CEO might involve attending their church or talking to their neighbors. Li once spent hours observing two gas stations across the street from each other, trying to understand why one had three times the customers. The answer: one was run by an Indian immigrant's family who lived on-site, offered free water to every customer, and had the children wash cars for free. The other was run by a hire who offered nothing. The parable is almost too neat, but it reveals a mind that processes the world through competitive advantage — even at the level of a gas pump.
The Diverging Paths of the Class of '89
Every June brought the anniversary, and with it the question: what had the movement's survivors become?
Wang Dan — number one on the government's most-wanted list, the charismatic student from Peking University who had been Li's close friend on the square — spent most of the next nine years in Chinese prisons. When the Clinton administration finally secured his release in 1998, he became an academic, moving between the United States and Taiwan, holding the cause of Chinese democracy like a torch that fewer and fewer people wanted to see lit. He was one of the best men at Li Lu's second wedding.
Wang Juntao — the older activist who had noted Li's calloused hands, who was sentenced to thirteen years for subversion — eventually made it to the United States, earned a degree at Columbia, and continued to call himself, with stubborn pride, a "professional revolutionary." He is now sixty-five, working from an office in Flushing, Queens. "If you want to be a hero, it is easy to sacrifice yourself," he said. "But those who follow a path like Li's have to be complicated. You have to balance a lot of things."
Chai Ling — the fierce commander who had nominated Li as her vice — escaped China through a harrowing route, landed in the United States, earned an MBA from Harvard, and eventually became a Christian activist. She did not respond to interview requests.
Xiong Wanli — not one of the famous twenty-one, but a man who had also attended the Tiananmen protests — stayed in China, moved to the boomtown of Shenzhen, got rich in real estate during the wild years before Xi Jinping's anti-corruption crackdown, and later met Li Lu on a golf course in Los Angeles. The two invested together in Duowei, a Chinese-language media site founded by an exiled journalist named Ho Pin, which pitched itself as the critical press that would enter China once the country liberalized. Duowei twice correctly predicted the lineup of the CCP's Politburo Standing Committee — closely guarded secrets — making it a genuine thorn in Beijing's side.
In April 2008, at a routine board meeting, Li announced he was selling his Duowei stake. Xiong, dialing in from Wuhan, was stunned. He asked to buy it. Li sold instead to Yu Pun-Hoi, a Beijing-friendly media baron. Himalaya's spokesperson later said the divestment was part of a broader wind-down of its venture capital fund, and that Yu's bid was accepted as the highest offer. Xiong suspected otherwise — that Li sold to Yu to ingratiate himself with Beijing and improve his chances of becoming a conduit for Wall Street in China.
Duowei moved its headquarters to Beijing. Its coverage of the regime grew more cautious. In 2022, it shut down, citing financial difficulties.
"After 2008, if you are an enemy of the Chinese government, it is impossible to collect money from Wall Street," said Wang Juntao.
The Photograph in Shenzhen
In late September 2010, a blurry photograph appeared in a Hong Kong newspaper. It showed rows of uniformed BYD managers and government officials lined up behind famous American guests on the leafy BYD campus in Shenzhen. In the front row sat Bill Gates, Warren Buffett, and Charlie Munger, dressed in casual attire. At the end of the row, wearing dark sunglasses, sat Li Lu.
It was the first confirmed case of one of the exiled twenty-one being granted re-entry to mainland China. Powerful American allies had lobbied for Li to join the trip. The understanding was that Li would avoid publicity. But there he was, positioned between the greatest concentration of American capital and the representatives of Chinese power, looking exactly like the bridge builder Jerome Kohlberg had imagined twelve years earlier.
China was keen to court foreign investors, and there were none more prominent than Gates and Buffett. Li's presence was useful to Beijing. His experience was revelatory to him. He finally got to see inside BYD. More than that, he saw an economically transformed country that validated — or at least could be read as validating — a particular narrative: that the protests had accelerated the pace of reform, that some of the demands had turned into reality, that ordinary people's lives had improved, even if the authoritarian structure remained intact.
Li made subsequent trips. He lectured on value investing at Beijing's top universities. In 2014, he joined Weibo, posting about Chinese development and attributing the country's economic rise in part to a governing party with "extraordinary executive power and talents." He became a celebrity in Chinese business and finance — the man born in the era of the Cultural Revolution who had conquered both China and America. In 2019, he gave a seminar at Peking University, not far from the square where he had risked his life thirty years earlier. In his Chinese public persona, the student days vanished. He wrote books about investing and essays on modernization devoid of references to Tiananmen.
To Wang Dan, the friendship forged on the square was now a distant memory. They had been close when Wang Dan first arrived in the United States, meeting to discuss the prospects of Chinese democracy. They grew apart after Wang Dan went to Taiwan to teach. Communication ceased entirely after Li's first visit back to China.
"He has chosen to co-operate with the government," Wang Dan said. "He has the freedom to make this choice, but it isn't a moral choice. Li's wealth today is related to the Tiananmen Square movement. He benefited from that movement. It is very unethical to stand with the government officials who killed the students back then."
Wang Juntao, the professional revolutionary, was gentler. He hadn't seen Li since 2008. "I understand. No matter what decision he made," he said. "I don't need him, and if I approach him then I will disturb his road. Even if we have a cup of coffee and the Chinese government knows it, then the government will think it's too much."
The Library That Replaced the Bloomberg Terminal
Visitors to Himalaya Capital's offices on the twenty-first floor of a tower in downtown Seattle would be forgiven for thinking they'd stumbled into an academic department. The office is lined floor to ceiling with books. Save for a rowing machine tucked in one corner, the usual trappings of high finance are conspicuously absent. No Bloomberg terminals towering over analysts. No television screens streaming financial news. The setup is a carbon copy of Berkshire Hathaway: small teams of analysts covering a handful of companies in exhaustive depth, reporting directly to a single decision maker.
"We all serve one purpose: to help Li Lu make investment decisions," says Gene Jing Chang, Himalaya's chief operating officer and longest-serving employee after Li himself. "We joke that Himalaya is an academic institution, where Li Lu is the professor, I'm the teaching assistant and the analysts are the students."
The firm moved from Wall Street to Pasadena, California, in 2007, to be closer to Munger. It relocated again in 2018 to lower-tax Washington state. Each time, the organizational architecture was replicated with monastic precision. Li does not take meetings in the morning, reserving that time for reading — company reports, financial filings, the steady accumulation of what he calls "accurate and complete information." He calls analysts for one-on-one sessions to discuss ideas. He asks them to imagine every company they analyze as a business inherited from a deceased uncle: you own it, you know nothing about it, what would you do to understand it?
His one diagnostic question: "Can you tell me what the worst-case scenario is for the business during the next ten years? If sometime over the next ten years everything that could go wrong does go wrong, what will the economics of the business look like?"
It is the question of a man who survived the Tangshan earthquake.
Li prefers solitude. He has what those around him describe as a voracious appetite for reading — not merely financial texts but civilizational history, evolutionary biology, epistemology. His recommended reading list ranges from Jared Diamond's
Guns, Germs, and Steel to David Deutsch's
The Beginning of Infinity to Karl Popper's
The Logic of Scientific Discovery. The intellectual range is not decorative. It reflects a mind that processes investment opportunities through frameworks borrowed from evolutionary theory, from the history of modernization, from the philosophy of science — the same mind that, at twenty-three, processed political revolution through the lens of power dynamics and hunger strikes.
My journey as a student of value investing has been especially meaningful to me on a personal level. In seeking a livelihood, I gate-crashed this profession by good fortune and without any forethought. Later, I realised I had stumbled upon something wondrous. This profession is an incredible thing. It lets you spend every minute studying new things. It won't just be your assets that grow through compounding; you will also feel your knowledge, practical experience and judgement compounding at the same time.
The Immigrant, Not the Refugee
The distinction matters to Li Lu, and he has articulated it with care. "If you continue to view yourself as a political refugee, life is harsher," a person familiar with his thinking explained. "You're dealing with a different reality where you still consider China as home . . . That is not an easy life."
The reclassification — from refugee to immigrant, from exile to citizen — is not merely semantic. It is the narrative technology by which Li Lu resolved what would otherwise be an unbearable contradiction: that the country whose government tried to kill him also contained the companies in which he built his fortune. An immigrant has agency. A refugee is defined by what was done to them. Li Lu chose agency.
He became an American citizen. He owns cowboy boots. He talks about the American dream. He co-founded the Asian American Foundation in 2021, raising $1.1 billion to combat anti-Asian racism in the wake of the pandemic. He is a trustee of Columbia University. In December 2025, Columbia Law School opened the Li Lu Law Library — a gift from the man who had arrived at the institution thirty-five years earlier with no money, no English, and no family. He was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences in 2020.
Yet "it would be absurd," as the Financial Times observed, "to compare Li's journey with that of most immigrants, both for the historic circumstance in which it began and where it ultimately took him." The cowboy boots and the BYD investment, the Columbia trustee meetings and the Peking University lectures — these coexist in a single life, but they don't cohere into a single story. They are parallel narratives, each internally consistent, each incomplete.
The Chinese government, Wang Dan believes, has reaped political dividends from Li's transformation. "The government needs to prove that the students in 1989 have admitted their mistakes. They are using Li Lu as a model." Beijing does not need Li to denounce the protests publicly. His mere presence — investing in Chinese companies, lecturing at Chinese universities, writing about Chinese modernization without mentioning the square — accomplishes the same erasure through omission.
Those close to Li's thinking offer a counter-narrative: that his investment returns are attributable to his track record, not his biography; that Himalaya was built on analytical rigor, not revolutionary cachet. A source close to Li told the Financial Times that "he was able to raise money because of his track record of investing, beginning while he was at Columbia. It was on this basis that he was able to build Himalaya Capital, not because he was a student protester."
Both things can be true.
The Pandemic, the Masks, and the Circular Logo
When Covid-19 emerged from Wuhan in early 2020, Li Lu mobilized the networks he had spent three decades building on both sides of the Pacific. Initially, he shipped medical supplies from the United States to China. Then, as the pandemic pivoted westward, he shepherded deals for BYD to sell face masks in the United States. Millions of American shoppers picking up masks at Costco became more familiar with BYD's circular logo as a medical brand than as a car company. It was a small, precise act of bridge-building — the kind Li Lu had practiced his entire adult life.
Inside Himalaya, he started hosting daily team lunches over video. "He was so concerned about the employees, a lot of whom don't have family in the US," said Caroline Kim, the firm's head of investor relations. "It feels very much like a family."
The word family lands differently when applied to a man who lost every family he ever had — biological parents sent to labor camps, adoptive parents killed in an earthquake, revolutionary comrades scattered across continents by tanks and time. Li Lu has constructed, in Himalaya Capital, a family organized not around blood or ideology but around a shared intellectual project: the patient study of compounding value. It is a family whose bonds are denominated in trust and analytical rigor, whose rituals involve reading and one-on-one meetings rather than hunger strikes and wedding stunts on revolutionary squares.
His last visit to China was in 2019, just before the pandemic sealed borders. As relations between Washington and Beijing have deteriorated, it has grown harder for Wall Street to advocate for closer ties. Some U.S. endowments and pension funds are downsizing or divesting entirely from China. BYD does not sell its passenger cars in the United States for political reasons. Three decades after student activists — Li Lu among them — lobbied for the U.S. to cut ties with China, a partial decoupling is underway.
Those close to Li's thinking argue that the two countries' fates remain more intertwined than ever. In December 2024, he gave a keynote at the Columbia University Global Center in Beijing, his third speech in a decade to students of the value investing course at Peking University's Guanghua School of Management. He spoke about modernization as an irreversible paradigm shift, about value investing as a discipline that transcends national borders, about "fishing where the fish are." He paid tribute to Munger, who had died the year before at ninety-nine.
"The macro is what we must accept," Li told the students. "The micro is where we can and should make a difference."
The Promise in the Memoir
In
Moving the Mountain, the memoir Li Lu published in 1990 at the age of twenty-four — written in the immediate aftermath of flight, in the white heat of recent history, before Columbia and Buffett and Munger and BYD and the $14 billion — he recorded a promise. He and his fellow revolutionaries pledged to meet again in Tiananmen Square fifty years after the movement. "We would bring our grandchildren and our diaries to show each other," he wrote.
The date would fall in 2039. Wang Dan could not easily set foot on Chinese soil. Wang Juntao could not return at all — the government had told him in 2007 that if he stayed, "my life will be trouble." Chai Ling's status is uncertain. Of the principal figures of 1989 who scattered across the world in the movement's aftermath, only Li Lu — the outsider, the spy suspect, the man with the laborer's hands — could enter China freely.
Now fifty-nine, Li Lu has been in the United States for more than half his life. With his employees, he does not talk about the past much. It is, in Gene Chang's careful phrasing, "a very small part of his personal history." The rowing machine sits in the corner of the library-office. The analysts study their companies. The assets compound.
"I am a survivor," Li Lu told the National Museum of American History in 2016.
Munger, before he died, offered a more complete epitaph: "Li Lu is no longer a revolutionary. He's a capitalist. You can't find a more capitalistic capitalist than Li Lu."
In the spring of 1989, a ticket collector at Beijing Railway Station looked at a young man without a ticket and chose grace over enforcement. Thirty-five years later, on the twenty-first floor of a tower in Seattle, an office full of books sits quietly, compounding.
