BEIJING — For years, the fiery band of activists pushing for democracy in China looked to Liu Xiaobo, the jailed Nobel Peace laureate, as a source of inspiration. They created social media groups devoted to his iconoclastic poetry. They held up his photos at rallies, demanding justice and transparency.

But Liu’s death last week of liver cancer, after a final, futile attempt by friends to bring about his release, has dealt a withering blow to the prodemocracy movement. Some say it is now at its weakest point since the Tiananmen Square crackdown in 1989.

“It’s a turning point,’’ said Yan Wenxin, a human rights lawyer in Beijing. “The feeling of powerlessness among activists has peaked.’’

Under President Xi Jinping, the government has imprisoned dozens of lawyers, journalists, and advocates and tightened controls over the Internet. Now, the ruling Communist Party’s feverish attempts to erase Liu’s legacy have raised fears that Xi will intensify his campaign against activists pushing for ideas like freedom of speech and religion.

The authorities, wary of turning Liu into a martyr, have in recent days censored online tributes and arrested activists who have sought to publicly remember him.

The dearth of foreign leaders willing to publicly criticize Xi has added to a sense of despair and isolation among activists. Many say they feel abandoned by the United States in particular, and they worry that President Trump will prioritize trade with China at the expense of human rights.

“People are full of sorrow, anger, and desperation,’’ said Zhao Hui, 48, a dissident writer who goes by the pen name Mo Zhixu. “We hope the democratic activists who still remain can keep the flame alive. But bringing about change to the bigger picture might be too much to ask.’’

The passing of Liu, who preached peace and patience, has provoked debate about the best path toward democracy. Many activists argue that more forceful tactics are necessary to counter what they see as unrelenting government hostility. Some have pushed for mass protests, while a small number believe that violence is the only option, even if they do not endorse it outright.

“Some have turned to believe in violent revolution,’’ said Hu Jia, a prominent dissident who served more than three years in prison for his activism and still faces routine surveillance. “It makes people feel the door to a peaceful transition has closed.’’

Liu’s allies remain incensed by the Chinese government’s handling of his case. Officials disclosed that Liu, 61, had advanced liver cancer only when it was too late to treat it, prompting accusations that his medical care was inadequate. The authorities have also prevented his wife, Liu Xia, an artist and activist, from speaking or traveling freely.

The scrutiny facing government critics is likely to grow even more suffocating in the months ahead.

The Communist Party will hold a leadership reshuffle this fall, at which Xi is expected to win another five-year term and appoint allies to key positions. In the run-up to the meeting, the party is tightening its grip on online communications and escalating pressure on critics.

Human rights advocates say that the party appears increasingly hostile toward dissent and intent on quashing even small-scale movements. Over the past two years, dozens of human rights lawyers have been jailed and accused of conspiring with foreign forces to carry out subversive plots. Xi’s government, wary of grass-roots activism, has also increased oversight of domestic and foreign nonprofit organizations.

Despite the government’s efforts to limit dissent, some of Liu’s supporters say they have emerged more energized in the days since his death. They see hope in a middle class that is increasingly outspoken, and a generation of young advocates who have taken on causes like feminism and rights for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender citizens.